“You too.” She did not get near enough for a kiss or even a hug, but waited, tensed, until she heard the front door of the house open and then close. Then Miranda walked into Lily’s room and looked at the sleeping baby. Lily lay on her back, arms and legs spread wide, chest rising and falling peacefully. She needed adults who could—and would—take care of her. Not a pair of hormonally addled, overgrown teenagers succumbing to their lust. Still she stood there, letting herself mourn for the moment that she had pushed rudely away instead of grabbing with both hands. For the second time that night, the tears welled up in her eyes—and then spilled.
TWENTY-THREE
Main Street in Southampton was hopping. Jared edged his way through the bustle, occasionally stopping to say hello to a client, an acquaintance, or an old school friend. Look—there was a woman he and Carrie had partied with way back when; he turned his face, hoping she wouldn’t see him. He didn’t want to be reminded of those crazy-ass nights and didn’t want her to ask, What ever happened to . . . ? and have to spill the whole sorry tale. Or be forced to lie. God, sometimes this town was just too damn small.
He took a left and headed through the doors of Tutto il Giorno, one of his favorite hangouts. The manager remembered him, and even though he didn’t have a reservation, she found him a decent table not too near the kitchen. He hadn’t eaten much today and now he was starved. A menu appeared quickly, along with someone to take his drink order—he asked for a gin and tonic—and a basket of bread. He tore off a hunk and slathered it in butter and when it was gone, he tore off another.
The scene out here, especially on Labor Day weekend, was intense. Jared could do without the hordes, but he did like the stargazing. He saw Alec Baldwin holding court at one table, and was that Martha Stewart, looking seriously uptight, at another? He also spotted the usual assortment of anonymous stunners: impossibly young, impossibly beautiful models, pretty boys, and hangers-on.
Jared looked away and down at the menu; everything here was good, and he gave his order—the burrata, rigatoni, and braised asparagus—to the waiter without hesitating. Then he scanned the room again. Isabel had texted him to say that she and Brandon might be here for dinner, and though he had not spotted them when he walked in, he could see them now, wedged into a table for six with two couples he didn’t recognize. He didn’t want Brandon to see him, but he relished the idea of texting Isabel about their upcoming tryst with her husband sitting right by her side.
Can’t wait 4 tomorrow. What time is ur massage?
Her response was a bummer:
Road block. Brandon is going w/me. He arranged 4 a couples massage. Had to lie like mad; said that the original reservation was “lost.”
He tapped back, What 2 do?
Hang on. Will find a way.
He put the phone down. Damn. He’d gone through a lot of trouble—and expense—to arrange this weekend, and so far, it was not going well. Jared looked up as the waiter set down the creamy ball of the burrata, shining with oil and flecked with basil. He took a bite and was mollified—delicious. Then he flashed to Miranda. What a seriously stupid-ass move on his part. Last night, the idea of sleeping with her had seemed exciting, different, the crossing of some forbidden and tantalizing line. Today it seemed like nothing but trouble. He was relieved that she had pushed him away. At least one of them had been thinking clearly. He lifted his glass in a silent toast to her.
The burrata, once consumed, paved the way for the rigatoni with the spicy sausage and the crisp stalks of asparagus. Jared ate until he was sated and washed the meal down with a very good red wine. Across the room, Isabel threw back her head and laughed; Brandon put an arm casually around her shoulders and she leaned easily into the embrace. Transfixed, Jared watched while Brandon’s hand moved lightly along Isabel’s spine, touching the same delicate bones that he himself had touched.
Suddenly, his life seemed disgusting to him: sordid, small, pathetic. Here he was, alone in a sea of wealthy, white faces, congratulating himself for being the black dude slipping it to the wife of a white guy. But Brandon, cuckold that he was (and that was a good word, plucked from a Shakespeare seminar a hundred years ago, in college), was still Isabel’s husband. He had a place, a claim, and a role. Whereas Jared had just about nothing. Just then, his phone pinged: a text from Isabel. Meet me by the ladies’ room door. Now.
He didn’t have to be asked again. She was already there by the time he made his way to the back of the crowded restaurant, and to his surprise, she yanked him inside the bathroom—it was a single, not multiple stalls—and shot the bolt home.
“You’re nuts,” he said, but he was excited. He liked his women a little nuts.
Instead of answering, she reached up and kissed him fiercely. He could taste the wine on her breath, and the feel of her perfect, braless breasts against his chest made him instantly hard. Why had he thought his life was pathetic? His life was great. She was so hot; he was hot. “When can you come over?” he said when she finally moved away.
“Late tomorrow afternoon,” she said. “I’ll tell him I’m meeting a girlfriend for a drink. He’ll be so blissed out from the massage, he’ll just want to go home and sleep.”
“Okay,” he said, nuzzling her tanned neck with its skein of thin, gold chains. “I’ll be waiting.”
The next morning, Jared peered into the nearly empty fridge. Clearly Tripp was no more interested in cooking than he was: Jared found an open bottle of white, jars that contained the desiccated remains of several imported mustards, and in the crisper, a dish of blueberries covered in so much white mold they looked like they’d been left out in the snow. He tossed them and headed over to the Golden Pear for breakfast; it was early, so he was not likely to run into anyone he knew. Wrong.
As soon as he sat down, Athena sailed into the restaurant with Gabe at her side. Of course he had to invite them to join him, and the solo meal he’d anticipated, with the paper, his phone, and fantasies of Isabel, was spoiled.
“I didn’t know you’d be out here.” Athena settled herself in a chair and began checking out the menu. Gabe sat next to her, and after clasping Jared’s hand in a hearty shake, his fingers sought Athena’s and remained entwined with them.
“It was kind of last minute. I’m staying at my friend Tripp’s; he’s got a three bedroom that was just sitting empty.” He looked at the menu too; he already knew what he wanted, but it was better than meeting her eyes. “And how come you’re over in these parts? Isn’t there a Golden Pear in Sag Harbor?”
“There is, but we like this one better.” She gave Gabe’s fingers a playful squeeze and he squeezed back. Clearly they were enjoying some kind of inside joke that he was not privy to.
Jared said nothing but continued to study the menu. Maybe he’d forgo the eggs and opt for oatmeal instead. Or maybe he’d just skip eating here altogether; he’d kind of lost his appetite. But Athena was still his boss and he didn’t want to seem rude, so when the waitress came, he ordered the eggs; fortunately, the food came quickly.
“Where’s Lily?” Athena asked between mouthfuls of French toast.
“Back in Brooklyn with Miranda Berenzweig.” Jared remained hunkered over his eggs.
“Really? Why didn’t you bring her out here with you?”
“I just wanted to relax and get away from everything.” A stupid reply; the last two weeks in the office had been slow as shit and she knew it.
“Didn’t you say the place has three bedrooms? You could have brought Lily and Miranda.”
“Bring Miranda? Why would I do that? It’s not like I’m dating her or anything.” There was no way Athena could have known about the other night with Miranda, but he was feeling a little paranoid.
“No one said you were.” Gabe buttered his bagel. “Athena was just making conversation.”
Jared took a breath and then another. Don’t get riled, he chided himself. Don’t. “Yeah, I guess
I could have done that. But I wasn’t sure what my plans were, and honestly, I needed some time alone.”
“Being a single dad isn’t easy,” said Athena.
“No, it isn’t,” he said gratefully. “It’s been really tough, in fact.”
“Let us know if we can help,” said Gabe. “We could babysit.” He turned to Athena. “It would be fun, right?”
“It sure would.” Athena polished off the last bit of French toast on her plate and then set down the fork; she always had been a fast eater.
“I may take you up on that.” Jared looked around for the waitress, and when she appeared with the check, he took it before Athena or Gabe had a chance. “My treat,” he insisted when Gabe suggested they split it. He had to leave them on a good note, a high note, and this seemed the easiest way.
After he’d begged off going to the beach and said good-bye to Athena and Gabe, Jared went back to Tripp’s. The house was spacious enough to accommodate Lily and Miranda, but he was not having that; no way. Besides, the whole point of this visit was to hook up with Isabel. He checked his watch. It was only ten thirty; the day stretched long and lonely ahead of him.
But hey, that was no way to feel. Even if he wasn’t keen on heading into town or the beach, there was plenty he could do here. Laps in the pool for instance. An hour with a tautly written thriller Tripp had left in one of the guestrooms and another on HuffPost.
Around noon, he picked up a sandwich in town and brought it back to the house so he could eat by the pool. It was nice out here—flagstone patio, red flowers in clay pots, green canvas umbrella shading the table. Tripp was in real estate too, though on the commercial end of things. He must be doing well to support this house. Jared had to wonder why he wasn’t here this weekend; he was usually a fixture on the scene.
After he’d eaten, Jared had a nap, took a shower, and got dressed. He was about to pour himself a drink—Tripp kept the bar well stocked—when he heard the sound of a car pulling up outside. He walked away from the sound, into the kitchen. After a minute or so, there was a knock at the back door. “Well, hello.” He pulled her inside and into his embrace.
“Hi, hi, hi,” she said, kissing him, kicking off her very high-heeled sandals and running her hands through her hair—all at the same time. “I can’t tell you what I had to do to get here.”
“Brandon boy didn’t want a postmassage snooze?” His hands roamed her body, encased in tight white jeans and a formfitting white top that had red stripes running across it.
“Oh, he wanted to go to bed all right—with me!” She stepped away from him and yanked the shirt off, tossing it to floor; it was almost immediately joined by her jeans. Underneath, she was stunningly, gorgeously naked. “I managed to put him off, but I don’t have a lot of time.”
“You mean after you leave me, you’re going to screw him?” Jared was not sure if this thought excited or repelled him.
“When I’m with him, I might as well be asleep. That’s how much I care about it.” She was hurriedly unbuttoning his shirt, his shorts.
“And with me?” He was fishing, but he wanted to hear her say it.
“With you,” she breathed close to his face, “I’m one thousand percent awake. Awake and alive.”
After that, they stopped talking and got to it: fast, furious, fantastic. When they were done, he collapsed alongside her, breathing hard. Her hair had gotten sweaty and was sticking in places to the sides of her face.
“You want a shower? Or a swim?” That pool was mighty inviting just about now.
“Mmm, that would be nice. But I don’t have the time.” She stood and began rooting around for her pants.
“How about tomorrow?” He sat up too and reached for his shorts. Since he planned to take another swim after she left, he didn’t bother with his shirt.
“If I can,” she said. “Brandon’s making noises about some nature walk he wants to take in the morning. Quel snore.”
“Text me.” Jared stood and stretched. He felt better—about her, about himself, about everything. He was on his way into the kitchen for that drink—a vodka and something would hit the spot—when the front doorbell rang, loud and imperious.
“Did you invite someone else over?” said Isabel nervously. She was dressed and buckling one of the sandals.
“No,” he said. “Maybe it’s a neighbor. Or my boss, Athena. She’s out here this weekend, and I told her where I was staying.”
“Don’t answer it,” she said in a tight voice. “I’ll just wait a few minutes and then go out the back.”
“Okay,” he said. “Good to play it safe.”
The knocking continued and grew more insistent. “It’s Brandon,” she whispered. “I know it is.”
“How did he know where you were?” He was whispering too.
“I guess he followed me. Jared, what am I going to do?”
Before he could answer, the knocking turned to pounding. “Isabel!” That was definitely Brandon’s voice coming from the other side of the door. “Isabel, I know you’re in there, so open up!”
“Hide!” she hissed at him. “Now!”
Jared looked at her; she was terrified and cowering. This was all his fault; he’d put her in this position. The self-disgust he’d felt at the restaurant last night came roaring back, shrieking and honking in his own ears; he seemed to hear it in concert with Brandon’s shouts.
He didn’t answer, but just walked quietly toward the pounding. Taking up with Isabel Clarke had not been a good idea, but he was deep in it now and he’d have to deal with the consequences. And maybe it was better this way—Isabel would have to make a choice: stay with her husband or leave him. No more hiding. That was over.
“Hey, Brandon,” he said when he’d opened the door. “Maybe you should come in so we can talk about this.”
“You!” Brandon spat. “I can’t believe it. You’re in here, screwing my wife no doubt, and you want to talk? What planet are you from? Do you really think I have anything to say to you?”
“Jared’s right, Brandon. We really should talk. And he’s part of the conversation.”
“You’re an idiot. You left our fucking car out front, Isabel. Parked right in front of the house. Did you want me to find you?”
“Maybe I did,” she said tiredly. “Maybe I did.”
“I don’t think Isabel’s been happy for a long time,” Jared said. “That’s why she got involved with me.”
“What do you know about her, real-estate boy? What gives you the right to weigh in on whether my wife is happy or not?” He’d been pacing the room, ricocheting from window to door and back again, but he stopped to face Jared.
Something inside Jared went cold and glinting. He knew that tone all too well—he’d heard it at Saint Crispin’s and later at Haverford. The tone let him know that the liberal we’re-all-the-same, race-doesn’t-matter mask had slipped, and underneath, the true face was revealed. That face and that tone were united in their derision: No matter how many of our schools you attend, how many A’s you get, or how many of our girls you bang, you’ll never be one of us. Never. “She wasn’t happy in your bed, man. Not by a long shot.” And he kind of smirked as he said it.
The punch, when it landed, took him totally by surprise. He’d been so smug, so damn pleased with himself for answering that white-guy sneer in kind, for telling it like it is, that he didn’t even see Brandon’s fist coil or his arm draw back. All he knew was the blow that exploded in his jaw, splitting his lip and sending waves of pain radiating through his head.
“Oh my God, you hit him! He’s bleeding. He’s bleeding!” Isabel rushed to his side.
“He’s all right,” Brandon said. “It’s just his lip.” But he didn’t sound so sure.
“How do you know? Call nine-one-one. No—I will.” She dove for her bag and began digging for the phone that was buried in it.
; “Don’t.” Jared put his hand to his lip, which was dripping blood and starting to swell. And his head hurt like a bitch. But no teeth were loose, and he’d been in enough fights as a kid to know the damage here was minimal. He turned to Isabel. “I’m okay. Really. Why don’t you go with Brandon? I don’t think anyone feels like talking right now. I know I don’t.”
“Are you sure? I don’t want to leave you.” She was hovering anxiously, her small hands fluttering in front of her.
“I’m sure.” He’d fished a handkerchief out of his pocket and used it to stanch the flow. Then he waited stoically while the two of them went to the door and quietly left. When he was alone, he went into the bathroom to survey the damage. The lip—fat, busted—looked like hell but would heal quickly. He went to the kitchen for ice to press against it and also to make that drink. After he’d finished it, he marched into the bedroom, lay down, and almost immediately fell into a deep, trancelike sleep. There were dreams—some of his mother, one of Carrie—and the perpetually startled cry of a bird in some neighboring yard wound in and out of them.
It wasn’t even light when he awoke, but he bounded from the bed, a whirlwind of cleaning, straightening, tidying. Even though Tripp had said his housekeeper would be coming in, Jared stripped the mattress and made it up again with fresh sheets. He scoured the traces of blood still on the floor, washed the few glasses he’d used, and then tossed his stuff in his bag. He’d get coffee and breakfast on the road; right now, he just needed to get out of here.
The dark was lifting as he swung onto the Long Island Expressway. Sunday morning, and the outbound traffic was sparse—he’d make good time getting back to the city. What he’d do when he got there, though, was anyone’s guess.
TWENTY-FOUR
The morning after Jared left, Miranda awoke to Lily’s wailing, and all her efforts—changing her, rocking her, feeding her—did exactly nothing to help. It was like those early days, when the crying jags just went on and on. She steeled herself for a long, tense morning; somehow she’d have to cope. A tap on the door distracted her; Mrs. Castiglione had heard the cries. “You’re sure she’s not hungry? Or thirsty?” she asked.
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