“Rest assured that we’re working to determine what happened at this very public scene as quickly as possible. Just recently, our victim was identified, and, as Mr. Savant told you, we’re in the process of notifying her family now. Once we do that, we’ll be able to release a name to you all. Thank you.”
They’ve agreed to take questions, but they answer only a few at the commissioner’s discretion. The journalists want to know if there are any suspects. Could it be a homicide? Any evidence that she was pushed? Do they know which room she fell from? Is there video surveillance of the fall? Has anyone ever jumped from the hotel balcony in the Seafarer’s history?
All excellent questions and ones that Jean-Paul desperately wishes he had the answers to. The commissioner graciously, boldly declines to answer. “Thanks, but that’s all we have for now. Thank you.” Jean-Paul follows him back inside the hotel.
“Well, I think that went as well as could be expected,” he says, and Jean-Paul nods, having no idea how one measures a successful press conference. “The important thing is to keep the victim’s name out of it until we can talk to the family, and we did that.”
Again, Jean-Paul nods, says “Yes, right.” His phone buzzes. It’s Marie.
“Sorry, Commissioner,” he says. “Mind if I take this?”
“Go right ahead. I’ll catch up with you later.”
Jean-Paul steps away into the alcove that houses the vending machines for a sliver of privacy. “Honey?” he says into the phone. “Honey, are you there?” He holds one finger to his ear in an attempt to drown out the buzz of the lobby.
“I just saw you on the news! Oh, how awful,” she says. “Are you okay? Is there anything I can do?” He understands the flurry of questions, the compulsion to help, but there’s nothing she can do. For a moment, he’s seized by a sense of guilt: he’s forgotten to call Marie. Shouldn’t his wife’s voice have been the first thing he wanted to hear after witnessing such a horrific incident? But, no, he reasons, there hasn’t been a moment’s peace until now.
“I’m okay,” he says now. “A little rattled. Still stunned, I think. It was pretty awful.”
“Oh, honey. Were you there? Did you see it happen?”
“Not directly. But I saw her.” He pauses, the ruined face flashing across his mind again. “I mean, the victim. I saw her right after she fell. She was already gone.”
There’s a sharp intake of air on the other end. “How awful,” Marie says again in a quiet voice.
“Yeah.”
“Did she jump?”
“Don’t know yet.” He sighs and rubs his forehead. A headache is pushing at his temples; he’ll have to remember to grab some Tylenol from the concierge desk when he gets off the phone. That and one of the Milky Ways staring at him from the vending machine. When was the last time he had anything to eat? he wonders. This morning? “Anyway, I’m not really supposed to talk about it. The police are handling everything now.”
“Of course. I’m so, so sorry, love. I wish I could give you a hug. It’s...it’s just unspeakably awful.” He can hear Isabella gurgling in the background. Incomprehensible baby syllables, wonderfully oblivious to the world.
Unspeakably awful. Those are the words that have eluded him. And again the compulsion to race home to his family and bolt all the doors washes over him. Because it is unspeakably awful. If only they could start the day over! Would it have made any difference? What if he’d been walking the grounds at the precise moment when the woman was up on her balcony? Would he have seen her? Would he have been able to radio for help in time? There’s no way of knowing, and yet, how he wishes there was something he could have done to prevent it. Finally, his voice breaking, he manages to say, “It is. You’re right. Unspeakably awful.” He’s struggling to regain his composure. His stomach rumbles. He needs food. “But I’ve got to go. I’ll call you when I know more.”
“Yes, do,” she says before clicking off.
He fishes in his wallet for a crisp dollar bill and smooths it out before sticking it into the vending machine. If it shoots back out, so help him God, he will lose it. But, mercifully, the machine sucks his dollar up, and Jean-Paul punches in the coordinates: D,3. He waits, watching the coil spin around, working to push out the candy bar from the fourth row down. It inches forward to be released—and then snags on the coil, suspended in midair.
“Merde!” Jean-Paul says under his breath and kicks the machine, completely forgetting his station for a moment, losing his mind. He spins around, afraid someone has witnessed his outburst, but it’s only Jean-Paul here in the snack alcove.
When he turns back, he begins to laugh, a slightly maniacal laugh. Because there, in the slot at the bottom, sits his Milky Way, dislodged by his angry, vicious kick to the machine’s side. He reaches in and grabs it, practically biting off the wrapper and devouring it in a few solid, famished bites.
Earlier that week
TWENTY-TWO
What has she done? Oh no, oh no! is what passes through her mind as she stabs the elevator button to get back to her room on Thursday night. There’s no one riding up with her, thankfully, but she wants desperately to get back to her room before she breaks down completely. “How stupid can you be?” Claire angry-whispers into the air. To think she actually believed Marty would wrap her in his arms and tell her he wanted her back, that he couldn’t wait to spend the next years of his life with her. Outrageous! Verging on insane. For the first time, she wonders if maybe since Walt’s death she has been living in some kind of alternate universe, only her children have been too afraid to tell her. To tether her back to earth, to the here and now. To reality.
For God’s sake, Claire, she chides herself. Why would you expect a man you haven’t seen in thirty years to still be carrying a torch for you? “Idiot!” she scolds herself when she steps off the elevator and strides fitfully toward her room.
The door shut behind her, she throws herself down on the fluffy white comforter and allows herself a good, long cry. She has been so stupid, so utterly foolish. Like a schoolgirl with a crush. When she’d stumbled upon Audrey’s obituary months ago, she’d taken it as a sign. Martin was free, too! And the compulsion to find him had grown into a near obsession. Her heartbreak is gigantic, the floodgates breaking open. If she were home, she’d run into the woods behind the house and scream as loudly and as long as she could. She’d kick something hard, maybe hard enough to break a toe. She’d hurl a dish against the wall, throw an entire shelfful of books across the room. But she’s in a hotel. That won’t work. Still, she manages to sob into her pillow a bitter, crestfallen Fuck you, Martin!
Eventually, when she’s pretty certain there are no tears left—at least not for tonight—she pushes up from the bed and goes into the bathroom to wash her face. The image that stares back at her is unfamiliar. Her eyes are swollen, her lips puckered from crying. She’s a mess, a pathetic, brokenhearted disaster. She splashes cold water on her face and pats it dry, staring at the fine lines that she’s quite certain weren’t there earlier tonight. Or had she just missed them? Getting ready for dinner, she’d felt pretty for the first time in months. Now she understands it was all an illusion, a mirage. The urge to change into her pajamas and crawl into bed is overwhelming.
But no, she counsels herself. She won’t do it. Instead, she summons all her strength and channels her inner Ruth Bader Ginsburg, who has become her own personal touchstone whenever Claire experiences a pang of self-pity. Because RBG tackled overt sexism at Harvard Law School, raised a baby while in law school, helped her husband fight testicular cancer while in law school, and on and on and on. Who is she, Claire O’Dell, to feel sorry for herself because of one disappointing evening?
With shaky resolve, she begins to start the process of reapplying mascara to her paper-thin lashes, a dash of blush, a smattering of face powder, a swipe of burgundy across her lips. It’s only ten forty-five, she reasons. Plenty of t
ime to head down to the hotel bar and drown her sorrows in another cocktail or two. Yesterday when she’d stepped off the elevator on the second floor by mistake, the cherry-paneled tavern had caught her eye. The place, lined with shelves of books, had reminded her more of a library than a bar. She’d been tempted to go in, but it was the middle of the afternoon—and drinking by herself midday seemed, well, unseemly. Ha! she thinks now. The joke is on her—she should have marched right in there and started downing whiskey sours straight through till tonight, in which case she would never have had dinner with Marty in the first place.
She brushes out her hair one last time and reexamines herself in the mirror. A little makeup, and she’s almost back to her old self. She could, she thinks, pass for her late fifties, possibly early fifties in good light. On the bed, she plops down and straps on the Kenneth Cole sandals she’d gifted herself earlier today—when she’d been imagining Marty pulling them off later tonight. Now she sees them for what they are. Ridiculously expensive shoes with a too-high heel that she has no right to be wearing.
It reminds her of a summer night when she and Marty had dressed up to go into Boston—their junior year in college—and she’d worn heels so high she could barely maneuver across the cobblestoned streets of the North End. At one point her heel had gotten wedged in between the stones, and Marty had to yank it out. Except when he did, the heel ripped right off. Oh, how they’d laughed! (They were inexpensive sandals, so Claire didn’t mind.) She’d tried hobbling along, one foot up in a heel, the other trailing along, but it was hopeless. Finally Marty ripped the heel off the other one and slipped it into his jacket pocket. For the rest of the evening, Claire traipsed around in her flat, heelless shoes, no one the wiser that a few hours ago she’d been three inches taller.
But what does any of that matter now? It doesn’t. The fact that she’s devoted the last few months to imagining the press of Martin’s lips against hers, of climbing into bed to cradle his warm body, means nothing. For the first time maybe in her entire life, the sting of unrequited love has snuck up on her. And the recalculation of all that she’s been counting on—now up in smoke—demands so much brainpower, is such a steep mathematical curve to reconfigure, that a sense of vertigo practically overwhelms her. How does she go from counting on Martin to fix everything to admitting that she is completely on her own?
She allows herself to consider that maybe Marty’s relationship with this woman, this Cora (what a ridiculous name!), is short-lived. After all, they’ve been dating for only eight months. Eight months! Maybe they haven’t even had sex yet. It’s possible. And maybe in a few short weeks Marty will call to say that he’s had a change of heart and wants Claire back.
But even Claire understands how unlikely this is, that whatever spark there used to be between the two of them has been extinguished. While they sat across from each other at Bricco, she’d sensed something was off. The only time the man’s face had truly lit up was when he spoke of his daughters. Claire had searched his voice for that same radiance when he remembered their time together, but then it dawned on her that he’d already slotted her into another category: a fond memory. Tied to a particular space and time. When they’d both been younger, much different people.
She steps off the elevator, smooths her dress and crosses the foyer to the bar. The dark wood makes it seem even darker in the nighttime. Table or counter seating? she debates. Her eyes slide across the room to see if anyone famous might be lurking in the corners, remembering Marty’s encounter with Jennifer Lopez. Maybe Robert De Niro or Meryl Streep, someone Claire would actually recognize. But there’s no one notable, save for a youngish, attractive man in a sharp blue blazer and khaki pants sitting at the bar. When she plops down one seat over, he glances her way and offers a small smile. It takes her a second to determine where she’s seen him before, but then it comes to her—he’s the same young man who was playing tennis with his girlfriend yesterday morning.
“Oh, hello, there,” she says and orders herself a martini. “I almost didn’t recognize you. You clean up nicely.”
He laughs, says, “Thanks. I think?”
And it’s the beginning of a conversation that, given their disastrous nights thus far, neither of them could have predicted.
* * *
Jason doesn’t know what to make of the woman who sits down next to him, who looks old enough to be his mother. For a second, he worries she might be hitting on him but then realizes she seems in need of a drink as badly as he is. Her eyes are red and puffy underneath the makeup. She’s pretty, like she might have been a catch back in the day. Her ash-blond hair is cut to shoulder-length, and she’s wearing a blue polka-dot summer dress, maybe back from a fancy dinner or the theater. Jason doesn’t feel like striking up a conversation but finds himself in that awkward position of not being able to switch to a table without risking offending her. Plus, she seems vaguely familiar. She surprises him when she says hello, tells him he cleans up nicely.
“So, how was your tennis match?” she asks, which is when it clicks. It’s the lady from the elevator yesterday. From her martini, she plucks out the olive and slides it off the toothpick into her mouth. That she does this in such a matter-of-fact way, without a hint of seduction, intrigues him.
“I got my butt kicked,” he says with a laugh. “Serves me right.”
Her gaze settles on him for a long moment, so long, in fact, that Jason shifts uncomfortably in his seat. He wonders if he’s offended her. But she sips her martini thoughtfully and finally says, “No offense, but I figured that might happen. Your girlfriend—or at least I assumed she was your girlfriend—looked much better prepared than you did.”
“Yeah, that applies to pretty much everything we do. Although, she definitely has a leg up on me in tennis. She almost went pro.”
“Really?” It’s clear that she’s impressed. “Well, good for her. I come from a generation where when the gym teacher told us to run around the track once, we all looked at each other like he was crazy.” Jason laughs. “I’m Claire, by the way,” she says and extends her hand, her slender fingers studded with rings.
“Jason,” he says, taking it. “Nice to meet you.”
“So, I don’t mean to pry...” she begins. “Or, maybe I do.” She smiles gamely. “But where is your girlfriend? Already turn in for the night?”
“Yeah, unfortunately, the sunset cruise we went on turned out to be more like the sunset blues. The water was a little choppy.” He’d been surprised, especially because when they’d set sail the harbor had been exceedingly calm. But halfway into their three-hour excursion, the wind had picked up enough to start rocking the boat to and fro. Gwen and a few other passengers headed into the cabin to rest their heads on a table. When the captain turned the boat around for shore, she’d vomited all over the floor. Which prompted another passenger to get sick. It was, Jason thought, a little like being trapped inside that scene from The Goonies, where one kid after another starts throwing up.
By the time they finally stepped off, Gwen was still pretty wobbly on her feet. “Is it okay if I go back up to the room?” she asked. “I think I should probably lie down.” So he’d helped her up to their suite, tucked her into bed and kissed her on the forehead, trying to ignore the sour smell on her breath. He’s pretty sure there’s still some puke stuck in her hair.
“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that,” Claire says. “I’ve heard those cruises can be rough.”
“Yeah, live and learn. How about you? What brings you here?”
“Hmm. Let’s see,” she says. “I guess you could say I came to the Seafarer for a little vacation. I wanted to get away from the rat race for a few days, and I’ve heard such great things about it. I’m a journalist.” Then she adds, “My husband also passed away nine months ago, and I haven’t gotten out much since then.”
He inhales sharply and reprimands himself. Boy, waded right into that one, didn’t you, buddy? “I’m s
o sorry,” he says. “Nine months isn’t that long ago.”
She tilts her head and smiles faintly. “No, it’s not. But don’t feel sorry for me. I also came here with less-than-pure intentions. Something my own children know nothing about.”
Now things are getting interesting, he thinks. “Well, you can tell me since chances are you’ll never see me again.” When she hesitates, he adds, “No pressure. Just, you know, if you were looking to get it off your chest.”
“I like you Jason...Jason what-did-you-say-your-last-name-was-again?” Her words slur at the edges, and she scoots her glass and herself along with it onto the bar chair directly next to him.
He hadn’t said but now he supplies it. “Wadsworth. Jason Wadsworth.”
“I like that,” she exclaims. “That’s a name with character. Jason Wadsworth. Well, Jason Wadsworth, let me tell you something.” She leans in closer to him, as if she’s about to reveal her deepest, darkest secret. “I came here specifically to look up an old boyfriend of mine.”
He leans back in his chair, surprised.
“I know,” she says, wagging a finger at him. “I know what you’re thinking. That I’m too old to have a boyfriend, right?”
“I didn’t say that.” It’s exactly what he was thinking.
“This was the man I almost married a long, long, looong time ago.” She drains the rest of her martini and orders another. “Get you another?” she asks, and Jason says, “Yes, please.”
“And whatever he’s having,” she calls out to their bartender. “Anyway, we went to high school together and dated all through college. We were so in love. I was sure he was the man I was going to marry. But then, who knows what happened really? I started to get claustrophobic, I guess, thinking that he wanted me to be his wife and nothing else. But I had plans! Plans to become a famous journalist, you know. I was worried about subsuming my identity to a man.” She pauses. “Is that the right word? Subsume? I think so. Anyway, long story short, I married someone else, and so did he. Then his wife died three years ago, and when my husband passed, I thought to myself, Hey, maybe he’s lonely, too. Maybe there’s an old spark we could rekindle.”
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