was drunk and so she went back to an artist's flat, not very professional, but he'd been hitting on her all night and she thought he was extraordinarily attractive. It had been a good decision because their lovemaking was exceptional. They got even drunker and screwed their brains out and as great as that was, it was almost as good being in the flat, a loft which was right on the Thames, way, way east, with huge windows that looked out over the river and a part of the city that looked like Dickens was still living there. The next day she wasn't even hungover and someone else took her to the Groucho Club to discuss a book idea, whether she thought it was viable for America – and whether she might want to write the introduction.
Her last night there, she dined all by herself. It was her choice – she forced herself to do it, actually, since she was a little phobic about eating in public alone. But she loved it. Went to a chic place in Soho, the Sugar Club – a rave in the Time Out eating/drinking guide. She didn't even bring a book or magazine to read. She just ate and thought about everything that was happening to her and let the waiters fawn over her, which they most certainly did.
Oh, God, she'd felt sophisticated.
She didn't even mind coming home. Didn't mind being bumped in the airport by people rushing to get their luggage. Or getting stuck in traffic on the LIE. She didn't mind coming home to her apartment, which seemed warm and cozy to her. She enjoyed unpacking and tossing her travel clothes in the laundry and putting on her scruffy gray sweatpants and Marc Anthony sweatshirt, which she'd bought at his concert at the Garden.
The only thing she minded was when she checked her phone machine.
Three messages from Kid. He thought she'd be back by now. He really wanted to talk to her, to see her. Would she please call.
She didn't want to call him. It was over and she'd told him that before she left. Now, after this trip, she was more determined than ever to make sure it stayed over. It had been fun and, yes, it had been good for her. Even her shrink said so. But it was over. She had to move onward and upward. It was time to put what she was behind her. Time to become what she was on her way toward being.
She thought she'd made it clear to him. She was positive she'd made it clear. And she didn't want to see him again to go through the whole thing one more time. She knew exactly what would happen – she'd weaken. She'd start to like him – that was never the issue – and she'd start to be attracted to him – that was certainly never the issue – and she'd start to think about everything he knew about her. She'd start to realize how he could make her life so… so undesirable again.
She thought about the messages on her machine and she started to get angry. Really angry. She decided maybe she should call her shrink but then she thought: No, I can do this on my own. I can. I just got back from Paris and London and I'm sophisticated. I can handle it by myself.
She decided the best thing was to ignore him. She wouldn't return his phone calls. Yes, that was definitely best. Otherwise she might get even angrier.
And her anger scared her. And it depressed her.
It made her remember too many things it was time to forget.
– '-'-'THE DESTINATION It was strange being this close to him again. She knew where he lived, she was beginning to learn about his new life; sometimes she thought she could feel his presence. Feel him.
He had no idea she was around, of course. And it was better that way. It was the only way; she understood that. It would be a mistake to see him. It would be a disaster, in fact. He wouldn't want to think about her. He wouldn't want to see her. He wouldn't even want to know that she was alive.
She turned over in her bed. Slowly stroked the back of the man next to her, until he stirred, coming awake. She shouldn't have told him. That had been a mistake. But she thought somehow he would like it, that it would bring them even closer. It didn't, though. It had scared him. He hadn't said that but she could see it in his' eyes. It had disturbed him, as if there were something sick, almost perverted about the connection.
Oh, well. It was too late now, though, wasn't it?
She often thought there should be a place where you could queue up and receive a ticket that would allow you to live certain parts of your life over again. A replay. Like in a friendly tennis match.
But there were no replays in life, were there? She was living proof of that. So was the ache in her heart. She wondered if that ache was ever going to disappear.
She was beginning to think it was a permanent part of her. A physical attachment. We'll meet for tea? Oh, yes, I'm easy to find. I'm five-foot-six, have short black hair, gray eyes, and a large hole in my heart.
The man's eyes were open now and he smiled at the pleasure he was receiving from her nails scraping lightly down his spine.
He was a handsome man, Kid Demeter was. She liked being in bed with him. She liked being with him, period. Hell, she just plain liked him.
But she was in love with Jack Keller.
And, as always, she wondered if she'd ever be able to do anything about it.
TWENTY-FIVE
It was a Monday, the last week of a glorious May, and Dom was doing what he always did at noon on Mondays. Or 11 a.m. on Wednesdays or 4 p.m. on Fridays. He was working, quartering a baby calf, one of two requested by one of the top chefs in the city for a private party. This was Dom at his best: not only did he enjoy the work, he had charged the chef twice the going rate for these beauties and didn't even have to haggle. He looked at the man to his right, busy slicing up the second calf, and he smiled.
'You haven't lost your touch, Jackie boy.'
Jack looked up, satisfied with the job he'd done. He laid the butcher knife on the table, the razor-sharp blade glistening and dripping with red. 'I love these knives,' he said. He stared at the row of eight, each one a different size and thickness, that Dom had lined up on one of the butcher-block tables. These knives were a good forty years old, they'd been there since Jack was a boy. Thick, dark wood handles, rough-hewn and worn but somehow elegant and light to the touch. The blades, sharpened every day, able to slice effortlessly through muscle and gristle and even bone. Jack walked over and picked up the cleaver. He turned it over, admiring it from every angle. 'They're works of art, aren't they?'
'I wouldn't get carried away,' Dom said. 'They're nice enough. Mostly they're sharp as shit and they get the job done. But I'm glad you like 'em so much. If you ever want your old job back…'
'I keep forgetting who I'm talking to,' Jack said, then looked at his watch. 'I told him not to be late.'
'Kid's never been on time since he was twelve years old,' Dom told him. 'Relax.'
'It's just-'
'Yeah, yeah, I know what it's just. It's just that you haven't been back to the restaurant since…' He hesitated, saw the fear in Jack's eyes, decided to plunge ahead anyway, it was the right thing to do. '… since she died and you're nervous about it. You got a right to be nervous about it, pal. And guess what? You'll feel like shit for a while and then it'll get better. You gotta do it sometime so you might as well do it now. And don't think I'm tryin' to take your mind off this whole thing, but I gotta tell ya, you're walkin' just about normal now. You look really good. Who'da thought Kid'd actually know what the hell he was doin'?'
'I heard that.' It was Kid. His voice came from somewhere among the hanging slabs of meat but they couldn't see him yet. Jack heard footsteps, then heard a punching sound – like fists hitting a heavy bag – and he saw one of the hanging pigs off to the side start to sway. Kid stepped out from behind the pig, rubbing his right fist. He jerked his head toward the moving pork slab. 'He gave me a tough fight, but I knew he'd weaken around the seventh. I'm sorry I'm late.'
Dom snorted and Kid gave Jack a 'what's up with him?' look. Jack shrugged as if he had no idea.
'So what's this big business idea you're goin' off to discuss?' Dom asked. 'And do I get to buy in?'
'You'll get your chance,' Kid said. 'If Jack thinks there's anything to it.'
'I can't believe you're usin' him as the sounding board. I taught this guy everything he knows about business.'
'That's true,' Jack said. 'That's why it's a miracle I ever made a dime.'
'Nothin' but grief,' Dom muttered. 'Nothin' but grief…' And then both he and Jack were looking at Kid, who was
