As more months went by and Jenna’s friendship with Carolyn deepened, it became clear that something was seriously wrong between the Camerons. Little hints disguised as conversational slips, little shades of intonation, pointed to a deep lack of respect on both their parts, as well as a clinging, almost desperate possessiveness. It did no good to ask probing questions. Carolyn could demonstrate a true New England reticence when she wanted to. And any suggestion that professional counseling might be a solution met with immediate dismissal: “Please, Jenna, we don’t do that in our crowd. If someone goes loony, we just ship ’em off to New York or Provincetown, where nobody will notice.” On the other hand, she could be positively voluble in making excuses for Cameron after having disparaged him. A favorite theme was the pressure of his work. “You know, when Cameron started in banking, not that long ago really, it was still a gentleman’s business—in Boston, I mean; I can’t speak for anyplace else. But now all of a sudden, there are these dozens of bloodthirsty yuppies with the MBAs and ugly power ties, working twenty hours a day and coming up with schemes that would have got them thrown in jail a few years ago. It’s hard on Cameron. Thank God his father’s on the board. Of course, he won’t be there forever.”

One bright spring day, Jenna found out just how much she and Carolyn had in common. It was at a soccer game. Josh, with his long reach, was playing goal. Karim, to even Jenna’s surprise, showed every sign of becoming a star striker— fast, sure with his feet, agile as a mongoose, slipping by larger defenders, as if they were anchored in cement; his only flaw, according to the coach, was a reluctance to pass the ball to his teammates.

The game was an exciting one, but despite several spectacular saves by Josh, Carolyn hardly stirred from her perch on her old-fashioned, Brit- ish-style shooting stick with a fold-out leather seat on a single tubular-steel leg. Undoubtedly, her great-grandfather had used it while big-game hunting with Teddy Roosevelt, but it was not the most stable of foundations, and at one point, Carolyn leaned too far and had to brace herself. When she did, she gasped in pain and fell to her knees.

Jenna was right beside her. “My God, are you hurt?”

“Just help me to the car,” whispered Carolyn between clenched teeth. In the front seat, she began to cry. “That bastard! I think he’s broken my ribs!”

“Cameron? He hit you?”

“Yes, he hit me. Where it won’t show. That’s his little trick.”

Jenna couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “You mean he’s done it before?” “Yes.” But Carolyn’s face already was showing the familiar signs of closing the subject.

“Carolyn, listen to me. You’ve got to get help—you and Cameron both.” Carolyn said nothing.