Outerbridge Reach (19 page)

“So tell us about this house,” Strickland said, and stammered as he said it.

Maggie blushed and swallowed and looked away. “Well, it was built in, umm, 1780. And it was a captain's house. The owner of the house was captain of a clipper ship that went to China in 1785. It carried ginseng.” She took a quick panicky look at the mike Hersey had thrust in front of her. “And it brought back porcelain. And silk.”

“You don't say,” Strickland said. “And where do you go to school?”

“I go to Mount Saint Clare,” the girl replied mechanically. “I'm a sophomore.”

“Is that a convent?”

“It's just a regular school,” Maggie said. “There are some nuns teaching there but mostly regular people.” She looked around her in distress. “Would you excuse me now?” Without waiting for a reply, she hurried from the kitchen.

“Sure,” Strickland said to the empty room she had left behind. “This time.”

“You scared her away,” Hersey said reproachfully. “You're confrontational.”

“I engage,” Strickland said. “That's my method.” He shook his head. “She's high-strung. Like her dad. And her mom.” He pronounced the household words with an edge of disgust. “The Browne Package. It's very fragile.”

The two of them listened to her run upstairs. Then Strickland got to his feet. “Here's Mom now,” he told Hersey. He had seen Anne drive up outside. She was out of the car, opening the driveway gate that led to a garage at the back. When she had parked the car she started for the front door. Before she could reach it, Strickland went out to her.

She was wearing fitted rust-colored breeches and black boots, a short-sleeved polo shirt and a riding hard-hat. She had a pair of tan gloves in her hand. The sight of her rocked him.

“How'd you get in?” she asked him.

“M-Maggie let us in. Are you annoyed?”

“I guess not,” she said. “But we weren't expecting you.”

“I spoke to your husband yesterday,” Strickland said. “He must have forgotten.”

Anne pursed her lips and shrugged. Strickland was trying to remember their most recent conversation. Which aspect of himself, he wondered, had he last left with her? As he faced her in the front yard, his thoughts were not of pound cake. The slow pain of desire assailed him, musk in the throat.

“What's he doing?” Anne asked.

She meant Hersey, who had gone into the back garden and was looking over the roofs of town toward the Sound.

“He's looking for shots,” Strickland said. “You know, checking it out.”

While she was looking at Hersey, he ran his eye over her. When, she turned back toward him, she raised a hand to the braid behind her neck. It made him think she might have sensed his attention.

“Owen should be back in midafternoon,” she told him, “if you can wait until then. I can give you some lunch.”

“Very kind of you,” Strickland said. “We have lots to occupy us. And we bring our own lunch.”

When she started for the door, he called her back. “You're not going to change, are you?”

Anne failed to understand him.

“You're not going to take those clothes off, are you? Because we'd like to get you like that. It says something about your life.”

She stayed by the door for a moment as though she were thinking about it. Then she smiled slightly, tossed her head and said, “Sorry, but I think I will change.” She laughed nervously. “Sorry.”

“All right,” Strickland said. He watched her go inside and strolled over to where Hersey stood admiring the view.

“She has a nice body,” Hersey said. “Should we emphasize that?”

“She's a big creamy bitch,” Strickland said. “Let's emphasize
that.
"

“Hey,” Hersey said, “I think you're in love, boss.”

Upstairs, Anne found Maggie in her room with a rock video on TV, trying to write a letter.

“That man is so ghastly,” Maggie said when she saw her mother. She put a hand on her stomach and turned the corners of her mouth down in a parody of nausea.

“Was he asking you questions?”

“Sort of. Well, he asked me where I went to school. And I told him about the house and stuff.”

Anne folded her arms and leaned in the doorway of her daughter's room.

“That sounds reasonable enough. But he
is
a strange guy, isn't he?”

“He's gnarly,” Maggie said. “He's repulsive.”

“I wonder how they chose him,” Anne said. “I wonder what your father thinks.”

In the master bedroom, she found herself drawn to the mirror on the inside of her closet door. She had been aware of Strickland's insolent inspection. Standing in profile, she drew herself up and studied her reflection, hands on hips. Her breeches were skintight. The ride had left her feeling stiff and tired. She had gone out on a whim, to rent a mount and ride a trail in upper Fairfield County that she remembered from her high school days. As a girl she had learned to jump at a stable there.

Anne was not altogether pleased at the sight of herself. She felt slack and ill-conditioned, a little overweight from days at a desk and wine in the evening. She sat down on the bed and struggled with her boots. When they were off she lay back and turned on her side, feeling utterly fatigued. Without taking her top or breeches off, she clasped her hands between her thighs, drew up her knees and went to sleep.

Later, coming out of the shower, she heard Owen's voice from the kitchen downstairs. She dressed deliberately, reluctant to give up the dim silence of her bedroom to face the male presences below. At the same time, she thought the interview might be worth watching. Owen was very articulate but he was also forthright and uncalculating. It would be better, she thought, if she were there when things took, as they just conceivably might, a wrong turn.

Before she went down, she looked at herself in the mirror again. She had chosen slacks that were schoolgirl plaid, a white blouse and pearls—a chaste and impregnable outfit. At the last minute she decided to put up her hair and wear her pendant earrings. The earrings were a double touch of theater in defiance of Strickland and his cameras. She was coming to understand the amount of public performance that would be required of her. Sometimes she was able to enjoy it. In any case, she was determined to bring it off, to be and to appear worthy of Owen's enterprise.

She found them in the living room among the stacked provisions. Her husband was seated in an armchair by the window, awash in light. Strickland lounged on a sofa across the room from him. They had lighted Owen indirectly with a standing lamp and umbrella. The setup was familiar to Anne, who had modeled as a teenager.

As soon as Strickland saw her, he stood up.

“Hey, c'mere.”

“Not me,” she said. “I don't want to be in it.”

Strickland raised his arms in an imploring gesture and then let them fall to his sides. “You don't want to be in it? Then we have a major misunderstanding here.”

“I only mean,” Anne said, “that when you're filming Owen you ought to concentrate on him.”

“I welcome your input,” Strickland told her. “But let me worry about what I'm filming. I'd like you both here.”

Blushing slightly, she took a seat on her husband's left. Owen winked at her as she sat down.

“Don't let her push you around, Ron,” he said to Strickland.

“Your wife's impossible,” Strickland said. “She won't even wear what I want her to wear.”

“Christ,” Owen said, “are you going to tell us how to dress next?”

“Of course,” Strickland said.

He had been filming Browne for nearly an hour, trying to uncover him. It was what he did with everyone and Strickland liked to say that they were all the same to him. Browne seemed possessed of an enormous confidence in his own presence. It would naturally be useful in selling yachts to suburban mariners. Whether this happy-go-lucky savoir faire reflected inner certainty was another matter. Probably, Strickland thought, Browne had always found himself the smartest, most articulate person in any given room. Strickland thought it was not much of a trick, considering the rooms in which Browne had passed his time.

Idea-wise, Strickland found that Browne had a few nuggets for the camera:

“I think most of us spend our lives without ever having to find out what we're made of. Our lives are soft in this country. In the present day, a man can live his whole life and never test his true resources.”

And also: “The sea is the bottom line. Out there you have the elementals. You have day and night. You have ocean and the sky. Your boat and yourself. It's a situation of ultimate self-reliance.”

“The great American virtue,” Strickland said. He was not averse to helping out.

“I have no shame about invoking patriotism,” Browne declared. “There is a tradition of American seamanship.”

“Great,” Strickland said, and gave him the superbo sign, touching thumb to forefinger.

Browne went further: “I think we have to work at keeping the qualities that made us strong. I think we have to reach back and touch the past in a way. Long ago we had to fight the forces of nature. They were unforgiving of mistakes. So in winning out over them, we had to win out over ourselves.”

“Those are the hardest battles, aren't they?” Strickland asked obligingly. “The ones we fight against ourselves?”

“No question about it,” Browne said. “And I'm not ashamed of achievement. I'm not ashamed to prevail.”

Strickland thought it interesting that Browne had referred to shame three times in a few minutes. He declared a break and called Hersey into the next room.

“I'll take sound, you shoot it. I want Little Momma in a straight-backed chair, upright,
uptight,
got it? Let's get some of her reactions. Can you handle it?”

“Sure,” Hersey said.

When they went back to the living room, Strickland brought a dining room chair for Anne to sit on. She accepted it without question.

“Will you win?” Strickland asked Browne.

“I'm supposed to say yes, I suppose. So I will. Yes, I'm gonna win it.”

Strickland turned to Anne. Hersey panned to cover her. She was stiff-upper-lipping it with a strained smile. As Strickland watched her, their eyes met.

“Won't this come out a little unconnected?” she asked.

“We clean up the transitions,” Strickland assured her. “Don't worry about it.” He turned to Browne. “What does winning mean to you? As a man.”

Browne laughed. He seemed to find the question embarrassing. “As a man? Hell, what would it mean to any man? It's better than losing.” He turned to Anne as though for confirmation. Perhaps, Strickland thought, it was something they had talked about. Anne kept smiling, doing her best to look proud of him.

“What about the prize, if you get it?” Strickland asked. “What will you do with it?”

“Christ,” Browne said, “that question fills me with superstitious dread.”

“Then don't answer it,” Anne said.

“I don't know what I'd do,” Browne said. “No idea.”

“Think about it.”

Anne and Owen looked at each other. Hersey filmed them in turn.

“I think I'd like to write if I had time. I have a few things to say.”

“Go on,” said Strickland.

“I like teaching people to sail,” Browne said. “It was something I really enjoyed when I was young.”

Strickland looked at Anne. “Did he teach you to sail?”

She only shook her head.

“Annie was a salt when I met her,” Browne declared. “She knew more than I did.”

Strickland nodded and smiled appreciatively. “Whom would you teach to sail, Owen?”

“Whom? Well anyone. Kids, maybe.” He looked from the camera's eye to his wife and then to Strickland. “It might be great for handicapped kids, don't you think? It would build selfconfidence. And it would help train them to overcome.”

No one answered him.

“So,” Strickland suggested, “you have a sort of program in mind.”

Anne spoke up before he could answer.

“Absolutely not.”

“We have a few dreams,” Browne said, “that's all.”

“Let's talk about the prize,” Strickland said. “How much is it again?”

Both Brownes appeared uncomfortable.

“Fifty thousand dollars,” Browne said. “But there's more to it than that.”

“Talk about that,” Strickland said.

“There are opportunities,” Browne said, and faltered.

“I really think it's bad luck to talk this way,” Anne said. Then she saw that Hersey was still shooting. “Why is he filming this?” she demanded.

“Take it easy,” Strickland told her. “We won't use everything we have. I told you we would clean up the transitions.” He saw her turn a reproachful look on her husband. “How about letting me ask him one thing more?” he said with the parody of a guilty smile.

“Hey,” Browne said to him, “you don't have to ask her permission. Address yourself to me.”

“No offense,” Strickland said. “It's all in a good cause.”

“I hope so,” Anne said.

“How important is the money?” Strickland asked Browne. “In the great scheme of things.”

“It's important. I mean,” he said, “money is honorable. It's an honorable goal. I'm not ashamed of racing for money.”

“If there were no prize money would you enter all the same?”

“I don't know,” Browne said. “The prize is definitely an incentive. Definitely.” Anne Browne was watching her husband with an unhappy expression. “I mean,” he went on with a laugh, “some of history's great voyages were undertaken for money. In the hope of eventual wealth. Even Columbus, actually. And Magellan.”

“N . . n . . names,” Strickland declared to Anne, “that I haven't heard since high school.”