Good Harbor

Joyce’s face was a mess of confusion and fear and mortification. “What?”

“Not now.” Kathleen guided her by the elbow out of the parking lot and back toward her car. She opened the passenger door for Joyce, who slid in meekly.

“I’m going to take you home,” Kathleen said as she pulled into the street.

“No,” Joyce groaned, looking down at her lap.

“What about coming to my house?”

“No.”

“All right. We’ll go to the beach.”

Joyce stared out the window. Kathleen stole glances at her and tried to think of ways to spare her feelings.

They didn’t speak the rest of the way. At Good Harbor, Joyce followed Kathleen to a spot near the tidal stream, as far from other people as they could get. A few children clambered nearby with nets and buckets. The sky was overcast but bright.

Joyce sat with her head bowed while Kathleen told her about Jimmy’s visit.

“Drugs,” said Joyce. “Boy, that explains a lot of things. What an idiot I am. What a total jerk.”

“Don’t.”

“Why not? I’ve been having a weird, kinky affair with a drug dealer, an addict, too, come to think of it. I’ve been sneaking around in the broad daylight, risking my life, my family. Nina! For God’s sake, I can’t even look at you. You must think I’m the scum of the earth. And I probably am.”

“No, Joyce. I’m not judging you. Believe me.”

“Why not? You have no idea how sleazy this whole thing was. I want to say it’s like I was a different person in that room, but that would be a lie. It was me, all right. Joyce Miller Tabachnik, moron. Bored suburban housewife. Empty-nest cliché. Oh, God, this is so awful.”

Kathleen put her hand on Joyce’s.

“Don’t touch me,” she snapped.

“Oh, stop it.” The anger in Kathleen’s voice startled Joyce. “What? Do you think you’re the only woman who ever made a mistake?”

“I suppose the divorce courts are full of women like me.”

“Are you and Frank getting a divorce?”

“Maybe we should.”

“I didn’t,” said Kathleen evenly.

“You didn’t what?”

“I didn’t get a divorce after my, after I . . .” Kathleen took a breath and continued, “I had an affair.”

“You?” Joyce looked Kathleen in the face for the first time.

“His name was Stan, and he was artist-in-residence in the Cape Ann schools. It was two years after Danny was born.” Kathleen paused between phrases, listening to herself say things she’d never said out loud. “He was from Hingham. He had a wife and kids. Three kids. He rented a room in Salem while he worked on the North Shore. I spent seven afternoons with him. I counted. Seven afternoons. Five in February, two in March.

“He was wonderful in the classroom. He had those children making the most beautiful, heartbreaking little paintings you can imagine. His own art wasn’t as good, I’m afraid. But, Lord, he could talk like an angel.”

“And you never told Buddy?”

“I never told anyone.”

“You don’t mean to say that I’m the first person, ever?”