She fumbled in her purse for something. The purse was smooth leather, small and black. It probably cost a thousand bucks at a Coconut Grove boutique. She withdrew a pink envelope and handed it to me. “I wrote you a letter, but…”
I turned it over in my hand, a dainty pink envelope carrying the scent of her perfume, bringing back a thousand memories. I resisted the urge to close my eyes and press the envelope to my nose. My name was written on the front in red ink. Girlish script. Straight up-and-down letters. The letter J looked like two fat balloons, one on top of the other. A “Dear Jake” letter.
I opened it and withdrew a neatly folded piece of pink stationery. A rose on top and the initials GMF. It struck me that I didn’t know her middle name. Of course, even if I did, it could have changed over the years.
It wasn’t a “Dear Jake” letter after all. More like “Dearest Jake,” written in the same up-and-down handwriting with very round O’s and curlicues on the G’s.
Dearest Jake,
You are so very special and have been for so very long, and that only makes this more difficult. I know how you feel about me, even though you really don’t say it. I have hurt you in the past, and I should not keep coming back to you. I care for you and hope for the best for you, but I will never leave Nicky. He loves me and is good to me, and I want to be just as good to him. So finally, dearest Jake, it is over.
With deep affection, Gina
Good-bye lover. Hello heartbreak.
I wondered if Rick Gondolier received a similar letter. And maybe a third and fourth guy, too. If Gina had a word processor, she could avoid writer’s cramp. But something wasn’t making sense. “I didn’t ask you to leave Nicky.”
“I know you, Jake. You always hoped-”
“Ah, you’re a mind reader now, in addition to your other talents, most of which are accomplished on your back.” I don’t know why I said that. Petty. Stupid. Cruel.
If my words had stung, Gina didn’t show it. She just studied me, her deep blue eyes betraying no emotion. “Go ahead and insult me, Jake, if it makes you feel better.”
“Hey, what’s the big deal? Easy come, easy go. Hey, it’s like you always said to me: ‘Maybe I’ll see you later, and maybe I won’t.’”
“Jake, why can’t you grow up and express your feelings?”
“What feelings? Look, all of this was your idea. You’re the one who always got the ball rolling. You’re the one who showed up at my house, or here, or at the beach. My only mistake was not kicking you out of bed.”
She reached into the black leather purse and grabbed a pack of Winstons. She tapped out one cigarette and placed it between her pursed lips. If she was waiting for me to light it, she had a long wait. She reached back into the purse, found a gold lighter, struck it, and craned her long neck as she inhaled. “Don’t be like that, Jake. It always happens.”
“ Always? With all men? Or always with me?”
She exhaled a long plume of smoke that drifted to the ceiling. “With you, Jake. You either retreat into a shell or strike out. Show no pain, isn’t that your motto?”
“Play with pain is the way the coach always put it.”
“It would be better to acknowledge the pain, talk about it, deal with it.”
“Now you’re a therapist, too.”
“I’ve been there, Jake. I’ve been hurt, and I’ve dealt with it.”
“Forget it. I’m a big boy. I can take a hit.”
Sure I can. I’m a former varsity member of the AFC Eastern Division All-Star Party Team. In the old days, I led the league in broken curfews and broken hearts. I could find an after-hours club in Buffalo during a power outage in December. Buffalo! But I retired. The stewardesses, secretaries, and models have come and gone. An endless variety of sameness. Names, faces, legs, all merge into a creamy blur. The same idle chatter, the same sweet deceptions, the same empty morning-afters.
“Do you understand why I’m doing this?” she asked me.
“Maybe you feel guilty, and you’ve decided to stay home afternoons and bake apple pies. Maybe you’re joining a convent.” I put an edge on my voice. “Maybe you found someone else.”
Now I studied her.
“There’s no one else, Jake.”
She lies so much better than I do. Maybe all those marriages were good training.
“I’m doing it for Nicky,” she said softly, “but I’m doing it for you, too.”
“Gee, thanks, and on behalf of Nicky, double thanks.”
What was in those eyes now? A touch of sadness. “This is better for you, Jake. Why do you suppose you’ve never gotten married, never even lived with anyone?”
“I lived with you, or you lived with me. Three months my last year in the league. You’d been evicted from your apartment for playing The Who at two hundred decibels.”
“Okay, other than me, you’ve never lived with anyone. And when you and I are involved, you don’t see anyone else, do you?”
“No. I’m not ambidextrous. I can’t handle two women at once.”
She smiled a sweet, soft smile. “You’ve been waiting for me all these years, and I’ve been letting you do it, encouraging you by coming back again and again.”
“There are lots of women in my life,” I said defensively.
“I know,” Gina said, “but why isn’t there one?”
Chapter 7
“Now, Mrs. Morales, do you agree that a host has a duty to protect his guests from harm?”
Gloria Morales eyed H.T. Patterson with suspicion. She was a stocky forty-one-year-old airline reservations clerk with two children in public school and a husband who repaired copying machines. Jurors didn’t come any more typical than this. “If the judge says so, sure,” she answered warily.
“Right, Mrs. Morales.” H.T. Patterson looked in awe at the woman, as if she had just solved the mysteries of cold fusion. “One hundred percent cor-rect!” Bouncing on his toes, Patterson moved closer to the jury box rail. “And do you promise to follow the judge’s instructions as to the law in this case?”
Now that was an easy one.
“Yes,” Mrs. Morales said, “of course.”
“All of you now,” Patterson boomed, his gaze sweeping across the jury box, “will you all follow the judge’s instructions as to the legal duty of a social host to his guests?”
Patterson stepped back and watched as eight heads nodded. After preaching to hundreds at his inner-city church, this couldn’t be too hard. We needed six jurors and two alternates, and so far Patterson was skillfully indoctrinating the panel with his slant on the case. At the same time, he was working on a corollary of Festinger’s Dissonance Theory: Public commitment leads to behavior change. Get a juror to publicly commit to a position-the accused is presumed innocent, or injured persons deserve compensation, or the moon is made of green cheese-and the juror will pattern his or her behavior to the commitment in order to avoid dissonance. That’s a fancy way of saying that most people feel bad about lying.
Outside the courthouse, the temperature had dipped into the forties. I liked the chill in the air, though I hoped it wouldn’t remind the jurors of Peter Tupton’s blue feet. A Canadian cold front had dipped through the Midwest, bringing snow as far south as Atlanta. Frightened central Florida citrus growers hauled out the smudge pots and put their faith in black smoke and midnight waterings. In Mia-muh, everyone turned off their A/C, except me, because I don’t have any. Across the bay, the women in Bal Harbour retrieved their furs from storage, and the trendy types along Ocean Drive on South Beach dusted off their leather motorcycle jackets.
