Page 18 of Saltwater

“What do you think she did for work?” Naomi says with a little laugh, a little hiccup slipping out. “All those plays? Don’t you think she stole for those?”

“Naomi,” Marcus says, his voice hard.

Shut up, Naomi.

At least it isn’t me they’re mad at.

I could break it all now—the family tension—and tell them that two years before I met them, Freddy and I used to go on benders together, that we used to have sex, stay up for days until our vision literally failed us. That I used to take all the cash from his wallet while he was asleep and then tell him he had spent it at the bar or lost it.

Those are the mistakes none of them know about. Not even Helen. Not yet. But when we’re done, I’ll tell her.I want to tell her.She deserves to know.

It’s not big, as far as secrets go. At least not in a family like this. Drugs, alcohol, a few really bad nights. And we cleaned ourselves up in the end. At least I did. But like all secrets, it gets bigger the longer you keep it. Every opportunity you have to come clean—the quietconversations, the heart-to-hearts, the embarrassing divulgences—that you don’t reveal it, it grows.

I’ve told myself it was for her own good. But it was always for me.

Instead, I say, “You know what I’ve always wanted to know?” I wait until they’re all looking at me. “I’ve always wanted to know why people like you love to steal. You know, rich people.”

It’s the sort of thing a child would say with genuine wonder.You know what I want to know…But it does what I want it to do. It makes Helen laugh, and then Marcus and the rest of the table. Everyone except Naomi, who is watching me closely, as if what I’ve really done is stolen the moment from her.

“I used to steal candy as a child,” Helen says.

“I don’t always pay for all my groceries at the Gelson’s self-checkout,” Freddy admits.

At this, I laugh. Because, of course, neither do I. But then, I can’t afford to. That’s the thing about rich people and stealing—it’s cute, it’s a lark. At worst, it’s a compulsion. But it’s not a crime. It’s only a crime when I do it. Rich people need to steal millions of dollars—billions—for it to be considered a crime. And even then, there are the shrugs:How else could he afford the Hamptons house? Giving up five acres on Three Mile, nowthatwould be a crime!As if that explains it away.

Our starters arrive. I do my best to eat myinsalata caprese,only now understanding that this salad ordered the world over is actually from this island, Capri.Caprese.Another bottle of wine comes next. Marcus pours some for Naomi. It looks like an apology.

I’m nearly through my tomatoes—sweet, with a punch of acid at the end, the kind of tomatoes I didn’t even know existed, had never qualified astomatoes—when I feel my phone vibrating in my purse. I silence it and glance at the name: Stan. My knife slips, clatters against the plate. Then it’s gone.

When the main course arrives, my phone vibrates again. I fumble trying to turn it off, worried that Richard might notice, but he’s left behind the guru façade and is talking to his brother. They’re good at finding common ground in public.

“If you’ll excuse me,” I say, palming my phone. “I’m just going to find the restroom.”

I read the text as I walk toward the interior of the restaurant.

Do you have it with you? I have the money, but I can’t give it to you if you won’t return my calls. You’re the one who wanted this, Lorna. Remember that.

Several waiters point me to a back hallway, where I do, in fact, find the restroom. I’m about to enter when a waiter pushes through a neighboring door, out into what doubles as a trash alley. I’ve yet to see a trash alley in Capri. Nevertheless, the familiar scent of cigarette smoke follows him, and I know it’s the best place for me to handle this. Handle Stan.

It turns out to be a narrow space off the kitchen, but the clanging of stainless steel and plates is soothing. Easier, somehow, than the banter at the table. There’s a waiter running dirty plates, and another, on a chair, is bent over his phone, smoking. He looks up at me, and I gesture:Can I bum one?

He holds out his pack and offers me a light. It’s got to be almost midnight, but it’s still hot. Hot, and smells like trash and fish. Even the stone wall I lean against is sticky. I tell myself that I’ll just take a few drags and then I’ll call Stan. I’ve earned that.

The waiter for our table flashes by, plates piled up his arms. He pauses, turns. I hold up the cigarette in his direction.See, I’m one of you.Cheers.I see my dinner resting at his elbow.

“Are you with them?” He looks at me like he’s trying to decide what’s appropriate. As if he can read me from the way I look. That’s the thing about places like Capri—looks are deceiving. There are plenty of people in that dining room trying to blend in, trying to look like they belong.

I nod.

“They’re killers,” he says, spitting to the side, and I’m sure some of it has landed in the food. “The whole island knows it.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say, shrugging. “They’re just on vacation.”

But then, I already know he’s right.

Sarah Lingate’s Body Recovered

International Herald Tribune

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