Chasing Harry Winston

She knew Jesse had a wife (although he had given Leigh the impression that she wasn’t in the Hamptons), but she had never, ever envisioned him as a father. Of course it made complete sense-it would almost be strange if he weren’t-but something about seeing proof of this made her feel vaguely irritated and a little disappointed.

By the time they reached the house, her heart had started to beat faster and her breath began to shorten in the telltale signs of anxiety. In front of her, Jesse climbed out of his Jeep and approached her car. She felt a sweat break out on her forehead, and she wished she could be parked on her couch, reading a manuscript or chatting with Russell about his upcoming interview with Tony Romo. It’d be worth it even if he wanted to have sex and watch SportsCenter and the upstairs neighbor was hosting a dance party full of leg brace-wearing guests. Anywhere but right here, right now.

Jesse opened Leigh’s car door for her and led her down a walkway to the front porch, a wide expanse of open space decorated with only a hammock and a love-seat swing. Beside the swing was an empty bottle of Chianti and a single dirty wineglass.

“Are your children here? I’d love to meet them,” Leigh lied.

Jesse looked around the porch, appearing confused for a minute, and then smiled knowingly, like he could read her mind. “Oh, you mean the playground? It’s for my nephews-not my own.”

Something about the way he said this seemed definitive; even though she told herself she didn’t care either way-and despite being well aware that it was rude and way too personal-she pushed it. “Does that mean you just happen not to have kids, or you don’t want them ever?”

He laughed and shook his head while he opened the front door. “Jesus Christ, you say whatever you’re thinking, don’t you?”

In for a penny, in for a pound. “Well?” she asked.

“No, I don’t want children. Not now, and not ever.”

Leigh held up her hands in mock defense. “Looks like I hit a nerve.”

Jesse tried to suppress his smile, but Leigh caught a glimpse of it anyway. “Anything else you’d like to know? How I’m eating, how I’m sleeping?”

“Well, then, we got the kid thing out of the way. So…how are you eating and sleeping?” She grinned broadly and felt her anxiety begin to dissipate. She’d forgotten how fun it was to banter with him.

His eyes were bloodshot and his face was unshaven and pale. Even his hair looked a little dull-not dirty or greasy, exactly, just uninspired. He struck an exaggerated modeling pose-hip jutted out and lips pursed-and said, “You tell me. How do you think I’m eating and sleeping?”

“Like shit,” Leigh said without a moment’s hesitation.

Jesse laughed and pushed the door open. “Welcome to my humble abode.”

Leigh looked around. She took in the creaky floors and the gigantic, well-worn farmhouse table and the crocheted blanket flung haphazardly across the sofa and, although she had already fallen in love with the whole house based on this first room, sighed loudly for effect and said, “Jesse, Jesse, Jesse…did you really spend all your earnings on cocaine and hookers, like the tabloids claim?”

He shook his head. “Cocaine, booze, and hookers.”

“I stand corrected.”

“Okay, then, should we get started? I mostly work out back, through the living room, so why don’t you get set up there and I’ll bring drinks.” He pulled open the fridge and bent sideways to look inside. “Let’s see, I’ve got beer, some shitty white wine, some not-so-shitty rose, and Bloody Mary mix. I think it’s a bit early for red, don’t you?”

“I think it’s a bit early for any of it. I’ll take a Diet Coke.”

Jesse snapped his fingers and pulled a half-full bottle of Ketel from the freezer. “Excellent choice. One Bloody Mary, coming right up.”

She already knew there was no point in arguing with him, and besides, he looked like he needed a drink to take the edge off last night’s hangover. Leigh vaguely remembered what that was like. Back in her postcollege years in the city, when her body allowed her to drink until three and still be at work by nine, she’d occasionally had a few sips of wine with breakfast to ease the pain. She remembered all the nights out with Emmy and Adriana, traipsing across the city, from happy hour to birthday party, drinking too much, smoking too much, and kissing too many nameless, faceless boys. God, that seemed like forever ago…the seven, eight years felt like a lifetime. Now the heels were never quite so high (how had she ever worn something so uncomfortable?) and the packed bars had given way to more civilized restaurants (thank god) and she couldn’t remember the last time she’d stayed up all night for any reason other than work or insomnia. But, Leigh reminded herself, some of those happy memories must have been revisionist history. How could they not have been? Back then there was no prestigious job, no independently owned and operated apartment, and certainly no doting fiance.

Leigh wandered through the skylight-lit living room and opened the sliding glass door to reveal one of the most welcoming outdoor spaces she’d ever seen. It wasn’t a backyard so much as an oasis in the middle of the forest. Huge towering oaks and maples created an enclosed area that was covered with inviting, but not overly manicured, green grass. A small gunite pool-so small that perhaps it was only a plunge pool or a hot tub-was flanked by two chaises, a table, and chairs, and seemed to blend into the background, allowing one’s attention to focus on the real draw: a perfect little pond, maybe twenty feet by thirty, with a floating, cushioned sun dock and the simplest of wooden rowboats tethered to the shore. Behind the pond, at the very edge of the property, tucked under a cluster of leafy trees, was a Balinese-style teak daybed, the kind that easily fits two people and provides shade from a roof atop its four posts. It was all Leigh could do not to walk directly to the daybed and collapse; she wondered how, with so beautiful and relaxing a place, Jesse ever got anything done.

“Not bad, huh?” he asked, stepping onto the stone patio and handing her a Bloody Mary complete with celery stalk and lime.

“My god, this place doesn’t look like much from the front-or the inside, really-but this… this is gorgeous.”

“Thanks. I think.”

“No, really, have you thought about having this photographed? I can so picture it in one of those design magazines, what are they called? Dwell. It’s perfect for Dwell.”

He ran his hands through his hair and swigged from his bottle of Budweiser. “Unlikely.”

“No, really, I think it could be-”

“No reporters or photographers in my home, ever.”

“I hear that,” Leigh agreed, although she couldn’t help but remember the spread of Russell’s apartment she’d seen in Elle Decor before they’d ever even met. It was included in an article on the city’s best bachelor pads and featured Russell’s ultramodern TriBeCa loft as its piece de resistance. At the time Leigh had pored over the pictures of the kitchen, which looked industrial enough to serve as a catering hall; the wenge platform bed, which was so low it may as well have been a mattress on the floor; and the bathroom, which looked like it was pulled directly from a W Hotel and plunked down in the middle of the apartment. She’d read that the place was twenty-two hundred square feet of completely open space, huge windows, and hardwood floors lacquered black, but it wasn’t until their third date that Leigh saw it for herself. Since then, she’d spent as little time there as humanly possible; all that steel and black lacquer and all those sharp corners made her even more nervous than usual.

Jesse took a seat at the table and motioned for Leigh to claim the one opposite him. After another slow, deliberate pull on his beer, he took a deep breath, undid the clasp on a tatty canvas messenger bag, and pulled a phonebook-sized sheaf of paper from its center. He presented this to Leigh with both hands, the way an Asian waiter might present a check or a business card. “Be gentle,” he said quietly.

“I thought you wanted honesty, not gentleness?” She took the manuscript and placed it in front of her, not sure how she could resist tearing into it for another moment. “‘No one’s straight with me, I’m coddled and yessed and I just want an editor who’s going to tell it like it is.’” She imitated the speech she was told he’d made in their first meeting in Henry’s office.

Jesse lit a cigarette and said, “That was all bravado. Bullshit. I’m a complete baby who can barely handle constructive criticism, much less a thorough slashing.”

Leigh pressed her palms into the table and smiled. “Well, that, Jesse Chapman, makes you exactly like every