The Girl From Home: A Thriller (7 page)

“The doctors aren't exactly sure. There's definitely a dementia component, which makes it hard in a different way than it was with my mother. She died of cancer, and so she still had all her marbles, right up until the end. With him . . . sometimes he's there and other times . . . not so much.” He holds up his ring finger. “And besides, I'm married. So, milady, you can take comfort in the fact that my intentions are completely honorable. But I was still hoping that we might be friends.”

He smiles at her. It reminds her of the smile she once had.

On impulse, she says, “Give me your phone.”

Jonathan does as directed, unlocking and handing her his iPhone. Jackie presses the buttons for her own phone number, at which time her purse begins to sing Sara Bareilles's “Brave.”

“Now you have my number, and I have yours. Call me if you want to get coffee or lunch or something.”

“Thank you, Jacqueline,” he says. “I'd like that.”

“You're very welcome, Jonathan. But I go by Jackie now.”

She hands the phone back to him, and in the exchange their fingers brush together. Is she imagining it, or has he let their touch linger? What she knows for certain is that she's hoping Jonathan Caine's interest in her is not as honorable as he professes.

J
onathan always orders the filet mignon at Sant Ambroeus, as he does tonight. Natasha opts for the Dover sole, which means that they can't agree on a bottle of wine, so they order by the glass.

“Harrison called me today with a house that he says we have to see,” Natasha says after the entrées arrive.

Harrison is Harrison Kaye, the universally regarded best real estate broker on the East End, which is how those in the know refer to the Hamptons. He's in such demand that he initially resisted taking Jonathan and Natasha on as clients because their thirteen-million-dollar budget wasn't worth his time. His exact words were that he doesn't work with HENRYs—those who are “High Earners, Not Rich Yet.” He changed his mind upon meeting Natasha, a result she effected in most men, including, apparently, those who are gay, as she claimed Harrison to be.

“Is it on the ocean?” Jonathan asks.

Oceanfront real estate in East Hampton is the latest status marker Jonathan is determined to possess. It has been an ever-expanding list through the years, along with exponentially increasing price tags. Six-thousand-dollar Brioni suits gave way to the need for a fifty-thousand-dollar Lange & Söhne chronograph wristwatch, and then a $250,000 Bentley (which he leased because cars are a depreciating asset). More recently, he's required an eight-million-dollar penthouse and expensive artwork to put on its walls. And now he simply cannot live without an oceanfront home in East Hampton.

“No, but he says that it has an amazing view, and a pool and a tennis court.”

“Uh-uh. If we're going to buy, it's got to be on the ocean.”

I'm sorry, but I want what I want
.

“Then you're going to have to buy in 2008,” Natasha says, “because Harrison says that there's no way we're going to see the ocean in our price range. Not in East Hampton, at least. If we go more west, maybe . . .”

“No, I don't want to do that. East Hampton is where we need to be.”

“Please. Will you at least just see the house that Harrison is talking about?”

Jonathan sighs. He knows he's not going to win this fight. “When?”

“Sunday.”

“Okay,” he says. “But no compromising.”

*  *  *

Harrison Kaye's Rolls-Royce actually has vanity plates that read
Brkr2stars
.

“So, this house that we're going to see. It's being sold by a close personal friend of mine,” Harrison says, looking in the rearview mirror to catch Jonathan's eye. “I'm not at liberty to say who it is, but she's an Emmy Award–winning actress. Hell, you'll figure it out by the pictures, anyway. Claire Danes. You know, from
Homelan
d
? There, I said it. Anyway, Claire and Hugh Dancy—that's her husband, and he's an actor, too. He did something on Broadway a few years ago, and he's been in some movies, but I can never remember which ones, which is kind of embarrassing because, you know, I see them like all the time. Well, long story short, they already closed on something else and they want to sell before the summer because last summer they rented this place out and they had, let's just say, a less than ideal experience.”

Jonathan's more than happy that Natasha is riding shotgun, because it allows him to tune out Harrison's babbling. Natasha was clearly right about Harrison's sexual orientation. Jonathan can't imagine any straight man being caught dead wearing a pink shirt with matching pink pants, which is Harrison's getup today.

“So, Jonathan,” Harrison continues, “like I told Natasha, this place won't hit the market until next week. But then it's going to sell in one day. That's why this is such a great opportunity. You can snatch it up before it's even officially for sale.”

The driveway is lined with white pebbles that rattle around the underside of the Rolls. In the distance sits a modernist structure, all glass and angles, even though Jonathan had made it clear he wanted something traditional.

When they alight from the car, Jonathan signals his displeasure to Natasha with a scowl. Natasha has apparently gotten this message, because she leans into him and whispers, “Oh, come on. Just keep an open mind. Okay?”

“How much?” Jonathan says to Harrison, who is a step ahead of them, unlocking the home's front door.

“Twelve-nine. And I'll tell you something funny about the real estate market. Nobody prices their home at thirteen million. Just like the way hotels skip the thirteenth floor. Triskaidekaphobia, it's called. So, if you're unfortunate enough that the comps indicate that your house won't fetch fourteen, you have no choice but to price it at twelve-nine. What that means for you is that it's a real investment opportunity. If the market goes up two percent next year, it can be listed at fourteen million, and so it's an easy way to flip it and make a cool million for yourself.”

Jonathan is tempted to correct Harrison's math, but instead he smiles as if he fully understands. What Jonathan hears loud and clear, however, is that Harrison is conjuring the same type of smoke and mirrors that Jonathan pushes on his clients.

“This place was built five years ago by Bachman Architects,” Harrison says as they enter the large foyer, which has black-and-white marble square flooring that seems to go on for a hundred feet. “Kat Bachman is the gold standard for modern houses on the East End. He's done about five or so out here, and now he's involved in much bigger projects, which is only going to increase the value of his homes. It's still top secret, so don't tell anyone, but he's going to do the new building for the New York City Ballet, and when that happens? The sky's the limit.”

Inside, the place is absolutely beautiful, but in a minimalist way. The color scheme is neutral, with virtually all-white furniture.

“It's being sold furnished,” Harrison says, “but I tell you, it would go for exactly the same price unfurnished. They just don't want the hassle of having to empty it out.”

Harrison leads them toward the back of the house, where the Long Island Sound comes into view. “We'll look through the whole house in a minute—and I know you're going to love it,” he says. “Five bedrooms, four fireplaces, you know, all the bells and whistles. But Natasha told me it was very important that you wanted a view, so I thought it made sense to start out back.”

It's ten degrees colder on this side of the house, with the wind whipping up from the water. A sandy beach about ten yards wide runs the length of the property, beyond which gray-green water stretches as far as the eye can see.

“That the Sound?” Jonathan asks, although he knows it is. He's asked the question simply to register out loud that it's not the Atlantic Ocean proper.

“That's right,” Harrison answers. “And it's the best piece of property on the Sound because, as you can see, the view goes on forever. With some properties, you can see the North Fork on the other side. It's a matter of preference, of course, but Natasha told me that you expressed a desire to be on the ocean, and so I thought that this would be appealing because it captures that same sense of infiniteness.”

“Or we could get something, you know, actually on the ocean,” Jonathan counters.

Harrison smiles and takes a step toward Jonathan. For a flicker, Jonathan reacts as if it's an aggressive gesture, but when Harrison gets within arm's length, rather than taking a swing at the client, he puts his hand on Jonathan's shoulder and says, “Look, I want you to understand something, just to manage your expectations. I'm as good as there is out here, so the last thing I would try to do is tell you that a house on the Sound is the same as a house on the ocean. It's not. No way, no how. So, if you
only
want a house on the ocean, and you
only
want East Hampton, we should leave this place right now, and let me show you some inventory I have that meets your specifications. But let's be real here, something on the ocean . . . in East Hampton . . . is going to cost twenty million, easy. And at that price, it's a teardown. So, if that's what you want, I got two or three to show you. If you want
this
particular house but on the ocean, you're looking at thirty million plus. I got some inventory like that, too. I can get you in today. Just say the word.”

What Harrison Kaye lacks in physical menace he more than makes up for in psychological warfare. He has just managed to hurt Jonathan more acutely than any punch to the face could by openly shaming him for only being able to afford a $12.9 million summer home.

*  *  *

“I really think we should put in an offer on that house,” Natasha says that night while they're in bed. “Harrison says it's a steal.”

Jonathan snorts at the thought of a thirteen—sorry,
twelve-nine
—million-dollar house being a steal. “I think he's the one committing larceny here. You do know that he's going to net an eight-hundred-grand commission for an hour's work.”

“Don't think about him, Jonathan, think about us. Relaxing in that hot tub, looking out onto the water . . .”

She nuzzles next to him. He allows her to nibble his ear, but when she reaches down to his boxers, he knows he's being played.

“You mean the water that is
not
the ocean, which is the one thing I said I wanted,” he says bluntly. “No, that's not right—I also said I wanted a traditional, which that house is
also
not.”

Natasha rolls away from him. Whatever sexual energy she had a moment ago is gone. So much so that she actually hikes the blanket up a bit, bringing it to just below her shoulders.

“Jonathan, we can't get an oceanfront house in our price range. Not in East Hampton, anyway. It's that simple.”

“Fine. So we'll rent this summer on the ocean and we'll buy next year.”

“Jonathan, renting something on the ocean in East Hampton is going to cost four hundred thousand for the summer. At least.”

“Then that's what we'll pay. You know . . . I want what I want, Natasha.”

“That's a ridiculous amount to spend for eight weeks.”

“You say that like you earned it.”

She lets out a loud sigh, feeling no obligation to hide her disappointment. After a moment, in which she looks as if she's measuring her words, Natasha says, “Jonathan, someday you'll see that you can't always get exactly what you want.”

He raises his head and looks at her as if she's just uttered the worst form of blasphemy he can imagine.

“Of course I can, Natasha. I have for my entire life, and I have no intention of stopping now.”

J
ackie wishes she could sleep. After tossing and turning a few hours, she's awake for good by six.

There's a silver lining to her insomnia, however. On a Sunday morning, she'll have the run of the house for several hours. Emma is sleeping at a friend's, and Robert never wanders out of his room before noon on the weekend. Based on how much Rick imbibed, he likely also won't show his face until afternoon.

Diana Matarazzo or somebody else last night must have gotten Rick all hot and bothered, because when they got home after the reunion, he was like a dog in heat. She didn't protest, having long since realized that her resistance only revved him up more. And so she endured, thankful when he turned her over, so she didn't have to look at his goddamned face. That he was drunk made him last longer than usual, which only gave her more time to think about how much she absolutely hated her husband.

After making herself a pot of strong coffee, she takes a seat on the corner of the living room sofa, staring out the large bay window onto Farmington Lake. Clasping the mug with both hands, she allows the coffee's warmth to enter her.

Jackie knows that right now, clad in her flannel pajamas, taking in the view of the serene lake from the comfort of her home, she looks like an actress in a commercial depicting the idyllic suburban life. But her existence is far from a fantasy. As she does most mornings when she finds herself in this position, she wishes she were dead.

*  *  *

Jonathan doesn't feel the same sense of dread when entering Lakeview for the second time. He walks through the hallways and says hello to the African American nurse from yesterday. Today he notices she's wearing a name tag that says
Yorlene Goff
.

“I'm Jonathan Caine,” he says. “How's my dad doing today?”

“I remember you, Mr. Caine,” Yorlene says with a warm smile. “He's good, but why don't you go on in and ask him yourself?”