“Isn’t it there?”
“No. It was in a separate sack. We probably left it in the car.” Beside the blanket, the depleted bottle of wine had been augered into the sand. Bernhardt lifted the sand-crusted bottle, examined the level of the wine. “Just enough for two glasses.” Invitingly, he lifted the bottle. As he poured the wine, he asked, “What were you frowning about, just now?”
“Was I frowning?”
He made no response. But he was searching her face, looking for the answer. Sometimes she forgot how soft his brown eyes were—and how perceptive.
Did she dare to gamble?
Did she dare to say that she wanted to be married, that she wanted to have children? Did she dare to tell him she wanted to start a family now, before the clock defeated her? Did he know how real Jennie was, to her?
The last question answered the first. No, she couldn’t gamble. Instead, lightly but meaningfully, she could say, “I was thinking about you, as a matter of fact.”
“And?”
“And I was wondering when you’re going to start writing another play.”
“Hmmm.” He was still looking directly into her face, searching for something. Did he realize that her question was a cop-out, a tactical retreat?
“Originally,” she said, “you were going to moonlight while you acted and directed—and also wrote plays. And then you left Dancer, and went into business for yourself. So then—”
“I liberated myself from Dancer. I hummed the “Marseillaise” for weeks after I—”
“The point is, though, that you don’t have time to act or direct, since you’re in business for yourself. That’s understandable. Rehearsals have to be scheduled, and that’s a problem, no question. But writing, you can make time for. You could write on stakeouts, I’d think. Things like that.”
“Is this really another pitch for me to put your name on the letterhead? Is that what this is all about?”
“What this is all about,” she said, “is that I care about you. I think you have a gift. I’m a fan.”
He leaned close to her, rocked his body against hers, a companionable nudge. “I’m a fan, too. Your fan.”
“Hmmm.” She nudged him in return. Then: “Don’t forget. Monday.”
“Monday?”
“That’s when you talk to Diane. Monday.”
“Hmmm.”
2 P.M., EDT
“I THINK,” MILLICENT SAID, “that we should hire private detectives. It’s been two weeks. A private detective can get access to credit card slips, and find out where she is.”
They were seated side by side on the deck, looking out across Nantucket Sound. Millicent was wearing a one-piece emerald-green bathing suit, sunglasses, and a floppy white cotton hat. With her chair tilted back, partially offsetting gravity, her breasts had never looked riper, more desirable. That night, they would make love. Nothing, he knew, disarmed a woman like sex, the more carnal the better. So when—
“—talked to Paul, just before we left New York,” she was saying. “He hasn’t heard a word from Diane.”
“Well,” he answered, “she isn’t going to starve, not unless you cancel her credit cards. And she probably isn’t going to kill herself on the highway. So what can happen to her?”
“Christ, Preston, she’s hurting. She’s my child, and she’s hurting.”
“She’s Paul’s child, too. Let him take the duty for a while. Whenever the two of you have a fight, she threatens to go to San Francisco. Maybe that’s where she belongs. At least for a while.”
“Paul’s got his own family. And Diane doesn’t get along with Paul’s wife. You know that.”
“Diane doesn’t get along with me, either. In fact, she doesn’t get along with a lot of people. It’s time you faced it, Millie. Diane is disaffected. She’s eighteen years old, and she’s running wild. She should be in—” He caught himself. In therapy, he’d been about to say. But secrets came out in therapy.
Did therapists take VISA cards, American Express cards?
“In what?” she demanded. “What were you going to say?”
He lifted a hand from the arm of his chair, let it fall. “Never mind.” He turned his gaze to the beach. An hour ago, Millicent had said she’d go swimming. When she did, he would have his first chance to go into the living room, turn back the rug and pad, look at the floor. He would—
“—private detective, when we get back to the city.”
“Wh—what?” With an effort, he forced himself to concentrate. “Sorry. I was daydreaming.”
“I said, I think I will hire a detective. I know I’d feel better if—”
“Let’s not do it yet. Let’s give it another week.”
Above the white frames of her smoked glasses, her eyebrows came together. “But I want—”
He let his voice go flat as he said, “I want to wait, Millie.”
“But why? I don’t see why we can’t—”
“I don’t want private detectives—or anyone—poking around in our life.”
She took off the sunglasses, waited until he looked at her directly. Then, coolly: “What’re you afraid of, Preston?”
“Afraid of?” He drew a deep, deliberate breath. “In what sense?”
“Something’s bothering you. Badly. What is it?”
“If anything’s bothering me, it’s the usual—too much to be done, not enough competent people to do it, take the load off. Except for Jackie, I could fire my whole staff. I swear to God, I think any M.B.A. right out of Harvard could—”
“I’m not talking about business.” A carefully calculated pause. “Am I?”
“I don’t know.” His own pause matched hers. “Are you?”
It had been the wrong response. Millicent hated to fence, hated word games.
“Look, Millie, I—as the saying goes—I’ve had a hell of a week. So if you don’t mind, I’d rather—”
“Did you and Diane have a fight? Is that the reason she left?”
He contrived a weary smile. “I’m always having fights with Diane. So are you.”
“That’s not what I mean. The day she left, did you—?”
As if he were suddenly exasperated, he quickly cut her off: “Millie. Please. We’ve been all over this. You were the one that had a fight with Diane just before she took off. Yes, I saw her in the garage after she’d left you. And, yes, she told me to fuck off before she got in her car and drove off. But that’s it. Period. Another hour in the life of Diane Cutler.”
As if she accepted his rebuke, his edict, she made no response. Instead, in icy control, she put the sunglasses back in place, turned her gaze away from him, once more staring out to sea. Another long moment of heavily laden silence passed. When would he be alone long enough to fold back the rug? Should he suggest that she go into town, to shop? They’d talked about buying a painting by a local artist, good community relations. Should he suggest that she—
No.
If she went into town, and Farnsworth questioned her, then—
“Why are we here, Preston?”
Aware that the question was rhetorical, a tactical opening gambit, he made no response. She was still staring out to sea. Her features were composed. Icily composed. It was, he knew, an ominous sign. Millicent didn’t strike out at random.
“As I understand it,” she began, “we have what’s called an understanding. That’s to say, if you run across someone you want to play with for a while, amuse yourself, it’s all right as long as you don’t rub my nose in it. I don’t embarrass you, and you don’t embarrass me. The JFK solution, in other words.” As she said it, she moved her head slightly to the left, aligning her gaze with Hyannisport and the Kennedy compound, less than five miles directly across Craigville Bay.
“That’s to say,” she continued, “that Kennedy didn’t take his floozies through the front door of the White House. And he certainly didn’t take them to Hyannisport.” A hard, flat pause. Then: “Which is to say, Preston, that I wouldn’t expect you to bri
ng your floozy here.”
On his response could depend his future. Everything. Therefore, certain words must be spoken—and certain words must never be spoken. Some marriages depended on the truth. His marriage depended on fiction—on what was known but never acknowledged. Unspoken words. Lies.
“I’m wondering,” he said, “why you’re telling me this.”
“I happened to run into Susan Piernan at the museum. We went out for coffee. It was the first time I’d seen her since I got back from Europe. She said she’d been up here—on the Cape—for three weeks, with her kids.”
Watching her profile, so exquisitely formed, so perfectly composed, he waited. If she went on, crossed the line, then everything would go. Yet, strangely, he was conscious of a composure, a distancing, as if he were someone apart, evaluating his own response:
First he must smile. But the smile must register puzzlement, not displeasure. “I’ve been here the last couple of weekends, and I don’t remember seeing Susan.”
It was the final word. If, beyond this, there were other words, they would be the first words in a legal torrent: her lawyers and his lawyers, endlessly enriching themselves.
While, at the landfill, only a few miles away, the worms were at work on the flesh of that which once had been a woman named Carolyn, last name Estes.
While, in New York, police computers were—
She was rising, stooping to pick up her beach towel and her swim cap. Saying: “I like our marriage, Preston. It’s an exciting life. It suits me, and I think it suits you, too.” As she spoke, she worked at the strands of her hair, tucking them inside the cap. She was waiting for him to speak, waiting for him to recite his required lines:
“I like our marriage, too, Millie.” And, then, extra insurance: “I wouldn’t want anything to happen to it.”
“Good.” She snapped the bathing cap, slung the towel over her shoulder, and smiled down at him. It was a new smile, one that, most certainly, he would often see as time passed.
If time passed, for them.
“Are you going to swim?” she asked.
“Not now. Later, maybe.” As he watched her walking down toward the ocean, he was conscious of an enormous backwash of relief. Once more, they’d dodged the bullet.
He waited until he saw her begin wading out into the surf before he opened the glass doors that led to the living room—and the slate coffee table, resting on the Persian rug.
3 P.M., PDT
AS THE DOORBELL SOUNDED she heard Carley’s voice from the bathroom. “That’s Dale. Let him in, will you, Diane? I’m still doing my eyes.”
“Right.” She went to the door, pushed the button, waited. Finally, she heard steps on the stairs, then a quiet knock.
“Dale?”
“That’s me.” It was a cheerful, confident-sounding male voice. She unbolted the door, opened it. He was short, muscular, sandy-haired. A second-year law student, Carley had said, at Hastings. Rich parents in Los Angeles. Big, happy family, the all-American sitcom cast. Dale even drove a vintage Mustang, cherried out. And he could fly, too. His father, Carley had said, owned two airplanes, one of them a biplane.
“I’m Diane.” She stepped back, gestured him inside. She liked the way he moved: easily, smoothly. His eyes were direct; his smile was easy, friendly. His clothing was all cotton, exactly right for San Francisco in the summer.
Always, even when they were only twelve or thirteen, Carley had found the right guys—the ones you brought home for dinner.
Dale, the law student. Alive.
Jeff, the Saturday-night stud. Dead. Lying beside the road in a pool of his own blood.
“You live in New York.” As he spoke, Dale went into the living room ahead of her, went to the big bay window, looked down into the street. Explaining: “I left the top down, and there’s some stuff in the car.
She went to the window, stood beside him. She could feel his closeness, his masculinity. “Is that yours? That red sixty-six?”
He nodded. “It belonged to my grandfather, if you can believe that. I spend more time worrying about that car than I do hitting the books.”
“Have you got a garage?”
“Definitely. That car wouldn’t make it overnight, parked on the street.”
“In New York, it wouldn’t make it over the lunch hour.”
He smiled, for the first time looked at her directly. “How long’ve you lived in New York?”
“Three years, give or take.”
“So are you coming back to San Francisco? Is that it? Carley says you were both born here, you and her.”
“To be honest, I don’t know what I’m going to do. My mom lives in New York, my dad lives here. I guess I’ll know more when I’ve talked to him.”
“You drove out from New York.”
She nodded.
“How long did it take you?”
“It took a week.”
He nodded, looked away, calculated. “So you averaged—what—about four hundred miles a day?”
“Just about. I didn’t push it. I—”
“I’m ready.” Carley stood in the doorway to the hall, posing for them. She was smiling her big smile. Last night, talking girl talk, she’d said that Dale could be the guy—Mr. Right.
“We’d better go, then.” Dale was moving to Carley, touching her, letting his hand linger. For a moment—one long, intimate, oblivious moment—they were smiling into each other’s eyes. Were they making it together, Carley and Dale? His touch—her eyes—said that, yes, they were making it. Did Carley realize how much one person’s happiness could hurt another person?
“That bridge traffic …” Dale was saying.
Promptly, her master’s voice, a standard strategy, Carley turned, walked briskly to the door. Calling out: “There’s some ravioli in the fridge, Diane. Help yourself.”
“So long, Diane.” In the open doorway, Dale turned back, smiled, waved. “See you soon. Welcome home.”
“Thanks.” She didn’t smile, didn’t wave in return. If it had been turned around, and Carley had come to New York, she wouldn’t just walk away with a guy and leave Carley alone. Not without asking, at least, whether Carley had plans for the rest of the day—Saturday, when everyone was doing something, sharing.
Through the open window, one flight up, she heard their voices on the street below. She turned, saw them get into the fire-engine-red Mustang, a convertible, black top. Would they look up, wave to her?
No.
She watched the car turn the corner, disappear. She glanced at her watch. Almost three-thirty. What were the options? In San Francisco, the town of her birth, the place where she’d lived for fifteen years, on a sunny Saturday afternoon, what were her options? Do her laundry? Buy a paper, check out the movies? Go to a sidewalk café, watch other people laugh?
Phone her father?
First take a pill, to calm down, and then call her father?
Soon—within days—she would need a connection, for the Valium and the Xanax. Carley had grass connections, and she had her own fake ID for the booze. But pills, that took a doctor, a drugstore—sometimes both. Or else a hustler with a talent for knocking off drugstores, the toughest connection of all, because of the danger, and the guns.
The laundromat, the movie listings, or bite the bullet and make the phone call to good old Dad. Saturday afternoon in her old hometown.
When she’d lived here, there’d always been something to do, somewhere to go, someone to do something with. She and Carley and Polly and Sue, they were always together—two of them, three of them, sometimes all four of them, always together. In the eighth grade Polly had been class president. In high school, bewildered freshmen, they’d clung together—and giggled through it. By the tenth grade, fifteen years old, crazy about boys, crazy about clothes, crazy about music, always on the telephone, they’d still been giggling.
Had it been only three years? All that giggling, all those hours on the phone?
How long did a lifetime last?
<
br /> Polly’s father had been transferred to Hawaii. Sue was working at a summer camp, teaching leather craft. Carley and Dale were going somewhere in his red Mustang.
Her tote bag and the plastic shopping bags filled with the clothes she’d bought since she left New York were in the big hall closet. For five days, sleeping on the couch, she’d been living out of the tote bag and the shopping bags.
For five days, like a small animal tethered to a cord that constantly grew shorter, she’d circled the telephone, circles that grew smaller, compelling her inevitably to make the phone call that would decide it all. Everything.
Hi, Daddy. It’s me. Surprise, I’m in San Francisco.
For five days, again and again, she’d gone to the tote, taken whatever was required to make the call. But then, each time, she’d realized that she’d taken just a little too much to talk in a straight line. And so another day passed—and another.
4 P.M., EDT
AS DANIELS TURNED INTO the airport parking lot, he saw Kane’s Buick. Parked. Empty. He stopped the Cherokee, looked down the line of tied-down airplanes, saw the King Air with the air stairs lowered. Kane was inside the airplane, waiting. Good. Better to be seen together at the airplane than in a car, talking.
He parked the Jeep, pocketed the keys, began walking toward the small terminal. Even at Barnstable, for security, all passengers and air crew were required to pass through an electronically controlled door that could only be operated by an employee behind the reception desk.
Big Brother, watching …
All of them, watching, waiting, calculating.
Millicent, watching from behind her white-rimmed sunglasses. Constable Farnsworth, with his colorless pig eyes, watching. Even Kane was watching: sly, calculating glances.
The faces and the images: the amorphous shape wrapped in the blanket; the shovel, slicing through the soft, yielding earth of the landfill.
And the bulldozer blade, scraping the earth over her grave.
And, finally, the most recent image of all: the oaken floor beneath the Persian rug, after two weeks bleached white.
“Hi, Mr. Daniels.” Behind the reception desk, the plump post-teenager with brassy blonde hair smiled at him.
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