Loss of Innocence by Richard North Patterson Page B

make an oinking sound?”
    “I thought you just did.”
    “Nope. That was the whimper of a lapdog, saying, ‘whatever you do is fine with me.’”
    “Sorry I misheard,” Whitney said unrepentantly. “So where do we live once I’ve had our triplets? Still in the city?”
    “I haven’t gotten that far. But maybe in Greenwich, like your folks.” He hesitated, then added with youthful resolve, “At least if I do well enough. After all, look at how happy your parents are.”
    In her silence, Whitney recalled her father’s toast, the conversation with her mother. Kissing him, she said, “They are, aren’t they.”

Eight
    Later that night, Peter and Whitney made love, the reward for his attempt to please her. In minutes, he was asleep.
    Gazing at his untroubled face, Whitney reflected on the Viking qualities of men attested to by suitemates: they could eat, drink, make love, and then fall into the deepest of sleeps in whatever bed was available—often followed by shuddering snores that disturbed their woman’s slumber but not their own. Among Peter’s virtues was that he seldom snored. But Whitney could not sleep here; sometime before dawn, she must steal back to the main house, observing the unspoken etiquette through which her parents pretended not to know she was having sex. As she lay besides Peter, fearing to close her eyes, she wondered if Robert Kennedy had won in California.
    At length she got up and dressed, bending to kiss Peter as she left. Outside, the night was cool, the moon an oval in a sky alight with stars. Crossing the dewy grass, she saw headlights entering their driveway.
    Suddenly, they dimmed, the car stopping some distance from the house. Clarice would not do this, Whitney thought. Apprehensive, she crept closer, pausing in the shadow of an oak tree.
    A soft moan came from the darkness. Skin tingling, Whitney let her eyes adjust to moonlight. The vehicle was a pickup truck, and then Whitney perceived a woman with long hair bending over the hood. The dark outline of a man stood behind her, motionless but for the thrust of his hips.
    “Fuck me,” the woman said in a slurry voice. “Harder.”
    Shaken, Whitney could not look away. What unsettled her most was the resignation in the woman’s primal urgings.
    In the moonlight, the woman rested her face against the hood, silent as the man took her from behind. All at once, Whitney regained the power of movement. Backing away until she felt safe to turn, she scurried toward the house.
    She paused at the drive, treading gingerly across the gravel before reaching the rear porch. Slipping through the screen door, she fell into a lounge chair, taking a deep swallow of cool night air. As a child, she had settled into this chair after dinner, nestled against her father as they talked or listened to the crickets chirring. Now she lay there, absorbing a fresh image she wished she could erase.
    The crunch of gravel forced her to sit up. The sound became the unsteady gait of someone approaching the house. As the screen door opened, Whitney reached for the lamp on the table beside her, flicking on the switch.
    Hands grasping the door frame, Janine stared at her with the dull surprise. Then she expelled a breath, body sagging. “It’s only you.”
    Whitney felt her heart race. “Are you all right?”
    Janine stood taller. “I’m fine,” she said, each syllable enunciated to emulate sobriety. “Clarice and I over-celebrated, that’s all.”
    Whitney stood. “Why don’t I make you coffee, Janine? Maybe we could sit up for awhile.”
    To Whitney’s surprise, Janine reached out to give her an awkward hug. “I’m happy for you,” she said tiredly. “I always knew you’d be okay.”
    Returning her sister’s embrace, Whitney smelled the liquor on her breath. Janine felt brittle in her arms. Abruptly, she pulled away, rushing inside the house. Whitney heard her taking the stairs with an unsteady tread, like a child learning to walk.
    Burdened by