He stared at me for a moment and then he began to laugh, a big hearty deep-down laugh that made his chest shake. “I’m sorry,” he said, as my face reddened. “Forgive me.” He shook his head and raised his arm. “Hey there, old sport”—he beckoned for our waiter, who quickly rushed over—“pour another glass for the lady, would you?”
Before I could protest, the waiter was pouring me more wine. When he walked away, Jay had gotten control of himself again, and his features were stoic and calm. “I’m sorry for laughing. It’s just… you’ve misread my intentions, Jordan. What I needed to ask you was… how’s Daisy?” His eyes opened a little wider, his mouth parted a little, and he rested his chin in his hands, staring at me intently. Was it possible that after all this time, all these years, he was still in love with Daisy?
I bit my lip, then took another long sip of wine, and I thought about how to answer. I decided to tell him something true that wouldn’t really tell him anything at all: “I haven’t seen Daisy in over a year, since I visited her and Tom in France.” He grimaced when I said Tom’s name. It made me soften toward him a little, as I felt the way his face looked: angry and disappointed and a little bit sad. Tom was no good for Daisy; maybe we could both agree on that.
“But you’ve talked to her… written to her?” His voice floundered. He’d been expecting so much of me at this dinner, but only in terms of how it related to my knowledge of Daisy. He knew nothing of my scandal, or, if he did, he didn’t care to bring it up. That, in itself, was refreshing. “Is she happy in Chicago?” he asked now.
I wondered how he knew she was in Chicago, how closely he’d been keeping track of her, and how he’d gotten any information about her at all. Not that the Tom Buchanans were the sort of couple who ever kept a low profile. Maybe it wouldn’t be that hard to keep track. I supposed they were all over the society pages.
“Happy?” My voice faltered a little on the word, and I took another large sip of wine.
Later I would think, if I hadn’t had almost two glasses of Sancerre, I wouldn’t have said what I did next. And maybe, if I’d just kept my mouth shut, everything would’ve turned out differently.
But at the time, my head was foggy, and I was angry at Tom. I’d promised him I’d hurt him if he hurt Daisy again, and what better way to do it than this? “Actually,” I said to Jay, “I don’t think they are very happy in Chicago at all. In fact, they’re moving, after the first of the year. Out here. They bought a house in East Egg.”
Jay’s eyes widened again, and they were such a bright shade of green, they reminded me of the glow of the Mediterranean outside my bedroom veranda first thing in the morning in Cannes. “East Egg,” he said softly, turning the idea of it over in his mind as he spoke. “Daisy is moving, here. To East Egg.”
“Yes,” I said. “Just across the sound. She’ll be practically close enough to touch.”
And though it was the day after Christmas, I smiled a little to myself, and I thought, Merry Christmas, Daisy.
Merry Christmas, Tom.
Detective Frank Charles December 1922
NEW YORK
CHRISTMAS WAS THE HARDEST TIME.
For one thing, every childhood memory he had of the holiday was wrapped up in Lizzie, in her sheer delight of all things holy, bright, and sparkly. Every year when Dolores started unpacking ornaments, hanging them on their tiny tree, he could picture Lizzie doing the same, could suddenly, clearly remember the sound of her laugh.
Christmas had gotten doubly hard for him these past three years, since Dolores had gotten sick. Now, it was a bona fide fact—they would never have a family of their own. Never have a little girl with a laugh like Lizzie’s or a little boy with Dolores’s sea glass green eyes to enjoy Christmas with them. It was just Frank and Dolores, and who knew how many years he’d even have Dolores here with him. Fifty-fifty. Three years had come and gone. But would four?
“Frank?” Dolores said now, as they sat on the couch together, listening to Christmas carols on the phonograph. “You look so far away. Are you thinking about the Gatsby case still? It’s Christmas,” she chided him.
He nodded, smiled sheepishly. Sure, better to let her think his mind was lost in the case than in imagining a bleak and terrible future without her. “Sorry,” he apologized and wrapped his arm around her. He pulled her closer, kissed the top of her head. Her hair smelled vaguely like the turkey she’d roasted in the oven for dinner and the cinnamon from the cake she’d made for dessert. Would this be their last year, their last Christmas? he wondered for the fourth year in a row. It felt impossible and also strangely inevitable.