Chapter 41. Jenny
JENNY
Alice stared at her, blinking.
“Simon knew, but he didn’t care.” It was the first time Jenny had told someone else. She didn’t feel ashamed. She didn’t care anymore. She just wanted Simon back.
“You had another boyfriend?”
Jenny shook her head.
“Then who…” Alice trailed off, frowning, then her brow smoothed. She pressed her fingertips against her lips, murmured. “Your stepfather…”
Jenny looked past Alice. She needed to be near Simon, needed to touch him. She had to see for herself. She scooted forward, until her feet were braced against a rock, then she stood. Alice tried to hold her leg, but Jenny pulled free, nearly unbalancing them.
Jenny inched down the hill, crawling backward in some areas like a spider, scooting on her bottom in others. When she found Simon, he looked as though he was sleeping. His hand was palm up, with his fingers curled. She took his hand into her own, placed a soft kiss in his palm.
She traced his handsome face with her fingers. His eyebrows, his mouth. The line of his nose. His strong jaw. She rested her cheek on his chest. They’d lain like that so many nights.
Alice was behind her, talking. Jenny ignored her. She wanted to go back. All the way to the day when Simon first spoke to her on the dock.
Alice was touching her arm, shaking her. “Jenny, we have to get him help.”
Simon couldn’t be helped now. Alice meant they had to call someone to get his body. Simon wasn’t there anymore. Jenny lifted her head from his chest. Her tears landed on his face, mixed with his blood. Alice slid down beside her and rested her hand on her back.
Jenny looked at her. “I was fifteen the first time it happened.”
The house was quiet and dark when she got home from school.
She flicked on the lights, and the crystal chandelier over the dining room table glittered.
She reached up to touch one of the diamond drops.
They’d been in White Cliff for over a year now, but she could still scarcely believe that she lived in such a pretty house.
Sometimes when her mother and Robert weren’t home, she’d pretend she was grown up and that she lived there with her wonderful husband and adorable children.
Two at least, maybe three. She’d pour juice into a wine glass, play a record, and slow dance in the living room with a pillow. She’d die if she was ever caught.
That weekend her mother had driven into Vancouver to shop for the latest in fall fashions. Robert usually went with her, and they’d get a room in a fancy hotel, but this time he’d wanted to stay and focus on his book. He’d probably be shut away in his office far into the night.
Jenny put a place mat under her notebook, so she didn’t scratch the mahogany table, and worked on her English homework until her stomach complained.
She fetched the chicken salad that her mother had left in the fridge and ate at the table while finishing her essay.
She paused when the lights flickered. Was the power going to go out?
She got up and walked to the large window in the living room.
It was nearly dark outside, so she cupped her hands around her eyes and leaned closer to the glass.
The sky had been heavy with gray clouds all day, the air spiked with a metallic scent.
Now wind lashed the trees around their house and raindrops hit hard and loud against the window like thousands of stones.
She’d just finished her meal when there was a loud poof, and all the lights and appliances shut down, plunging the house into sudden darkness. She stumbled into the living room, searching for candles and the matches by the fireplace. She ran her hands along the mantle.
“You okay, Jenny?” Robert had come out of his office and was carrying a lit candle. The glow stretched across his face, dipped into the shadows.
“I can’t find the matches.”
“Here.” He walked over and lit the candle in her hand, then the ones at the table. “Come into the office. The fire is going.”
She followed him and sat on his brown leather couch, warm from the fire. There were soft pillows on each side and a knit throw blanket. She imagined that he probably rested on the couch while he was coming up with ideas. The office smelled like spiced cigars and leather.
Robert stood behind his desk, staring at his typewriter, a sheet of paper still inside.
“Do you mind looking over some pages for me? See if I’ve made any mistakes.”
He wanted her help? She loved reading and sometimes they talked about books, but he’d never asked for help before.
She sat straighter as he brought over a stack of crisp white pages, the typed black words pressed in.
She could feel them with her fingertips.
She read the pages by the firelight, while Robert paced or stared out the window behind his desk and drank whiskey.
When he came over and held out another glass for her, she looked up at him, shocked.
“Just a small one,” he said. “Stormy nights call for whiskey, but don’t tell your mother.” He winked. She’d never tried whiskey. Or any alcohol, for that matter, but the idea of doing something without her mother knowing was both exciting and terrifying.
The first sip burned her throat and sent instant heat into her cheeks.
She coughed.
Robert laughed. “The second won’t be so bad.”
She took another sip, and when he looked pleased, she had another. The next few minutes passed with her focusing on the pages. He gave her a pencil to mark any edits.
“Whatever you notice,” he said. “Typos, or if something doesn’t make sense.”
It grew hotter in the office, her wool tights itching, and Robert added more whiskey to her glass.
She took small sips, enjoying the clink of ice against the glass, feeling like a grown-up, reading a manuscript.
Maybe she’d be an author one day—or an editor.
She squinted at the papers. Except these words seemed to be moving and blurring.
Robert sat beside her, the dip in the couch making her slide toward him. She moved to give him room, and he moved closer still, leaning over her as he pointed at a mark on the page.
“That was a good catch.”
She felt her cheeks grow warmer. “It’s a great story.”
“Yeah?” He smiled at her, showing his white teeth. “I’m glad you think so. I can’t tell anymore. If it’s not perfect, the reviewers are going to rip me to shreds.” His smile melted away, and he gave a heavy sigh. She felt bad for him. It had to be so hard.
“I could never think of something so clever. The way the main character, Susan, collects the driftwood to build her fence against the storm, it’s a metaphor, right?
Because the storm isn’t what’s happening outside, like tonight.
” She gestured at the window. “It’s what’s happening in her heart.
She wants to wait for her fiancé to come back from the war, and she misses him, but she’s falling in love with that other man—the doctor—and she’s trying to shield herself. ”
Robert was staring at her. His face solemn.
Did she say something wrong? She’d always had a hard time speaking to Robert.
She used to flush and stutter when he looked at her and just about died with embarrassment when he first began dating her mother and brought Jenny flowers.
She’d been unused to attention, to a kind word.
Now that they lived in the same home, he mostly ignored her.
That wasn’t any better. She felt like an interloper. An unwanted guest.
Robert set his hand on her leg just above her knee, rubbing and massaging. She stared at it, confused. Her stomach flipped like she was going to be sick. She wanted to leave.
She set her glass of whiskey on the side table. He put his down too. She was going to get to her feet and walk out. She needed water. She would feel better then. She shifted to the edge of the couch. The hand on her leg—Robert’s hand—was pressing harder, holding her still.
Now he was looking at her with glossy, red-rimmed eyes. “You’re a beautiful girl. Do you know that? That’s why your mother’s jealous of you.”
Jealous? What did he mean? Then his mouth was on hers and she was stunned, so frozen by the feeling of fleshy lips and the sour taste of whiskey that she didn’t push him away.
She fell backward. He was on top of her, heavy and moving quickly, his hands everywhere.
Mauling and grabbing her breasts. One was up her skirt and pulling on her wool tights, dragging them off.
She tried to block him, but his elbows were pinning her arms, grinding into the muscles and tendons. His weight was on her rib cage. She couldn’t take a breath. She’d thought she’d said no, but later she couldn’t remember. She just remembered pain.
It was over as suddenly as it had begun. She was crying as she straightened her skirt and tried to pull her blouse together. It took her three attempts before she realized she was missing buttons. Her tights were on the floor. She picked them up and held the small bundle to her chest.
Robert was sitting at the other end of the couch with his head in his hands. “Oh, Jenny.” His voice was agonized, like he was the one in pain. “Why did you have to give me those looks? With that damn short skirt, sitting so close to me. You can’t tease a man like that.”
Jenny pulled the offending skirt over her knees. She didn’t know what to say. He was the one who had sat beside her, wasn’t he? Maybe her skirt was short, but she’d been wearing tights. She wasn’t showing skin. Her head was blurry from the whiskey, her cheeks burning.
Robert got up from the couch and collected the papers that had scattered all over the carpet. He stacked them on his desk in a neat pile. Fussing until they were perfect. Then he turned around, grabbed his whiskey, and took another mouthful, eyeing her over the rim.
“I won’t tell your mother, but this can never happen again. Understand?”