Tiny Little Thing: Secrets, scandal and forbidden love - Beatriz Williams

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cop walked up. “I thought you said the broad was in the back.”

      “Yeah. The kitchen. Red dress.”

      The cop shrugged. “She’s not there now.”

       By the time Cap turned the corner of Marlborough Street, it was nearly three o’clock in the afternoon, and the sun hit the fourth and third floor windows of his parents’ house in six blinding rectangular patches. A slight figure in a berry-red dress sat at the top of the stoop, hands folded neatly in her lap. She rose at the sight of him.

      “I thought you’d never get here.”

      He slung his camera bag to the pavement and fished for his key. “How did you find me?”

      “The waitress told me. The dark-haired one.”

      “Em? Huh. Wonder how she knew.”

      Tiny didn’t reply. She stood on the top step, watching him as he climbed. He tried not to look at her, though his body was light with relief at the sight of her slim figure, the gentle swell of her hips beneath the fabric of her dress. He stuck his key in the lock. “Are you coming in?”

      “No, I just … I just wanted to have …” Her voice was breathless with nerves. “Have a word with you.”

      “More comfortable inside. You look like you could use a drink.”

      She paused. “I don’t really drink.”

      “A good time to start, I’d say.”

      Unexpectedly, she laughed. A beautiful laugh, deeper and heartier than you’d think, a tiny girl like her. Her brown hair had come a bit disheveled. The curls fell more loosely about her ears and the top of her neck, so you could run your hands right through them, testing for strength and silkiness, right before you leaned in and kissed her.

      As if she caught the drift of his thoughts, she lifted one hand to her head. The back of her arm was smooth-skinned and taut, an athlete’s arm. Honed by tennis, probably. Or golf. Girls like her played golf, didn’t they? In pink argyle sweaters.

      Her laughter faded, but the smile remained. “All right, Caspian. I guess you’re not going to bite.”

      He opened the door and stood back to usher her through. “Only if you beg me.”

       Tiny, 1966

      Tom waves away his wife’s anxious fingers and holds the bag of ice to his jaw. “You see? He proved my point. Just a killing machine, paid for by our own tax dollars.”

      I wipe my fingers on the kitchen towel and think, What tax dollars? Your trust fund’s in nice sweet tax-free municipal bonds, yielding three and a half percent, or I’ll eat my stockings.

      I say, “Actually, Tom, if he’d wanted to kill you, he would have punched a lot harder.”

      “Are you saying this isn’t bad enough?” Tom points to his jaw, which sports a thick purple bruise but appears otherwise intact.

      “I’m saying he could have done worse. A lot worse. I assure you.”

      Constance looks up from her fervid examination of Tom’s jaw. “I can’t believe you’re defending him.”

      “I’m not. For one thing, my dinner party is ruined.” Ruined, I tell you.

      I wrestle down a smile.

      She turns back. “He’s a bully. He always was. For God’s sake, Tom, let me have that. You’re not supposed to dab it.” She snatches the pack of ice, braces the other side of his face with her hand, and smashes the cheesecloth against his jaw. “Anyway, good riddance. Between you and me, he never did fit in around here. Even as a kid, he didn’t.”

      “Good riddance?”

      Constance nods to the open door of the kitchen. “I saw him leave, just now.”

      I throw down the towel on the counter. “Excuse me.”

      Just before I cross the threshold, I remember something. I pause and turn my head over my shoulder. “Oh, and Constance? The two of you might want to start making sure you’ve locked your bedroom door at night, if you’re thinking of getting frisky.”

       Outside, Fred and Mrs. Crane are still picking up the broken china, and the ocean crashes on regardless. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Crane,” I say, “but did you see Major Harrison go by?”

      “Yes, ma’am.” She straightens. Her face is expressionless. “He came through a minute ago and went off that way.” She waves to her right, toward the old Harrison house.

      “His house, or the beach?”

      “I couldn’t tell. Is everybody all right, ma’am?”

      “Everybody’s fine, Mrs. Crane. Thank you so much for cleaning up like this. I’m awfully sorry.”

      “It’s no bother, Mrs. Hardcastle. Oh, and ma’am?”

      I pause on my way to the stone steps, down to the beach. “Yes, Mrs. Crane?”

      “He did apologize, Major Harrison did. Just now. I thought you should know that.”

      I smile. “I certainly hope he did.”

      The beach is dark, except for the phosphorescent waves kicking energetically to my right. Behind me, in the distance, Frank’s voice rises in laughter. He’s taken the men down to the flat patch of sand near the breakwater, where they’re playing a drunken game of blind midnight football, patching up any hurt feelings after the brawl. The women, of course, are putting the children to bed. And the teenagers? God only knows.

      Brawl. Not a brawl, really. Most of them were on Cap’s side, after all. But there was some pushing and shoving, some broken crockery, some feminine panic and some masculine settling of various scores. Any pretext for that, among the competitive Hardcastles and their competitive spouses.

      I look up the dunes to the Harrison house, just as the porch light flicks on.

      Apologize, Caspian says again, this time in my own head, and the word sends another surge of feeling in my veins, the familiar crazy hope, and I tell my veins sternly: Stop it. You know better. And: You have too much to lose, this time. And: Think of Frank.

      And finally, when even that didn’t work: The photograph, damn it.

      My veins settle down. But my legs carry me in the direction of the Harrison house, guided by the light on the porch.

      By the time I reach the steps, the light is off again. I pound on the door anyway.

      The tread of footsteps, and the door opens.

      “Tiny.”

      “Caspian.”

      He opens the door wider and slips through to stand on the worn entry mat, shutting the faint light of the entryway firmly away behind him. His body fills the porch. My pulse falls into my fingertips. Veins again. The last glass of wine seems like a very long time ago. I can’t even taste it in my mouth anymore, which is now dry and sticky, perched above my strangled throat.

      Why am I here?

      Worse. What if someone sees me?

      “I’m sorry about what happened,” he says. “I was going to tell you before I left, but you were busy in the kitchen.”

      “Oh, that’s all right. I couldn’t blame you for that. Tom’s a …” I search for the word, but it seems to have escaped me.

      There’s not much light, but his smile makes itself seen. “Yes, he is.”

      He’s taken off his magnificent dress coat, the one with the medals. I picture it lying across

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