Part 11 (1/2)

”Remember Ed Morgan?” her father said. ”He's building some condos up the hill. I should take a look, the poor b.a.s.t.a.r.d.”

Her mother rolled her eyes. ”Ed Morgan,” she said. ”I think I'll meet you in town.”

Ellen watched her father. She watched him constantly now, searching for signs of restlessness or boredom. Often his eyes had the fractured, glossy look of something repaired with too much glue. He would glance at his watch as though tracking events somewhere else. Ellen felt a continual need to distract him, to hold his attention.

”Ill go with you,” she said.

”It's hot up there, squirrel.”

”So?”

Her parents exchanged looks of surprise. Ellen felt her mother's gaze, the kind eyes in a face as rigid and spare as a kitchen table. She could still remember a time when her mother would lie in bed on weekends with a cup of cocoa, eating croissants Ellen's father brought from the French bakery. He would rest his head on her stomach and protest that she was dropping crumbs in his eyes. ”Oh hush,” Ellen's mother would say, licking her fingers one at a time. But she wasn't like that now. She was a person who got left in other people's wakes.

Ellen and her father drove up the mountain road in a rattling Jeep. His elbow pointed out the window. Ellen pointed her own the same way. She kept her eyes on the wet curl of growth that sprang from the red dirt. Beside them, cliffs dropped straight to the sea.

”Am I like Mom?” she asked.

”In some ways,” he said. ”Although you've got my adventurous streak-that's a difference.” He used one finger to steer the car. When Ellen learned to drive this year, she would drive like that.

”Could get you into trouble,” he added, grinning.

Ellen smiled at the wind, letting it dry her lips and teeth. ”I hope so,” she said.

Ed Morgan had a greasy cream-colored beard and the sort of skin that can grow only more red. He picked his way toward them over mounds of steaming earth. Skeleton houses dotted the land: fresh blond planks s.h.i.+mmering in the midday sun. A bulldozer smeared the air with its heat.

”I didn't know you had a daughter,” Ed said, pouring them each a vodka at a flimsy outdoor table.

Ellen's father chuckled. ”I keep her hidden.”

”No wonder,” Ed said, winking at Ellen as he handed her a gla.s.s. He gave off a meaty smell, as if the sun had partially cooked him. The heat soaked Ellen's dark hair, making her feel almost faint.

”You may want to skip the booze, squirrel,” her father said.

He watched as she lifted her gla.s.s. Ellen sensed that he was nervous, and felt a rare, tenuous power over him. She took a large sip. ”Delicious,” she lied.

Her father smiled uneasily and looked at his watch. ”We're in and out of here,” he said.

”Relax,” Ed told him. ”Hang around a little.”

He topped off Ellen's gla.s.s, filling it so high that the vodka spilled on her fingers when she tried to lift it. She and Ed toasted and drank. Vodka flooded her throat, gagging her. She felt almost frantic, desperate to keep the tiny edge she'd gained on her father, no matter what it took. He watched her, s.h.i.+fting in his seat.

”How go the legal battles?” he asked Ed.

Ed sighed. ”About the same. Only the lawyers win.”

Ellen took another sip. It brought tears to her eyes.

”Look at this,” Ed said, watching Ellen with surprise. ”Chip off the old block.”

Her father laughed weakly. ”Christ, let's hope not.”

When it became too hot to sit still, Ed took them on a tour of his construction site. Ellen was barely able to keep her balance as they clambered over the hot, soft earth.

”Take my arm, squirrel,” her father said, watching her with concern. Ellen could see he was anxious to get away. She asked every question she could think of to draw out the visit.

Finally they reached the Jeep. Ed's face was scarlet, running with sweat. He looked on the verge of collapse. Ellen felt a sudden great affection for this harmless, clownish man who had been her accomplice. She was sorry to leave him. When the men had shaken hands, she kissed Ed goodbye on the lips.

Her father gripped the wheel with both hands as they headed back down the mountain. ”I don't think vodka at noon is such a good idea, squirrel,” he said in an easy, joking way. But he wasn't smiling.

”You drank,” Ellen said, letting her head loll against the seat. ”You drink a lot.”

”Your mother's not going to like it.”

”Are we telling her?”

He glanced at Ellen, then back at the road. ”Well no,” he said. ”I guess we'd better not.”

Ellen watched the ocean awhile, her head spinning. ”What are Ed's legal battles?” she asked.

Her father explained that Ed had owned a company in Chicago that went bankrupt three years before. Now he was being sued by his former investors.

”Is he guilty?” Ellen asked.

Her father hesitated. ”He lied too much,” he said. ”If he'd told some truth and let the pressure off, he'd be in a lot less trouble now.”

Ellen wondered if this meant he was guilty or not. ”What do you mean, 'lied too much'?”

”He should've told just enough to win people over,” her father explained. ”Enough to look honest.”

Ellen nodded in silence.

”As little as possible, but something.”

”I see.”

”If you have to lie, you're already in danger.”

They rode in silence. Shortly before they reached town, Ellen turned to her father, raising her voice above the sound of the engine. ”Dad, have you gone out with anyone else since you and Mom were married?” she asked.

His gray eyes were fastened to the road. ”Of course not.”

”If the answer was yes, would you tell me?”

Her father sighed. ”No, squirrel,” he said. ”I probably wouldn't.”

”But then you'd be in danger. Right?”

Her father didn't answer, and Ellen let it drop.

Ellen's mother was not at the cafe where they had arranged to meet. Her father put his hands in his pockets and stared at the breaking waves, which were crowded with the bobbing heads of children. He looked at his watch. ”We're late,” he said.