Free So Close by Emma McLaughlin Page A

sit.  (Mine preferred a duct-taped recliner close enough to the TV to change its channels with her toe.)  Planning to dodge behind an urn if necessary, I quickly traversed the grand hallway.  I passed a living room, a library with a wall of duck prints, a concert space containing only a grand piano, and eventually arrived at a pale coral room that had to be my destination.  On one side of the door was a tufted settee facing a marble mantle and on the other, a curving antique desk between sumptuously draped windows that looked out over a shaded patio.  The ocean sparkled in the distance.  I couldn’t imagine what their other houses looked like that would make them ever want to leave this one. 
    Amidst the sterling desk accessories I found a program from the luncheon, and turned it over to see notes scrawled on the back.  Suddenly, I heard someone coming.  Grabbing the tasseled fringe of the drape, I went to step behind it, but the idea of being discovered hiding there was too mortifying.  Across the room I spotted an open archway next to the fireplace.  I raced through it only to discover that it was not an exit, but a deep alcove of glass cases.  Porcelain figurines were displayed on every shelf; slender women holding infants, picking flowers, dancing.  And I was trapped beside them.  Stepping back into the shadow, I regretted not just staying put and explaining myself.   
    “Tom’s a doll.”  In the reflection of the cases I could see Cricket enter the room with Taggart.  In a fitted silk dress, she was slipping off her earrings. 
    “I’m worried we were a little premature throwing him into this.  He says what he thinks to a fault and he’s so green he’ll take advice from damn near anybody,” Taggart said gruffly.  He dropped in a chair beside her desk and extended his loafers as if to inspect them.
    “Isn’t that what he’s supposed to be doing right now, taking advice?”  She slid open a desk drawer and withdrew a leather-bound date book.
    “As long as there aren’t too many cooks,” he mulled. “He does seem to actually believe what he’s saying.  Haven’t seen one of those in awhile.”
    She said something as she perused the binder.
    “Mmm,” Taggart answered, staring at his lap.  “Hot, though.”
    “It was.”
    “Not as bad as August.”
    “No.”  She flipped through the pages.  God, what if they were hunkering in?  Do husband’s sit in these rooms for any length of time?  Is that allowed?
    That’s when I realized that the couch, with it’s floral back to them at the desk, had a person on it.  In washed out red pants and a pale pink shirt he practically blended in.  He was sleeping.  He was Pax. 
    “Exactly what I’d thought,” Taggart tsked, taking the book from Cricket. “We’ll be in Greenwich for the Round Hill dinner.” 
    “If you prefer I can do Round Hill on my own,” she said airily in a way that sounded like a deep-seeded hope. 
    I watched Pax’s slumbering face.  It was completely relaxed and he held a chintz pillow to his chest as if it were a bear. 
    “No, we’ll just cancel the other thing.”  Taggart frowned. 
    “Fine,” Cricket said to the window.  “Whatever you think.”  They sat like that for a moment, but I wouldn’t characterize it as a comfortable silence.  
    All at once Taggart stood and walked out, shutting the door a little too forcefully, startling Pax awake.  His eyes opened, landing directly on mine—like he expected to find me there. 
    I shrunk back as much as the alcove would allow.  Pax lifted to dart his eyes over the couch, then jerked back down.  Cricket slowly returned the date book to its drawer.  Her earrings held in her palm, she opened the French door, sending a waft of salty air into the room.  She stepped onto the flagstone and clicked it closed behind her.  Pax spun upright.  “It is you, right?”
    I let out a defeated sigh.  “Yes.”
    The door from the patio opened again,