The Douglas Kennedy Collection #2

by Douglas Kennedy

  “Did you instantly forgive him?”

  “Hardly. I made him pursue me. Which he did—with extreme diligence and, dare I say it, great style. Much to my surprise, I actually found myself falling for him. Maybe because he was such an isolated character—yet one who, I gradually discovered, liked me for what I was, for how I thought and saw the world. And he also needed me. That was the biggest surprise of them all—the fact that this guy, with all his money and the ability to get anything he wanted, told me that he knew I was the best thing that could happen to him.”

  “So he won you back?”

  “Yes, he eventually did—the way Philip eventually wins everything . . . through sheer bloody-minded persistence.”

  She drained her glass.

  “The problem is,” she said, “once he’s won something, he loses interest.”

  “Foolish man.”

  “Ha.”

  “No, it’s the truth,” I heard myself saying. “How could anyone lose interest in you?”

  She held me in her gaze, then reached out and stroked my hair. And said:

  “Dominion lasts until obtained—

  Possession just as long—

  But these—endowing as they flit

  Eternally belong.”

  “If you name the writer, you get a kiss,” she said.

  “Emily Dickinson,” I said.

  “Bravo,” she said, then put her arms around my neck and drew me close and kissed me gently on the lips. Then I said, “My turn. Same deal applies.

  “Confirming All who analyze

  In the Opinion fair

  That Eloquence is when the Heart

  Has not a Voice to spare—”

  “That’s a toughie,” she said, draping her arms back around my neck. “Emily Dickinson.”

  “I’m impressed.”

  We kissed again. A slightly longer kiss.

  “Back to me now,” she said, still keeping her arms around me. “You ready?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Pay close attention,” she said. “This is a tricky one.

  “How soft this prison is

  How sweet these sullen bars

  No despot but the King of Down

  Invented this repose.

  Of Fate if this is All

  Had he no added Realm

  A Dungeon but a Kinsman is

  Incarceration—Home.”

  “That is a stumper,” I said.

  “Go on, take a wild guess.”

  “But say I get it wrong? What then?”

  She drew me even closer. “I’m counting on you to get it right.”

  “It wouldn’t be . . . Emily Dickinson?”

  “Bingo,” she said, and pulled me right down onto the sand. We began to kiss deeply, passionately. After a few unbridled moments, however, the Voice of Reason began to sound air-raid warning signals between my ears. But when I tried to disentangle myself from her embrace, Martha pinned me down against the sand and whispered, “Don’t think. Just . . .”

  “I can’t,” I whispered back.

  “You can.”

  “No.”

  “It’ll be just for tonight.”

  “It won’t—and you know it. These things always have repercussions. Especially . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “Especially when . . . you know and I know this will not be just one night.”

  “Do you feel that way too?”

  “What way?”

  “That way . . .”

  I gently removed her arms from mine and sat up.

  “What I feel is . . . drunk.”

  “You don’t get it, do you?” she said softly. “Look at all this: you, me, this island, this sea, this sky, this night. Not a night, David. This night. This unique, unrepeatable night . . .”

  “I know, I know. But . . .”

  I put my hand on her shoulder. She took it and held it tightly.

  “Damn you for being so sensible,” she said.

  “I wish . . .”

  She leaned over and kissed me lightly on the lips. “Please shut up,” she said. Then she got to her feet. “I’m going to take a walk,” she said.

  “Can I join you?”

  “I think I’ll make it a solo walk, if you don’t mind.”

  “You sure?”

  She nodded.

  “Are you going to be okay out here?”

  “It’s my island,” she said. “I’ll be fine.”

  “Thank you for tonight,” I said.

  She gave me a sad smile and said, “No—thank you.”

  Then she turned and headed off down the beach. I thought about chasing after her, about taking her in my arms again and kissing her, and blurting out a lot of jumbled thoughts about love and the nature of timing and how I didn’t want to complicate my life any further, and how I so wanted to kiss her . . .

  But instead, I did the rational thing and forced myself up the hill. Once inside my hut, I sat on the edge of the bed, put my face in my hands, and thought: This has been one strange week. That’s all I thought, however, because my cognitive abilities were numbed by the alcoholic equivalent of toxic shock. Had I been able to properly fathom what had just transpired—not to mention the massively unsettling thought that maybe, just maybe, I was a little in love with her—I might have started to feel unhinged.

  But I didn’t get an opportunity to indulge my guilt. Because, for the second night running, I passed out fully clothed on my bed. Only this time, my exhaustion was so complete that I didn’t stir until 6:30 a.m., when there was a light tapping on the door. I muttered something vaguely resembling English, then the door opened and Gary walked in, carrying a tray with a coffeepot and a large glass of water. I noticed that, though still wearing last night’s clothes, I had been covered by a blanket. I wondered who’d been in earlier to play the Good Samaritan.

  “Morning, Mr. Armitage,” Gary said. “How are we feeling this morning?”

  “Not good.”

  “Then you need two of these,” he said, popping a pair of Berocca tablets into the water. When they were fully dissolved, he handed me the glass. I downed the contents in one long gulp. As it sped down my gullet, images of the previous night’s endeavors began to play across that vacant lot better known as the inside of my head. As I replayed our embrace on the beach, I had to resist the temptation to shudder. I didn’t succeed . . . though Gary pretended not to notice and instead said:

  “Might a cup of very strong black coffee be most useful right now?”

  I nodded. He poured the coffee. I sipped it, nearly gagging on the first mouthful. But the second sip went down easier, and by the time I was working on the third, the Berocca was starting to lift the fog from my brain.

  “Did you have an enjoyable night, sir?” Gary asked me. I studied his face with care, wondering if the obsequious little bastard was trying to tell me something . . . if he had been on the veranda with a pair of binoculars, watching us imitate a pair of goofy adolescents on the beach. But his face betrayed nothing. Nor would I.

  “Yeah, great,” I said.

  “I’m sorry to be getting you up so early, but—as you requested—the Gulfstream will be flying you to San Francisco this morning. Would you mind if I just briefly run through travel arrangements?”

  “Go ahead . . . but you might have to repeat them a couple of times.”

  He gave me a thin little smile, and said, “Now Mrs. Fleck told us that you need to be in San Francisco by around four this afternoon to meet your little girl after school.”

  “Yeah, that’s right. How is Mrs. Fleck this morning?”

  “En route to New York right about now.”

  I didn’t think I was hearing this clearly. “She’s what?”

  “Heading to New York, sir.”

  “But how . . . ?”

  “The way she usually gets to New York, sir. By one of our airplanes. She left the island last night. Shortly after you went to bed.”

  “Really?”

 
“Yes. Really.”

  “Oh.”

  “She did, however, leave you a note,” he said, proffering a small white envelope with my name written on the front. I resisted the temptation to open it, and simply put it on the pillow beside me.

  “She also asked me to make all the arrangements for your flight to the Coast. So, here’s what we’ve organized—we’ll get you back to Saffron by around nine, with the helicopter to Antigua scheduled for ten thirty and departure on the Gulfstream to San Francisco at eleven fifteen. The pilot’s informed me it’s a seven-hour-forty-minute flight, but with the four-hour time change, you should arrive around three ten. We’ve arranged for a limo to collect you at the airport and to be at your disposal all weekend. And we’ve also arranged, with our compliments, a suite for you and your daughter at the Mandarin Oriental.”

  “That’s far too extravagant of you.”

  “You can thank Mrs. Fleck—she set it up.”

  “I’ll do that.”

  “One final thing—during the ninety minutes you’re back on Saffron, Mr. Fleck will look forward to meeting you.”

  “What?” I said, my hands suddenly cold and clammy.

  “Mr. Fleck will be meeting you at nine.”

  “He’s back on the island?”

  “Yes, sir. In fact, he arrived back late last night.”

  Great, I thought. Just great.

  SEVEN

  AS THE BOAT sped back toward toward Saffron Island, my anxiety level began to rise. No doubt this had something to do with finally meeting the guy who had been keeping me waiting for the past seven days. But it also probably had something to do with my host arriving home to discover that his wife and his guest had taken off to her own private island for the night. Then there was the little matter of my drunken beachside embrace with Martha. The fact that she had returned to Saffron late last night would have assuaged any suspicions that we spent the night together, but I did wonder whether one of the staff had seen us kissing in the sand and had dutifully informed Fleck that his wife and his guest had been reenacting the famous Burt Lancaster/Deborah Kerr surfside clinch in From Here to Eternity—a scene that Fleck the film buff would know only too damn well.

  Cut!

  I gripped the bars that encircled the deck of the cabin cruiser and told myself to calm down. I reminded myself that a hangover always left me feeling vulnerable and prone to paranoid fantasies. In the great, expansive catalogue of sexual stupidities, drunken necking on a beach rated as a minor misdemeanor. Hell, I had met temptation and resisted it. So give yourself a pat on the back, and stop this self-flagellation. And while you’re at it, stop postponing the inevitable, and open Martha’s letter.

  So I did just that. It was a card, written in neat, cramped writing. On the first side of it was the following:

  I can wade Grief—

  Whole Pools of it—

  I’m used to that—

  But the least push of Joy—

  Breaks up my feet—

  And I tip—drunken—

  Let no Pebble—smile—

  Twas the New Liquor—

  That was all!

  I turned the card over and read:

  I think you know the poet, David.

  And yes, you’re right: timing is, sadly, everything.

  Take care,

  Martha

  My first reaction was, Well, that could have been a lot worse. My second reaction was, She is wonderful. And my third reaction was, Forget all about it . . .

  When the boat docked at Saffron Island, Meg was there to greet me. She had packed up all my things, she said, and had everything ready to load aboard the chopper. But if I wanted to check my suite before leaving . . .

  “I’m sure you’ve found everything,” I said.

  “Then Mr. Fleck is waiting for you in the Great Room.”

  I followed her up the dock, into the house, and down the corridor to that vast, cathedral-like lounge. Before entering the room, I took a deep steadying breath. But as I walked in, I found that I was alone.

  “Mr. Fleck must have stepped away for a moment. Could I get you something to drink?”

  “Just a Perrier, please.”

  Meg left, and I parked myself in the same Eames chair that Martha told me cost $4,200. After a minute or so, I stood up and began to pace the room, glancing at my watch, telling myself I shouldn’t be getting anxious, because, after all, this guy was just a guy. Though he might be a guy with big bucks, nothing he said or did or thought about me would have any impact on my career. More to the point, he’d sent for me. I was the talent. He was the buyer. If he wanted what I was selling, fine. If not, I’d live.

  Two minutes went by, then three, then five. Then Meg returned, carrying a tray. But instead of my Perrier, there was a tall glass of tomato juice, adorned with a celery stalk.

  “What’s that?” I asked her.

  “It’s a Bloody Mary, sir.”

  “But I ordered a Perrier.”

  “Yes, but Mr. Fleck felt you should have a Bloody Mary first.”

  “He what?”

  Suddenly, I heard a voice from on high: specifically, from the balcony that overhung this room.

  “I thought you might be in need of a Bloody Mary,” the voice said, a low, slightly hesitant voice. After a moment, I heard footsteps on the circular steel stairs that led to the balcony. Philip Fleck walked down the steps slowly, favoring me with a vague smile. Of course, I knew his face from countless press photographs, but what initially surprised me was his chunky stature. He couldn’t have been more than five foot five, with sandy brown hair flecked with gray and a boyish face that showed all the signs of high-carbohydrate overconsumption. He wasn’t exactly fat—but he was most definitely fleshy. His clothes were hip-preppy-casual—a faded blue button-down shirt, worn loosely over a pair of well-washed tan chinos, with white Converse low-top sneakers on his feet. Though he’d allegedly just spent a week on a fishing boat under a sizzling Caribbean sun, he was surprisingly pale, making me wonder if he was one of those skin cancer obsessives who feared melanomas lurking behind even the slightest darkening of his pigment.

  He proffered his hand. I took it. His grip was soft, unforceful—the grip of someone who didn’t care whether or not you liked the impression he was making.

  “You must be David,” he said.

  “That’s me.”

  “Then, from what I hear, a Bloody Mary is definitely in order.”

  “Really? And what precisely did you hear?”

  “I heard from my wife that the two of you did some serious drinking last night.” He looked in my direction but not directly at me—as if he were a bit myopic and couldn’t focus on any near-distant object. “Did I hear right?”

  I chose my words with care. “It was a slightly wet evening,” I said.

  “Slightly wet,” he said, his voice still soft and ever so tentative. “What a nice turn of phrase you have. But given the ‘slight wetness’ of the previous night . . .”

  He motioned toward Meg and the drink on the tray. Part of me wanted to refuse it. But the other part told me to play along . . . especially as I really was in sudden need of a hangover cure.

  So I took the Bloody Mary off the tray, raised it in Fleck’s direction, and downed it in one long gulp. Then I replaced it on the tray and smiled directly at him.

  “You were obviously thirsty,” he said. “Another, perhaps?”

  “No thanks. One did the job.”

  He nodded to Meg and she withdrew. He motioned for me to sit in the Eames chair. He took up a position opposite me on the sofa but situated himself in such a way that he didn’t have to look at me, but instead could talk in the diagonal direction of the nearest wall.

  “So,” he said quietly, “a question for you . . .”

  “Fire away,” I said.

  “Do you think my wife’s an alcoholic?”

  Oh boy . . . “I wouldn’t know.”

  “But you spent two evenings drinking with her.”

/>   “Yes, that’s true.”

  “And she drank heavily on both occasions.”

  “But so did I.”

  “So are you an alcoholic too?”

  “Mr. Fleck . . .”

  “You can call me Philip. And you should know that Martha spoke quite highly of you. Mind you, she herself was quite high at the time. But that’s part of Martha’s charm, wouldn’t you agree?”

  I said nothing. Because I didn’t know what the hell to say.

  And Fleck was content to let us lapse into uncomfortable silence for the better part of a minute before I finally broke it.

  “How was the fishing?” I asked.

  “Fishing? I wasn’t fishing.”

  “You weren’t?”

  “No.”

  “But I was told . . .”

  “You were misinformed.”

  “Oh. So if you weren’t fishing . . . ?”

  “I was elsewhere. São Paulo to be exact.”

  “Business?”

  “No one ever goes to São Paulo for pleasure.”

  “Right.”

  Yet again, the conversation seized. Yet again, Fleck stared diagonally at the opposing wall.

  Finally, after another endless minute of silence, he spoke.

  “So . . . you wanted to see me,” he said.

  “I did?”

  “That’s what I was told.”

  “But . . . you invited me here.”

  “Did I?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Oh. Right.”

  “I mean, I thought you wanted to see me.”

  “About what?”

  “The script.”

  “What script?”

  “The script I wrote.”

  “You write scripts?”

  “Are you trying to be funny?”

  “Do I sound like I’m trying to be funny?”

  “No—you sound like you’re trying to play a game with me.”

  “And what sort of game would that be?”

  “You know why I’m here.”

  “Tell me again . . .”

  “Forget it,” I said, standing up.

  “Pardon?”

  “I said—forget it . . .”

  “Why did you say that?”

  “Because you’re messing with me.”

  “Are you angry?”

  “No—I’m just leaving.”

  “Have I done something wrong?”