R Is for Ricochet

opportunity to redeem herself?
    At 5:59 A.M. I shut down my alarm and pulled on my sweats in preparation for a run. I went through my usual bathroom routine – brushing my teeth, splashing water on
my
face, lamenting the state of my hair, which was sticking up every which way. I looped my house-key in my shoelace, locked the apartment, and started walking at a fast pace toward the bike path that runs parallel to the beach.
    Gradually I broke into a trot, my muscles protesting. My feet felt leaden, as though someone had affixed ten-pound weights to the bottoms of my shoes. The sun had already risen and for once there was no evidence of fog. The day promised to be a good one, clear and sunny. Across the rumble of the surf, I could hear the barking of a sea lion, probably some hoary old guy who'd staked out a place for himself on a marker buoy. In hopes of shaking off my depression, I picked up the pace, my sights focused on the bathhouse where I made my turnaround. By the time I started back, I wasn't exactly light of heart, but I didn't feel quite so dead.
    I finished my run and walked the last couple of blocks to cool down. When I reached home, I saw Mattie's car parked in Henry's drive.
Oh goody.
I let myself into my place, showered, dressed, and ate a bowl of cereal. As I left for the office, I picked up the tantalizing scent of bacon and eggs wafting across the patio. Henry's kitchen door was open and through the screen, I heard laughter and chatting. I smiled, imagining the two of them sitting down to breakfast together. I knew better than to think she'd spent the night with him. He's entirely too proper to compromise her reputation, but an early morning get-together was well within the purview of Emily Post.
    I crossed the yard and tapped on the door frame. He responded, inviting me to come in, though his tone wasn't quite as chipper as I'd hoped. I let myself in, thinking
Uh-oh.
Henry had reverted to his usual dress code – flip-flops, white T-shirt, and tan shorts. The kitchen showed all the signs of a recent meal – dirty skillets and bowls, an array of spices near the stove. Dishes and utensils were piled in the sink, and the counter was gritty with toast crumbs. Henry was at the sink, running water for a fresh pot of coffee, while Mattie sat at the kitchen table engrossed in a conversation with William and Lewis.
    I caught the dynamic in a flash and I could feel myself wince.
    William had set this up. He'd been infuriated by Henry's attitude where Mattie was concerned. Lewis had no such qualms. I knew William had been chatting with Lewis on the phone, but I hadn't thought much of it. Now I had visions of his maneuvering Lewis onto the scene, assuming Henry's competitive instincts would kick in. Instead, Henry was reacting like a schoolboy, withdrawn and insecure in the presence of his brother's cockiness. Maybe William didn't care which of his brothers snagged Mattie as long as one of them did.
    From what I knew of the family history, Lewis – two years older than Henry – had always asserted his superiority in matters of the heart. Neither Lewis nor Henry had ever married, and though I hadn't quizzed them on the subject, there was one reference I remembered. In 1926 Henry had taken Lewis's girlfriend away from him. Henry claimed Lewis had never fully recovered from the insult. Now, to all appearances, Lewis was finally mounting a retaliatory campaign. He'd made a point of dressing smartly – starched white shirt, vest, suit coat, his shoes shined, his trousers sharply creased. Like his two younger brothers, Lewis had all his hair and most of his teeth. I saw him as Mattie must – handsome, attentive, with none of Henry's reticence. The two brothers had met her on the same Caribbean cruise and Lewis had pursued her relentlessly. He'd signed up for Mattie's watercolor class, and while his efforts were crude, she'd admired his enthusiasm and his doggedness. Henry claimed he was only flirting, but Mattie didn't see it that way. Now here he was again, stepping into the picture just as Henry was making headway.
    "Coffee?" Henry asked me. Even his voice sounded bruised, though he was covering as well as he could.
    "Sure, I'll take a cup. Thanks."
    "Mattie? Fresh pot coming up."
    "Love some," she said, distracted by the anecdote Lewis was in the midst of telling. Henry wasn't listening. The story was probably one he'd heard before and he knew how it would end. I was so focused on Henry I didn't hear much of