“Your parents are coming to get you. They’re on their way.” Justine recognized the voice of the officer who had pulled her over on the road earlier. She nodded, not opening her eyes. “You’ll have to fill out some paperwork, but everything will be all right.” Still she said nothing. “Do you want a glass of water?” She ignored this question as she had ignored most of the other remarks he had addressed to her. He waited; she could feel his presence, which was so annoying, even without seeing him.
Eventually he must have gotten tired of standing there, because he left. Good. The less she had to say to him—to anyone in this place—the better. At least he hadn’t asked the female office to search her. If he had, the officer would have discovered the diamond ring—Justine had found it deep in the recesses of the terry robe, where it had slipped through a hole in the pocket and lodged between the lining and the outer layer—and which she still had not managed to find a way to return. So then she would have been branded as a thief in addition to everything else. The fact that she actually was a thief did not make this any less humiliating a prospect.
As soon as she sensed the officer had gone, she opened her eyes. She was seated on a bench in a hallway; at least no one had thought to put her in a jail cell, not once they found out where she was staying and with whom. Apparently Grandma Betsy’s husband—and his big bucks—had some serious influence around here. Well, that was no surprise, was it? Money doesn’t talk, it swears. Bob Dylan said that. Though Justine had to concede that spending time in a jail cell might have had some cachet with her friends when she was recounting the story later on. Not that she had any friends anymore. Not really. And she knew Portia wouldn’t have been impressed. There was no bullshitting Portia, not now, not ever. She would ignore the part about the jail cell entirely and go right to the deep, dark heart of things. What made you go for the car, you idiot? she was likely to say. Don’t you know you could have been maimed or killed, totally taken out in, like, a minute? And if you’re dead, you’re definitely not getting into Yale. Death disqualifies you. Like, immediately.
Of course Justine had a very good reason to have taken the car, even in the rain, even though she was underage. But it was not a reason she wanted to tell anyone—ever. And now it looked like everyone was going to find out, whether she told them or not. Shame seeped through her like an indelible dye. This was reason enough to close her eyes again, so she did.
But here were the images, the ones she wanted to escape, playing over and over in her mind, a repetitive, relentless loop. Everyone turning to look at her as she stood in Angelica’s bedroom and uttered Bobby’s name. That was a truly inspired move. Bobby and Caleb had been having a fight of some kind—she’d heard their raised voices behind the door—and it seemed so easy, so plausible, to direct the blame toward him. They all believed her too. All except Grandma Lenore, who had looked at Justine as if she’d known Justine had taken the ring and that her story about Bobby was a pure fabrication. But whatever Lenore thought or knew, she had not said a word.
Angelica had been the first to leave the room. Then Grandma Betsy had consulted her watch—again. Everyone was moving toward the door, and Justine had gone right along with them. The two maids were practically crying with relief; clearly they had thought the blame for the lost ring was about to be pinned on one of them. Justine was glad to have helped them out, even if that had not been her exact intention.
Then she heard her great-grandmother calling her name; now, that was one conversation she had not wanted to have. Ignoring the summons, she fled down the stairs and into the media room, where she changed out of her bathing suit and waited for a little while. Then she quietly crept up again. There was no sign of Grandma Lenore or Grandma Betsy. Good. Maybe she could finally put the ring back; Angelica would find it later on. And then, as if she had summoned him, there was Ohad. He smiled at her; his teeth were a shining flash of white in his dark face.
“Hi,” she had said, her panic mounting. She’d better not fuck things up this time. She had to get those pictures; she had to. The ceremony was soon, and she was not going to get another chance.
“I’ll be going back to the hotel soon to get my mother,” he said. “Do you want to come along for the ride?”
“Sure,” she said, surprised by how easy he had just made her task. Alone in a car together, she thought. Perfect. She discreetly patted her phone, which was now tucked safely in the pocket of her shorts. They started down the hall toward the stairs.
“So, how old did you say you were?” he had asked.
“Almost sixteen,” Justine said. “My birthday is coming up soon.”
“You’ll have to meet my nephew Gidon,” Ohad said. He stopped and knelt to tie the laces on one of his sneakers. “He’s almost eighteen. I think you’ll like him. You can meet him when we drive over.” He pulled up on the shoelace, and it snapped. “Damn,” he said, straightening up.
“Almost eighteen,” said Justine. “Is he done with high school, then?”
Ohad shook his head. “Not quite. In September he’ll start his last year.” Somehow they had not resumed walking again but remained where they were.
“And then he’ll go into the army?” Justine asked. The word was rank, offensive in her mouth.
“Every eighteen-year-old in Israel goes into the army,” Ohad replied. He smiled, but the smile did not include his eyes. His eyes looked sober, even grave.
“Why?” she blurted out. “Why does everyone go? What if instead everyone said, No, we won’t; you can’t make us? Swords into ploughshares and all that.”
“Then our enemies would drive us into the sea,” Ohad said calmly. “And the tiny, besieged state of Israel would cease to exist.”
“Maybe that wouldn’t be such a bad thing,” Justine said. “Maybe it would be better.”
“Not for us.”
“Yes, for you too. Because what’s happening in Israel now is so wrong, so evil, it’s turned all of you evil. You’ve become the oppressors. You’re as bad as any terrorist blowing up a bus or sending rockets into a settlement. Maybe even worse because you’re so self-righteous.”
“That’s what you think?” Ohad had said. “That I’m evil? Self-righteous?” He pressed his fingers to the back of his neck as if he were rubbing a sore spot. “I’m sorry you feel that way,” he added. “Because it isn’t true.” He continued to rub. “What my country is doing is painful to me. Deeply painful. But I love it just the same. Love it and am prepared to defend it.”
The motion of his hand, the fingers gently kneading the flesh triggered something in Justine. It had been building for the past couple of hours, she knew, but the clamor of it—no, the roar—was unmistakable now. It grew louder and louder in her head so that she could no longer think straight. The confused tangle of her emotions, the way Ohad’s fingers were rubbing, palpating, kneading. That unfamiliar smell of his: sharp, tangy even. She felt giddy, crazed. Like she was on something, though in fact she was not. It was like being overtaken, overpowered by the tumult inside of her. Needing some form of release, she abruptly thrust herself against Ohad’s chest, tilting her face up and pressing his lips with her own.
So many sensations. The sudden shock of contact with his body. His lips—full but taut, and not soft. The aching in her boobs. Her nipples two hot points of light beaming into his chest. Her mouth opened involuntarily, and her tongue tried to find his. But Ohad did not open his mouth, did not return her embrace. Still she couldn’t stop. The phone, she thought feebly. I need to take a picture with the phone.
“Hey,” Ohad had said, breaking the spell. “Easy now.” He stepped back and grasped her upper arms. Justine could not look at him; his face would scorch her. She stood there in his grip, breathing hard and staring at the thick pile of the carpeting until her vision blurred. Finally she forced herself to look up.
“You okay?” Ohad looked neither angry nor alarmed. If she had been the wild thing, he was all calm, stasis, and control. He acted as if it were nothing to hav
e a fifteen-year-old girl grab him and try to thrust her tongue into his mouth; no big deal, his look seemed to say.
“I’m fine,” she croaked. And then she took off, not toward the stairs but in the other direction. The first door she opened was the door to her mother’s room. Luckily Gretchen was not in it, but the keys to the car were tossed casually on a nightstand, and Justine grabbed them and went back out into the hallway. Ohad was gone—yes!—so she could make her escape: down the stairs, streaking through the house, and into the garage.
It was still pouring, but who the fuck cared about that now? Her hand trembled as she tried one car and then another; the keys started the third car like a charm, and she was behind the wheel in seconds, revving up the engine and ready to go. Ennis had taught both her and Portia the rudiments of driving already; even without a permit, she could do this. She knew she could.
She’d eased the car awkwardly out of the garage and down the driveway, fumbling until she found the windshield wipers. No one even noticed. Then she was miraculously on the road, creeping along, trying to keep her hands steady as the rain sluiced down the windshield and made seeing, much less driving, a nearly impossible task.
Still she kept at it, driving away from the big, ugly house, the pool, the locus (oh, she was good, really good, with her SAT vocab, wasn’t she?) of her unending humiliation. Fuck the wedding, fuck Angelica, fuck Ohad—oh God, how she had wanted that very thing! But she had to stop thinking of that now. There were other things to focus on. She’d find the train station, leave the car parked somewhere, and head back to Brooklyn. She had a key to the house; she could let herself in. She would find comfort in her room, her books, her bed, and in their ancient cat, Rani, who was being fed by a neighbor this weekend. Rani! How Justine longed to bury her face in the tabby’s soft fur, gaze into her round green eyes. She knew there would be no judgment in them. No judgment, no expectation, and no blame.
Almost there, she told herself, hands still trembling but remaining on the wheel. She forced herself to maintain her grip despite the tremors. Almost there. And then the terrifying blare of the siren, the cop car alongside her, and the mortifying exchange with the pair of officers who picked her up and brought her here to the station on Stepping Stone Lane.
What a stupid name anyway. It didn’t sound real at all; it sounded made-up, like something in a lame kids’ story. Maybe it was; maybe this was all made-up, a crazy, convoluted dream she was having. Maybe she’d wake up, and this day would start anew: she’d find herself back in the vast media room at her Grandma Betsy’s, glaring at the monster-sized electronic equipment or twitching with impatience as Portia snored.
But then the officer came back into the room with a step so silent that it took her by surprise. This time she couldn’t close her eyes and blot him out; he’d already seen her looking at him, and it was too late to pretend she hadn’t. “Your parents are here,” he said. Justine blinked, momentarily crushed by the knowledge that this was no dream, and that there was no do-over button in the real life—her real life—that was unspooling right now, this minute, as she sat here and waited for whatever was coming next.
Eighteen
By the time Lincoln had reached the second tent, he’d set the umbrella down. It was useless anyway, and the effort of hanging on to it in the wind was more trouble than it was worth. He pulled up the hood on the slicker over the back of his head. The tent seemed firmly set in place, but Lincoln still held out hope that the rain would stop. Angelica should not have to get married in a downpour.
He kept walking, picking up his pace when he neared the bar. He didn’t want to be tempted again even for a minute. That had been a close call. Too close for comfort. And even though at the time he’d been pissed as hell that Gretchen’s appearance had stopped him, right now he was extremely grateful that she had. Because for him there was no such thing as one drink. Never had been, never would be. No, if he’d let himself slip, one drink would have been two, and two, three; before he knew it, he’d be on a pull-out-all-the-stops bender. He cringed, imagining the scene he might have made: insulting Donny boy, growing weepy over the bride, lamenting his loss of Betsy, punching Bobby, pow, right in the kisser—on and on. Lincoln knew he’d been a loud, messy, exuberant drunk, and no doubt he would be one still. Angelica would have been so disappointed, so hurt, and Gretchen—finger-wagging, naysaying Gretchen—had saved him from the whole sorry mess of it.
He was in such a hurry that he didn’t notice there was someone else on the path until they had nearly collided. “Ohad,” he said, surprised. “What are you doing here?” Lincoln had met his future son-in-law only once, a couple of years ago, before he and Angelica had become engaged. They had flown out to LA for a quick visit, staying in a garden cottage at the Chateau Marmont and sparing Lincoln the embarrassment of hosting them at his modest studio near MacArthur Park. He’d liked the guy, but he was also a little intimidated by him; Ohad was so fucking macho, it hurt. It wasn’t just the looks; it was the whole damn package.
“I was looking for Justine,” Ohad said now. He wore a navy Windbreaker, and droplets of water shone on his black hair. No hood for him.
“They’ve found her already; Gretchen and Ennis went to get her at the police station.”
“Police station?” Ohad looked alarmed. “What happened?”
“She took one of Betsy’s cars; the police picked her up a few miles from the house.”
“Oh,” said Ohad. “I didn’t know.” A few drops of water slid down his face, and he quickly brushed them away.
“How would you?” Lincoln said. “You weren’t there when Don got the call.” Then he added, “Why were you looking for her anyway?”
“It’s complicated. Something happened between us,” Ohad said. When he saw Lincoln’s skeptical expression, he added, “I can’t say what it was. Not right now, anyway.”
Lincoln said nothing. He didn’t like the sound of that. What the hell could have happened? He hadn’t put the moves on her, had he? The thought made Lincoln feel sick. And then murderous.
“I think Justine would rather I didn’t broadcast it,” Ohad said gently. He looked at Lincoln engulfed by the yellow slicker. “What are you doing out here, anyway? The wedding’s going to start soon.”
“I’m looking for Lenore,” Lincoln said. He didn’t know what to think about Ohad and Justine, but he couldn’t focus on it now. As Ohad had pointed out, the wedding would be starting very soon. And Lincoln had to find Lenore before it did.
“I’ll tell Angelica,” Ohad said. Lincoln watched as his about-to-be son-in-law continued walking toward the house. Gretchen and Ennis should have gotten to the police station by now; he hoped they could sort things out quickly. He decided he wouldn’t say anything about his exchange with Ohad—not yet. First he wanted to see Justine for himself. Talk to her. Then he could decide what to say and do.
Lincoln kept going, passing a privet hedge and then coming to a stand of tall pines. Could Lenore be out here somewhere? He had a hunch she was. No particular reason why. Just a hunch. But a hunch was better than nothing. He looked right and he looked left. Nothing jumped out at him. He was a lefty, so he’d try going left first. See where that took him.
As he walked, he tried to be methodical in his search, looking in both directions as well as up and down. He called her name at regular intervals and then stopped to listen for a possible reply. He’d been walking for about fifteen minutes when the thought came to him that he’d been wrong; maybe he should turn around and go in the other direction after all. His hunch had not panned out. But then a flash of color snagged his attention; he could see something a slight distance off in the grass.
He hurried over to inspect. It turned out to be a scrap of brilliant, flame-colored material. The finished edges and perfect square suggested it was not a scrap but a scarf. Just the sort of scarf that Lenore, with her crazy colors, her flounces and ruffles and bows, might have worn—and dropped—on her walk. Wet and muddy as it was, he stuffed i
t into his pocket and picked up his pace. “Lenore!” he yelled into the wind. “Lenore, are you there?” Nothing. Still Lincoln kept going, calling, calling, calling until his voice was hoarse. His tooth continued to hurt, the pain a steady counterpoint to everything else. She was out here, damn it. He could feel it. He just had to zero in on where.
“Lenore!” he fairly shrieked. “Lenore!” And, thank the living God, this time there was a reply. He couldn’t quite make it out, but he began to trot in the direction of the sound. The impact of his steps intensified the throbbing of the tooth; with each footfall, pain drove through his head with a fresh, lacerating twist. “Lenore, I’m coming!” he called. “Where are you?”
“Over here,” the voice called faintly. “I’m in the bushes.” He kept going in the direction of the sound. Trees, grass, sand, mud, and, everywhere he looked, rain. But over there, wasn’t that a clump of bushes? He was wheezing with exertion and anxiety when he found her, a crumpled little heap of person, sopping wet and hunkered down under the meager protection offered by the foliage.
“Lincoln!” she cried weakly.
“Are you all right?” He thought she looked strange and then realized it was her hair, which hung straight down, plastered to the sides of her head as if with glue. The familiar poofs and waves had given her volume; without them she seemed to have shrunk several inches.
Lenore nodded. “I’m all right. I fell and hurt my ankle. But I don’t think it’s serious, just a sprain.” She gestured to her foot, perched on a rock. “What time is it?”
He checked his watch. “A little after five.”
“Thank God! I haven’t missed the wedding.”
“No,” he said, and he smiled. “You haven’t missed a thing.” Then he looked at her knees. “You’re bleeding. We should get those scrapes cleaned up. Can you walk?”
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