The Girl From Home (12 page)

“No reason to be so dramatic, Amy. He'll be the same then as he is now. How much of a difference can a month make?” Jonathan hears how that sounds, so he decides to adopt a more concerned tone. “What makes you think he's not doing well, anyway?”

“For starters, he asked if Mom was visiting me.”

“At least he's not imagining that she's in the house with him.”

“Not funny, Johnny,” she snaps. “This is a real problem.”

“What does . . .” Jonathan searches for his father's private nurse's name but can't come up with it. “What does the nurse say?”

“You mean Theresa?” Amy says with an obvious edge.

“You've made your point, Amy. You're the golden child. All I do for him is pay all the money for
Theresa
so Dad can stay in his home. But of course, none of that counts for anything. All that matters is that I don't remember her goddamned name.”

“Jonathan, I'm not Mom, trying to guilt you here. You're crazy if you think I don't appreciate the financial support you give to Dad. I'm just worried that you're going to regret not spending more time with him while you still can. Once he's gone, that's it.”

Jonathan likes to say that it's an occupational prerequisite for a trader to live without regret. Opportunities present themselves for an instant, and they're taken or not . . . but there's never any going back. Ever. That's true whether you're about to make a billion-dollar investment in response to some market fluctuation you don't fully understand, or you're asked to give up a weekend in the Hamptons to sit on the crappy furniture in your father's den in East Carlisle, New Jersey.

You decide, and then you move on. Always without regret.

“I'm really busy right now. I'll go in September. I promise,” he says.

J
ackie pauses to consider just how much of a message she wants her clothing to make. Her closet has half a dozen ensembles that are appropriate for a married woman meeting a friend for dinner. She eschews them all in favor of what she considers to be her sexiest dress, a silver number with a plunging neckline. She pairs it with black thigh-high tights and three-inch heels.

Her kids, true to form, are oblivious to what she looks like. Their faces are buried in their screens. For once, she's pleased by the self-absorption of teenagers.

“I need to go out for a few hours. A friend is having a Christmas party,” Jackie says. Neither Robert nor Emma so much as lift their heads. “Robert,” she says, which at least makes him look up. “Here's twenty dollars. Order a pizza and make sure your sister gets to bed at a reasonable time. I should be back before midnight. If for some reason your father gets home before me, which I seriously doubt will happen, just tell him that I had to go out, and that I'll be back by midnight at the latest.”

After taking the money, Robert buries his head back into the screen. “Earth to Robert. Please confirm that you heard and understood.”

“Uh-huh,” he grunts. “Pizza. Emma asleep. You out.”

Close enough, Jackie thinks.

*  *  *

The butterflies flutter in Jackie's stomach the entire drive over to Crowne Road, and intensify when she sees Jonathan's car parked in the driveway. She doesn't know its make, although she can tell even at a distance that it's expensive. When she gets out of her car, she bends over to read the nameplate. A Bentley. She's never seen one for real, only in movies. Of course Jonathan Caine drives a Bentley, she thinks to herself.

Jonathan greets her at the door, kissing her on the cheek as he did at the Château, but this time he hugs her a little tighter, holding his hand in the center of her back, so he must have discerned that she's not wearing a bra.

“It's so nice to see you,” he says, welcoming her inside. “You really look beautiful. I'm kind of embarrassed that I'm so underdressed.”

Her eyes take him in. No reason for him to be even a little bit self-conscious. He looks great. Jeans, a button-down blue shirt, and, it appears, the same expensive suit jacket he had lent her at the reunion. Handsome, successful, not overdoing it, but not just throwing on sweatpants like some men she knows.

“It smells great in here,” she says. “What did you cook for us?”

“Cassoulet.”

“Sounds delicious.”

Jackie looks around the house. Hardly out of
Architectural Digest
, that's for sure, even if it was a forty-year-old issue. Lots of orange and brown, a matted-down shag rug in the den. But she quickly realizes that she can't ascribe any judgment to Jonathan because he doesn't really live here.

“Can I offer you any wine?” Jonathan asks.

Jackie smiles. Yes, wine is exactly what she needs to calm her nerves.

“That would be great,” she says.

She follows him into the kitchen. She had expected a similar period piece, but the kitchen, while certainly not modern, at least isn't a relic. Early
Seinfeld
era, she figures.

The wine is a dark purple in color. When Jonathan hands Jackie her glass, their fingers touch, and she flashes on that moment at the reunion—the lingering when she handed him back his phone, even though she's since wondered whether she'd imagined it. This time, however, she's certain that the contact is intentional.

“Come here, take a look,” he says, motioning toward the stove. She follows, and he places his hand on the lid of a large simmering pot, as if he's a magician, about to flourish the big reveal.

“So when I remove it, lean in and take a deep breath.”

Jackie does as directed, and it smells truly amazing. A mélange of sausage and duck, stewed with white beans, and a toasted bread-crumb crust at the top.

Jackie takes a swallow of wine for courage, and then puts out there what she's been meaning to ask Jonathan since they arranged this get-together.

“What does your wife think of all this?”

Jonathan doesn't appear the least bit off balance by the question's implication. He cocks his head to the side and says, “You mean what does my wife think of my cooking dinner for a beautiful woman whom every person at East Carlisle High School was crazy about back in the day?”

“Yeah. That.”

“To be honest, I haven't told her.”

“Rick is in the dark, too.”

Jonathan nods. Jackie takes the gesture as evidence that they've entered into a tacit agreement that whatever goes on tonight remains only between them.

“The cassoulet has been simmering for six hours,” Jonathan says. “I think it's more than ready to eat. Shall we?”

He takes Jackie by the hand and leads her to the dining room. Like the other spaces in the house, it has a bit of a grandparent feel to it. A heavy mahogany table fills the room, with six wood-carved chairs around it. There are two place settings—one at the head and the other catty-cornered to it—and in the center of the table are a pair of candles in tarnished silver holders. Jonathan certainly has gone all out for this. She can't deny that she likes that.

Jonathan lights the candles, and then he dims the overhead chandelier. Jackie is tempted to comment that it's all very romantic, but she decides not to say a word, for fear it will spoil the moment.

In addition to the cassoulet, Jonathan prepared a salad and string beans sautéed with butter and almonds. She tells Jonathan that it's all delicious, and by that she means that she's having the best time she's had in years.

Jackie isn't much of a drinker and can't remember the last time she's had a third glass of wine. But the high she's experiencing now is too wonderful to let go, so all other considerations—like the fact that she's about to be drunk in the home of a man whom, for all intents and purposes, she's just met—fall by the wayside.

“How long will you be staying in our humble little town?” Jackie asks.

“I'm not sure, exactly. A lot depends on how my father is doing.”

“Your wife . . . is she okay with you being away from home?”

“Yeah. I travel a lot for work anyway, so I think Natasha just views this as another business trip.”

“And your job doesn't mind?”

“I've actually taken a leave of absence. It's not like I'm going to be able to spend time with my father when it's more convenient for me to be away from work. I figured it was now or never.”

“I really think it's amazing that you're doing this. Your father is very lucky.”

“I don't know about that,” Jonathan says with a shrug. “I do know that I'm lucky to have this time with him. I wish . . . you know, the usual, that I'd done some things differently. Do you ever feel that way?”

“Every day and twice on Sunday,” Jackie says.

Jonathan raises his wineglass. “Well, then. To fewer regrets in the future.”

Jackie clinks her glass to his. There is nothing she wants more than fewer regrets in the future.

*  *  *

Jonathan knows that dinner is going very well. He's seen that look in a woman's eyes before, the one that suggests there's no place on earth she'd rather be. She threw him a bit when she asked about work, but he thinks he covered well enough.

“Can I ask you something stupid?” Jackie asks.

“Of course. Stupid questions are the best ones.”

Jackie laughs, a nervous giggle. “What did you think of me in high school?”

“Ah,” Jonathan says with a smile. “Let me ask you this first. Why would you care about what I thought of you twenty-five years ago?”

“Because I think it influences what you think of me now.”

“So maybe I should just tell you what I think of you now.”

“If you'd prefer.”

“You're obviously still very beautiful. You don't need me to tell you that, I'm sure. But you're also now sadder than I remember you being in high school. It's almost as if you're unsure about who you are, and back then, everyone knew you were queen of the Cliquesters.”

She laughs, but its shaky tenor confirms Jonathan's assessment was spot-on. “I was just as insecure back then. Believe me.”

He does believe her, although he never would have thought so when they were in high school. Back then, she seemed to be all confidence. But isn't that always the way? The popular girl forever fearful because her power is so ephemeral?

“You sure hid it well,” Jonathan says. “But that still doesn't tell me what fills you with regret now.”

Jackie looks at him impassively, as if she's letting his words come to a resting point before she responds. Finally, Jackie says, “I don't know how my life ever got so . . . I don't know . . . far away from what I wanted it to be? Does that make any sense?”

Make sense? Jonathan could be Exhibit A for that sentiment. He's not ready to share that with Jackie, not yet, but he is willing to dispense the advice he repeats in his head every morning. The words that keep him alive for one more day.

“I'll tell you something you learn early when your life is tied to the financial markets. It's never as bad as it seems at any given moment because it can always get better.” He waits a beat. “And worse.”

“I so want it to get better,” she says quietly.

He views that as his opening and slowly leans over to kiss her. He gives her enough time to pull away, but if anything, he senses that she's moved closer.

He feels an actual tingle when their lips meet.

“Jackie . . .” Jonathan says in a whisper, his face close enough to hers that he can feel the warmth of her breath. “Do you think we can go upstairs?”

She doesn't hesitate. “Yes.”

He stands and takes her hand. They walk together up the stairs, and at the top he has a decision to make. Jonathan turns into his childhood bedroom, rather than the master.

“Sorry about the twin bed,” he says, “but I promise I'll make it up to you in other ways.”

*  *  *

Jackie wakes with a jolt and a sense of complete disorientation. It takes her a moment to realize that she's in Jonathan's house—his parents' house, actually—and then a second more to comprehend that she's lying naked beside him. She feels like she's in that scene in
Big
. She's a grown woman in the bedroom of a thirteen-year-old boy.

Nineteen years of marriage to an alcoholic, cheating wife abuser and she'd never before strayed. She should feel some level of remorse for breaking one of the Ten Commandments, but her only emotion right now is elation. She hasn't felt like this in . . . has she ever felt like this?

Then reality sets in. Rick. What would he do to her if he knew?

She quickly checks her phone, panicked that Rick has been trying to reach her. But there's no missed call or text. He's undoubtedly found something more interesting to do tonight than check up on her.

As Jonathan snores lightly beside her, she slithers out of the bed, careful not to wake him. Her clothes are strewn around the room, reminding her of their dance—her dress on the floor near the door, her stockings on the chair beside the bed, her panties in the sheets.

Once she's clothed, she walks around to his side of the bed and kneels beside him. “Jonathan,” she says. His eyes open and he smiles. “Thank you. Tonight was wonderful.”

She kisses him on the mouth, and then allows herself to be pulled on top of him. Even though she knows she should leave, she decides to indulge in one more round.

T
he rain in East Hampton is hard enough that it's clear the entire Sunday will be a washout. By two o'clock, Natasha has had enough.

“Why don't we just drive back into the city now? That way we might beat the traffic.”

“You're not going to stay out here this week?” Jonathan asks.

“I've got some things to do at home. Besides, you promised you were going to take off the last two weeks of August, and so this is my last chance to do some shopping in the city before Labor Day.”