I’d meant to be polite, but he seemed to take it as an insult. “You don’t mind if I stay?” he repeated.
I looked up from my drawing. “Thank you, I mean.” I set down my pencil. “This is a beautiful spot, and I’m grateful that you took the time to show it to me. It was very thoughtful of you.” But this didn’t seem to pacify him. “Was there something you wanted to talk about?”
“We’ll talk later,” he said, thrusting his hands into the front pockets of his jeans and stalking away, back up the path toward the house. I watched until he was out of sight. Should I run after him? Offer an apology? What had I said to hurt his feelings?
No, I decided. This was my time off, and I would spend it as I pleased. I went back to my work, but knowing that I’d upset him, I had a hard time concentrating. My watercolors ran together, making muddy streaks. I kept looking at my watch to see if it was time to pick Maddy up from preschool, and soon enough it was.
That next morning I rummaged in my drawers and found my bathing suit from a few summers ago; I hadn’t tossed it out after all. It was a plain navy blue one-piece, a bit faded from chlorine. If Mr. Rathburn wanted me to take his daughter to the pool, I would learn to swim. I threw my baggiest sweatshirt on over the suit and stepped into a pair of shorts. After dropping Maddy off at school, I drove straight home and hurried to the pool house, hoping nobody would notice what I was up to. I’d never been terribly comfortable in water. My mother’s attempts to teach me to swim had always ended badly; I would cling to her arms or around her neck, begging her not to let go. But that had been years ago when I was just a little girl. Surely now I’d be able to teach myself the basics.
I wandered outside, to one of the white Adirondack-style chaise lounges facing the pool. The day was going to be hot; already the sun reflecting off the water was blinding. I shed my sweatshirt and shorts and put on my sunglasses, a cheap pair I’d picked up for driving. Never one to just jump in, I worked my way slowly down the wide Mexican tile steps. The water felt refreshing. Encouraged, I waded in until I was up to my chin, wondering how to begin. I tried hopping to get both feet off the bottom, paddling my arms as fast as I could, but I sunk like a bag of cement. Next, I tried pumping my legs bicycle-style while my arms flailed at the surface. But it was no use.
What was I doing wrong? I gripped the edge of the pool, kicking my feet up to the surface and then pushing off with my hands, but the second I let go, down my body sank. Though I tried not to dwell on how ridiculous my efforts must look, I did allow myself a quick glance up the hill to make sure nobody was watching from the house. Just then, Mr. Rathburn came whistling across the lawn, wearing only black swim trunks and aviator sunglasses. Before he reached the pool, there was time for me to thank heaven that he wasn’t wearing a Speedo and to notice how muscular he was. Not that that was surprising; didn’t he spend hours each day lifting weights? If I were a billionaire, maybe I’d be in good shape too.
Before I could collect my facial expression into something more casual, he was standing at the edge of the pool, hands on his hips, grinning down at me. “So you do own a bathing suit after all.”
I shrugged, trying to look nonchalant. “You said you wanted me to learn to swim. But it’s hopeless. I’m like a bag of rocks.”
“You’re never going to learn that way, struggling to keep your head above water. You have to relax, learn to trust the water, let yourself feel what it’s like to go all the way under. You need to do the dead man’s float.”
I didn’t like the sound of that.
“You don’t have to do it in the deep end. You can try it right here in the shallow part, where your feet can touch bottom if you get worried.” He loomed above me on the pool deck, arms crossed resolutely on his chest, which I noticed was hairless but for a soft tangle of black fur on his breastbone. I glanced down quickly, noticed his legs were covered with that same soft-looking hair, and turned my gaze to a more neutral object: my own white, goose-pimpled arms.
“I’m not a very relaxed person.” As I said the words I realized they probably sounded like the world’s biggest understatement.
“I can teach you,” he said. And before I could respond, he was in the water beside me, an arm’s length away. Had he ever stood that close to me before? A sudden shiver made me hug myself for warmth. “I used to be a lifeguard, believe it or not. Back in Wichita. I won’t let you drown.”
I remembered my mother trying to get me to swim, her hands supporting me under my stomach while she exhorted me to let go of her neck, to flail my arms and kick. Would Mr. Rathburn touch me? The very thought brought blood to my cheeks; I was grateful for the protective wall of my sunglasses. At any rate, he crossed his arms again and took a step back to give me room.
“Start by putting your face in the water. Your feet don’t even need to leave the ground. You’ll have to take those glasses off, though.” I handed them over reluctantly, took a deep breath, and dipped my face in. So far so good. “Now open your eyes. It’s okay; the water won’t sting.”
I forced my eyes open and saw bubbles, the bright red, gold, and blue of the tiled pool bottom, and Mr. Rathburn’s long legs tinted a bluish white by the water. Was this what I’d been so scared of? I kept my face underwater as long as my breath held out.
“See? Not so bad, right?” Through the water that streamed into my eyes, I could see him looking at me with something like concern. I nodded. “Are you ready for the next step?”
“That depends on what it is.”
“Put your face in the water again, but this time let yourself relax. Your arms and legs will get lighter, and before you know it, you’ll be floating. You won’t even have to try.”
Let myself relax? I wasn’t sure I could, especially with Mr. Rathburn watching. But I followed his instructions, and, just as he’d predicted, I was floating as though I were weightless, the water gently rippling over and around me. I liked it so much — that feeling of drifting along, buoyant and free — that I did it again and again, and Mr. Rathburn watched with more patience than I had ever seen in him.
“What’s next?” I asked when I finally surfaced.
“Haven’t you had enough for one day? You just learned to float. That’s a huge leap forward. Everything else will be a piece of cake.” He hoisted himself up on the side of the pool and climbed out, and I felt a pang of disappointment. But then he returned, dragging a couple of enormous lime-green inflatable rafts. “How would you feel about getting on one of these?”
It took several tries, but I was able to clamber onto the raft from the highest of the steps leading into the pool. I spread out on my stomach. A moment later, his raft was beside mine. “If this doesn’t relax you, nothing will,” he said. “Short of Xanax.” I allowed myself a glance over at him and caught his eye. “I’ll have Linda bring us cocktails,” he said.
“It’s ten in the morning,” I told him. “I have to pick Maddy up in a few hours. Besides, I’m underage.”
“Oh, right,” he said with a smile. “I forgot.” Then he lowered his head onto the pillowy end of his raft and shut his eyes. I decided to do the same. For a long while the only sound was the gentle lapping of water against the pool’s concrete lip. When I opened my eyes again, our rafts had drifted together. His eyes were shut, and for once I could study his face unobserved. He had a strong nose, dark brows, a square jaw, and a full lower lip. I had been right the other day: he wasn’t classically handsome, but his features were appealing, full of character. I could even see why Linda thought he was sexy. Without meaning to, I glanced at his broad shoulders and the smooth, bronze skin of his back. Just then he stirred, and I looked quickly away, not wanting to be caught. That’s when I noticed that our rafts had drifted to the center of the pool. I propped myself up on my elbows.
Mr. Rathburn opened his eyes. “Are you worried?”
I thought a second. The rafts seemed safe enough, and the side of the pool wasn’t all that far away. “You were really a lifeguard?” I asked.
“The only
normal job I’ve ever had,” he said. “I worked at a country club near my house. I never had to save any lives, though. My main job was to flirt with the middle-aged housewives with too much time on their hands.” He let his head drop back to the inflatable pillow. “If we drift into the deep end, I’ll rescue you.”
I shut my eyes again. The water rocked my raft soothingly.
“So the other night you wanted to know about Maddy’s mother,” he said, out of the blue.
“I did?” I couldn’t recall asking, exactly, but I was curious. “Only if you don’t mind telling me.”
“It’s not like the whole thing isn’t on the public record,” he said. “Didn’t you see the stories, when you were sleuthing around on the Internet? The tabloids loved us to pieces. ‘American Rock Aristocracy Meets Rising French Musical Star in a Transcontinental Romance.’”
“It sounds romantic,” I said. “Were you happy?”
“I thought I was.” He shifted, turning to face me. Our bobbing rafts were just inches apart. “Everybody kept saying we were the perfect couple, and I believed them for a while. I rented her an apartment on the Champs-Élysées, paid for everything she asked for — a Ferrari, designer dresses, personal trainer. I’d sold a couple of my songs to the movies, and my greatest hits album was doing very well, so I was recovering from economic ruin. You’d think I’d have learned to be more careful with my money.” He grabbed on to the nearest corner of my raft and paddled a bit to keep us from drifting away from the shallow end. “Anyway, it wasn’t my money she wanted as much as my influence. Celine was dead set on breaking into the international market. She wanted a contract with my record label, and I was happy I could make it happen.”
“Oh,” I said. “She must have been grateful.”
“You’d think,” he said. He fell silent for several minutes, and just when I thought he’d dozed off, he spoke again. “I was on tour, and there was the usual temptation — the groupies, the love-struck fans — but I was on my best behavior. By then I was clean, completely off drugs, thinking I could start fresh.”
I could feel my back starting to burn, so I turned, carefully, face side up. “Did Celine go on tour with you?”
“For a while, but she got bored just watching the action. She wanted to sing backup, and I let her on a few songs, but it wasn’t enough. It killed her not to be the main attraction.” He flipped over onto his back and tucked his hands behind his neck. “Soon she begged out, said she couldn’t get a decent night’s sleep in a hotel. She missed Paris. She was such a homebody she just couldn’t cope with the travel. And I believed her, like an idiot.”
“What happened?”
“The National Enquirer happened. They broke the story — ‘Glittering Chanteuse Hooks Up with Handsome Gallic Leading Man.’ Maybe you saw the article — and the pictures?”
Suddenly I recalled a photograph that had been widely published at the time: a distant shot of a French pop star clad in a white bikini and curled in the arms of a young, tanned actor, the two celebrities believing themselves alone on the pearly sands of a private beach. Maybe I had seen it in one of my mother’s magazines.
“If you consumed pop culture like the rest of us plebes, you couldn’t have missed it,” he continued. Though his voice remained level, I thought I could detect a touch of agitation in it. “Those pictures were everywhere. Even worse, in an interview she forgot her agent’s advice and started bragging. She’d been seeing her boyfriend, Jean Paul LeFevre — Can you believe that name? It’s like a parody of a Latin lover in a Saturday Night Live skit, for God’s sake — since before she and I had gotten together. Nothing like a good public humiliation to keep a guy humble,” he concluded. “Good thing the media has a serious case of ADHD.”
“What did you do after that?” I asked.
“What could I do? I had a tour to finish. I threw myself into it. I’d stopped drugging and drinking myself stupid by then, but I wasn’t above getting… well… attention from groupies. I messed around. A lot. Took a lot of stupid chances.”
“Mr. Rathburn?” I interrupted.
He lifted up his sunglasses and looked at me.
“Have you been tested?” I really was concerned for him.
He looked startled. Then he burst out laughing. “I don’t mean to laugh. It’s very kind — very typical of you, I guess — to be worried about me.” He reached a hand toward me; it hovered for a moment as though it might land on my shoulder, but then he appeared to think better of it. I felt a momentary chill of regret. I wouldn’t have minded a quick pat on the shoulder between friends.
“No worries,” he said. “I’ve got the best doctors money can buy, and through sheer dumb luck… Well, I’m still here, aren’t I?”
“You were lucky.”
“Yes, well, yes and no. A few months later, I got a call from Celine’s lawyer, telling me that she was pregnant with my child. She wanted child support, of course, but she didn’t even have the courage to tell me herself. I paid her off — a ridiculous amount — and in exchange she promised I would never have to see her or it.”
“But that baby was Maddy, wasn’t it?” It hurt me to hear him call her “it.”
He nodded. “I wasn’t at all convinced she was mine. She’s a little carbon copy of her mother, without a single drop of me in her.”
“Didn’t you have a paternity test?”
He nodded. “I’m Maddy’s father all right, but you’d never know it to look at her.”
“But how did she come to live with you?”
“That was more red meat for the tabloids. You didn’t read about it before you got here?”
“I ran out of time,” I told him. “There was so much to go through.”
“Celine was pretty much the kind of mother you’d expect. To her, Maddy was just a siphon for extracting cash from my wallet. There was an au pair for a while. Then Celine’s career tanked, she blew all my support money, and she fired the au pair. But instead of watching the baby herself, she kept going out to parties at night and left Maddy alone in hotels.”
“Maddy said something about that,” I told him. “She remembers.”
“Eventually the tabloids found out, and I was able to get full custody. I may not have cared anything about Celine’s baby, but I wasn’t going to let the little thing die of neglect.”
“And you love her now?” I asked.
“I don’t know shit — sorry — about children,” he responded. “That’s why I hired you. But I do love her. You can see that, right?”
I nodded. “And she loves you. All children love their parents, no matter how…”
“Self-absorbed, neglectful, absent?”
“When you do spend time with Maddy, you’re good with her,” I said. “She can tell you love her.”
“I know how to be the nice daddy,” he said. “The one with the presents. It’s the other part of it — the discipline — I’m lousy at.”
I trailed a hand in the water. “You can learn.”
“With the right teacher, I could,” he said. “I’m not as hopeless as I probably —” He stopped midsentence and pushed up onto his elbows. “You’re getting a sunburn,” he said. “Across your nose. And on your shoulders.”
I sat up, the raft lurching beneath me. The sun was high in the sky. “Maddy!” I squinted in the direction of the pool house, hoping to find a clock on the wall, but there was none. “It must be noon, at least. I’m so sorry, Mr. Rathburn. I’ll be late picking her up.”
“I’m the one who lured you out here and distracted you with my story,” he said. “Come on, let’s get dry.” He slipped from his raft into the water and began towing me toward shore. “I’ll call and let them know you’re running a little late. They won’t give you a hard time.”
Back on the deck, I zipped up my sweatshirt and tugged on my shorts, which were instantly soaking wet.
“Dammit, I left my cell phone back at the house.” Mr. Rathburn draped the towel over his shoulders. “Here’s a though
t. Why don’t you throw on some dry clothes, and I’ll drive you there myself?”
He did, in a silver Maserati convertible with the top down. Maddy looked thrilled when he strode into the classroom and scooped her up in his arms, and her teachers were all politeness and smiles. “No need to apologize,” one of them assured him. “We know how busy you must be.”
Mr. Rathburn turned and winked at me, then shook her hand. “Miss Matthews,” he said to her. “Maddy just loves you to pieces, and I can see why.” He held her hand a moment longer than was strictly necessary, and she turned scarlet. She even giggled.
Instead of driving back to the estate, Mr. Rathburn brought us to a little seafood restaurant in the next town; it overlooked a river that smelled of salt. Between the parking lot and the restaurant, he was stopped by a burly man in a baseball cap. The man strode over. “Nico?” he said, hesitating. “Nico Rathburn? I’m sorry to disturb you. I know you must get this all the time. But I just have to thank you. For how much your music has meant to me — since I was twenty-five, the year my mother died…”
I led Maddy to the lobby and distracted her with crayons and a color-by-number place mat while we waited for her father to catch up. It took a while. When he entered the lobby, I saw the pretty young hostess’s jaw drop. Then she looked me up and down, from my cheap sneakers to my still-damp hair. I read something like disbelief in her eyes just before they took on a more professional, neutral expression.
Mr. Rathburn beckoned her to the side, and they spoke in hushed tones. When they returned, she led us to an empty dining room. “No one will disturb you here,” she told him. “Your waitress will be in shortly.”
“I… love… restaurants,” Maddy was singing softly to a tune of her own invention. “I… love… restaurants. Why don’t we eat out more, Daddy?”
He put a hand on her head. “I didn’t know you liked to eat out so much.”
“Read me the menu.” Maddy thrust her place mat at me. “Please, Miss Jane.”
“Since you said please,” I told her.
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