That Old Cape Magic

the cheek, a kiss that might have been Harold’s, the gesture seemed to imply, if only he’d played his cards right. Marguerite enjoyed public displays of affection almost as much as the affection itself. Yet another contrast with Joy, who after their wedding had never kissed him except in private. He still recalled the keen disappointment he’d felt early in their marriage when it became obvious she wasn’t about to kiss or embrace him in front of her parents. Marguerite felt no such compunctions. She’d have kissed him (or Harold before him) in front of the pope, and the kiss would have been long and full of tongue. “Why do I feel guilty about being here and not calling him?”
    “Harold? Now that
is
a mystery.”
    She shrugged and went back to studying the sign, as if her translation had not unearthed all its secrets. “Imagine that boy figuring it out all by himself,” she said, then turned to face him. “It’s a shame he’s so in love with her.”
    Griffin was pretty sure he’d never mentioned Sunny Kim’s lifelong devotion to Laura, which meant Marguerite had done some figuring out of her own. “He’ll be fine,” he said, draining the last of his martini and trying to sound more certain on this score than he felt. He considered telling her about Sunny’s own marriage plans but decided not to, afraid that in the telling he’d betray his own misgivings.
    “I know. He’s smart and good-looking and he’s a lawyer,” she said. “It’s just a shame you can’t say yes to one person without saying no to another.”
    She was talking about Laura, Griffin thought. Of course shewas. Except that her expression was unfamiliar to him, a strange combination of sadness and foreknowledge that made him desperately want to change the subject and head off whatever she meant to say next. “I’ve been wondering what you meant earlier,” he said. “About how you were going to miss me being nice to you. Do you think I’m going to turn into that old poop Harold or something?”
    “No,” she said. “I just meant I’m going to miss that when it’s over.”
    “When what’s over?” But of course he knew, just as he knew that he hadn’t really changed the subject.
    “Us,” she said, causing his heart to sink. “When you and I are over.” She scrunched her shoulders then, her signature gesture of delight, though he’d never before seen her do it in anticipation of anything but pleasure. “It’s okay,” she said, her eyes spilling over. “Really. I’ve known from the start.”
    “No,” he said, shaking his head stubbornly like a child being told something he didn’t want to hear. Because if he accepted her conclusion, it meant that he’d failed yet again to accomplish a simple task, to get through the evening without making this woman cry and in so doing to outperform Harold. Was it possible to set the bar any lower? This was beyond demoralizing. Taking Marguerite’s face in his hands, he kissed her forehead, thinking as he did of that day so long ago, the first of the Browning summer, when he’d watched from the window under the eaves as his father drew his mother to him and told her that other women in his life meant nothing. Given their history of infidelity, Griffin had always assumed he was simply lying, but he saw now that in order to lie to his mother, he’d first had to lie to himself. How badly he must have wanted what he was telling her to be true. After all, his mother deserved that much, and if he could somehow
make
it true, that would prove he was a better man than he knew himself to be.
    “Look,” he told Marguerite, another woman who deserved this much and more, “it’s been a rough trip. I couldn’t have done itwithout you. Any of it.” By which he meant not just today, not just yesterday, but indeed the long months since his mother’s death. “We’re going to have a nice time tonight, and tomorrow we’re going to get on a plane and fly back home to L.A.”
    Home to L.A
. He’d meant to say something simple, clear and true, but a minor falsehood had somehow slipped in, because of course L.A. wasn’t home. “You and me, okay?” he continued, a nameless panic rising. “No discussion.”
    Though here his voice faltered, because he knew as well as she did what came next, what
words
came next. If he could speak them, he might even convince her they were true, as his father had convinced his mother that Browning summer. It was the worst lie there was,