A loud thump shook the ceiling. Mang bristled every time Babs stomped her boots.
Jerry ignored it. He had the farmhouse within his grasp. It was Chelsea’s vision brought to fruition. Who cares what anyone else thought or did? Babs could drive ten-penny nails through the soles of his feet, and he wouldn’t care.
“Let’s cue the lights and start filming,” Mang said, “before Babs brings the house down.”
“I’m ready.” Jerry saw the final show taping as their ticket off his farm. The sound of birds and trees waited to assume the absence of buzzing saws and roaring equipment generators.
“Accidents aside,” Mang said, “it’s been a pleasure working with you.”
Jerry was taken aback. He hadn’t received a genuine compliment in ages. He searched Mang’s hard-to-read face. “Thank you.”
“You have an eye for detail. You know what you want.”
Jerry tucked the comment away in his mind. Good deal. Had he changed that much? He always knew what he wanted, but it was Chelsea who precipitated his ideas into reality.
Mang signaled the key grip, and the cameras began rolling.
“Shane Edlow here. Today on Home Makers, we wrap up the Nearing farm, and it’s a beauty.”
“Cut,” Mang said. “Let’s begin in this room and move out through the living room.”
A dark-haired woman in a pink dress wove through the production crew from the back of the room. She caught Jerry’s eye, but so many months had passed that he almost forgot who she was.
“Gina?” Jerry said.
“Hello, Jerry.” Gina Spagnoli looked different. Her cheeks appeared fuller, and her voice was lower and less assertive. “Your house is wonderful.”
“What are you doing here?”
“We need to talk.” She waddled from behind the kneeling soundman. Her body sloped backward, and her dress bulged at the waist. That extra part of her middle seemed to be directing her forward.
“What happened to you?”
She looked down and pressed both hands gently against her waist, outlining the roundness of her belly. Her eyes rolled up with a surreptitious glance. “I’m pregnant.”
Mang heard the last part of the conversation and scooted around the island. “Is this your girlfriend?”
Jerry didn’t answer. He calculated quick numbers. How long was it? Seven months? Eight? Oh God, Gina looked ready to pop.
“Why didn’t you mention her?” Mang’s face assumed more expression than ever before. It nearly twisted into a question mark.
Jerry’s mouth moved. “I didn’t think …”
“This is super. Let’s get her in the shot.” Mang sent the crew into a new flurry of activity.
“We can’t ...” Jerry’s voice was shaky. His arms and legs felt as if he’d soaked them in ice water.
“Why not?”
“Yes,” Gina bubbled. “Why not?”
Jerry considered a dozen reasons, none of which he cared to reveal on public television. “Let’s just go with the original.”
“This is super.” Mang waved Gina closer. “Totally candid.”
Jerry detested Mang’s choice of words. Gina, and that thing inside of her, was as super and candid as a drive-by shooting.
“Stop!” he yelled.
Everyone ceased moving. The room paused for an explanation. The new and improved Jerry Nearing hunted for a quick answer—a single prescience of thought that made Gina disappear from sight and satisfy the crew. He dug his hands in his pockets and released a nervous laugh, which he quickly heard and ceased mid-yuk. Then he thought of a candid response of his own.
“Gotta go.” Jerry exited the house and property, faster than it took Cortez to vanish into the trees.
His back pressed against the Porsche’s form-fitting seat, as he raced out of the hills. He reached for his cell phone and dialed his lawyer, Ralph Tisch. He was the only man he knew who talked sense when he needed it.
CHAPTER 11
Open Your Wallet, Shut Your Mouth
“This won’t be as easy.” Ralph Tisch sat with his feet on his desk. He’d just returned from St. Martin and sported the frankness and ease of a man disengaged from his everyday routine. “Not as easy as your divorce.”
Jerry braced himself. Nothing felt harder than his divorce. He’d been talking with Gina for days and didn’t like what he’d heard. “How do I know if Gina is carrying my child?”
“Could it be yours?”
“I only slept with her once.”
“That’s all it takes.”
“I know.”
“We can ask for …”
Jerry’s cell phone rang. He held up a finger to silence Tisch and brought the receiver to his ear. “Yes?”
“It’s me, Chel.”
“Chelsea.” He’d been expecting her call.
“I received your invitation in the mail. So you want me to see that big project of yours.”
He crossed his fingers, pulling his eyes away from the curious attorney. “It’s nothing really, just the magic of television.”
“I bet it’s more than that. I’d like to see it.”
“Good.” He tried not to sound excited. The invitation was just for a visit. “Hey, how about I cook dinner? We can do it any day you’d like.”
“You want to go to the trouble?”
“It’s no problem.”
“Are you sure?”
“How about Thursday, eight o’clock?” Jerry felt like a schoolboy, the one who held Chelsea’s hand beside the creek in Chesterfield.
“I’ll try my best.”
He didn’t like the word ‘try.’ Why couldn’t she say yes or no? “We can do it another time.”
“No, I want to come. I want to see the house.”
“I’ll whip up something easy.”
“You don’t have to.”
“It’s no trouble.”
“Alright then, I’ll see you at eight.”
He listened to the line disconnect, fighting the urge to over-analyze the conversation. When did Chelsea become so complicated? She used to come right out with whatever she had on her mind. He needed to wrench her away from Cogdon.
When Jerry folded up the phone, Tisch was flipping through the financial page in the Wall Street Journal. “Are you ready now?”
“Sorry about that.” Jerry stashed the phone in his blazer.
“There are choices, you know, paths to take.”
Jerry’d forgotten where they were in the conversation. He buzzed in the afterglow of his chat with Chelsea. She had actually accepted his invitation to dinner. Good deal. Double good deal.
“A blood test can be deterministic,” Tisch said.
“What kind of blood test?”
“On the baby.” Tisch paused. “Gina Spagnoli’s baby? The one that’s supposed to be yours?”
“Oh, right.” Jerry ripped himself from thoughts of his beloved Chelsea. “Will Gina do that?”
“Not without a subpoena.”
“Let’s do it.”
“It will bring public attention. I guarantee that. I know her attorney.”
“I don’t want that.” His thoughts returned to his dinner date with Chelsea. He hoped to build a chain of devotion that drew her back to his heart. “She can’t find out about the baby.”
“Who can’t?”
“Anyone.”
“You said she. Is there another woman involved?”
Jerry looked at Tisch as if he might read his mind. “No, I don’t want anyone to find out. Do you hear me?”
“Okay?” Tisch sounded confused yet determined to execute his client’s needs. It was all billable hours in the end. “I think I understand.”
“No one can know about this.”
“Then get ready to open your wallet.”
CHAPTER 12
The Missing Ingredient
Late Thursday afternoon, the air felt warm for the small days of March. Jerry kept the kitchen windows ajar, as he rolled pasta dough upon the
counter. The scents of Mascarpone and fresh cut parsley lent an alluring aroma to the kitchen. Cortez lapped water from a bowl in the expanded breakfast nook, and a woodpecker hammered the old pin oak beside the house.
Jerry stuffed fresh raviolis with cheese and spices and pinched the edges closed. He was building more than Chelsea’s favorite meal. To create love from food, he required certain basic ingredients: Parmigiano, lemon, garlic, and olives. Breaded veal cutlets sat on paper towels near the burners, and spinach for the salad drained in a colander by the sink. His senses were more acute than ever. He imagined Chelsea across the table, taking his hand, undressing beside the dining room table. She liked to mix food with sex, complimenting his best work in the kitchen.
A puddle gathered on the ochre floor tiles near the cabinets, and as he carried the pasta to the refrigerator, his bare toes dipped into the water. He must have been careless and sloshed his glass. He bent down and mopped up the spill with a dishcloth.
He went to the sink and shook the spinach in the colander, but it wasn’t dry enough. He returned to the island counter and spilled the walnuts on the cutting board. The thick nuts popped beneath his blade.
The puddle reappeared on the tiles. Jerry stared at it, thinking he’d discovered another spill, until he identified the source. The ceiling was leaking. A ring of water formed on the stucco ceiling, dripping down into the kitchen.
“No.” He immediately thought of the old kitchen roof—the one Chelsea hounded him to fix—but this was new, and it hadn’t rained for days. It must have been the pipes in the refinished master bath.
Jerry squeezed the phone in his fist. His current plumber was like any other that he hired. He was lucky to get the man on the line when he really needed help. “You’ve got to get over here.”
“How bad is it?” The plumber sounded distracted, or was it disinterested?
“It couldn’t be worse.”
“Is it pouring out?”
“Any other part of the house could be leaking, and I wouldn’t mind. Do you understand?”
“I’ll try to get right on it.”
“You must. I’ll pay you anything.”
Jerry heard the plumber hang up. He marched into the basement and meddled with the myriad of specially installed cutoff valves. It took him twenty minutes of running up and down the steps before locating the line for the master bedroom. He was behind schedule, and he still needed to buy wine.
He tacked a note for the plumber on the front door and aimed his Porsche toward Princeton. The car spun out on the driveway. That leaky pipe better be history when I return. He wanted no reminders of the past. He needed a spotless house and a stunning meal if he hoped to create magic.
The man at the wine shop counter wore a tunic top and a pair of bellbottom jeans. He sat on a stool and sipped latte, engrossed in a novel by Robert Gover. He bobbed his head, mumbling an occasional line from the book.
Jerry mulled through the dusty wine racks, listening to the man snort and laugh. He tried to grab the man’s attention. “Where are the Italian reds?”
The man waved his hand without looking up. “Keep going.”
“Where?”
“The middle front.”
“Middle front?”
“Yes.”
“Do you have Riserva Millennio?”
The man propped his glasses upon his head, annoyed by the interruption. One of his sandaled feet dropped to the floor. “What’s that?”
“Riserva Millennio. It’s a Chianti.”
“Then it would be with the rest of the Italians.”
“1985?”
“Sounds like a tasty year.”
Jerry’s cell phone began ringing, and he plucked it from his blazer. He noticed the counterman roll his eyes. “Hello.”
“Jerry?” Chelsea’s voice competed with a loud sucking sound in the background.
“Where are you?”
“Trenton Airport.”
“Are you broken down?”
“No.”
He recognized the gushing sound by Chelsea. It was the swirl of a jet engine turbine. “Are you picking someone up?”
“I hope this won’t put you out.”
“Are you going to be late?” Good deal. He’d get extra time to clean up the leak and prepare the vegetables.
“I’m going to have to cancel.”
“Cancel?”
“I have special news. Haskell’s proposed.”
“Proposed what?”
“What do you think?”
It took a moment for the concept to hit home. It dropped down on him like one of those cartoon weights, the 500 pound iron block, the full out flattener. Now he heard a different gushing sound. It was the wind leaving his lungs.
“Jerry? Are you still there?”
“What did you tell him?”
“Yes.”
His knees went weak. He propped himself against the doorframe of the wine shop. He’d been aced-out by that little creep again.
“I want your blessing.” Chelsea sounded tentative.
My what?! “My blessing?”
“I want to be friends.”
“Friends?”
“Jerry, you’re repeating everything I’m saying.”
“I am?”
“It’s been more than a year since our divorce.”
“Has it been that long?” He’d been counting too but for a different reason. He thought their time apart was too long. He gripped the doorframe, aware that the ground beneath him was shifting. “You’re joking, right?”
“I’m boarding a plane for Mexico in a half hour. We’ll be married at sunrise.”
“Can you do that? Is that legal?”
“Haskell says that in Mexico you can get whatever you want, when you want it, fast.”
“Are you going to live there?”
“I’m coming back. I’m sorry. I hope you didn’t go to too much trouble for dinner.”
“Well, I … well, no.”
“I knew you’d understand.”
“Yes.” That was him, always understanding. He wondered how he might be understanding and persuasive at the same time. It probably wasn’t possible. That’s how some men got everything. They took what they wanted. They weren’t liked by others, but who cared?
“Can we reschedule when I get back?” she asked.
“Sure.”
“Oh, and the house looks great. I watched every episode.”
When she hung up, Jerry thought of the things he didn’t say. He didn’t bless her marriage, not to that money-grubbing twerp. He didn’t want her to go. He still loved her. Don’t do this!
He saw his Porsche at the curb and hopped inside. He drove down Nassau Street, shifting up the gears. The engine growled. His tires crushed an empty soda can on the dividing line, spitting it out like a spent ammo cartridge. He ripped past the yield-to-pedestrian signs and thick white crosswalks, daring jaywalkers to cross his path. He gripped the gearshift and looked to the horizon, plotting a course for the airport.
As Jerry raced through the heart of town, people scattered to the sidewalks. A cyclist smashed into the bumper of a parked car and flipped. A lady with a baby stroller screamed at the top of her lungs. Jerry pushed down on the gas, pounding the horn, willing obstructions out of his path. A squad car jumped on his tail.
He swerved onto Mercer Street, running the traffic light. He nearly clipped the side of a mail truck. He was heading for the interstate highway, without really plotting a course. Red lights flashed in his rearview mirror. He’d smooth out his troubles at the airport. He needed to reach Chelsea before she lifted off the runway and out of his life forever. He’d pay any price to speak with her one last time.
Traffic slowed to a crawl. Jerry leaned on the horn, deciding to drive in the opposite lane. He weaved off the road to avoid oncoming cars. Dust flew up with bits of garbage in the shoulder. Car horns wailed, and brakes locked up. He smelled his clutch burning. He didn’t care if the engine blew, as long as he r
eached the airport on time.
The police shouted through the PA system in their car. Jerry ignored their commands to pull over. He saw the open fields at Battlefield Park, as another squad car sped toward him in the shoulder. The chrome grille and fluttering lights bore down on his little sports car. For an instant, he imagined himself going head on and underneath the approaching car.
He cut the wheel and spun out on the lawn. Mud and hunks of sod sprayed his windows. He cut back several times to avoid people afoot. A man and dog leapt over a trashcan. One teenager paused before diving with her companions into the thorny bushes. Jerry lost control on the wet turf, stabbing at the floor for the brakes. His steering wheel felt loose in his palms; no traction at all. Trees and blue sky whirled past his eyes, but just as quickly, his tires took hold, and the Porsche jerked to a halt.
Two squad cars hemmed him in, front and back. Jerry hopped out and glanced over the Porsche’s hood. By chance, he hadn’t hit anyone or anything. Tire ruts extended from the road, a pair of serpentine trails leading back to the Porsche. A photographer stepped from a news van and snapped pictures.
The first policeman was a kid with his hair shaved like a boot camp marine. He started to yell without benefit of the PA. “What are you doing?”
Jerry stared at the crowd. He was dazed, catching his breath. His heart still pumped at full throttle, and he broke into a sweat. Something was wrong. There were too many people around for a weekday afternoon. How did they get here so fast?
“Alright, pal.” the policeman yelled louder.
The second officer was older than Jerry. He had thick gray hair, like Haskell Cogdon. Jerry’s problems blazed anew in his mind.
“Let him be,” the senior officer said, noticing the bewildered look on Jerry’s face. “He’s not armed. He’s not moving.”
“Sir?” the senior officer asked. “Are you alright?”
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