“I’m not so sure about that.”
“None I’d like to show you then. You’ll meet him in the flesh; don’t worry about that. Hey, when did you want to go to the beach house?”
“Are you changing the subject?”
“Yes, I am.”
“Can I go there this week?”
“Sure.”
“Can I go there tomorrow?”
“Of course you can.”
We discuss the logistics of getting me the key.
“The door to the garage doesn’t work properly.” There’s a trick, apparently. You have to press the button once and then press it again.
“Should I be writing this down?”
I’m about to reach for my purse when I feel a presence beside me, like a shift in the air. Then I hear his voice.
“Hello, Emma Fern.”
I look up to see Sam’s face, smiling, but there’s an edge to his features. I can’t quite put my finger on it.
“Well, well, what are you doing here?” I say.
“Same as you I suspect,” he says, smiling. “This is quite a place, isn’t it?” He turns to Frankie and holds out his hand. “Sam Huntington,” he says, friendly, natural.
“Frankie Badosa,” Frankie says, half standing.
“Ah, the publisher.” There’s something in Sam’s tone that annoys me. Why would he say that anyway?
“The one and only,” I hasten to add.
“Have we met before?” Frankie asks, and my stomach lurches. That would not be good, if it turned out Frankie knows Sam, and his chosen profession.
“Sam was at Nick’s launch the other night. Maybe you met him there?” I say quickly.
“Oh, sorry if I met you and I’m being vague, it was one of those nights,” Frankie says, charmingly.
“Of course, congratulations, it was a great evening.” Frankie nods in acknowledgment. Then Sam turns to me: “I’ve left messages over the last two days. Everything all right? You left so quickly after the other night.”
Okay, right. This is getting a little out of control.
“I’ve been busy, but I’ll call you soon.” I’m being dismissive, but this situation is making me nervous. I want Sam to leave.
“Yes, please do, it would be good to catch up.” He winks at me, and I smile, wondering whether he’s playing some kind of game. Why does Sam seem to pop up wherever I go? Is it really as coincidental as he claims?
I watch him leave us to join a man sitting at a corner table.
“Who was that?” Frankie asks.
I shake my head. “Nobody. A ghost.”
30
“I’m going away for a while,” I say, nonchalantly.
Sam is sitting a little away from me on the couch in his office. I think he wants to come closer; I can feel it. He reached out to put his hand on my knee, but I pretended not to see and moved a little farther at the same time.
“Oh? Where?”
I study my nails. “I just need some time to myself, time to think.”
“Okay,” he says slowly. “Should I be worried?”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m out of practice, so I may be wrong, but I get this awful feeling you’re letting me down gently.”
I turn to look at him. There’s a small frown of disappointment creeping up between his eyes.
“Letting you down about what?”
“About our relationship.”
“Do we have a relationship?”
“Don’t we?”
A frolic on the couch and now we have a relationship?
“Did you really happen to run into me? At the restaurant earlier?” I ask.
He rolls his eyes. “For Christ’s sake! I was having lunch. What else would I be doing there?”
I shake my head. “It’s just a bit of a coincidence, don’t you think? Especially after Nick’s book launch.” I pick at the lint on my cuff.
“What are you saying? That I’m following you? That I’m some kind of . . . creep?”
“No. Of course I don’t think that.”
“I went there for lunch. Just as you did. That’s what people do in restaurants. We just happened to be there at the same time.” He sighs. “I probably shouldn’t say this, but after I saw you, I thought it was some kind of sign.”
“What kind of sign?”
He shrugs. “That we have a connection.”
I burst out laughing. He looks at me sharply, but then a smile spreads across his face.
“Stupid, I know,” he says.
“No, it’s sweet. Really.”
“You haven’t answered my question.”
“We have a professional relationship, Sam. Let’s leave it like that for now, please. Then after we finish the work—the novel—we can see where we want to go. In our personal lives.”
He looks down, and this time I’m the one reaching out to him. I lay my hand on top of his.
“I can’t believe you just said that,” he says.
“Excuse me?” Slowly, I pull my hand away.
“Is it because of the other night? With Lisa and Akil?”
I look into his worried face. “Partly. I think we’re going too fast and your friends are not ready.” I smile, because it’s funny, really. But he doesn’t. “Tell me, Sam, when did you and Barbara divorce? How long ago?”
“What does that have to do with anything?”
“Just tell me.”
He doesn’t look at me now. “We’re not divorced yet. But I’m going to get an attorney and get things in motion. Soon, real soon.”
“I see. When did you separate, then? You are separated, aren’t you?”
“Yes, of course we’re separated! What do you think I am?”
He stands up abruptly. Now he’s angry.
“We separated late last year. And anyway, who are you to talk? How long have you been single, Mrs. Fern?”
He stops pacing. He’s looking at me, triumphant; an unattractive smirk on his lips.
Oh God! I’ve gotten myself into a difficult situation. I was in some kind of hyper-emotional state. But this is the man who is writing my book, and I just can’t afford to throw it all away and start again.
“Sit down,” I say, patting the couch next to me.
He doesn’t move. He crosses his arms and says, “Are you going back to him?”
My head jerks in surprise. “I’m sorry?”
He leans forward. “Are you going back to your husband? Is that why you’re telling me you’re going away?”
I don’t know whether to laugh or cry. I shake my head, disbelief and disappointment washing through me.
“Don’t do this. Please.”
“Don’t do what?” he asks.
“Act like a jerk. Sit down.”
He relents then. He drops his arms to his sides and it’s as if his whole body deflates. He sits down heavily on the couch next to me, our thighs touching. I take his hand in mine.
“I got a sense, the other night with Lisa and Akil, that your relationship with Barbara was still fresh. That it was too early for you to bring someone new into your personal life like that. Your close friends are not ready. Why did you, Sam?”
“Why did I bring you?”
“Yes. Why are we even doing this?”
“Hey, you’re Emma Fern. It’s not every day I get to date someone like you.” He turns to me and gives me a crooked smile.
My heart sinks then.
“I’m not going away for long; maybe a week,” I say. “I need to think about my future.”
As soon as I say it, I know what is coming.
“Am I a part of that future?”
“We’ll see.” And seeing his features morph into sadness I add, “I hope so.” I smile, caress his hand. “There are things I need to take care of, but I’ll call when I get back. We can talk about it then.”
“When you get back? Why? Can’t we talk before then?” He’s almost whining. I stop my jaw from clenching.
I smile. �
�I won’t be away long, I promise. Will you keep working without me for a while?”
“If I must,” he says, but he’s smiling as he pulls me against his chest. We sit like this a little longer, silent, intimate, and it should be nice and comforting, but yet all I can think is, I’ve made a mistake.
When I leave, he kisses me, hard on my lips, his teeth knocking against mine. I let the kiss turn passionate, and when we part he puts his cheek against my own and whispers, “I love you.”
He hasn’t noticed that I didn’t say where I was going.
The beach house is in Port Jefferson, a little bay on the North Shore of Long Island. I’ve been here once before, when Frankie first bought it and he threw a party: a Great Gatsby–themed party that went on and on until the small hours, and we all fell asleep on couches and spare beds, and nursed a hangover for days after.
I set my bags down near the door and put the key on a small table nearby. I stand and look around.
It’s larger than I remember. The front door opens directly into the living room, a happy room with white walls and large colorful rugs set haphazardly over a honey-colored wooden floor.
There are two large pale couches at right angles to each other; the type that are deep and soft, and covered in cushions, and it’s all I can do not to drop myself on one of them. Everything is either white, pale wood, or colorful pastels. It’s the ultimate beach house of my dreams.
On the opposite wall are large French doors that frame the harbor. I open them and step outside onto the deck. There’s a round glass table with a patio umbrella and four chairs. Through the trees I look at the boats that float gently around the marina.
I did wonder how it would make me feel to be here; whether I’d be comfortable with the memory it’s bound to evoke. And the answer is, absolutely fine. Different marina, different viewpoint. I love it here.
I’m in heaven. I can go forth with my plan from here, then take some time out and make decisions about the future. I feel an incredible feeling of lightness come over me.
I should take the food I bought and store it in the kitchen. I remember this kitchen. Kitchens are my favorite rooms in a house and this one speaks to me. It has the same pale wooden floors, and a marble-top island in the center with white wooden cupboards below it, which match the other cabinets and the high stools. It’s not very big, but it has the most wonderful feel. I fill the bowl with the fruit I bought, and store the perishables in the refrigerator. Then I pour myself a glass of white wine, which is not quite as chilled as I’d like, but fine for now, and I return to the deck and watch the light in the sky change colors.
My cell phone rings. Right on cue.
Poor Carol. She really wants that phone badly. She does her best to appear relaxed—nonchalant even—but there’s a breathlessness to her voice when I assure her that yes, I have the phone with me.
“You do?”
“Of course, what did you think?” I reply. “I’m a woman of my word.” Unlike some people.
“Okay, good. So where can we meet?”
“Did you find my cell phone?” I ask. “Do you have it?”
“Yes, I found it.”
“That’s music to my ears.” I’m so happy, I could almost whistle a merry tune.
“So where should I meet you?”
“Right. Well, I’ve moved out of the apartment. I’m staying on Long Island, maybe not too far from you.”
“Where on Long Island?”
I notice she doesn’t tell me where she’s staying herself, but frankly who cares? I don’t need to know. Not anymore.
“Port Jefferson.”
“Okay, it’s not next door, but it’s fine. There’s a place on East Broadway I know. Can you meet me there?”
I pretend to agree, but then I hesitate. I say, “Do you mind coming here instead? I still have so much to unpack. I’d rather stay and keep going.”
“You’re on your own?”
“I certainly am. The place is tucked away. No one has to see you come or go. It’s very discreet. It’s almost dark, anyway.”
“Okay, that’s probably better. Where are you?”
I reel off the address. My mouth feels dry, partly from excitement, partly from nerves. Everything is going according to plan.
“I haven’t been in touch with the police yet,” Carol says. “I didn’t want to have that loose end with the phone. But I’ll go and see them right away after I pick it up.”
Of course you will, I bet you can’t wait. But there’s an edge to her voice, a slight rise in pitch. I wonder if Jim is with her, whispering to her. She needs to get that phone back before the police interview me. It would be awkward if I decided to give it to them.
“They called me yesterday,” I lie. “I guess Terry must have talked to them.”
It serves no purpose for me to say that. The police haven’t been in touch yet, thank God. But if it makes her sweat a little, then why not?
I can hear a sharp intake of breath. “Oh really?” she says. “They haven’t been in touch with me.”
“Well no, Carol, why would they? Jim is—was—married to me, I’m still his next of kin.” I’m glad she can’t see me because it’s too hard not to grin.
“Oh, yes, of course,” she says.
Carol is the one who called Terry and made sure he was sufficiently concerned. But she hadn’t realized her phone was missing at that point. She must be kicking herself now. No doubt she has her story ready, and she’d like to share it with the police before I do.
“But you haven’t seen them yet?” she asks.
“No, not yet. They asked me if I knew where Jim was. I did as we discussed. I stuck to the script. They want me to come over to the precinct tomorrow morning. They said I can file a missing person report if no one has heard from him.”
“What if they come tonight?”
“Here? No. They won’t come tonight. I told you, I’m expected at eight thirty a.m. tomorrow at the station. They don’t know where I am anyway. I haven’t told them about this place.”
“Okay, good. I’ll come over now.”
She says it will take her twenty minutes to get here, and I tell her that it’s fine by me. But then, when I end the call, it comes over me like a wave. The doubt. Am I really going to pull this off?
The first thing I need to do is check the gun. I didn’t ask Frankie if he still kept it in the house, because I didn’t know how to bring it up. Frankie is a card-carrying member of the NRA, and that’s a topic we have learned, over time, to rarely bring up between us. That’s what makes us the best of friends, I’ve realized. You can have strong, divergent opinions on things, but it takes nothing away from how much you love each other.
And today, I love Frankie even more for being a gun owner, because I need one, and I wouldn’t know the first thing about sourcing a gun. I don’t exactly know how to fire one either. I have never handled a gun in my life, but as for everything I needed to learn, I went to the School of Google and I looked it up. I’m pretty sure it will be fine.
I know where the gun is. Frankie told me a while back—I don’t remember the occasion. I walk to the master bedroom and open the closet. I bend down and pull out a couple of small boxes, and for a moment I think I’ve made a mistake. But then I find it. In a black plastic carrying case, right at the back.
I am relieved to see that it’s still there, in its hiding place.
It’s a small gun, a Glock, and I pry it out of the foam lining and take a closer look, making sure it’s loaded. I’ll have to carry it in my pocket. It’s not ideal, but I don’t know yet when I’ll need it. I just know that I will.
I go through the house and pull all the drapes shut. I make sure everything else I need is in place. I sit down, and then I get up again and walk over to each window, checking that each one is locked, even though I just did them all five minutes ago. I keep feeling for the gun in my pocket, and every now and then I pull it out and carefully tug at the cartridge to check that it’s in place. I�
�m doing that for umpteenth time and almost drop it when the doorbell rings.
31
“This is nice,” Carol says when I open the door, stepping in and looking around.
“Yes, I like it.” I walk in front of her, leading her to the living room. “What’s your place like? You have a view?”
She shrugs. She doesn’t want me to know where she’s staying, other than what she told me already. Bellmore, from memory. I want to tell her that I couldn’t care less, I’m just making conversation, but I don’t. We have work to do.
She takes her hand out of her jacket pocket and holds it out, palm up. “Can I have the phone?”
“Sure, come and sit down.”
I’ve poured us each a glass of chilled champagne, a small tribute to that other night a few weeks ago when Jim similarly invited me to partake. Also, personally, I think it’s always difficult to refuse a glass of champagne.
The glasses are waiting for us obediently on the large coffee table, next to the bottle of Bollinger in its silver ice bucket. I indicate the couch for her to sit down.
“I don’t have the time to stay,” she says. “If I could get the phone from you, then I’ll be on my way.”
Is Jim waiting for her out there? If he is, it’s fine with me. The sooner we get this over with, the better.
“Come on, you’ll be fine, Carol. Just a toast. Please. To a happy, Jim-free life ahead.”
Reluctantly, she sits down and reaches across to take the glass I hand her. I don’t sit yet.
“Cheers,” I say, “to the future.”
“Cheers.” She takes a sip.
“I’ll get your phone for you,” I say, and start to walk away, but then I stop, as if I just thought of something, and I turn back to her and hold out my hand. She pulls my phone out of her jacket pocket and I close my fingers around it.
“Thank you,” I say, without giving a hint that, to me, this phone is as precious as if it were a gold bar. As soon as I can, I will delete every last trace of me from that phone, starting with every text Beatrice and I exchanged. Then I’ll destroy it. Maybe I’ll try putting it in the microwave. That can’t be good for it.
“Can I have mine?”
“I’ll get it. Relax, Carol.”
After He Killed Me Page 21