is keep one hand on the guardrail and walk. And the beach is sand.”
“There are rocks,” Rose offered, and it was true. There were rocks on the beach, but they weren’t of the rough variety. They were, for the most part, beach pebbles worn smooth by years of tumbling in the light surf of the south side of the Point The rough rocks, both of them knew, were on the north side, jutting out of the face of the embankment. Neither of them was willing to confront that possibility yet.
“What about the quarry?” Jack asked suddenly. “She could have walked over to the quarry for some reason. It’s always muddy there, and God knows those old slag heaps are hard on the hands.”
Rose stared speculatively into space and tried to believe in the idea of the quarry. It would be easy, except for the smell. Her nose wrinkled as she remembered the awful rotting kelp odor that had permeated the shirt. She decided to put it out of her mind.
“Well, I don’t see that there’s a thing we can do about it now,” she said. “It’s too late. Besides, we’ve got other things to worry about,” she added pointedly.
Jack felt the familiar sick feeling begin to form in his stomach, the feeling he was not getting used to—and was experiencing more and more.
“Don’t you think things are bad enough?” he asked, his voice carrying a quaver that he hoped Rose wouldn’t hear. “Let’s not make them any worse.”
“How could it get any worse,” Rose said bitterly. She kept her voice low, ready to break off the conversation if she heard the children coming downstairs. But she was not about to let it go. She remembered the previous night—his rejection, her long, thoughtful vigil at the window—and wondered how many more of them there would be, how many more of them she would be able to stand without blowing apart from the rage, the frustration, and the humiliation.
Last night she had taken herself in hand and squeezed her anger back, forcing herself to sleep through it. But this morning it was still there, waiting to be served up to Jack along with his coffee and orange juice. He had not been surprised.
“Don’t you think it’s time you got back into therapy?” she asked softly, trying another tack.
“I don’t want to go into it,” Jack said sourly.
“The subject or the therapy?”
“Take your pick,” he said. “Is there a difference?”
“That depends,” Rose said, deliberately keeping the poison out of her voice. “I know you don’t get off on therapy—”
“I don’t get off at all,” Jack finished for her. “You’re getting predictable.”
“And you aren’t?” Rose snapped, no longer bothering to hide the hostility she was feeling. “Listen to me,” she hissed as he began turning away, as if his back might shield him from her words.
“It’s no good, Jack, it’s just no good. I’m a normal woman, with normal desires, and I deserve some kind of normal satisfaction. Although God knows why I should expect that in a home that’s anything but normal. Maybe there’s nothing we can do for Sarah, but I should think that you, at least, would want to do what you can before you get just like her.”
“It’s not that easy—” Jack began, but she didn’t give him time to defend himself.
“What is easy? Is it easy to live with a man like you? Easy to live with a child like Sarah? Easy to keep on acting as if nothing is the matter? Business as usual? How long do you think I can keep it up? God knows, every woman that’s ever married into this family has had her hands full just being the latest Mrs. Conger for this godforsaken village. But that’s not enough, not any more. Not only do I have to be Mrs. Conger, but I have to be a loving mother to a traumatized child, a loving wife to an impotent husband, and push real estate on the side.”
“You don’t have to do that,” Jack put in, grabbing at the only available straw.
“Don’t I?” Rose demanded. “Don’t I? Well, let me tell you one more thing. Pushing real estate is the easy part It’s the only fun I get out of life any more, and besides, it gives us enough money to keep Sarah at White Oaks. So don’t talk to me about what’s easy. For Christ’s sake, all I’m asking you to do is go and talk to somebody!”