“Oh,” Jack said, taken aback a little by how fast she’d spoken. “I’d be happy to have dinner with you and your husband.”
“Okay. Let me think. What about this Thursday night? Do you think that would work?”
“I know that what I’m supposed to do right now is hem and haw and try to pretend that I’m mentally ticking through all of my upcoming social engagements, but I am pretty confident that I’m free on Thursday. I’d love to come.”
“Great. Come at six. I know that’s a little early, but we tend to eat early. And is there anything you don’t eat?”
“I eat everything except octopus, but somehow I doubt you were thinking of cooking octopus.”
“Why don’t you eat octopus?”
“It does taste quite good, but I saw a documentary about them, and I kind of fell in love. They’re very intelligent, and quite mysterious. I just can’t bear it. I mean, I know that pigs are intelligent, and that chickens can bond with people, and all that, but somehow, it’s different. Or I’m just a hypocrite.”
“Fair enough. No octopus. And no need for you to bring anything besides yourself. And, right on cue, there he is.”
She was looking down the street, where a black SUV was turning into her driveway. Out stepped a clean-cut man dressed in what looked like golf clothes to Jack. Slim-cut chinos and a tucked-in polo shirt. Margaret quickly finished her drink, handed the glass to Jack, and stood up. She took a couple of steps out onto Jack’s front lawn, then waved her husband over. He walked to them, and Jack thought that Margaret seemed tense.
“Jack, this is Eric. Eric, this is the neighbor I was telling you about. Who wrote the book.”
Jack stood up and shook Eric’s hand. He’d been prepared for the forceful grip of a young finance guy but was still shocked by just how much it actually hurt.
“Yeah, she told me about your book,” Eric said, “but couldn’t tell me anything about it, of course. I looked you up. Six months on the Times bestseller list. Not too shabby.”
“That was a long time ago,” Jack said.
“Jack’s going to come over to our house for dinner on Thursday night,” Margaret said, looking up at Eric’s profile. “It’s all planned. There will be no octopus on the menu.”
“Ri-ight,” Eric said, furrowing his brow at Jack as though they were the longtime friends, and Margaret was the stranger who said odd things.
“Margaret asked me what I ate, and I told her I ate anything but octopus.”
“Oh, man. You been to that Spanish place downtown? Something something tapas bar. The octopus there is fucking delicious. You’d change your mind, I promise you.”
Margaret threaded her arm through Eric’s and said, “Let’s leave Jack alone now. I need to start making dinner, anyway.”
Her husband turned to her, and Jack found himself focusing on the tendons in Eric’s neck. “You been drinking?” he said.
“I’ve had one drink, thanks to Jack’s hospitality.”
“You just kind of reek of gin. Whatcha making for dinner?”
“Come with me, and I’ll tell you. Jack, thanks for the drink. Looking forward to Thursday.”
They turned and made their way to their house, and Jack stood in place for a little while, feeling inordinately sad.
Back in the house he went from room to room, turning on lights. It was now fully dusk, his least favorite time of the day, and the only thing that kept the gloom from depressing him was a well-lit house. In the kitchen he opened up his refrigerator, wondering what he might have for dinner, even though he mostly felt like having another gin.
4
MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 19, 10:06 A.M.
Jessica was looking at her travel bag, which was sitting on her coffee table. She was dressed in track pants and a hooded sweatshirt. It was going to be at least an eight-hour drive to get to Gwen’s cottage in Maine, and she wanted to be comfortable.
She made a sudden decision, went into her study, opened the closet, and found a large cardboard box filled with old paperwork that she’d been meaning to shred for about six months now. She dumped the paperwork out onto the floor of the closet and brought the box back with her into the living room, then transferred all of her clothes and toiletries into the box. That was better.
She’d already turned her iPhone off and put it in her desk drawer. It was going to be strange to be without it, but her life was strange now, no matter what.
She picked up the cardboard box with both arms, and awkwardly swung open her door, stepped outside onto her front step, and closed the door behind her. She walked to her Camry, and stowed the cardboard box on the backseat, aware she was being watched from the blue sedan parked over by the communal swimming pool. She walked in the car’s direction, waving at the occupant. The window rolled down as she got close enough to speak.