The Crack of Skin

The sliding terrace doors banged against the wall.

Graham came through the frame at a sprint, his linen shirt unbuttoned at the throat, his face gray. He had heard the splash from the study. He saw the wet stone, the floating box, and his daughter gasping for air on the ground while Clara knelt over her with dripping hands.

“What did you do?” Graham roared.

He reached them in two strides. He did not ask how she fell. He did not look at his wife, who sat pale and rigid under the umbrella with one hand pressed against her throat. His open right palm whipped through the air.

The crack of skin on wet skin echoed across the patio, so sharp and loud that the string trio on the far lawn stopped playing.

Clara’s head snapped to the left. Her shoulder struck the deck, and her hand went to her jawline just below the ear where the sting burned into the bone. The heat in her face was instant, throbbing against the cool pool water dripping down her neck.

Graham dragged Lily away from her, tucking the girl against his chest. Lily shrieked, her small palms pushing frantically against his collarbones, reaching back toward Clara.

“Get away from her,” Graham said. His voice was low, thick with fury and fear. “Don’t you put a finger on my daughter. Don’t you ever look at her again.”

Clara stayed on the wet stone, her fingers pressed to her swelling jaw, while the little girl screamed her name into the father’s neck.