“Odd,” she says.
“What’s that?”
“Have we ever been alone before?”
“I don’t think so.”
“We always had Myron in the room.”
“Feels like we still do,” I say.
“Yeah, I know.” Jessica blinks and reaches for the glass. “I really messed up.”
I don’t correct her.
“My marriage sucks,” she says.
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Are you?”
“I am now.”
“Did you hate me when I left Myron?”
“Hate probably isn’t the right word.”
“What is?”
“Loathe.”
She laughs and raises her glass. “Touché.”
“I’m joking,” I say. “In truth, you never mattered to me.”
“That’s honest.”
“I never saw you as a separate entity.”
“Just a part of Myron?”
“Yes.”
“Like an appendage?”
“Not that relevant, frankly. Like an arm or a leg? No. Never that important.”
She tries again. “Like a small satellite orbiting him?”
“Closer,” I say. “In the end, you caused Myron pain. That’s all I cared about. How you affected him.”
“Because you love him.”
“I do, yes.”
“It’s sweet. So maybe you understand better now.”
“I don’t,” I say. “But go on, if you wish.”
“Myron was such a big presence,” Jessica says.
“Still is.”
“Exactly. He sucks all the air out of the room. He dominates by just being there. When I was with him, my writing suffered. Did you know that?”
I try not to scowl. “And you’re blaming him?”
“I’m blaming us. He’s not a planet I’m orbiting. He’s the sun. When I was with him too much—the intensity—I was afraid I would disappear into it. Like the gravity would draw me too close to his flames, overwhelm me, drown me.”
Now I do scowl without reservation.
“What?” she says.
“Ignoring your mixing metaphors—are you drowning or burning up?—that’s such complete and utter nonsense. He loved you. He took care of you. That intensity you felt was overwhelming? That was love, Jessica. The bona fide ideal, the rarest of the rare. When he smiled at you, you felt a warmth you’d never known before because he loved you. You were lucky. You were lucky, and you threw it away. You threw it away not because of what he did, but because you, like so many of us, are self-destructive.”
Jessica leans back. “Wow. Tell me how you really feel.”
“You left him for a boring rich guy named Stone. Why? Because you had true love and it terrified you. You couldn’t handle the loss of control. It’s why you kept breaking his heart—so you’d have the upper hand again. You had a chance at greatness, but you were too scared to grasp it.”
Her eyes glisten now. She gives them a quick swipe with her index finger and thumb. “Suppose,” she says, “I tried to get him back.”
I shake my head.
“Why not? You don’t think he still has feelings for me?”
“Won’t happen. We both know that. Myron isn’t built that way.”
“And what about you, Win?”
“We aren’t talking about me,” I say.
“Well, we can change topics. You’ve changed, Win. I used to think you and Myron were yin and yang—opposites that complemented each other.”
“And now?”
“Now I think you’re more like him than you know.”
I have to smile at that. “You think it’s that simple?”
“No, Win. That’s my point. It’s never that simple.”
* * *
Jessica wants to walk home alone. I don’t insist otherwise. In fact, even though the car is waiting for me, I choose to do the same. She heads south. I head west and start crossing Central Park by the Sixty-Sixth Street transverse. It’s a beautiful night and it’s a beautiful park and the walk soothes me for perhaps three minutes—until my phone buzzes. The call is coming from Sadie Fisher’s iPhone.
I have a bad feeling about this.
Before I have a chance to offer up my customary greeting, Sadie half snaps, “Where are you?”
I do not like the timbre in her voice. There is anger. And there is fear.
“I’m strolling through Central Park. Is there a problem?”
“There is. I’m at the office. Get here as soon as you can.”
She disconnects the call.
I find a taxi heading south on Central Park West. Traffic is light at this hour. Ten minutes later I’m back at the Lock-Horne Building on Park Avenue. Jim is working security at the desk. I nod at him and head toward my private elevator. It’s getting late now, north of ten p.m., but this building is filled mostly with financial advisors of one kind or another, many of whom need to work hours that coincide with overseas markets, many more of whom put in wastefully long hours to match the other guy vying for the same promotion. I press the button for the fourth floor, and especially tonight, with a few drinks in me, with images of Jessica Culver still swimming in my head, the memories of MB Reps—the M stood for Myron, the B for Bolitar, Myron would self-flagellate over the name’s lack of ingenuity—swirl though my skull.
Sadie greets me when I get off the elevator, though “greet” may imply a temperament that is not at all apropos. “What did you do, Win?”
“Nice to see you too, Sadie.”
She adjusts her glasses. It feels as though she is doing that more as a statement than a need, but whatever gets you through the night. “Do I really look in the mood?”
“Why don’t you tell me what’s wrong?”
Sadie steps into her office. I notice that Taft’s reception desk is empty except for a box of his belongings. Sadie sees me noticing and arches an eyebrow.
“I had visitors today.”
“Oh?”
“They braced me out on the street. Two huge guys.”
I wait.
“What did you do, Win?”
“Who were they?”
“Teddy Lyons’s brothers.”
I wait.
“Win?”
“Did they threaten you?”
“Well, they didn’t want to buy me a drink.”
“What did they say?”
“They accused me of sending a man to hurt Teddy.”
“What did you say?”
“What do you think I said?”
“That you didn’t.” Then I ask, “Did they believe you?”
“No, Win, they didn’t believe me.” She moves closer to me. “You were at that basketball game.”
“So were seventy thousand other people.”
“Are you really going to lie to me?”
“What exactly do you think I did, Sadie?”
“That’s what I’m asking.”
“It has nothing to do with you.”
“No, Win, that isn’t true.” Sadie gestures to the empty desk. “Taft told you what Teddy Lyons did to Sharyn, didn’t he?”