Alison took a deep breath, but her windpipe felt constricted, as though she couldn’t quite get enough oxygen. Her chest hurt, and her immaculate living room, and its objects, looked suddenly strange in her vision, unreal, as though she were seeing them for the first time. Her limbs felt hollow, and a voice in her head said, You’re dying, this is it. But another voice said, It’s a panic attack. You had one before, in college. It felt just like this. And the second voice won. She didn’t call 911, but slowly waited for the feeling to pass, and eventually it did.
By dinnertime she felt almost human again, exhausted, and hungry enough to eat a yogurt. While she ate, she flipped through the channels on the television, but couldn’t find anything to watch, so she logged onto Amazon Prime and binge-watched most of season two of Fleabag, a show she’d already watched a couple of times. In between the second and third episodes she opened a bottle of Vermentino and grabbed a single-serving packet of raw almonds. During the last episode she got a call from Jonathan, very surprising since it was late on Sunday evening. Pausing the television, she picked up and said, “Hi.”
“Al,” he said. He rarely called and when he did she always thought that his voice sounded so much older than he looked. A voice from an old movie, masculine and clipped.
She was about to make some quip about hearing from him on a Sunday, but said, instead, “Everything okay?”
“Yes and no,” he said. “Jane’s left me.” Jane was his wife, and based on what he’d told Alison about her, she was supposed to be the type of wife who would never leave a marriage.
“What do you mean? For good?”
He cleared his throat. “It’s a total shock, but she’s actually met someone else, and she up and left yesterday afternoon. They have an apartment together already.”
“Oh my God, Jonathan. How are you doing?”
“I’m dumbfounded, honestly, but I’m also … I’m also free now, I guess.”
“Sounds like it.”
“And the first person I thought of was you.”
“Sweetheart,” she said. It was her endearment for him, and she didn’t use it very often.
“Want to go away for a few days? I was thinking I could bring you to my place in Bermuda. The weather will be—”
“Yes. Yes,” she said, sitting up so fast that she kicked over the bottle of wine that was on the floor, spilling the small amount that was left.
“I have some things to do, but I thought that maybe we could leave toward the end of the week, be there by next weekend.”
“I’d love that.”
“Great. I’ll get back to you with arrangements. I can book a private flight out of Teterboro, and I can get a car to bring you out. Are you sure you’re up for spending all that time with an old man?”
“I’m thrilled. Really. I’m not just saying that, Jonathan.”
After ending the call, Alison played her “going out” Spotify mix as loud as she thought she could without getting a noise complaint, looked up the weather in Bermuda, then started laying out clothing possibilities on her bed, even though it would be several days before she was going.
After making a list of items she’d need to buy that week, she listened to a very strange message from a man identifying himself as Agent Berlin of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, wondering if she’d received a piece of mail with a list on it that included her name. He left her his number to call, plus the local number of the FBI office in Manhattan, where she could ask for an Agent Garrett. She’d known that list was bad news, and she deleted the voice mail without taking down any of the numbers. She’d already decided she’d be better off not knowing. Besides, in a week’s time she’d be in Bermuda.
3
SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 18, 5:31 P.M.
Jack had spent too much of the day indoors, clicking through news stories on Google, making phone calls to various people in his employ, and decided that before it got too dark, he’d make himself a drink and sit outside and enjoy it.
There was a built-in cabinet in the dining room and that was where he’d set up his bar.
He cracked open a fresh bottle of Plymouth, thinking he’d make himself a martini, then remembered that he didn’t have any olives. Never mind, he thought, and decided to make himself the drink he internally called “The Travis McGee,” named for the favorite drink of the main character in a slew of thrillers he used to devour back in the day. They all had colors in the title, the books did, and he remembered one he thought was called The Amber Place for Dying, or something like that. He couldn’t remember the author’s name, it was something MacDonald, maybe John or Gregory, but the hero was Travis McGee, and for whatever reason, probably because it was a damn fine drink, he remembered how to make Travis McGee’s favorite tipple.