The Drowning Girls. Paula DeBoard Treick

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       PHIL

      I didn’t say anything to Liz about Kelsey in the beginning, and then suddenly, it was too late. Liz was already suspicious of Deanna, who had nothing better to do than chat for half an hour here, an hour there. I could have said something about Kelsey, but it would have been more grist for the mill, more fodder for Liz’s jokes about The Palms. And that was when it was a mindless flirtation, a situation that I figured would blow over and be gone, like a bit of dandelion fluff.

      Later, mentioning it would have given it too much weight in our lives. Even saying her name would have been dropping clues about an affair I wasn’t having. I tried it out in my head, worked on the phrasing. There’s this girl who has a bit of a fixation on me. It’s probably just a little crush. I haven’t done anything—much—to encourage it. It’s nothing. But it wouldn’t be nothing to Liz. She wouldn’t have been able to let it go. I knew how she was, how at her core was a kernel of insecurity, dormant until we’d moved to The Palms. She’d never been especially concerned with her own appearance before. She’d never obsessed about exercise. Her wardrobe had been a steady rotation of black pants and button-down shirts, the occasional jacket. In the mornings, every morning of our lives before moving to The Palms, she simply ran her fingers through her wet hair, added a bit of lip gloss, and was ready to go.

      I’d loved that about her.

      Now, she weighed herself each morning, frowned at her face an inch from the mirror. She bought expensive clothes that hung in our closet, receipts dangling, while she made a final decision.

      “You look sexy,” I’d murmur in her ear, nuzzling along her neck, and she would frown, not buying it.

      “I love you,” I said.

      She wrinkled her nose. “You just said that ten minutes ago.”

      “It’s still true.”

      * * *

      I thought that Kelsey’s friendship with Danielle would be a good thing, that she would drop the flirtation when those worlds intersected. What kind of fifteen-year-old girl was interested in her friend’s stepfather? But overnight, she wormed her way into our lives. I hadn’t figured on the logistics of Kelsey in my home, coming out of the bathroom late at night when I climbed the stairs, eating a bowl of cereal in the morning, her nipples outlined against the thin fabric of her tank top. In the afternoons, she paraded through our house in her bikini, letting the strap slip over her shoulder until the top of her breast was exposed. She’d already caught me looking. One night at dinner she brushed her leg against mine under the table and I jumped up, saying that I wanted to catch the end of the game.

      I tried, in a general way, to get rid of her. I joked: she’s eating all our food. I complained: they’re too loud at night, and I’m not getting enough sleep. I coaxed: I wish we could just be alone, the two of us, without the girls always in our hair.

      I wanted Liz to see it, without me having to say it.

      It was a mess, but I told myself I could ride it out. What other choice did I have? Kelsey Jorgensen would outgrow me eventually. School would start, and she would find a real boyfriend, someone her own age. She would look at me and see thinning hair, wrinkles around my eyes. If I didn’t encourage her, she would wander off—like a stray dog.

      * * *

      The morning after the mountain lion sighting—the “alleged” mountain lion sighting, I told Jeff Parker, checking in—Deanna came by my office to make copies. In giant, bold font, her flier said WARNING: PROTECT YOUR FAMILIES AND YOURSELVES, with a picture of a mountain lion, jaws bared, feline haunches rolling. She offered to walk the fliers door-to-door herself, no doubt planning to relive the experience for anyone unlucky enough to be at home. When Deanna left, clutching an armful of thick orange card stock, Marja Browers stopped by, wondering if I could draw up some kind of schedule for “running buddies.” I was fumbling my way through a spreadsheet when Kelsey came into my office, draping herself across the chair in front of me. I was already in a foul mood, not to mention exhausted from spending half the night on the golf course with Victor Mesbah, who’d been so full of bloodlust I was afraid he would shoot himself in the foot. Or worse, shoot me. Liz had already been asleep when I came in, and she’d been frosty this morning, as if I’d been out for a night on the town without her.

      “I’m very busy, Kelsey,” I said, stabbing at a few keys to emphasize the point.

      She СКАЧАТЬ