by Joy Fielding
“No. He looks like he’s asleep. Besides, he kind of creeps me out, the way he’s always staring out his window. We need to go back now anyway. Come on, I’ll race you.”
Erin turns on her heels and starts running.
She doesn’t look back.
Chapter Thirty-four
Sean feels the sun warm against his face and fights the urge to give in to sleep. Instead he holds up his left arm and opens one eye to check his watch, gratified to note that it’s barely three o’clock. There’s still plenty of time for a nap. It wouldn’t do to get home too early.
Not on the first day of his new job.
He almost laughs, and might have, had there been anything even remotely funny about the predicament he finds himself in.
It wasn’t supposed to be this way. He was supposed to have found something by now. He wasn’t supposed to still be lying to his wife, to be getting up early and shaving and putting on a freshly washed shirt and silk tie and that goddamn linen jacket—“You’ve got it; you might as well wear it,” Olivia had volunteered cheerily, looking as happy as he’d seen her in months—and pretending to go off to work.
How long can he keep this up?
As long as I have to, he decides as he flips onto his stomach, allowing the soothing sun to settle on his bare back. He already has a deep tan. A little more sun won’t make a noticeable difference. Although he has to be careful not to burn. Good thing he thought to pack sunscreen along with the bathing suit in his briefcase, not to mention the beach towels in the trunk of his car, towels he’d put there after he and Olivia came back from driving the kids to the airport on Saturday. Thankfully, his offspring would be spending the next month with Olivia’s parents up in Nantucket, so that was one good thing.
Three fewer people to lie to.
He should have asked for help from Olivia’s parents when he had the chance. They’d offered to loan them money until he was back on his feet, but his pride—and his father’s voice in his ear reciting Shakespeare’s famous advice from Hamlet: Neither a borrower nor a lender be—had prevented him from accepting.
Now it was too late.
Too late to ask for help.
Too late to stop the lies.
“Good luck, sweetheart,” Olivia said this morning as they were climbing into their respective cars. “Knock ’em dead.”
“Will do.”
“Call me as soon as you get the chance. Let me know how it’s going.”
“Will do,” he’d said again.
Except he hadn’t.
And he wouldn’t.
Sorry, hon. I was just so busy. First day back. You know how it is.
His cellphone rings.
Sean pushes himself into a sitting position and extricates his phone from the pocket of his old, ill-fitting blue bathing suit, praying it’s the headhunter he hasn’t heard from in weeks, calling with news of a job interview.
But no, caller ID reveals it’s Olivia. “Goddamn it,” he says, debating whether to answer it. Except that if he doesn’t, she’s liable to call the main switchboard and ask to be put through to Sean Grant, and then where would he be? Up the proverbial shit creek without the proverbial paddle, that’s where. He holds the phone close to his ear and swipes right.
“Sean?” Olivia says immediately.
“Hi, sweetheart.”
“I’ve been waiting for you to call me all day.”
“Sorry. I meant to. Things just got away from me, I guess.”
“Does that mean it’s going well?”
“Going great.”
“Tell me.”
“Tell you what?”
“Everything. I want to know every last detail.”
“Can it wait? I promise I’ll tell you everything when I get home.” That should give him time to get his story straight, Sean thinks.
“Oh,” Olivia squeals. “Can’t you give me a little something to tide me over in the meantime?”
Something to tide her over. How about a kick in the head? “Well, I’ve just been settling in, meeting everyone…”
“What’s Tom Gerrity like?”
“Who?”
“Tom Gerrity? The founder and CEO of Advert-X! Hello?!”
“Of course. Sorry.” Sean watches a young girl darting in and out of the ocean, each dart accompanied by a loud shriek of delight.
“Where are you?” Olivia asks, the question catching him by surprise.
“What do you mean, where am I? I’m at work.”
“It sounded as if somebody screamed.”
Shit! Sean presses the phone tighter against his ear and cups his free hand over the speaker, angling his body away from the ocean. “Looks like one of the secretaries just got some good news,” he offers, the first thing that pops into his mind.
“Careful, sweetheart,” Olivia warns.
“What do you mean?” he asks again, holding his breath.
She laughs. “Nobody calls them secretaries anymore. They’re assistants or aides. You don’t want to sound like a dinosaur.”
He breathes a sigh of relief. “Guess I’ll have to watch that.”
“I’ve been reading all about your new boss online. Did you know he made his first billion before the age of forty?”
“I didn’t know that,” Sean concedes.
“So, what’s he like?”
“What can I say? He seems like a nice enough guy.”
“That’s it? A nice enough guy?”
“Well, I only spent a few minutes with him when he came into my office to welcome me on board.”
“That was nice. Is it a big office?”
“Of course. As befits a man of my stature,” he embellishes. What the hell? he thinks, chuckling. Why not?
“I can’t wait to see it.”
Shit. “Well, maybe when things settle down a bit.”
“Of course. Maybe this weekend.”
“This weekend?”
“Oh, no, not this weekend,” she corrects. “It’s the Fourth of July. I forgot. We’re having a party.”
“A party?”
“With the neighbors? Outside on the street? We’ll barbecue some hot dogs and hamburgers?” she asks, as if she isn’t sure. “I told you.”
“Oh. Right. Guess I forgot.” Sean has no memory of being told any such thing. But the truth is that he barely listens to his wife these days.
“So, do you know who you’ll be working with? Have they assigned you to a particular client?”
“Nothing definite yet.”
“Really? You’d think they’d be more organized than that. I mean, they must have had someone in mind when they hired you.”
Shit. Shit. Shit. “Well, there is talk of putting me on the Burger King account.”
“Burger King?” Olivia asks. “Aren’t they with one of the big New York firms?”
“They are. But apparently they’ve been very impressed with the work Advert-X has been doing, and they’re thinking of shaking things up…. Look. It’s all very preliminary, and I probably shouldn’t be talking about it. It’s highly confidential.”
“Oh my God. Burger King! That would be so fabulous!”
“It would,” he agrees. “But even if it’s a go, it’s going to take a while for all the details to get worked out, and you have to promise me that you won’t say anything to anyone.”
“My lips are sealed.”
“Good. Look. This isn’t a great connection…” Sean begins, desperate to get off the line.
“I know. You sound like you’re in the middle of a washing machine.”
More like the Atlantic Ocean, Sean thinks. “It’s my phone. It’s been giving me problems lately.”
“Do you have a private line? I should get the number.”
“Yeah, I’ll gi
ve it to you later. Look, honey, I’m afraid I’m going to have to cut this short. Someone’s here to see me.”
“Of course. I’m sorry. I’m just so excited. We’ll talk when we get home. And remember—I want to know everything.”
“You got it.” He clicks off the phone before she can say another word. “Shit!” he yells, throwing his phone into the sand, then immediately scooping it up again and shaking the sand from its face. “Goddamn, son of a bitch, fuck!”
“Excuse me!” a woman on a nearby towel proclaims, her face twisted in anger, her hands over the ears of her wide-eyed toddler. “In case you hadn’t noticed, there are children present.”
“I’m sorry.”
“You should be.”
“Yeah, well, fuck you,” Sean says, gathering up his towel as he scrambles to his feet.
He plods through the sand with as much speed as he can manage toward the wooden steps, his bare feet burning. He has to wait on the landing for a couple of teenagers to finish using the foot showers before he can wash the sand from his feet, then waits another five minutes for the tram to chauffeur him across the one-third mile of boardwalk to where his car is parked in the first of a series of small, adjoining lots.
He reaches inside the trunk of his car for his clothes, putting on his shirt and socks, pulling his pants up over his bathing suit, and finally, pushing his feet into his tan-colored loafers. The goddamn jacket can stay in the trunk, at least till he gets home, he thinks, then thinks better of it and throws it into the front seat. Just his luck, Olivia will have left work early and be waiting in the driveway when he pulls up. He has enough to worry about without having to come up with a plausible explanation for what his three-thousand-dollar jacket is doing in the trunk of his car next to a beach towel spotted with sand and smelling of the ocean.
He checks his watch again, noting that it’s still too early to go home. He can’t risk one of his neighbors spotting him and unintentionally giving him away to Olivia. That’s the main reason he chose this place. Not too many people come here, at least in comparison to the public beaches of Riviera Beach and Juno. Probably because they’re too damn cheap to pay the five-dollar entrance fee.
Which means he can’t afford to come here more than a few times a week himself.
Sean climbs into his car, musing about how much friendlier his neighbors have become since that impromptu little game of catch a few weeks back. Hell, they’re even planning a neighborhood barbecue to celebrate the Fourth of July!
Which means that everyone will be congratulating him and asking about his new job.
Which means he better have something to tell them.
He exits the sprawling park grounds and drives west along PGA Boulevard till he spots a seedy-looking bar at the end of a strip mall at the corner of A1A. Perfect, he thinks, pulling into the parking lot. No chance of running into anyone he knows here. He’ll sit in a darkened corner and nurse a beer, maybe two, while he combs the Internet for any fun information he can glean about Advert-X and its founder.
No one will be interested in the actual details of his job.
No one, of course, except Olivia.
“Shit,” he mutters as he pulls open the bar’s heavy front door. He could really use a drink.
Chapter Thirty-five
Julia hears her son’s car pull into her driveway and sighs, wondering when it became such an ordeal to see her only son. She fills a kettle with water and carries a tray of freshly baked cherry scones to the coffee table in front of the living room sofa. Seconds later, the doorbell rings.
She takes a quick look in the mirror beside the front door before opening it, pinching her cheeks to make sure they have enough color, fluffing out her hair, then smoothing the skirt of her floral-print dress. It’s important she look, if not her best, then at least well enough to assure Norman that she isn’t about to keel over dead in front of him.
“Hello, darling,” she says, ushering her son inside. He looks as put together and confident as he always does. Light blue sports jacket, open-necked white shirt, trim navy slacks, Gucci loafers, no socks. The picture of success. She glances toward his car. “Poopy isn’t with you?”
“It’s Poppy, Mom.”
She smiles. “I know. I’m just teasing you.”
“Joke’s wearing a little thin.” He gives his mother an obligatory peck on the cheek. “And no, she isn’t with me. I came right from work.” He brushes past her into the living room. “Sorry if I’m a bit late. I thought I’d be able to get away earlier, but well, you know…”
“I don’t know, actually.”
Her son looks puzzled. “You don’t know what?”
Julia shrugs. “Many things, I suppose. For starters, what exactly it is you do.”
Norman’s eyebrows crease toward the bridge of his nose. “Are you feeling all right?”
“I’m fine.”
“Are you sure? You fainted. You spent two days in the hospital.”
“Yes, and they gave me a clean bill of health and sent me home.”
“But now you’re confused.”
“I’m not confused. Who said I was confused?”
“You just said you don’t know what I do.”
“I know you run a hedge fund. I just don’t know what that entails.” She lowers herself to the sofa. “Perhaps you could enlighten me.”
“Now I’m confused.”
“About what?”
“About the sudden interest in what I do. You’ve never been interested before.”
“Of course I have.”
“No,” Norman counters. “You haven’t.”
Oh dear, Julia thinks. Her son has been in the house less than two minutes and already they’re at odds.
“It’s fine, Mom. It really doesn’t matter.”
“Of course it matters.” She pats the seat cushion beside her. “Why don’t you have a seat, I’ll make us some tea, and you can tell me all about running a hedge fund?”
“No tea for me, thank you.” Norman sits down in one of the chairs across from the sofa.
“How about a scone? Mark made a fresh batch this morning, and they’re delicious.”
“My son made scones?”
“He’s very talented.”
“A regular Duncan Hines.” Norman looks around. “Where is he? Is he here?”
“No. I think he went to the beach.”
“Nice life,” Norman sneers.
Julia folds her hands in her lap. “You’re too hard on the boy.”
“And you’re too soft. But I didn’t come here to talk about Mark.”
“Why did you come?”
“Because you’re my mother and I’m worried about you.”
“Well, as you can see, there’s nothing to worry about.”
“You collapsed. You were in the hospital.”
“I stood up too quickly and I fainted. That’s all. I have low blood pressure. I used to faint all the time when I was younger.”
“Well, you’re not young anymore. And you’re damn lucky you didn’t hit your head when you fell.”
“I’m damn lucky Mark was here,” Julia corrects. She and her grandson have decided not to tell Norman the real reason she passed out. No point in upsetting him more than she already has. “Now tell me,” she continues, “what exactly is a hedge fund?”
Norman shakes his head. “Seriously?”
“Indulge me.”
Another shake of his head. A long, deep exhale. A nod of defeat. “A hedge fund is a pool of money put together by a group of investors and run by a fund manager—me—whose job it is to maximize returns while eliminating risks.”
“That’s quite a mouthful,” Julia says. “And how exactly does one eliminate risks while maximizing returns?”
“By investing in different assets, call them
alternative investments, if you will,” Norman elaborates, warming to his subject, “with the hope of either beating the market or providing a hedge in the event of unforeseen market change. We’ll buy or short any asset.”
“What do you mean, ‘short’?” Julia asks, more interested than she thought she’d be.
Norman takes a deep breath. “Shorting a stock is when an investor sells shares that he doesn’t own at the time, and then buys the equivalent amount of those shares at a later date when, hopefully, the price of those shares has gone down. This way the investor makes a profit even though the market price has fallen.”
“So, what you’re really saying is that you’re a gambler.”
“I prefer the word ‘speculator.’ ”
“Fascinating. Really. Quite fascinating. Tell me, does your wife understand any of this?”
“Not a word,” he concedes. “And she doesn’t try. One of the many things I love about her.”
“What are the others?” Julia asks.
“Excuse me?”
“What are the other things you love about Poopsy…Poopy…Sorry…Poppy.”
“You’re serious?”
“I am.”
“Well, for starters, she’s obviously very beautiful.”
“She is.”
“And she has a killer body.”
“She does. And I’m assuming she’s great in bed, so we don’t have to go there.”
“Thank you for that.”
“What else?”
“She makes me laugh.”
“Deliberately?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Julia’s turn to take a deep breath. “Well, I grant you that she’s a beautiful girl and she has a killer body, but face it, sweetheart, she’s not exactly—what is it they say?—a rocket scientist. I mean, that swimsuit idea…”
“Not the worst idea in the world,” Norman says. “Besides, I don’t want a rocket scientist. I just want someone who looks good and smells good and makes me feel good. And I finally found someone who does just that. You may not like me very much, Mother, but Poppy looks at me like I’m the greatest thing since sliced bread.”