The Guest Cottage (14 page)

“Thanks, Trevor,” Angie cooed when he set the drinks down.

“I don’t want to drink,” Sophie said. “I want to dance. Come on, Trevor.” Sophie took his hand and pulled him to the dance floor. Their linked hands made his blood flash. For a moment he was almost paralyzed with surprise—that she was touching him, that he felt this way, that when she turned to face him, her eyes were full of desire.

Sophie began to dance, lifting her arms and surrendering to the music. She swayed, moving her hips but keeping her eyes locked on his.

“Tre-vor,” she said teasingly, laughing, almost taunting.

The pounding beat of the powerful bass filled him and he danced. He wasn’t a fancy dancer but he knew he had some good moves, a slight tilt of the shoulders, a slow roll, starting with his feet, moving through him. What was Sophie thinking? he wondered. Did she have any idea of the effect she was having on him?

A massive blond surfer dude not much older than her own son slid between Trevor and Sophie, facing Sophie, nodding at her, putting his hands on her hips. He looked Scandinavian, the kind of muscular contractor who could toss around beams without taking a deep breath. The dance floor heaved with motion. Light flared over the crowd. Trevor kept dancing, caught up in the music, not caring that he had no partner—well, except for hating the
Scandinavian—and
suddenly Angie was there, sliding next to him, undulating in front of him, turning her back and sliding her body against his, her sweet ass skimming his crotch.

He wasn’t drunk. He wasn’t an asshole. But he was a male who could read signals when they were sent to him as clearly as Angie was sending them.
This isn’t a good idea,
he told himself. But Sophie wasn’t a
girlfriend—Sophie
was barely a friend—or if she had become a friend it was only because of pure chance.

Searching, he caught sight of Sophie and her surfer. Trevor had to admit the guy was a great dancer in a crazy, floppy kind of way, but when he saw him catch Sophie by the waist and pull her to him, when he saw her reach up to put her arms around his neck, Trevor ripped his eyes back to Angie.
All right, then,
he thought.
All right.
When Sophie had pulled Trevor out to the dance floor, it had been only because she wanted to dance, nothing more. He got the message loud and clear. He kept dancing with Angie.

The bar closed at one, spilling people stumbling and howling with laughter out onto the road. They dispersed to their various cars, gradually becoming aware of the cop car parked at the end of the street. Trevor’s three passengers piled into the backseat, falling on top of each other, snickering and snorting. With a great show of sober maturity, he sat in the front seat, fastened his seat belt, and started the car. He kind of hoped a cop would stop him and give him a breathalyzer test. He’d look like a hero, the designated driver who kept them all safe.

But they weren’t stopped by a cop. Trevor drove home through the dark night, unable to avoid listening to the backseat conversation.

“Sophie, why didn’t you go home with that big blond guy? He was a hunk.” Angie dug through her purse as she spoke, suddenly and irrelevantly adding, “I don’t smoke! I was looking for my cigarettes and I forgot I gave up smoking!”

The women howled with laughter. “Bess,” Sophie said, “I think that Jamaican dude was hitting on you.”

“I think he was, too,” Bess admitted. “I couldn’t help thinking—” She stopped suddenly. “Tell you later.” In the rearview mirror, Trevor saw Bess’s eyes flick warningly toward him. Clearly this was something not for his ears.

“I know what you’re thinking.” Angie pulled her friends’ heads toward her in a huddle and they began to whisper.

Trevor tried not to roll his eyes. He wanted to say,
Sophie, why
didn’t
you go home with that big blond guy?
But he kept his mouth shut all the way home.

“I’m going to have such a headache in the morning,” wailed Bess.

“Drink lots of water before you go to bed,” advised Angie. “Besides, I don’t think we drank that much—we were always dancing.”

“I agree with Angie,” said Sophie. “Now that we’re out of there, away from the music, I don’t feel drunk, I feel limp.”

“Me, too,” Bess agreed. “Angie and I are sleeping on the family room pullouts, right?”

“Right,” Sophie said, and yawned so hard she squeaked.

By the time they arrived home, the women were quiet. The giggling phase had given way to concern about not waking the children, and everyone went carefully to their beds. Trevor took the world’s quickest shower and shampoo, glad to relieve himself of the
beer/smoke/sweat
stink of the evening. He checked on Leo, who was sleeping deeply. He dropped into his own bed like a felled tree.

It seemed he’d barely closed his eyes when he sensed movement in the room, a rustling noise, the door he usually kept open for Leo being closed, the lock clicking shut. Perfume drifted toward him, and he opened his eyes. Angie, in a scarlet lace nightie, slid down onto the bed next to him.

“Hello, big boy,” she whispered, drawing her hand down his chest.

In spite of himself, Trevor moaned. Pulling himself up to a sitting position, he said quietly, “Angie, I don’t think this is such a good idea.”

“I think it’s a very good idea.” She sat up, too, allowing one of the straps on her nightgown to slip down her shoulder.

“Look, I’m in no shape to start a relationship.”

Angie chuckled. “Who said anything about a relationship? I’m here for one night of pleasure.” She ran her hand along his thigh toward his crotch.

His body responded. “My son’s asleep in the next room.”

“Are you asking me to be quiet? I can be quiet.” Quietly, she slid around the bed so that she was sitting on top of him. She put her finger to her lips and whispered, “Ssssh.”

He felt her sweet, alcohol-scented breath against his lips. Still, Trevor hesitated. He had never known any woman except Tallulah, no matter what she said
before,
not to expect more
after
having sex.

“I think you’re in love with Sophie,” Angie teased.

“I’m not in love with Sophie!” Trevor insisted.

Angie continued as if she hadn’t heard him. “But Sophie isn’t here. Sophie is getting all hot and bothered over that Bulgarian guy.” As she spoke, she slowly rolled her body against his, smiling wickedly as she felt him respond. “I’m here now.”

The summer moon filled the room with light. Trevor could see Angie’s smile. She was a warm, luscious woman. He put his arms around her and pulled her down on the bed.

T
he next morning, it took Sophie about nine seconds to realize that Angie had slept with Trevor. It wasn’t that Angie flaunted it, it was that Sophie knew her friend so well. When Angie had been made love to, she glowed like a firefly.

Sophie had risen late, feeling slow and lazy on this hot, muggy day. She could hear people bustling around downstairs, so she took the opportunity to catch a quick shower and wash her hair. In shorts and a tank top with her shaggy blond hair damp against her neck, she went down to the dining room to see what was going on.

Trevor was in the kitchen making pancakes. Jonah and Cash sat at the dining room table, eating a gigantic pile of them like a couple of drifters who’d been starved for days. Leo was under the kitchen table, sitting next to his Great Wall of China, eating Cheerios from a bowl by hand. Lacey and Betsy were outside, playing with the fairy house. Bess was in the living room talking to her husband on her cell phone.

Angie lounged at the dining room table, clad in a brilliantly flowered sarong that exposed more flesh than it covered. “Hey, sleepyhead,” she greeted Sophie. “About time.” Her smile was smug. “Sit down, sweetie, and Trevor will make you some pancakes.”

Sophie sat down as invited, but Angie’s proprietary air grated on her nerves. Who was Angie to tell her what Trevor would do? Meeting Angie’s eyes, Sophie knew exactly what had happened.

Trevor turned from the stove with a plate full of pancakes. “Pancakes, Sophie? Want a cup of coffee?” He wouldn’t meet Sophie’s gaze and his face was crimson. Sophie was pretty sure it was not from the heat of cooking.

“No pancakes, thanks,” Sophie said coolly, even though she was starving. “I’ll get my own coffee.” Rising, she brushed past him headed toward the coffeepot. She couldn’t understand why she was angry with him. Did she think he had taken advantage of her friend? But no one took advantage of Angie. Could Sophie possibly be jealous? That was patently ridiculous. She had known him for three weeks. She’d never see him again after this summer. He was a boy.

Yet she felt herself on the verge of tears. She absolutely shocked herself when she heard herself say, casually, leaning against the kitchen counter, “Hey, guys, how would you all like to go sailing on a yacht today? Hristo has offered to take us out whenever the weather is right and today looks pretty nice. I could give him a call and see if he’s up for it.”

Jonah lifted his head. “That would be cool, Mom.”

Next to him, Cash echoed, “Cool, yeah.”

Bess strolled in, sliding her cell phone into the pocket of her jean shorts. “Good morning, Sunshine,” she said to Sophie. “You slept late.” Pulling out a chair, she joined them at the table. “Did you get any pancakes? They were delicious.”

Good grief, could anybody talk about anything except the damned pancakes? “I was asking everyone if they’d like to go for a sail today.” Out of the corner of her eye, Sophie noticed how Trevor’s face had shut down. He put the plate of pancakes on the table and returned to the kitchen at the same moment Sophie carried her coffee in to the dining room. They passed each other like ships in the night and did not speak.

“Gosh, I’d love to,” Bess said.

Angie sauntered into the kitchen and knelt down face-to-face with Leo, who crouched beneath the table with his Legos. “Want to go on a big boat today, Leo?” She sounded as if she were offering candy-coated cake.

She thinks it’s more than a one-night fling,
Sophie thought,
if she’s trying to ingratiate herself with Trevor’s son.

Leo looked up at Angie with his huge green eyes. “I want to play the piano with Sophie.”

Bess gaped at Sophie.

Angie, always the interrogator, asked, “Are you playing again, Sophie?”

Sophie shrugged. “Maybe. There’s a piano here, an entire music room.” She knelt next to Leo. “I want to play with you, too, Leo. Would you like to, now?”

Leo’s hands were full of small round O’s. “When I’m through with my Cheerios.”

“That’s fine. No hurry.”

“In the meantime,” Angie challenged, “let’s hear
you
play, Soph. Can you remember how?”

“Kind of. If you want to know, you’re free to listen. I’ll leave the door open to the music room.”

She took her time walking to the music room. Lifting the lid of the bench, she took out some sheet music she’d discovered there and chose Beethoven’s “Für Elise,” a quiet, gentle, almost melancholy piece that required delicacy and restraint. While she played, the others wandered into the music room and crowded onto the rose-covered sofa.

When she lifted her hands from the keyboard, Bess said, “My goodness, Sophie, that was luscious. You play as well as you always did.”

Angie cocked an eyebrow. “Yeah, but can you play ‘All You Need Is Love’?”

Sophie felt her shoulders tense at Angie’s witticism. Something about this visit was bringing out Angie’s competitive qualities. And, she had to admit, her own.

Sophie launched into “All You Need Is Love,” embroidering it with chords and flourishes. She played it too quickly, without feeling, or rather with a feeling of spite, even revenge—not just on Angie; she loved Angie, she understood Angie—but on everything, on Zack, on her mother and father, on herself for letting this all go, for being a failure—and then she stopped.

“So.” Standing up, she stretched her arms. “Leo, want to play with me now?”

Leo’s glance flew toward Bess and Angie.

Bess said, “Come on, Angie, let’s help Trevor clean the kitchen.”

When they were alone, Sophie lifted Leo onto her lap. “Can you find Middle C? Good! Press it.”

Leo pressed it and looked up at Sophie for more.

“Now, remember the scales?” She sang the notes aloud as she played them. “Eight notes. Eight notes make an octave. When we learn to play the piano, we learn to play the scales over and over again.”

“Like learning to write my name,” Leo said.

Sophie beamed. “Yes, Leo. Like learning to write your name.”

When Leo’s hands grew tired, he slipped off Sophie’s lap and wandered out of the room. A moment later, Bess and Angie stormed in.

“We are
so
not going sailing today,” Bess announced. “Trevor is taking the kids to the beach, and you are sitting here and telling us why you’re playing again.”

“Good,” Sophie said. “I’d like that. I’ve been waiting for you two.”

“Mom.” Jonah stood in the hall, barefoot, beach towel in one hand. “Cash and I are going with Trevor to the beach. He’s taking the girls and Leo, too. We’ll be home this afternoon.”

Lacey, holding hands with Leo, wiggled behind Jonah and sang to her mother, “Trevor’s going to buy us lunch at the snack stand!” Lunch at the snack stand was always a point of contention between Sophie and her children because it cost so much money, so much more than the sandwiches and juice she prepared and took to the beach.

This time, Sophie didn’t argue. “Have fun, kids.” As Trevor walked toward the front door, beach bag in one hand, car keys in the other, she called, “Thanks, Trevor.”

“Got it.” Trevor waved without looking at her and the gang left the house.

Bess settled on the sofa, Angie at the other end. Sophie chose an armchair facing them.

Bess leaned forward. “When did you start playing again?”

Sophie smiled. “It’s kind of funny. I started playing the moment I walked into this house and saw the piano. I’ve been playing occasionally when no one else is around. One time Leo heard me and wanted to learn how to do it.” Thoughtfully, she added, “Oh, and I played at Hristo’s house, too. He has a piano for his daughter.”

“But
why
?” Bess probed. “Why did you start again? Why play for your children and Trevor and Leo and Hristo?”

“I’ve been trying to understand that myself. You know I was good back in high school. And you know I failed.”

“Once,”
Angie interjected. “You choked one time.”

“At an important competition. I humiliated myself, my teacher, and my parents. I failed my parents.”

“You didn’t—” Bess began.

“In their eyes, I did,” Sophie cut in. “I failed myself most of all. I wanted to be the best. I wanted, I guess, all or nothing.”

“You’re a
perfectionist,”
Angie said.

“Am I? I suppose I am, in some ways. But I was both relieved and heartbroken when I gave up piano.”

“Honey, you didn’t have to give it up. You’re so good,” Bess urged.

“But I was
supposed
to be
the best.
” Sophie waved her hand. “The point is, I did give it up. I was
done.
My parents were pretty much sick of the sight of me. When I met Zack, he gave me a new reason to live, a
way
to live. He was so energetic, optimistic, confident, outgoing—he was like a gorgeous towering wave that picked me up and carried me along with him.” Leaning back in her chair, she allowed herself to remember. “Suddenly, I wasn’t a failure, I was a
girlfriend.
You remember—I began to have fun. I saw movies, I read books, I went Rollerblading without being afraid I’d break my precious wrist.”

“Did Zack know about your music?”

“Not much. I didn’t want to talk about it much. So for him, I was a lovely blank page for him to write on. He was starting his firm. He needed a sounding
board/bookkeeper/secretary.
I could answer the phone, I could type, I could be charming.”

“You devoted your own life to his,” Angie said.

“True. But Angie, I loved it back then. I had so much fun; I learned about parts of myself I had never known existed. I gained so much self-confidence when I was with Zack. I learned to cook, I found pleasure in keeping house, the world became so sensual to me—spreading clean sheets on a bed, the smell of rain on grass, and laughter, especially laughter. When my children came, their sweet, small bodies—” Tears filled Sophie’s eyes. “Once I had my children, I didn’t even think about performing.”

“All right,” Bess said. “I get all that. But why did you start again, here?”

Sophie shifted on the armchair. “Well, there’s a piano here, for one thing.”

“Now
there’s
an evasive response,” Angie said.

“Okay. You’re right. But it’s complicated.” Sophie took a moment to think. “The best answer I can come up with is that here on this island, without Zack nearby, I feel free. Especially free from the weight of judgment. You both know what I’m talking about—you live with it, too. We all live with it. Do our husbands still think we are pretty, sexy, exciting? Well, Zack has made it very clear to me that he’s found someone prettier, thinner, sexier, and unarguably younger than I am.”

“If you’ve lived your marriage basing its strength on Zack’s opinion of you physically, then you’ve got a pretty sad marriage,” Angie said.

Sophie didn’t argue. “You think?”

They sat in silence, the three women, occupied with their own thoughts. After a while, Bess asked gently, “Do you think you’ll keep up with it now, Sophie?”

“Not
professionally!”
Sophie answered, almost rearing back. “I’ll never be that good again.”

“Why does it have to be
professionally?
Can’t it be just for yourself? For pleasure, for the love of it?”

“Right, Bess.” Angie nodded sharply. “Bess is right. Play because you want to and don’t worry about being a
perfectionist.”

“I’m hardly a
perfectionist,”
Sophie argued.

Angie snorted.

Bess stood up. “I need to move.”

“Me, too,” said Sophie. “Thanks for listening to my true confessions. Now let’s go to the beach.”