They’ll be back tomorrow for brunch.”
Rene felt herself tense up.
“So,” Jordan said. He lowered himself to the couch again and put his arm around her shoulder. “I’ve got a question for you, if you don’t mind,” he began. “I asked you out four times, and four times you turned me down. I’m just wondering what there is about me you don’t like. Is it my appearance? Was it something I said? Do I have bad breath? Every time I ask you say you’re busy.”
“Well, I have been. That’s the truth.”
“Well, you’re not busy now.” He lowered his face to hers, at the same time sliding his hand over her shoulder toward her breast.
“Please don’t,” she said.
“Please don’t what?”
“Don’t this.” And she removed his hand.
Jordan snapped his head back. “What’s your problem?”
“I don’t feel like being pawed.”
His face was nearly the color of the wine. “Pawed? Is everything fucking protocol with you … or should I say
She got up to move to the chair, but he grabbed her arm. “Where are you going?” He glowered hotly at her.
“Jordan, stop this.”
“Stop what? I haven’t done anything but try to give you a damn kiss, for God’s sake.”
“You’re hurting my arm.”
His face was maroon and eyes were glassy and wild-looking. Suddenly Rene felt afraid of him. She was seeing another being in Jordan that had resided below the surface. His face was the color of rage. “Jordan, please let go of me.”
He glared at her for a long moment, still holding her, scrutinizing her face, his own hot and on this side of erupting. He did not let go.
“Please let go of me,” she insisted.
But he continued to study her without expression. So with her other hand she dug her nails into his wrist and snapped her arm free. Then she shot inside.
“Fucking little bitch,” muttered Jordan, and stumbled after her. “Where you going?” he shouted, as he entered the living room.
In an instant, Rene decided not to go upstairs for fear of being trapped in a bedroom. So she bolted to the fireplace, grabbed a fire iron out of the rack, and raised it like a bat.
She had not heard him utter such language nor imagined this heat in him. Maybe he was just a bad drunk, but what crossed that thought was that her reaction was confirming the menace she saw in him. And that maybe it was all he needed to assume the role.
Jordan stopped in his tracks as she raised the poker, and for a moment he just stared at her without expression. But in her mind she rehearsed her moves if he came at her. He was drunk, unsteady in his step, sloppy in his movements, seeing double—and she wasn’t. Maybe it was the adrenaline thundering in her veins, but she felt twice her size. One flinch of aggression from him and she’d split his skull.
He must have picked up her radiation, because his face slackened and his mouth creased into a stupid grin. “What the hell you doing? I’m not going to hurt you.”
“You bet your ass you’re not.”
“Put that thing down.” He was wavering and had to steady himself against the couch. “What the hell’s your problem? I was just trying to be romantic, for God’s sake.” And he flopped onto the couch, spilling more wine on himself. “Shit,” he said taking in the big red stain.
“Who was that on the phone?”
“What?”
“Who was that on the phone?”
“Grady. Who do you think it was?”
“And what did he say?”
For a moment Jordan had to regroup himself against the wine. “What do you mean? You know, that Leah wanted them to stay with … the grandparents … Why?”
His face was in flames. He was lying. He could have answered on the portable, but he took the call inside. It
With the poker in hand, Rene went up the stairs for her bag, knowing that he was in no shape to follow her but certain that if he did, she’d nail him. She felt that close to the edge. (Once Todd had hit her in a moment of craziness, and she nearly scratched his eyes out.)
But Jordan didn’t come after her, and from the bedroom she called a cab and said it was urgent. “Five minutes, lady. Got a guy in the neighborhood.” She waited several minutes before going back down.
When she did, Jordan was sprawled on the couch, holding his head and groaning. “Where’re you goin’?” His shirt and pants were stained with wine.
“Home.”
Suddenly he was alert, his eyes huge glass balls. “You’re not taking my car?”
“I called a cab.”
“A cab? Aren’t you overreacting?”
He tried to get up, making it only halfway. He groaned. “God, my head.” Then he looked at her. “You’re being a … You’re being hysterical, you know that? I’m a doctor, for chrissake. I’m not going to hurt you.”
Outside a horn honked, and she headed for the door.
“You’re being ridiculous,” he said.
She stepped outside.
“Goddamn bitch!”
With her bag, she hustled to the cab. As she got in, she looked back to see Jordan stumble after her. She could hear him still muttering curses.
The cab pulled away and made a U-turn at the bottom of the street. As they passed the house, she noticed Jordan leaning against his Ferrari and vomiting wine and casserole onto the driveway.
67
That’s what Jack told himself as he pulled his rental into the Harbor Line parking lot in New Bedford to purchase his round-trip ticket.
Homer’s Island.
It was located at the southwesterly end of the Elizabeth chain, about eighteen miles south of the old whaling port of New Bedford and four miles southwest of Cuttyhunk. Privately owned and devoid of strip malls, clam shacks, minimart Mobil stations, or any other commercial blight, the island consisted of seven hundred unspoiled acres and maybe a couple of dozen august mansions that sneered down from their cliffs over million-dollar yachts as reminders that you were not a member of the Lucky Sperm Club. In spite of the exclusive domain, the summer months drew a few boaters to the tranquil anchorage and the wildlife. The ferry left three times a week at ten A.M.
Jack arrived a few minutes early with a growing sense of unease. He really didn’t know why he was doing
