she? He’d called her Madeleine and she’d countered with Scottie. Because of Vertigo. That was the way she remembered it. If his name really was Scott, he’d have mentioned it, right?
She heard a distant sound, like a door closing. Leaving her clothes behind, she went in search of towels, finding a neat stack of them near the exit, along with swimming caps and goggles wrapped in plastic. She grabbed one of each and walked out toward the pool, hoping she wouldn’t be alone out there. The quiet of this place was getting to her.
There turned out to be two pools, one a standard lap pool with eight lanes. She was happy to see that one of the lanes was occupied. It was a man, but she knew right away it wasn’t Scottie. The man hurtling through his strokes was dark-skinned, and Abigail thought she’d seen him the night before, noticing him because he was one of the few people of color, either guest or employee, here at Quoddy Resort. The only peculiarity of the lap pool was that the far lane extended into a curving tributary that went under an archway built into the stone wall. Abigail skirted the wall to see where it went and there was the second pool, built just for lounging and designed like an underground grotto, vegetation everywhere, rocks plunging up out of the water, even a small waterfall. It was magical, actually, and Abigail felt a stab of anger at Scottie for keeping her from enjoying this moment.
While she was standing there trying to figure out if she should actually do some laps or just lounge around in the grotto, the door across from the women’s changing room swung open and a staff member entered. He walked over to Abigail and asked her if she wanted anything. “A smoothie? Or a tropical drink?” Abigail, tempted to order a Bloody Mary, declined, and the employee, who’d introduced himself as Brad, showed her a button she could push if she changed her mind.
After he left, Abigail stepped into the water of the lap pool, donned her cap and the goggles, and began her slow, awkward crawl that kept pulling her to the left. As she swam, she tried to empty her mind of what was happening, but it wasn’t working. Even though she’d decided earlier that morning that if she couldn’t talk Scottie into leaving her alone she would tell Bruce some version of the truth, she was beginning to wonder if maybe she should lie, after all. Scottie was messing with her life, and maybe she needed to protect herself. She imagined a conversation with Bruce, maybe over lunch.
I didn’t bring this up last night because I didn’t want to freak you out, she’d say. But there’s a guy here that I met out in California. He was a pest, kept asking me if I was sure I was ready to get married, and maybe I talked with him too long, but he’s here now. He must have become obsessed or something. I didn’t tell you last night because I didn’t want to wreck anything, but I think you need to know.
She imagined herself crying. And then she imagined Bruce springing into action, having Scottie removed from the premises. No doubt Scottie would try to tell a different story, but Bruce would believe her, wouldn’t he? And maybe, in this case, lying would be the best thing to do for everyone involved. Maybe it would be the kindest thing to do for Bruce?
Her arm came down on the rope that separated the lanes—she was drifting left again—and she bobbed to the surface to take some deep breaths. The water was a perfect temperature, reminding her of the feel of Woodhouse Pond, her favorite swimming spot near Boxgrove. The man who’d also been doing laps had disappeared, and Abigail wondered if he’d swum through the connecting tunnel into the grotto. She decided to follow his lead, but after getting in a little more exercise. She even thought that when she got to the grotto she’d press that secret button and get herself a Bloody Mary, maybe even a pitcher. She picked up her pace, exhausting herself, and she felt good for the first time that morning. Even though she had slept with the stranger from California, that didn’t give him any kind of right to fly across the country to try to fuck up her marriage. The anger felt good, as though it were filling her,