Wedding in Great Neck (9781101607701) (23 page)

“Doesn’t it?” He leaned over to cup her cheek with his palm.

“No.” She let herself feel the warmth of his hand for a second before she drew back.

“Don’t push me away,” he said softly. He reached for her again, this time for her hair, not her face. “I love you, Gretchen. I love you, and I’m sorry I hurt you. That’s why I came here this weekend. To tell you that.”

“I thought it was to tell me about…Eve.” The name still stuck in her throat. “Eve and the baby who was not yours.”

“That was only a prelude to what I really wanted to say. I want to come back, Gretchen. To you. To the girls.” He swallowed. “Give me another chance.”

For a few seconds all Gretchen could do was stare. Then she yanked off her seat belt and got out of the car. “You want another chance?” she said. “Here it is.”

“What are you doing?”

“Going to get Justine. You can come with me if you want.”

“But the road,” he said, gesturing in front of him. “The road’s not passable, hey.”

“Not by car. But I can wade across. Or swim if I have to.”

“Gretchen! Are you daft?”

Daft
. It had been a long time since she had heard Ennis
use that word, and it still affected her in a soft, private place she didn’t want to have exposed, not even to herself.

“It can’t be that deep,” she said. “And it’s obviously not all that wide. I’ll get across, and then I can walk the rest of the way to the police station. It’s close; you even said so yourself.” She threw down the words like a gauntlet.

Ennis scrambled out of the car and slammed the door shut. “You
are
daft,” he said with a great exhalation of breath. “Totally, thoroughly, and completely daft.”

“Whatever. I’m going to get Justine. You can do what you like.” Gretchen called to the policemen on the other side, “I’m coming over, okay?”

“You’re doing what?” one of them yelled back.

Gretchen didn’t bother to reply. She could feel Ennis watching as she boldly stepped down and into the water. It was cold but not as deep as she had feared, and she was able to wade rather than swim. She was almost across when she felt one of her shoes—a black ballet flat—come loose from her foot and get carried away by the current. Damn! But there was no time to go looking for it now. She continued on until she had reached the other side. Once there she shook herself off like a retriever and turned to the cluster of incredulous men who had been watching her. “Where’s the police station?” she asked.

“Wait!” cried Ennis from the other side. “Wait for me.” Gretchen looked to see him scramble down toward the water and then plunge in. As she watched him, she felt something rise and bubble inside her. It was not as strong or as sweet as happiness. But it was something.

“What the—?” the officer said as he watched Ennis slogging through the water. “Is he going to the police station too?” Gretchen nodded. “Well, I guess I can give you both a lift. It’s not very far from here.”

Gretchen got into the passenger’s seat, while Ennis got in back. “Sorry about your car,” she said as the water pooled from her clothes and hair onto the floor.

“Don’t even worry about it,” said the officer. He looked at her and then in the rearview mirror at Ennis. “You folks are in a big hurry to get there, huh?”

“Our daughter is waiting for us,” was all Gretchen said. He nodded and didn’t ask anything else, for which Gretchen was grateful. In minutes they pulled up to the police station, a sprawling complex made of bleached-looking stone.

“It looks like a bunker,” Gretchen murmured to Ennis when the officer had deposited them in the parking lot. “Do you think there’s a jail in there?”

“Even if there is, Justine is not in it,” he said firmly. He started walking.

“How do you know?” she asked, scurrying to keep up with him. Her wet, bare foot was like a magnet for every pebble, stone, and leaf it encountered. He didn’t answer and didn’t speak again until they were inside the doors and dripping onto the floor.

“You look like a wreck,” he observed. “But I’m sorry for what I said before. About the hair and the eyebrow and all. You’ve done a good job. And I don’t just mean right now either. It can’t have been easy dealing with them all by yourself, hey?”

“I’ve done my best,” Gretchen said, oddly mollified by his acknowledgment. Now that they had finally arrived, she felt paralyzed. Her earlier fury at Ennis had dissipated, washed away by the rain and the rushing stream of water she had crossed to get here. “Ennis, I can’t even begin to imagine what I am going to say to her. Can you?”

“Come on,” he said, taking her by the hand. “We’ll figure it out.”
Oot.
Gretchen did not answer but squeezed his hand in return. Then, squelching their way toward the front desk, they went in search of their girl.

J
ustine sat mutely in a hallway of the Kings Point police station, her head tilted back against the wall, her eyes closed. But even with her eyes shut, the events of the past hour and a half played out with relentless clarity; nothing could obliterate them from the merciless exactitude of her memory.

“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.