instrument, the original. He felt a song brewing inside him, gathering like a storm. An old song, a new song.
If her mother had said it once, she’d said it fifty thousand times: Be careful what you wish for.
As a child, Siobhan had wanted a horse. They did, after all, live on a farm, which her father had inherited, but it was a mediocre piece of land that could only sustain turnips and mean chickens. When Siobhan begged for a horse, her mother said, Be careful what you wish for. If we get you a horse, you’ll never have a moment’s rest. You’ll have to carry out feed and water, you’ll have to groom the horse and deal with its droppings, you’ll have to give it exercise, which means riding the horse, Siobhan. It will make you sore like you’ve never been in your young life. A horse will run your father and me to the poorhouse faster than we’re going already, and your brothers and sisters will hate you from envy. Wish for a horse all you want, Siobhan, but the worst thing that could happen is for that wish to come true.
Another gem from her dismal Irish upbringing! And yet here were her mother’s words ringing true again. Siobhan had wanted to know what was going on between Claire and Lock Dixon—she had meant to find out! She had threatened and accused and withheld the sound of her voice from Claire’s ear for two full weeks.
Now they were sitting on the cold sand of the south shore, two uneaten sandwiches between them. It was chilly on the beach, but Claire had been adamant about the place. The two of them alone, outside, surrounded by landscape that was bigger than they were.
There’s something I have to tell you, Claire said.
And Siobhan thought, Yes! Out with it!
I’m having an affair with Lock Dixon. I’m in love with him.
The horse, her mother, the turnips and chickens, the envy of her brothers and sisters. Be careful what you wish for. Siobhan heard Claire’s words and saw the expression on her face—one of naked pain, as though Siobhan were twisting her arm behind her back. Siobhan filled immediately with regret. And shock and horror. It was true, the unthinkable was true. The betrayal was real and complete. A commandment had been broken, and it lay shattered at their feet. It had been broken by the only person whose goodness Siobhan had wholly believed in. Siobhan didn’t know if she was more disappointed in Claire for the transgression, or in herself for making Claire admit to it.
I’m having an affair with Lock Dixon. I’m in love with him.
In love with him?
Siobhan felt revulsion at the back of her throat, a gag reflex. She was going to be sick. This had been her hair-trigger reaction to every piece of bad news her whole life: vomiting. Gross and mortifying, but true. She had vomited outside the church at her mother’s funeral, even though her mother had been dying for months; she had vomited in her apartment for two hours after she had broken her engagement to Edward Melior. Claire was in love with Lock Dixon, and Siobhan was going to vomit right there onto the cold sand. It was the body’s most basic rejection. Her spirit screaming, No!
She coughed into her hand. Okay.
This was not a film with actors, it was not one of the afternoon soap operas—her sleeping with him sleeping with her. These were real people in real life; people hurting other people. Claire hurting, for starters, Jason. Poor Jason! Siobhan honestly would have bet her life savings that she would never have uttered those words in her mind, because Jason was not “poor Jason.” He was too much of a callous son of a bitch, absolutely impossible, as macho and Marlboro as the male species came, Jason was. He had let his guard down a little bit when the baby was born. Siobhan had seen him weepy and quivery-lipped, but what had he turned around and done then? He had blamed the whole thing on Claire. She shouldn’t have been in the hot shop. She knew better. Jason was a Neanderthal. Carter was the refined brother; he did things like mince, julienne, and sauté; he had an artist’s eye, a delicate touch. Jason had tormented Carter about the cooking for most of their adult lives—Carter was gay, cooking was for pussies. Real men did . . . what? Pounded nails into wood. Yes, Siobhan