Intrusion: A Novel by Mary McCluskey Page B

school, had a small number of friends, none of them qualified for this English class, and she was still uncomfortable among some of the middle-class girls. Sarah, for different reasons, seemed equally out of place: they were two outsiders, from extreme ends of the social scale. Kat—intimidated by the glowing confidence of the pampered girls, with their talk of riding lessons, of skiing, of travels abroad—was grateful that at least someone was sitting next to her, that the attention of the bored girls would be deflected.
    The young Sarah had turned to her at the end of the class.
    “You’re so quiet,” she said. “And very still. I’m glad.”
    “You said that years ago,” Kat said now to Sarah. “At St. Theresa’s. I didn’t know whether you meant I was dull.”
    “Dull? No. God, no. You have this stillness. A serene still point. You were different. Quite different from all those bouncing, braying girls.”
    “I was different because I was Scholarship. And poor. And worried all the time that I didn’t fit in.”
    “I know. I soon discovered that. But it wasn’t obvious. Not at first.”
    Sarah leaned back against the bench, stretched a little.
    “We were both misfits,” she said. “My default state, actually. But it was so nice to find another one. Quite amazing in fact. I think we surprised them all when we became friends.”
    And surprised me most of all, Kat thought, but did not say. Sarah’s friendship had caused her life at the school to change in a number of ways. Her status as Sarah’s confidante protected her from the more snobbish, terrifying girls at the school who were in awe of Sarah’s background. But some of the quieter, kinder girls, who had been her friends before Sarah’s arrival, were wary of Sarah’s sharp tongue and gradually drifted away. Both outsiders, they had that in common, but Kat and Sarah were such a mismatched duo that even the nuns occasionally remarked on their friendship.
    The two women sat in silence for a few minutes longer.
    “I know what grief feels like,” Sarah said eventually, in a quiet voice. “If I can help you through this terrible time, please just ask, Kat.”
    “I’m fine,” Kat said. “But thank you.”
    Sarah reached into her pocket, pulled out a card, and handed it to Kat. It had a cell phone number in gold lettering but no name, no address, nothing else.
    “My private cell,” she said. “Please don’t share it with anyone else, not even your charming husband. It’s for personal matters. Not for work.”
    “I understand.”

    Soon, a young woman called from the patio that breakfast was ready, and Sarah stood.
    “Right. I need to call order. Work to be done.”
    Sarah moved to the edge of the lawn.
    “Come along, boys,” she called in the direction of the pool. “Let’s carpe this pretty diem. Seize it by the throat.”
    Kat shook her head. Boys? But Scott and James both turned, grinning, and began to swim toward the edge of the pool. As they climbed out, Sarah turned to Kat and gave a quick, mischievous smile.
    “Such a lovely sight, wet men. See that pleasing symmetry?”
    Kat turned, looked at her husband and his associate, both attractive in the morning light. Scott, still slender, solid, with his curling chest hair; James, smooth as stone, a gleaming ebony.
    “Yes,” she said. Sarah watched them openly, her eyes moving from one to the other, an approving appraisal, before she strolled toward the breakfast table.
    Kat turned back for one last look at the view. She experienced a longing then, so intense that she wanted to cry out. A yearning to be by a rough sea, a deserted beach, a wind so wild that it was possible to taste the salt in it. She longed for a sight of the craggy Sussex coast, the high cliffs and rocky promontories, dark sky, constant cloud, rain. A light that was dull or shadowed. Here, the bright light was blinding her.

    Later, when they were ready to leave and Scott and James were putting bags into the car,