Page 17 of One of Them

She started gathering her clothes in kind of a trance.

Here was her brassiere; over there her slip; her skirt had found its way to the floor.

He’d gotten up and was getting dressed. When he’d finished, she moved closer, so she was standing before him, waiting for something—a sign that what had just happened between them was not debased and ugly but beautiful and even sacred.

She’d come here because she couldn’t help herself.

That had to make it all right. It had to. Now if only he would reassure her—

“Darling” was all he said, but it was everything she needed to hear. He took her in his arms and held her for several minutes. Finally, he moved out of the embrace. “Will you be all right getting back to your dorm?” he asked.

“I’ll be perfectly fine,” she said.

“Let me at least walk you downstairs,” he said.

They went quietly and stood in the doorway for a moment, shivering.

Was it because she was cold, even in her mink, or because of the exhilaration of what had just happened upstairs?

Before she left, Ian pressed the back of his hand to her cheek, a small but infinitely tender gesture.

She smiled all the way back to her room.

And for the rest of the night, and most of the next day, she felt euphoric.

She was still aware of the transgression against his wife and family.

But that wasn’t her concern; if he felt the need to stray, she told herself, it meant something was amiss in that marriage, and she wasn’t responsible for that.

The next time she babysat, Delia could barely stand the hours she had to wait until the McQuaids returned.

The time passed slowly, even painfully, but finally—finally!

—they were at the door, unlocking it, coming into the room.

Mrs. McQuaid chatted with her while Ian fetched her coat and scarf from the closet.

“Good night, Delia,” she said. “We’ll see you again next week. But the evening may need to change. Is that all right?”

“Yes, that’s fine. What night did you need me to come instead?”

“Well, that’s just it—I’m not entirely sure.

” Mrs. McQuaid launched into a long—and tedious—explanation while Delia composed her expression into one of attentive interest. All the while she was thinking about what would happen when she and Ian were alone again.

Finally Mrs. McQuaid finished, and Delia was able to leave.

She walked quickly to the car, and as soon as she and Ian were both inside, she pulled him close and started kissing him, a small frenzy of pent-up longing.

At first he seemed surprised but quickly responded with an intensity that matched hers. “You saucy girl.” He started nipping at her throat, running his fingers through her hair. But all at once he stopped.

“What’s wrong?”

He didn’t answer but turned away, looking past her, through the car’s side window.

She followed his gaze. There was Mrs. McQuaid, clutching the ivory cashmere scarf Delia had, in her haste, left behind.

The combination of shock, hurt, and outrage on her face was too painful to look at; Delia had to avert her eyes.

And she had to get away from here, but how?

Squeeze past Ian in the driver’s seat? Or exit the car on her side where his wife was standing?

Mrs. McQuaid yanked open the door, ending the need for a choice.

“Get out,” she hissed. “Now.”

“Maggie, please, I—” Ian started to say.

“Not in front of her .” Mrs. McQuaid spoke to her husband, but she was staring at Delia. “I told you to go! What are you waiting for?”

Delia climbed out of the car, grabbed the scarf, and fled.

Somewhere on the way she must have dropped it, because when she got to the dorm, it was nowhere to be found.

She wasn’t about to go back and look for it.

Instead she kicked off her shoes, let her coat slide to the floor, and slipped into bed, where she kept replaying the last thirty minutes in her mind.

It was only after the third or fourth time that she realized Ian had not said one single word to her; it was as if she hadn’t even been there.

Why was she surprised? His wife came first, she now realized, and even if she hadn’t discovered them, she would always come first. Delia could now see that she had thrown herself into a relationship both furtive and complicated.

This had mattered less during their heated, wordless encounters, encounters that seemed to exist in their own realm, without consequence or repercussion.

But she’d slept with him; she’d surrendered her virginity to him.

She thought of the blood on her thigh, and the solitary walk and night that followed.

Where had she thought this would lead? Now she knew: straight to the reckless kiss in the car, and the pain that contorted Mrs. McQuaid’s face into a mask of rage and grief.

Even then Delia knew it was an image she would never be able to forget.