by Adam Mitzner
Alex is apparently uninterested in high school classmates who never gave him the time of day, so he asks Hirshman, “What’s your post-ECHS life been like, Stephen? You went to MIT, right? If I had to guess, I’d bet you hit it big with a tech start-up.”
“I wish,” Hirshman says with a nervous laugh. “No such luck. Sometimes I think I’m the only guy who got a computer degree from MIT in 1995 who isn’t a millionaire. But I had the foresight to turn down a job at Microsoft because I didn’t feel like moving to Seattle. And so instead of being retired at thirty and now spending my time running my own charitable foundation, I was just canned from the place where I’ve worked for the last twenty years.”
Jonathan tuned out of this discussion the moment he caught sight of Jacqueline Lawson. She was still breathtakingly beautiful, that was for damn sure. Dark shoulder-length hair, not that frosted dye so many women in their forties go to; and the same sparkling emerald eyes he remembered so vividly from a quarter century ago still shimmered from across the room. She must also work out every day, as she seemed tight in all the right places.
Every boy in ECHS had a thing for Jacqueline Lawson. Jonathan sure as hell did. How many nights did he spend alone in his bedroom fantasizing about her?
I want what I want, he thinks to himself.
“Stephen,” calls out a heavyset woman with short, spiky gray hair. Jonathan can’t place her from high school, although that didn’t necessarily mean that they weren’t classmates. He hasn’t recognized most of the attendees tonight.
Hirshman does the introductions. “This is my wife, Allison. Allison, this is Johnny Caine and Alex Miller, two really good guys.”
“Hi,” she says, but obviously is uninterested in them. “Stephen, the sitter just called. Max is throwing up. We need to go.”
“He’ll be fine, Allison. He probably just has a stomach bug. There’s nothing we’re going to be able to do for him at home, and we just got here.”
“Can I speak to you about this privately?” Allison says in a way that makes clear that no is not a possible answer.
“Good talking to you guys,” Hirshman says, sighing. “If we stick around, I’ll try to catch up with you later.”
“My God. Poor bastard,” Jonathan says after Hirshman’s wife yanks him away. “How about you, Alex. Do you have an equally lovely wife at home?”
Alex laughs. “Well, without comparing the two, the answer is yes, I’m married. Elizabeth is home with our children tonight. A boy and a girl. Charlotte’s eleven, and Owen is about to turn five. And you?”
“Married, no kids. My wife—perhaps wisely—suggested that I’d have more fun if I relived my not-so-glory days without her.”
There’s a sudden awkward silence, the small talk having run its course, before Alex says, “I hope I’m not talking out of school, Johnny,” and then, realizing the play on words, he quickly adds, “which of course I’m not, because I’m talking in school. But . . . I know a little of what’s going on with you . . . This obviously isn’t the time or the place and, believe me, I’m not pitching for business, but . . . I always liked and respected you, at least back when we actually knew each other . . . and so if you need someone to talk to . . . Well, the truth is that I’ve kind of been there a little bit myself, and I offer my friendship with the added benefit of the attorney-client privilege.”
Jonathan feels like he’s been caught naked. He hadn’t expected anyone at the reunion to know anything about his life other than what he bothered telling them.
Alex reaches into his suit jacket pocket and pulls out a business card. Jonathan glances at the firm name.
“Peikes Selva & Schwarz?” Jonathan says. “I thought you were at Cromwell Altman.”
“I was, but I’ve been at Peikes for the last couple of years. Long story, but like I said, it gives me some frame of reference for what you’re going through.”
“Thanks,” Jonathan says. “Do you mind? I need to make a call. But I do appreciate the offer, Alex. Truly and seriously.”
* * *
Jackie pries herself away from her supposed best-friends-forever under the guise that she needs to call home and check on the kids. As she walks out of the gym, she spies Rick whispering to Diana Matarazzo. He looks barely able to keep his tongue in his mouth. Jackie can’t make out what either one of them is saying, but she knows her husband well enough to surmise that she’d be disgusted if she heard two words of it.
There’s some refuge in the fresh air, although the moment Jackie steps outside, she wishes she had stopped to grab her coat. In the slinky dress she’s wearing, she won’t last two minutes out here before she begins shaking from the cold. Still, that’s two minutes that she doesn’t have to be inside with any of them.
She has the overwhelming impulse to scream. Just shout at the top of her lungs how much she hates her life, and everyone and everything in it. But she stifles that thought, fully knowing it’s misdirected.
The person she hates is herself. She’s to blame for her life, no one else—
“Hey.”
The sound of someone else’s presence actually causes Jackie to jump.
“Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you. I just came out here to get away from it for a little bit. But if you did that, too, then I guess my presence defeats the purpose. At least for you.”
Jackie squints. “You’re Johnny Caine, right?”
Jonathan smiles. “Jonathan now, but yes. I often wondered if high school royalty knew the names of their loyal subjects.”
She tries to conjure an image of Johnny Caine in high school, but all she can remember is that he was one of the smart kids back when she didn’t realize that mattered a lot more in life than being able to throw a tight spiral. From the looks of him, Jackie concludes that Johnny Caine figured out a way to monetize his intelligence. Lawyer, maybe. Or a doctor?
The Cliquesters made it something of a Friday-night activity to rank the hottest guys, usually getting up to twenty before they decided that no one else was worth the effort. Johnny Caine never made the cut. He would now, though.
“That was a very long time ago, you know,” she says.
“It was indeed,” he says. “Twenty-five years, if you believe the banners hanging in the gym. You look cold.” Jonathan takes off his suit jacket. “Is that okay?” he asks, offering it up.
Jackie smiles at him. In a different life, she thinks, she might have ended up with someone like Johnny—no, Jonathan—Caine. Smart. A gentleman. Not an alcoholic, cheating wife abuser.
“Do you mean is my husband going to kick your ass because you kept his wife from freezing to death?”
“I’m less concerned about that than that you’ll find me too forward.”
Jackie takes the jacket from Jonathan and wraps it around herself. She can tell it’s expensive from the way it slips onto her shoulders.
“No. I appreciate a gesture of chivalry now and then. So are you having fun?”
“Now I am,” he says with a grin. “You should know I made it my mission tonight to say hello to you.”
Jackie can’t deny she’s flattered. She still gets a lot of male attention, but nowadays it’s from Rick’s asshole buddies and the occasional guy with a MILF fetish.
“Oh really. And why is that? Did you ever say hello to me in high school?”
“See, that’s just it. I was afraid to talk to you in high school, so maybe now we could be friends.”
“Uh-huh. Call me crazy, but I get the sense that I just might be an item on your bucket list. You know. Buy a Porsche. Have sex with the prom queen. That kind of thing.”
Jonathan chuckles. “I guess I shouldn’t have worried so much about being too forward.”
“Tell me it’s not true,” she says with a smile.
He stares hard at her, no smile on his lips. “It’s not true. Sorry if I made you think that.” Then he waits a beat. “But if I’m being totally honest with you, I should probably confess . . . that I already have a very ni
ce car.”
They share a laugh.
“If you want to know the truth, the reason I’ve accosted you like this is because my father’s dying over at Lakeview, and I’m going to be spending some time in East Carlisle. I heard you still live here, and so I thought I should at least come and say hello because I don’t know anyone else who still calls East Carlisle home except you and your husband, and he’s the guy who gave me wedgies all through middle school, so I thought you were the safer bet to seek out as a potential friend.”
“I’m so sorry to hear about your dad.”
“Thanks. It’s tough, but . . . circle of life, I guess. We’re at that age when our parents are going to get sick and die. I went through it just last year with my mother. This time, I decided to take some time off from work so I can spend it with him. I figured it’s now or never.”
“You poor thing. Your mother, too? My father died . . . oh, it’s been more than twenty years now—when I was in college—but I still miss him. My mother is still alive, so I guess I’m lucky there. She lives in Baltimore, but we still see each other a lot. If you don’t mind my asking . . . what’s wrong with your father?”
“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.
5
May
Jonathan 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 Homeland? 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.”
