Flashback

“I understand,” she said.

He dry-swallowed a Motrin and limped away.

The sun had broken through, warming his shoulders and turning the cove into an open bowl of green mercury. His eyes fell on the Skull Rock, drying to a dusty gray.

Jesus, jellyfish.

68

TO SAVE HER MONEY, THE CABBY had driven Rene directly to Logan Airport, where she caught a shuttle bus to Dover Falls, New Hampshire, where, on a call from the shuttle driver, another taxi met her to take her home. It was well after two A.M. when she had finally climbed into bed, drained and wondering if she had overreacted. Wondering how far it would have gone if she hadn’t reacted. No, every instinct told her she hadn’t overreacted.

On Sunday morning, Rene was at her dining room table working on the trial data for Nick in preparation for the Utah conference. At little after eleven, her doorbell rang, startling Silky from his sleep on the chair beside her. Outside was the black Ferrari. And the sight of it set off a small burst of adrenaline in her chest. Jordan was at the front door with a huge bouquet of flowers.

She couldn’t pretend she wasn’t home because her car sat in the driveway, and Jordan had spotted her looking out the window.

She opened the inside door, but not the screened storm door.

“I just wanted to stop by and apologize for the other night.” He was dressed in chinos and a sleeveless polo shirt and looked as if he were heading to a golf course. Except on his feet were boat shoes.

“I don’t remember half of what happened, but I think I acted badly. Really. I’m terribly sorry.”

She could still feel the heat from his eyes as he gripped her arm and swore at her with hot conviction. Maybe he was just a bad drunk. “Accepted.” Maybe she had overreacted, for she could still see herself in the middle of the living room with the fireplace iron raised like Uma Thurman in Kill Bill. Bull-shit ! Jordan was tall and athletic, and he was gassed. Who knew what he was capable of? Besides, she felt in peril.

Jordan looked at her through the screen with a supplicating expression. It was clear that he wanted to come inside. She opened the door and took the flowers. “Thank you,” and she closed the door again.

“Well, I just want you to know that that wasn’t the real me.”

“That’s a relief.”

His face blotched as he didn’t quite know how to take her comment. Then he made a flat smile of resignation. “I guess I had too much to drink.”

“I guess.”

“In any case, I’d like to make it up to you—you know, start afresh. I’ve got tickets to the auto show at the Exhibition Center.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea right now. Besides, I’m swamped with work.”

Jordan’s facial muscles tightened, and his left eye twitched slightly. And for a moment she expected him to push his way inside. But instead he nodded. “Okay, fine. I said what I was going to say.”

Rene watched him walk down the driveway to his car. As Jordan opened the door to get in, Rene noticed somebody in the passenger seat. A man. She didn’t recognize him at first, but she did register a large fleshy head and sunglasses.

Jordan lowered himself into the driver’s seat and started the car. But before he pulled away, he cast a final glance at Rene as he rolled by her mailbox. In the next moment the car roared away.

And like the afterimage of an old television set, it came to her that in the passenger seat was Gavin Moy.

69

MOTHER’S DAY FELL ON THE FIRST Sunday in May. And because it was a glorious day, Yesterdays was bustling with celebrants.

It was Jack’s second week of working the reception desk as host, and he was enjoying it. He felt engaged and useful. Several of the patrons were his old neighbors, a few former students, and town acquaintances who knew Jack’s story and who were delighted to see him back and on the mend. Between customers, he grabbed a few moments’ rest on a barstool behind the desk. During a lull that evening, Vince came over to Jack with a soft drink to see how he was doing.

Jack nodded that he was fine. “By the way, anyone you know own a Ford Explorer?”

“What color?”

“Black.”

“Yeah, about thirty guys. Why?”

Maybe it was a grand coincidence, but it was now the fourth or fifth time he had noticed the car—the last on his return from the port at New Bedford. “Not important.”

The evening passed well for Jack until, relieved by one of the waiters, he took a break and stepped into the kitchen for a snack. He stopped by the stove—an eight-burner industrial monster with all gas jets blazing—to watch the chef and three assistants moving from one burner to another, stirring and shaking with choreographic precision. On a butcher-block island, sous-chef Rico was carving a flank of beef, making cuts around the bones, trimming off the fat, and exposing the bright red muscle. Jack watched in amazement at the flourish of Rico’s hands, the blade slicing with surgical deftness, leaving neat red slabs, the white bone glistening in the light. Beside him his assistant Oliver lay the cuts flat and began to hammer them with a heavy cast-metal tenderizing mallet.

From the other side of the kitchen Vince came over with a dish of homemade mango sorbet. “Hey, Jacko, I need a sampler.”

Suddenly something happened.

“Jack?”

Jack did not answer. He was stunned in place—his eyes huge and fixed on Oliver hammering the red meat.

“Hey, man?”

But Jack was mesmerized by Oliver. Then Jack’s mouth started twitching as a low groan pumped up from his lungs.

Vince swooped over to him. “Jack, it’s okay.”

Jack’s body hunched over, his knees collapsing, his face a rictus of horror.

“What the hell’s happening to him?” Rico asked.

“Some kind of seizure,” Vince said. The others in the kitchen clustered around them, and somebody handed Vince a cold cloth. “Jack, snap out of it. Everything’s okay, okay.” He dabbed his face.

Rico found a chair and they lowered Jack onto it. He was still making those small weird grunts.

“What’s that, Jack? What are you saying?”

Jack had folded into the chair with Vince holding him in place, but all the while Jack’s eyes were fixed on the butcher block and the red wet meat and the bright metal hammer.

“Jack! Snap out of it.” And Vince slapped him on the face. That worked, because Jack let out a sigh, his mouth went slack, and his eyes closed. “Jack, come on, man. It’s okay.”

Jack opened his eyes and looked at Vince, then at the circle of people gaping at him. “What?”

“It’s okay. You had a little spell is all.” He handed him a glass of water. Jack’s face was tight and drained of color, his lips gray, his eyes all pupils. His face was slick and cold. “Somebody call an ambulance,” Vince said.

“No, no,” Jack said. “I’m … okay. Outside. Just need some air.”

They helped him to his feet and moved away as Vince took him through the back door. Rico followed with a chair and bottle of water.

The night was warm and clear, the stars hard white points against the black sky. Cicadas chittered in the trees. “Scared the hell out of us, pal.”

“Sorry.”

“Sorry, shit! I want you to call that doctor of yours tomorrow and tell her your damn meds are screwing you