by Jenny Jacobs
Damn him.
• • •
“Son of a bitch,” Jordan said under his breath. The news networks were replaying the footage of Randall posed on the steps of the hospital, looking haggard, as if he had kept vigil over his wife’s bedside hour after hour. His grave announcement of his wife’s death — as if he had been any comfort to her — seemed a mockery.
Jordan aimed the remote at the television and changed the channel. Randall was going to turn the death of Jordan’s mother into a goddamned circus and there was nothing Jordan could do to change it. All he could do was endure — the way he always did. Shut down his emotions and get through it.
With his mother gone, there would never be another reason for Jordan to interact with Randall. Nothing to tie them together. Wasn’t that, at least, some good news on an otherwise dreadful day?
He had the urge to unearth the bottle of Scotch he surely had around here but he could almost hear Sadie chiding him about that. Not because she objected to drinking alcohol, but because she could consider it a predictable and banal response to his anger and annoyance. Drowning his demons instead of facing them.
So he got up, clicking the television off, and made a pot of coffee. He was tempted to call Sadie, but he ignored the temptation. He had made a mistake, showing her his weakness and vulnerability. He had had sex with her, comfort sex — no, he wouldn’t lie to himself. He wouldn’t be like Randall that way. He had enough self-regard and self-understanding to know that being honest with himself was the only way he could keep looking in the mirror.
It hadn’t been just sex. He knew that. They had made love, and although he had been hurting, he had known what he was doing, and he had done it anyway, deliberately, because he wanted to, regardless of how it might hurt Sadie in the end, which meant he was not as different from Randall as he liked to think.
He knew what he had to do, which was to make her understand that there was no relationship between them, no future for them. Like Randall, it seemed he was incapable of loving a woman; unlike Randall he wouldn’t lie about it. A woman like Paula understood the score. A woman like Sadie might pretend she did, but she was only fooling herself. She wanted what ordinary women wanted: an orderly domestic life, children she could dote on, a husband who put her before anything else, and who made a good father to their children.
He thought of Randall on the television screen and his bile rose. He picked up the phone. If he was braver, or perhaps more callous, he would have called Sadie himself. Instead, he called Peter and told him what he needed to do.
• • •
It should have rained. Hadn’t it been raining all along? You’d think the sky could muster some iron-gray clouds and a miserable drizzle, in keeping with the depressing nature of the occasion. But instead, it was a bright spring day, warm with the promise of summer.
Sadie had taken a cab to the church where the service was being held. She hadn’t expected the crowd — Elaine’s life had seemed so quiet — but she realized she should have known better. The funeral was more about Randall than about Elaine. She also hadn’t expected the reporters and again guessed that was about Randall, not Elaine. She could just imagine how Jordan was going to feel about the crowd and the reporters.
She stood on the sidewalk, feeling like the hick cousin from the country. No one had asked her to be here. The way Jordan had cleared out the morning after made it obvious he believed that they had no future together. Despite what had happened in that tangle of sheets. He hadn’t called; he hadn’t even sent a message by his tame underling, Peter. Well, you couldn’t say Jordan had led her on. Damn him.
Someone pushed by and she murmured an apology and stepped back, out of the path of the foot traffic. She was here, so she supposed she might as well go in to the church —
A familiar town car slowed and stopped at the curb. How many times had Peter pulled to the curb like that, then come around to open her door? Her heart squeezed and she watched, unable to look away. Jordan ducked out of the backseat, his face impassive. Then he leaned down and offered his hand to someone still in the car. An elderly aunt?
No. A stunning platinum blonde in a dove-gray suit.
Of course. That was probably Paula, his on-again-off-again girlfriend. How foolish for her to think Jordan would come alone. And yet, she had thought he would be by himself. She had imagined him alone with his grief, and she had wanted to be there, so he could look up and know that there was one person in the world who cared about him. But that was foolish, too; she wasn’t the one person in the world who cared about him. There were plenty of people who did. A man like Jordan didn’t have to go a day without companionship if he didn’t want to.
Sadie took another step backward. So she was a fool. There were worse things in the world than being a fool —
Jordan passed by her without a glance in her direction.
“Sadie.”
That was Peter coming toward her. He’d left the car at the curb, impeding traffic but obviously not concerned with that fact.
She lifted her chin as he approached. “Peter,” she said, imperious as Aunt Gertrude.
He stopped a foot in front of her, obviously ill at ease. Sadie smiled in spite of herself and how hard her heart was thumping. He was just a small town rube, too. Maybe they could form a club.
He cleared his throat and said, “Jordan wanted me to give you this.”
Her heart stuttered as she accepted the envelope Peter offered. What was it? A letter? A thank-you note?
No. An airline ticket back home.
She turned away from Peter, blindly pushing against the crowd that surged around her.
“Sadie!” Peter called. “Sadie, let me — ”
But she shook her head and walked faster until she kicked her heels off and was running all the way down the street.
Chapter Thirteen
Peter was mad at him. It didn’t show in anything he did or said — he was more excruciatingly polite than usual, in fact. Still, he was angry. Disapproval radiated from him in waves that Jordan could feel, even if he pretended he couldn’t.
There was the “I called to make sure Sadie landed safely” comment the other evening, when Paula had been sitting next to Jordan on the sofa, and of course, she wanted to know who Sadie was. And instead of letting Jordan answer, Peter had said, “Why, that’s Jordan’s young lady,” as if Peter didn’t know full well who Paula was to Jordan, and that she wouldn’t appreciate references to others of Jordan’s young ladies. Even though no one would ever refer to Paula as Jordan’s young lady.
Then there was the “miscommunication” that had left Jordan standing in the rain on a street corner for forty-five minutes. That had been yesterday.
If he hadn’t thought he probably deserved it, Jordan would have fired Peter or at least reassigned him to some other role in the company.
Still, atonement had its limits, and Jordan was reaching his.
This morning Randall had invited him to stop by the house and pick out anything of his mother’s that he’d like to keep. That had rankled; his mother had barely been buried and Randall was already getting rid of her possessions — giving them to charity, Randall said.
Jordan supposed that within a month all evidence of his mother’s existence would be erased from Randall’s house. Though Jordan had lived there as a child, it had never felt like home. It had always seemed like Randall’s house, and he a visitor there. His mother, too. How long before Randall installed another woman in his mother’s place?
“Here we are, sir,” Peter said, his lip curling as he pronounced the sir.
Jordan glanced up and saw that they were at the curb in front of Randall’s house. He waited a moment but clearly Peter wasn’t going to come around to let him out, which was fine because Jordan could open his own door. Obviously, Peter hadn’t completely exhausted his temp
er yet.
Jordan didn’t say anything, just closed the car door gently behind him and started up the walk. He didn’t bring his briefcase with him and found he didn’t quite know what to do with his hands. He was tempted to use his free hands to punch Randall.
His mother wouldn’t have approved. And he supposed it wouldn’t solve anything. It might make him feel better temporarily but there would be consequences and Randall wasn’t worth them.
The door opened as he approached; the maid had been expecting him. Then, with a start, he realized that it wasn’t the maid opening the door, it was Randall himself.
“Jordan,” he said, his voice warm and welcoming, the deep rumble that had made him famous as a newscaster at the very start of his career.
Jordan wasn’t fooled by the warm welcome. When he was a boy, he had been, and the disappointment still ached somewhere deep and buried.
Randall’s big hand engulfed his and then Randall clapped him on the shoulder, as if they’d just concluded a business deal, an unwelcome and discordant note. They were not here on business; they were not glad to see each other. Jordan had always been amazed that a man so incapable of understanding emotional nuance could have done so well for himself. On the other hand, plenty of narcissists thrived in media. So maybe it was society’s fault as much as it was Randall’s.
Jordan forced himself to relax despite Randall’s offensive assumption of familiarity. He reminded himself that this was the last time he had to interact with Randall in person. From here on out, their lawyers could talk. Jordan’s mother didn’t have much of an estate and it didn’t matter to Jordan what he got from it, except in principle — wanting to keep Randall from what he wasn’t entitled to. All of that could be done by proxy.
This couldn’t.
“Good morning,” he said, forcing his clenched jaw open just long enough to say it.
Randall stepped back, opening the door wider in silent invitation, and Jordan stepped over the threshold. His stomach swooped, the way it had for so many days and years when he was younger. He and his mother had lived in a cramped apartment on the Lower East Side until Randall had come along and swept them into their new accommodations. Large and echoing, and a boy couldn’t race along the hallways as tempting as it might be to do so.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” Randall said, and Jordan fought the urge to look around for the photographer or reporter who was recording that touching moment for the evening news.
He nodded, knowing he should probably say something similar to Randall but unable to force insincere words past his lips.
Randall cleared his throat and turned away. “Let me show you her room.”
Jordan grunted. If he had ever felt welcome in this house, that was gone with his mother’s passing. He reminded himself for the tenth time that he never had to come back here again. He never had to speak to Randall in person again. Never, never, never. He could send minions and employees. That should have felt better than it did.
The plush carpet absorbed the sounds of their footfalls. The halls had been gleaming, polished wood when Jordan and his mother had moved in. How could a boy resist sliding along them? But Randall had objected. Although from an adult perspective, Jordan supposed he could hardly blame the man. He thought about his own condo, which wasn’t exactly arranged for children. Although if he ever had children, then he would damned well accommodate them —
An image of Sadie, soft and sweet as their bodies moved together, erotic and unexpected, took his breath away.
What if —
“Here it is,” Randall said, throwing open a door, his words and action shaking Jordan from his reverie.
Randall and Jordan’s mother might have agreed to have separate bedrooms — and Jordan understood the agreement perfectly well (“Randall snores”) but he couldn’t help but think if he had a wife — another unbidden image of Sadie smiling up at him because she liked him, and liked the way it felt when he touched her —
He did not think he would be very amenable to separate bedrooms.
Randall was waiting for him to do something, and Jordan brought his undisciplined mind back to the matter at hand.
He pushed the door open and stepped into the room. It reminded him of his mother, tailored and elegant, with feminine colors, pinks and lilacs, nothing too frou-frou or too bold.
Randall trailed in after him, hunching his shoulders a little as if he were the small boy who might be chastised for violating his mother’s sanctuary.
A deep distaste for what Randall was asking him to do filled Jordan. If Sadie were here — he squelched that thought as he had squelched every thought he’d had of her since he’d left her bed all those days ago.
He stood in the center of the room and took a breath. It smelled like his mother, Chanel No. 5. He walked over to her dresser and touched one of the bottles arranged across the top, then picked it up and held it in his palm.
After a moment, something struck him as missing. “What happened to her jewelry box?” he demanded, remembering too late he had no real rights here.
Randall shifted and said quietly, “She knew she was dying, Jordan.”
Objectively, Jordan knew it wasn’t the slap it felt like. But of course it was easier for Randall —
Jordan set the bottle of perfume back down.
“She had some friends,” Randall began and let his voice trail off.
“Friends,” Jordan said. As far as he knew, his mother had never had friends, not the way he knew many women did. Like Sadie almost certainly had. Jordan’s mother had had causes and acquaintances, committees and volunteer colleagues.
Randall shrugged. “You know how she was. But she knew a lot of people.”
Was it Randall’s fault she had been the way she was? Or was it possible Randall had just accepted her and let her be? Had Jordan misunderstood acceptance for indifference?
He shook his head to clear it and turned away from the dresser. He went to her bedside table, glanced at the books piled there. She’d always been a great reader. No wonder she’d liked Sadie. They’d had a lot in common. Not least was the way the men in their lives treated them.
He sighed and turned away from the nightstand. What was he doing here? If there was something he wanted from his mother, it was too late to get it now.
Then he remembered his last gift to her, all of the details crowding in on him: ducking into Sadie’s shop, asking for her recommendation, bringing her back home with him. He looked over at Randall. “Where’s the book of poetry I gave her? The one I gave her for her birthday this year?”
Randall shoved his hands into his pockets and asked, “The one with the green cover?”
Leave it to Randall to identify a book not by its title or author — or even subject matter — but by what it looked like.
“Yes,” Jordan said. He made a gesture to encompass the room. “I don’t see it here.”
“And you’d like to have it.”
“Yes, I’d like to have it,” Jordan said impatiently, then realized that Randall was stalling. Why was he stalling over a book? “Do you know where it is?”
Randall didn’t immediately respond. After a moment, he cleared his throat and said, “I know where it is.”
Jordan reined his impatience in. “Where?” he asked, his voice tight. It wasn’t that important and yet somehow it was, especially since Randall seemed reluctant to talk about it. Why?
“I — well, I have it,” Randall said, but made no move to find it and hand it over.
“Okay,” Jordan said, and waited.
“I’d like to keep it,” Randall admitted.
Jordan raised a brow and said, “Why?” But quietly, not in a demanding way.
Randall looked away, rocking back on his heels, something in his attitude shifting from hard-charging impatient captain of in
dustry to — to what? Ordinary man out of his element?
“Well.” Randall cleared his throat again, still stalling. “Because.”
Jordan didn’t push. He just waited. Then Randall said, “Because it made her happy.”
Jordan still didn’t say anything. He tightened his jaw against the words that wanted to tumble out — When did her happiness ever matter to you?
Randall seemed to sense the tenor of his unspoken words. He flushed, then said, “I know you’ve never believed it, but I loved your mother. And she loved me.”
Chapter Fourteen
Aunt Gertrude poured the tea, passed the cookies and said, “I need a new car.”
Sadie started from her reverie. “What?” She bit into a sugar cookie. How many times had she participated in this ritual? The tea was always Lady Grey and the cookies always crisp, with just a sprinkle of colored sugar on top. Sadie had never actually seen Aunt Gertrude make the cookies — they’d always appeared as if by magic — and she suspected that Aunt Gertrude bought them from a bakery but Sadie had never been able to figure out which one, and she’d never asked.
“I need a new car,” Aunt Gertrude said again.
“You sold your car last year.”
“Exactly,” Aunt Gertrude beamed. “So I need a new one.”
Sadie set her cup down. “You got rid of the car because you don’t drive anymore,” she said carefully, wondering if maybe Aunt Gertrude was starting to become forgetful. Sadie didn’t like to think it was possible, but in truth, Aunt Gertrude was getting on in age, and forgetfulness was one of the signs. She’d always been sharp as a tack and Sadie hoped it was just an aberration.
She put her hand over Aunt Gertrude’s sturdy fingers. Not frail, not withering away, still robust. That was reassuring. She gently squeezed.
Aunt Gertrude tutted and said with an exaggerated sigh, “I’m giving you an excuse.”
“An excuse for what?”
“For going back to him.”
Sadie was glad she’d set her cup down or she’d probably have dropped it. “What are you talking about?”