Intrusion: A Novel by Mary McCluskey Page A

eyes: last night’s wine extracting penance. She slid from bed and gazed out the window. The gardens, with their fine morning mist, looked enchanted. She stood still for a while, breathing it all in, until she noticed that the patio doors were open and, as she watched, Sarah, in a cream-silk shirt and loose pants, came out, followed immediately by a maid who laid out coffee and newspapers. Sarah had a telephone in her hand, and after she had dialed a number, she pulled a newspaper closer and began scanning columns, her pen moving down the page. Kat watched, curious. Sarah spoke into the phone, her voice low and serious. She wore small glasses and seemed entirely focused. Sarah Harrison, the businesswoman, at work.
    Kat noted the long, salon-pampered fingernails as Sarah tracked something in the paper. In the morning light, they looked a deep burgundy shade, glossy and perfect. As a schoolgirl, and even during their university years, Sarah had bitten her nails savagely, right down to the quick. Kat remembered those stubby fingers, strangely raw at the ends. According to Sarah, one of the meaner nannies of her childhood had tried to cure her of nail biting by painting the ends of her fingers with a caustic, bitter substance. Sarah, in an attempt to remove it, had used boiling water and burned the ends of her fingers, leaving mottled pigment and tiny scars. Kat wondered if the scars were still there, under the perfect nails.
    From the bed, Scott gave a low groan and Kat turned quickly.
    “Morning,” she said.
    “Morning to you. You want to try out the pool?” he asked, stretching.
    “Not sure. You going in?”
    “Yeah. Think so. Clear the head a bit.”
    “I think I’d rather borrow your power shower,” she said.

    When Kat, dressed, strolled down to the patio, Sarah was still talking on the phone, her laptop open, newspapers surrounding her. Seeing Kat, she clicked off the phone and waved.
    “Morning, Caitlin,” she called. “You’re not swimming?”
    “Not me. I can’t bear to see myself in a bathing suit at the moment. The Miyamotos up yet?”
    “They left early,” Sarah said. “An hour ago. He’s an early riser, Mr. Miyamoto. Phannie came down for a tray for him and insisted on carrying it up herself. Such a devoted little geisha.” Sarah laughed, shaking her head. “Come on. Breakfast will be a few minutes. Pour yourself some coffee and we can look at the ocean.”
    Kat poured coffee, followed Sarah to a small curved bench at the far end of the patio. From there, the ocean was visible, a series of changing strands of gray and silver, sparkling in the morning sun.
    “Oh. This is beautiful,” Kat said, sitting next to Sarah on the bench and looking out.
    “Does it remind you of anywhere? The way the coast curves? The rocky areas?”
    Kat looked again.
    “Of course. The Sussex coast. The view from the house.”
    “Exactly. Heartbreaking to see that house demolished. I saw them go in with bulldozers. I was staying at the cottage at the time and watched with Mrs. Evans. Remember her? Helen’s housekeeper? Sam persuaded the new owner to keep her on, part of the sale package, but she stood with me as they tore the house apart, tears rolling down her face.”
    “Mrs. Evans was crying?” Kat said, finding it hard to imagine the dour housekeeper showing any kind of emotion. “Really?”
    “Oh, I know you were scared of her. She’s not so bad. She keeps an eye on the cottage for me. Cooks for me when I visit.”
    They sat in silence for a few minutes until Kat, uncomfortable, found that Sarah was studying her.
    “What is it?” she asked, turning.
    “You haven’t lost that stillness. It’s astonishing.”
    Sarah had remarked on this, years ago. The first words Sarah had said to her had baffled Kat. The newcomer, exotic and unknown with her clear voice and perfect posture, had been told to sit next to Kat in the advanced English class at St. Theresa’s. Although Kat, after two years in the