Loss of Innocence

by Richard North Patterson

  Gazing after him, Whitney sensed someone at her shoulder. “Isn’t that your friend?” Peter said. “The outfit looks good on him.”

  To Whitney, this attempt at bluff humor carried a trace of belligerence. Before coming, Peter had enjoyed a cocktail or two with her father, who insisted on at least one glass of single malt scotch before Vineyard charity events—the spirits would be paltry, he groused, the wine second tier. But while a tumbler of Macallan reliably elevated Charles’s disposition, it seemed to have left Peter a little fuzzy of tongue.

  “Friend is overstating it,” she told him. “We’re friendly, that’s all.”

  Still looking toward Ben, Peter said nothing. Whitney sensed that his brain had slowed a little, calibrating his reactions with less facility than was usual for the easy, openhearted young man everyone liked so much. “Why don’t we find our table,” she suggested. “These new pumps are hurting my feet.”

  There were seven people at the table for eight—to her mother’s distress, Janine had chosen not to come for the weekend, pleading fatigue from days of photo shoots. Clarice sat between her parents, a genetic mixture of them both. While George Barkley’s sandy hair, blue eyes, and fine features were the prototype for his daughter’s good looks, Clarice’s vitality came from her energetic if somewhat fidgety mother Jane, a diminutive brunette whose quick tongue never quite concealed the insecurity that had caused Clarice to dub her “Our Lady of Perpetual Anxiety.” Tonight her worries were no doubt exacerbated by the fear that her husband stood on fiscal quicksand. As often, Whitney was grateful for her father, sitting between her and Anne with his accustomed air of tranquil authority. But Peter made her edgy; he was drinking more wine than normal, and a flush stained his cheeks and forehead. Across the table, Clarice’s gaze moved from Peter to Whitney, her eyebrows slightly raised, before flickering toward someone standing behind them.

  Turning, Whitney saw Ben passing with dinner plates in both hands. As he paused to give her a fleeting glance, Peter held out his wine glass. “Fill this for me,” he demanded.

  Ben stopped where he was, regarding Peter with a long, cool glance, silence his only response. Peter thrust out the glass toward him. “Wine,” he demanded.

  Still, Ben took his time to respond. “I’m serving dinner now. That explains the plates I’m holding. But someone will be over soon enough.”

  “I’m asking you,” Peter insisted with rising belligerence.

  Ben’s smile, a brief movement of his lips, suggested his disdain. “Yeah, I got that. But maybe you should ask for coffee.”

  Embarrassed, Whitney glanced at Clarice. She was studying Charles, who, to Whitney’s surprise, was watching Ben with the utter lack of expression she saw only when all his faculties were trained on assessing another male. The others were not as self-possessed: George Barkley looked away; his wife rediscovered her wine glass; and Whitney’s mother shot Peter a surreptitious look of worry.

  Before Peter could respond, Ben left him holding his glass aloft. “Can you believe that?” Peter asked, his voice louder in their silence.

  Ignoring this, Charles still watched Ben walk away. To her relief, Whitney noticed a tall, solemn-looking waiter approaching their table. He gave her a faint but reassuring smile, then addressed Peter. “May I get you something?” he asked politely.

  Unlike Ben, he had an inherent gentleness of manner. Mollified, Peter said, “A glass of red wine, thank you.”

  “Of course.” Filling Peter’s glass, the young man glanced briefly at Clarice. “Would anyone else care for wine?”

  “A final glass for me,” Charles said, which Whitney took as a tacit directive to Peter. Then the moment passed, allowing Whitney’s mother to remark on Clarice’s hemline.

  Upon their return home, Peter and Whitney remained on the lawn. Even in the moonlight, his chagrin was apparent. “You were pretty quiet tonight, Whit.”

  “Was I?”

  His shoulders hunched. “Didn’t handle that very well, did I?”

  “You treated him like a menial, Peter. It’s not like you.”

  “Ever meet someone who makes your hair stand up? There’s something about this guy. You saw how insolent he was.”

  “Only after I saw how insulting you were. Can I ask what brought that on? Other than scotch, that is.”

  He shifted his weight. “I guess I don’t like you hanging out with him.”

  “We’re not ‘hanging out’ . . .”

  “He’s going after you, Whitney. Maybe you don’t think so, but he is.”

  Was he? she wondered. She found this hard to imagine: in the hours they had spent together, Ben had done little to suggest that she was other than a mildly diverting specimen of her class in his interregnum of loneliness and uncertainty. “He knows I’m getting married,” she said firmly. “He’s no more interested in me than I am in him . . .”

  “Then why were you upset?”

  “I wasn’t upset. I was embarrassed, and I felt badly for you. This wasn’t about him at all.”

  Peter shoved his hands in his pockets. “I don’t want you apologizing for me, Whitney. I don’t want him thinking he’s that important.”

  “I won’t, and he doesn’t. So please let it go, all right?”

  At length, Peter sighed in apology. “So tell me we’ll be fine tomorrow.”

  Rising on her tiptoes, Whitney gave him a kiss. “We’re fine now,” she assured him. “And you’ll be fine tomorrow if you take some aspirin.”

  Peter smiled ruefully. “I hope so. Good night, Whit.”

  Pensive, she watched him walk slowly toward the guesthouse. When she went inside, her father was sitting in the living room. “Can we talk a minute?” he asked.

  Tense, Whitney sat across from him. “I guess this is about Peter.”

  Charles nodded. “He didn’t handle that well, it’s true. But your mother and I felt for him, and his behavior should give you pause for thought.”

  The remark, calm but faintly accusatory, aroused Whitney’s stubbornness. “It did, actually. I was thinking you should cut back on cocktail hour. I’m not the one who primed him with scotch, after all.”

  Her unaccustomed sharpness caused Charles to flush. “And I’m not the one who struck up a random friendship with another man.” His voice rose. “Every instinct I possess tells me that this man is a human stick of dynamite, whose mere presence in your life could blow it up. You may think nothing of spending time with him, but others will. Especially Peter. No man wants people believing him a fool, and no man wants to be one.”

  “What are you implying, Dad?”

  “About your intentions, nothing. I’m simply suggesting that you act with the care appropriate to a woman about to marry a fine young man.”

  “I’m not a child,” Whitney objected, “and Peter has no reason to be jealous. I can’t shun someone just because of what other people may think.” She softened her voice, hoping to persuade him. “I don’t want to treat Ben as poorly as Peter did. He’s had a tough time all his life, and a worse one lately. He got himself into Yale on a scholarship, then dropped out to campaign with Bobby Kennedy. He’s devastated by what happened, and now the draft may get him.”

  Charles put curled fingers to his lips. “You seem to know a lot about this boy.”

  “I’ve always been a decent listener, haven’t I? Actually, he’s pretty annoying, though I admire his determination to succeed. In fact, Clarice says he reminds her of you.”

  Charles’s eyes narrowed slightly. In a cooler tone, he said, “Really.”

  “I don’t see it,” Whitney consoled him. “Except that you’re both overly opinionated, and better at arguing than listening, you’re nothing alike.”

  Charles allowed himself a smile of self-recognition. “I’m the soul of tolerance, Whitney.”

  “Of course you are. If it weren’t for Ben’s politics, I’m certain you’d adore him.”

  Charles regarded her in contemplative silence. “You do make him sound interestin
g,” he responded in a more suitable tone. “Certainly the part about resembling me. Perhaps you should invite him to dinner. That might relieve whatever awkwardness you feel, and put your mother and me more at ease. It’s even remotely conceivable that I’ve been a bit too harsh.”

  Whitney felt a stab of apprehension: the image of Ben with her family filled her with misgivings.” I don’t think that’s necessary, Dad. Let’s drop it.”

  “Suit yourself,” her father said easily. “But he did fish you out of the water, and we’ve always welcomed your friends. Once Peter returns to Manhattan, why don’t you see what Ben thinks.”

  After a moment, Whitney nodded, resolved to do nothing of the kind.

  Five

  The next morning, Whitney went looking for Ben.

  He was not at the guesthouse, nor anywhere on the grounds. When she tried the catwalk, the waiter who had intervened the night before was caulking a powerboat. “I’m trying to find Ben Blaine,” she told him.

  Looking up from the boat, he said, “Ben’s not here today. I’m his brother, Jack.”

  They could not be less alike, Whitney thought. Jack’s demeanor was solemn and gentle, his long face was somewhere between handsome and homely, and his air of watchfulness reminded Whitney that he had grown up in a violent home. Within the family, Ben had told her, Jack had been the peacemaker. “I’m Whitney Dane,” she said. “Thank you for last night. My fiancé wasn’t at his best.”

  Jack nodded, watching her with perceptive eyes. “So that’s what it was.”

  To Whitney, the ambiguous remark implied an impression she wanted to dispel. “It was a misunderstanding. Afterward, Peter felt terrible.”

  His expression, briefly skeptical, reverted to modesty. “I saw what happened, that’s all. It seemed like I could help.”

  “You did.” Whitney hesitated, then asked, “Is Ben out sailing today?”

  Jack climbed from the boat. “Good guess,” he responded with a trace of humor. “My brother had urgent business on the water.”

  “Do you know when he’ll be back?”

  Standing in front of her, Jack gave Whitney a curious look. “After noon, I’d suppose. Should I pass on a message?”

  “Not really. I just wanted to see him for a moment. I feel badly about last night.”

  The faint smile at the corners of Jack’s mouth did not reach his eyes. “I guess the ‘misunderstanding’ was about you.”

  “It was about boys, not me. Peter had a little too much wine, and forgot his manners.”

  “A bad idea. My brother can be touchy.”

  For Whitney, the admonition evoked an image of Ben ruining his father’s face and teeth. “Ben has a certain idea of himself,” Jack continued more easily, “and he wants what he wants. He takes it hard when other people fool with that. I’d give him a day or two. If not a year or two.”

  There were multiple ways of interpreting this, Whitney thought—a concern for Peter; a warning to her; or the resentment of a gentler, less ambitious man for the younger brother who seemed to scorn him. Whatever the case, Jack was not as dispassionate about Ben as he might prefer to seem. “Then I’m glad you were there,” she told him. “With all that testosterone flying around, I wanted to duck for cover.”

  A brief smile creased Jack’s face. “Story of my life,” he said dryly. “The voice of reason. I appreciate this moment of recognition.”

  Whitney detected more truth in the words than their tone implied. It struck her that she had asked nothing about Jack himself, and knew very little from Ben. “What do you do when you’re not protecting people from Ben?”

  “I’m a woodworker. Chairs, desks, armoires, dining room tables, even doors and mailboxes. Whatever people need, as well as I can make it.”

  “Sounds like you enjoy it.”

  “I do.” Jack’s voice became more animated. “When I finish a piece—a desk, say—it’s something that never existed before, unique to me, that becomes a part of other people’s lives. When I used to paint, or sculpt, sometimes they’d just sit there. Now I put my craft into furnishings people use.”

  While Ben aspired to be a writer, Whitney reflected, Jack was already an artist. Though the reasons surely lay deep in childhood—and in their opposing reactions to a violent father—their distance from each other seemed regrettable. “Is there a place that sells your pieces?” she asked.

  “I’ve got a shop in Vineyard Haven. Come in sometime, and I can show you how they’re made.” He hesitated. “If you like, you can bring your friend Clarice.”

  “Do you know her?”

  “Only from catering. But you two always sit together.”

  With some embarrassment, Whitney realized that she had never noticed him before, and guessed this was also true of Clarice. “I’m sure she’d like that,” she heard herself saying. “What time is good for you?”

  A new warmth surfaced in Jack’s eyes. “Any afternoon,” he assured her. “I’ll look forward to it.”

  Whitney thanked him and left, wondering if Ben had gone sailing to avoid her.

  That night, Whitney’s parents watched NBC cover the eve of the Republican convention. Joining them, Whitney heard a commentator note that George Wallace, the independent who had made his name as a segregationist, was polling at fifteen percent, even higher in the South. The danger for Republicans, he explained, is that Wallace will peel away crucial votes among Southerners and blue-collar voters leery of the civil rights movement and the supposed breakdown in law and order. . . .

  “Wallace is a carnival barker,” Charles groused. “He’s running as the last firewall between the barbarians and civilization. But all he can really do is deliver the election to Humphrey and all the people he excoriates. If he were serious, he’d get out of Nixon’s way.”

  “What about black voters?” Anne asked him.

  “Hopeless,” Charles said gloomily. “Unfortunately, they’re in thrall to the Democrats. To win we need the Wallace people.”

  The unspoken subtext, Whitney supposed, was that Nixon could appeal to their fears without the crassness with which Wallace discomfited more genteel whites. Then the cheerful visage of Ronald Reagan appeared, speaking to a bank of microphones. “Of course I’d like a crack at the Presidency,” he said. “I don’t want people thinking I’m some pebble-pushing actor.”

  The moment conjured Whitney’s sense of the surreal. From childhood, she remembered him as the host of GE Theater, pitching appliances and half-hour melodramas with the same unvarying enthusiasm. Even as governor of California, Reagan seemed to her more like an entertainer than a potential president, combining breeziness with a folksy demeanor exhumed from some bygone era of vaudeville. “He’s a coming man,” her father told Anne. “But he has to wait his turn.”

  To Whitney, the remark had a familiar, faintly proprietary note, as though Reagan were a promising salesman who, with the right patronage and seasoning, might aspire to greater things. Then she thought of Ben’s evocation of Robert Kennedy in Indiana, telling a crowd of grieving blacks that their most hopeful leader had been shot and killed. “I think I’ll go for a walk,” she told her parents.

  Ben’s light was on in the guesthouse. When Whitney knocked, he opened the door, beer in hand. At a glance, she saw that his television was turned to the same coverage her parents watched, now focused on a crowd of Republican delegates. Following her gaze, he remarked, “That’s the whitest bunch of people I’ve seen since yesterday evening.”

  Whitney ignored this. “I’m sorry,” she said.

  “For what? You didn’t do anything. And if you’d wanted to apologize, you could have done that last night.”

  Whitney flushed. “That would’ve only made things worse. Peter saw us together, and misunderstood.”

  “I don’t know why Peter should worry. He’s the one holding a royal flush. Though he seems to have forgotten that your father dealt it to him.”

  “He’s really not like that,” Whitney insisted. “Last night was comple
tely out of character.”

  “Does he have any?” Ben inquired in an indifferent tone. “Then why did I notice an inverse relationship between your fiancé’s accomplishments and his sense of entitlement? When Robert Kennedy told me to do something, there was a reason for it, and he was never rude. Of course he wasn’t some empty sport coat out of Love Story. Good luck with him, Whitney.”

  Whitney crossed her arms. “You really are angry, aren’t you? Or else you wouldn’t try so hard to be insulting. Before, it just came naturally.”

  “You’re right,” Ben snapped. “On a better day I’d have mentioned that your beau ideal is marrying you to get out of the draft. Only a moron couldn’t see there are better reasons to marry you than that. Too bad you and your father can’t see it, either.”

  Whitney felt the words cut to her core. “You have no idea why Peter’s marrying me,” she said angrily, “and never will.” Abruptly, she stopped herself. “Please tell me what we’re doing, Ben. I’m lost.”

  Ben stared at her, and then she saw him expel a breath. “The ersatz Ryan O’Neal struck a nerve. A shame you had to be there. But that’s what you get for maintaining an acquaintanceship no one wants you to have.” His voice softened. “I’m sorry, Whitney. If it helps, you can take my diatribe as a compliment. I think one slipped in somewhere.”

  Whitney shook her head. “You know what’s so sad to me? I look at all of us—Peter, and my family, and you—and what I see is good people with the faults life gave them. I met your brother today, and thought the same thing. But you’re so hurt and angry all you can see is black and white.”

  Ben raised a hand, a glint of humor in his eyes. “Stop, Whitney, please. It’s way too late for group therapy, and I don’t know the words to ‘Kumbaya.’ I’m not taking your boyfriend sailing, or renting a tuxedo for the wedding. You’ll have to settle for a punch bowl from Tiffany’s.”

  “I don’t need one,” she retorted, then felt Ben’s jibe ignite an impulsive thought. “And you needn’t wait for the wedding. My dad’s inviting you to dinner.”