Free Between the Tides by Susannah Marren Page B

persists, “Dad, look at what we’ve just started, our wall mural, the first work that we’ve ever shared. See it?”
    Charles nods and gives Matilde a pained smile.
    â€œHello, Charles, hello, Tom,” I say. “How did it go today?”
    Tom puts his hands on his hips.
    â€œNo big deal,” Charles answers, “I shot a ninety. No one was Tiger Woods. I was good enough.” He clears his throat. “You know there’s a dinner coming up next Saturday. A dinner with wives—the same group, at the country club.”
    â€œWhat country club?” I ask.
    â€œThe one where I played a round of golf an hour ago, Lainie.”
    â€œOf course, Charles.” I keep mixing the colors. “Just text or e-mail the details.”
    Charles has a beer in his right hand when he sits down on the wrought-iron love seat that I found last week in the Elliot consignment shop. He pushes at the cushion. “Lainie, why did you buy this? It’s very uncomfortable, too stiff and wiry.”
    â€œI know why, Dad,” Matilde offers. “It reminds Mom of summer … the bayfront and cookouts. The furniture she likes to keep outdoors.”
    â€œI love it, Charles. It reminds me of the sunsets at the Shore.”
    Charles tries to adjust the cushion. I’m tempted to say, Why don’t you rent a wife, Charles, the kind of wife who would suit you? I’ve mentioned it before; sometimes we laugh at the thought, sometimes we don’t and the room is filled with tension.
    Charles stands up, then sits down harder in the chair; the floorboards squeak when Tom moves back and forth.
    â€œMom? What’s that over there?” Tom points to the miniatures on my worktable, the commissioned painting propped up on the easel.
    Matilde races to the miniatures and gathers them together. She opens the single large drawer beneath and starts stuffing everything away. “These aren’t ready to show, not yet. Right, Mom?” She closes the door with a thud.
    â€œNice job, Matilde,” says Tom. “But I’m sure Mom can handle things.”
    â€œAren’t those your commissioned work? Due soon enough, Lainie, yes?” Charles asks.
    â€œYes, they are commissioned work,” I say. Matilde’s eyes turn inky. Tom’s hands are still on his hips. If Matilde and I seem in cahoots, Tom and Charles are twisting their faces the same way. In the seconds before their dissension, both of their lips disappear.
    *   *   *
    Charles starts to pace. “So there was a scene last week that has just come to my attention.”
    â€œA scene,” I say. “Well…”
    â€œWell? Well?” Charles slams his hand against his thigh.
    â€œTom, what have you told Dad about the drop-off that day?”
    â€œNothing, nothing really.” Tom stands robotlike.
    Matilde puts her hands up as if she’s swatting the scene away and yells, “How could you do that to her, Tom? You aren’t fair. She’s not who you think she is.”
    â€œYou embarrassed Tom, Lainie. At a party that he was invited to, in a new town,” Charles says.
    â€œThat isn’t what happened.” My voice is very clear.
    â€œFor chrissake, Lainie.” Charles sighs. “What did happen?”
    â€œYou think I’m the chauffeur, don’t you, Charles?” I stand against the wall; Matilde comes beside me, she could be superimposed into the picture.
    â€œTom! Matilde!” Charles says. “Go downstairs. This minute.”
    Tom scuffs his loafers on the wood floor. Old wood that I appreciate.
    â€œTom, please go downstairs to the family room where the little ones are with Candy,” I say.
    Matilde waits against the wall; perhaps she hopes that I’ve forgotten to send her too because it’s about Tom.
    â€œMatilde, join your brother.” Charles is fuming.
    â€œIsn’t it horrible enough? Isn’t Tom sorry