Lost Along the Way (22 page)

“How'd the waves treat you?”

“Pretty good, actually. Sebastian and I had a nice time down there. What's new with you?” He eyed the middle-aged woman working the cash register as if trying to encourage her to ring him up faster. Meg giggled, watching Nick make small talk.

“Nothing much,” she said. “We're in the usual post–Labor Day slump at the coffeehouse. It's funny, by the end of the summer we're all so sick of the crowds, we just want them to leave. Then, when they do, we remember all the money they spend. Now I'm complaining that I don't make tips, and the workday seems to stretch on for six years.”

“The grass is always greener, I guess.”

“I guess so,” she agreed.

“Say hello to your parents for me. I have to run,” Nick said, trying to get away from her as fast as his good manners would allow.

“Will do. Oh, wait, I forgot! You'll never guess who I saw the other day in the coffeehouse!”

“Gwyneth Paltrow?” Nick guessed, though he was clearly running out of patience. “She has a house out here, Sheila. At some point that specific celebrity sighting has got to get old.”

“No. Not her. Jane Logan!” she hissed, like saying the name left a bitter taste in her mouth. “Do you believe that? What do you think she's doing out here? Her husband ruins people and she comes out to the Hamptons to relax in some beachfront mansion somewhere? That woman is even more evil than I thought.”

Meg held her breath. She'd never particularly liked Sheila, and now she was pretty sure she hated her. She gripped Cara's hand, and Cara firmly squeezed it back.

“I don't know who that is,” Nick lied. “Anyway, I've never been much into celebrity sightings. They bore me. Sorry.” Nick turned to walk away, but Sheila kept talking.

“You do too know who she is! She's the wife of that Wall Street asshole who stole from all those people. She's all over the papers. Don't you watch the news? She came in with two other women. One of them looked familiar—I've definitely seen her around before. The other one actually spilled hot tea all over Jane. She claimed it was an accident, but it probably wasn't. I'm sure more than a few people would love the chance to inflict physical pain on that woman.”

“Sheila, do yourself a favor and stop spying on people. One day you're going to find yourself overhearing things you don't want to know. Trust me. Besides, it probably wasn't even her.”

“It was her! Here, look!” Sheila removed her cell phone from her purse and clicked on a picture. She showed it to him.

“You took a picture of her?”

“Oh shit,” Cara said as they watched Nick snatch the phone from Sheila's hand and stare at whatever picture she'd snapped while they were arguing.

“We have to do something,” Cara whispered. “What if she sells it to the newspapers?”

“She's not going to sell it to the papers,” Meg whispered back. “She probably just wants to show it to her friends. She's an idiot, but she's harmless. Trust me.”

“You're right, I guess that is her,” Nick said, pretending to look closer at the picture.

“I told you so! I haven't showed it to anyone yet, but I was thinking of calling the
New York Post.
I could probably make some good money off this, right? She doesn't deserve any discretion. It's not like I'm taking pictures of Martha Stewart and throwing them on Facebook or anything. This is legit news. People have been trying to get shots of her for weeks! How much do you think I could get?”

“Okay, I might have been wrong,” Meg whispered.

“I don't know. Is this the only one you have?” Nick asked casually.

“Yeah. Maybe I can send it to more than one place and get into some kind of bidding war for it. Wouldn't that be amazing? Who else should I call?”

“How do you zoom in on this?” Nick asked as he began to hit
buttons on her phone. “I want a closer look at her. I'm terrible with iPhones.”

“Wait, that's not the zoom! Don't hit that!” Sheila screamed, but she was unable to stop him.

“Oops,” he said. “I'm so sorry! Did I just delete that?”

“Please tell me you didn't just do that!” she moaned. From the look of horror on her face you'd have thought he'd just deleted her wedding photos, or the last picture she had of her grandmother before she passed away.

“It was an accident.”

“Now what am I going to do?”

“I guess go to work, and hope that they'll come back for another cup of tea,” Nick said.

He waved as he grabbed his bag off the counter and left.

“That was awesome!” Cara said. She and Meg watched in amazement as Sheila futilely punched buttons on her phone. “I love him. I officially love him.”

“I told you. Nick is the absolute best,” Meg agreed.

“Okay, come on, we need to get out of here before that girl sees us and follows us home like a stray cat.”

“What about my pie plate?” Meg asked as they slowly made their way out from behind the rack of paint cans.

“It will have to wait. We have bigger problems,” Cara said. She grabbed Meg's sleeve and the two of them inched quietly toward the back door, leaving Sheila standing alone, violently cursing Nick.

J
ane figured she'd hang on the deck at the house and have a few cocktails in peace, but something stopped her. If she was going to sit and drink by herself all day, she might as well have stayed in her apartment in Manhattan. In Montauk she was free. Free to go outside without worrying that people would throw rocks at her. Free to be seen in public without needing to hide behind sunglasses and a baseball hat. Most important, she was free to drive. Jane decided that if she had to choose between a glass of wine and the open road, this time she'd choose the road. She remembered passing some farm stands on the side of the highway about thirty minutes west of Montauk, and she thought it'd be a really nice gesture to pick up some things for Meg. She grabbed Cara's keys off the console and headed out to the driveway, feeling like a teenager who'd just gotten her license. She hadn't been this excited to run an errand in her entire life.

Jane never shopped at farmers' markets, though. Supporting local farmers seemed to be the cool thing to do these days and, because Jane had never been much for trends, she never stepped foot inside any of the markets in the city. She had no interest in mingling with the hippies who drove down from upstate on the weekends to force organic produce on people who probably washed down their meals with wine and cigarettes. She didn't see the need for it. Her delivery menus had served her just fine, and that was how she liked it.

Out in Montauk, it didn't seem like people frequented farm stands because it was cool or trendy or politically correct. It was just part of life. And, since Jane was now part of life on the East End, she didn't mind driving the thirty minutes to visit one of the various stands scattered along the side of the highway. It seemed silly to go to the one grocery store in town to buy things when it was less expensive to watch them be pulled from the ground immediately before they were purchased. Plus, it felt nice to be in a car with the windows open, the radio on, and clean air making her hair blow in tangles. It felt nice to be free, unencumbered, and better yet, not tailed by anyone with a camera, a notepad, and a misplaced vendetta against her.

Jane finally felt at ease. She remembered driving out to Long Beach with her boyfriend from high school one summer. They'd talked about how things would be when they went off to college, how they couldn't wait to get out of their small town, how they were going to do great things with their lives. She'd sat in the passenger seat with her sunglasses on, her charm bracelet clanging against the outside of the car, and her head bobbing slightly, keeping time with the music. She couldn't remember where Cara or Meg had been that afternoon. Maybe they were busy, or maybe Jane had decided that she wanted to spend the afternoon without them. Maybe those were the first small steps she took to separate herself from the group. She thought she knew everything back then, that she was making all the right decisions, that there would be a million other boys after she broke up with the one driving her down the Meadowbrook Parkway. She glanced at Cara's passenger seat, half expecting to see the dark-haired boy in the green baseball hat sitting next to her. Instead, there were two brown paper bags overflowing with lettuces, potatoes,
squash, and apples that she'd purchased with some of the little money she had left.

When she returned to the house, Cara was lying down in her room and Meg was baking her seventh batch of muffins in three days. Jane knew Meg was using the muffins as some kind of weird Steve substitute, but she really needed to get it under control, as three grown women did not need to eat a dozen muffins a day. That said, if she did take on the Meg diet of blueberry, banana nut, and cranberry oatmeal muffins, she'd probably put on enough weight that no one at home would recognize her, and she could hide in plain sight. It wasn't the worst idea. Carbo-loading did offer its own special brand of comfort.

“Smells good in here!” Jane sang as she dropped the bags on the floor by the refrigerator and began to unload them. “I went to the farm stand and picked up a few things. I'm sorry I couldn't buy more, but it's the best thank-you gift I could get you under the circumstances.”

“That's so nice of you!” Meg said, fishing through one of Jane's bags and placing the apples in a large ceramic bowl on the counter. “We were a little nervous when we got home and saw the car was gone. We weren't sure you even remembered how to drive!”

“It was actually really nice. I didn't realize how much I missed driving until I did it. I hope Cara doesn't mind. I thought getting out of the house was a better alternative than drinking by myself.”

“Definitely. And it was really nice of you to bring back groceries. Do you want me to teach you to cook something? Maybe you'd find it de-stresses you the way it does me!”

“Maybe I'll light the house on fire and burn your refuge to the ground.”

“Always the optimist.”

“Just my luck lately, that's all.”

“Your luck will change, Jane. It will,” Meg said.

“I know. I just need to chill the hell out and relax. I'm three hours away from midtown Manhattan and anyone who knows me. There's no reason on earth for me to be so tightly wound at this point.”

“Come on,” Meg said. She handed her a small china plate with a warm muffin on it and a mug of coffee. “Let's watch the news. I feel like I have no idea what's going on in the world.”

“Isn't that the whole point of being out here?” Jane asked. “I don't want to know.”

“Relax. No one is out to get you,” Meg said.

“I know. I know. I know.
I think
.”

Ten minutes later Jane sat in front of the TV with Meg nestled next to her on the couch and Cara sitting quietly in an armchair, watching the news. One of the myriad of smug reporters with whom Jane had become very familiar was standing in front of the courthouse in lower Manhattan, using her best “on camera” voice to update the American public on Doug's affairs. Their life, now in ruins, was the day's lead story. Jane shuddered to think about how many people whom she'd never even met were rooting for her husband to go to jail for the rest of his life—and for her to suffer some equally tragic fate.

They watched in silence as men in dark suits escorted Doug past the throngs of cameras and microphones, hairy hands in polyester suit sleeves reaching across her husband, begging for a sound bite.
What do they want him to say?,
she wondered. What made them think that this time he would finally open up and explain his actions? She knew he didn't have an explanation, at
least not one that was acceptable to her or anyone else. Their questions were pointless. If they were waiting for some sort of epic confession, they'd have to wait forever. And they'd have to wait in line behind her.

“Doug Logan is back in court today as prosecutors prepare to bring their case against him for the financial scheme he masterminded in an attempt to steal from countless investors. What's most interesting today is that his wife, Jane Parker Logan, was not in attendance in the courtroom, as she has been for previous court appearances. In fact, sources at her Upper East Side apartment building say that they have not seen her in days, and her whereabouts are currently unknown. Sources tell us that Jane recently had an argument with another tenant in her building, and that the co-op board has been in discussions to evict her from her home. It's possible that this was too much for her to bear in light of the stress that she's currently under, and we are now forced to wonder if Jane has left town entirely and gone into hiding,
or worse
. Only time will tell. We will of course update you as this story develops, but right now it seems as if Jane Logan is missing. This is Alecia Sparks, Channel Four News.”

Jane gripped her mug, wishing that it contained whiskey. She tried to speak but instead sipped her coffee until it caught in her throat and she coughed it back up all over her jeans and the white slipcovered sofa.
Great,
she thought.
Two more things that are now probably ruined. Just like my husband, just like my marriage . . . just like me.

They stared at the newscast, now reporting on a lost dog that had been reunited with its owner four years after running away. The dog turned up thanks to an embedded tracker in its ear. Instinctively, Jane pushed her hair behind her own ears, wondering if she should consider herself lucky that she didn't have a chip of
herself so people could locate her. She picked at the muffin Meg had given her but couldn't taste it. Her mouth had suddenly gone very dry and some kind of sticky film coated her tongue. With her luck she'd probably picked up a rare fungus at the farm stand and now had mouth scabies. Finally she was ready to speak. “‘Or worse'?” she asked, repeating the reporter's words. “What exactly is she implying?”

“That's ridiculous! It's irresponsible journalism!” Meg said, placing her hand protectively on Jane's leg. “So what if no one has seen you? Maybe you went to visit your parents in Florida, or your brother out west! Maybe you're holed up in your apartment! Maybe you went to visit a friend in Montauk!”

“‘Or worse' makes for a better news story. What difference does it make? No one cares if I'm dead or alive anyway,” Jane said, a dull pain beginning to throb inside her skull. She'd been having such a nice day, and now it was ruined. She should've just sat at the house and drank like she'd originally planned. Maybe if she were buzzed, this latest broadcast wouldn't hurt as much. “All they care about is that they lost the chance to shoot the long-suffering spouse sitting in the courtroom while her husband pled not guilty. Supposing I'm dead keeps people from turning the channel. God forbid I decide I'm tired of pretending to care what happens to him anymore. I want my own fucking life back.”

“What are you going to do?” Cara asked. She picked up the remote control and turned off the TV. It didn't matter. It wasn't like they could unwatch the news just because the TV was off. If there were a way to rewind life and do it all over, she'd have known about it and done it by now. Many, many times.

“Order a tombstone? Buy a casket? Actually, now that I think about it, I don't have a plot. I was supposed to be buried next to
Doug, but lying next to him for all eternity seems a bit awkward considering he's the reason I'm dead. I mean, what would we talk about, you know?”

“I'm serious, Jane!” Cara said, a somewhat inappropriate giggle escaping her lips.

“Are you laughing? I can't believe you're laughing!” Jane said, surprised that a small laugh grew in her belly, too.

“I'm sorry, I know that this isn't funny. Except it kind of is,” Cara said. “Just a little.”

“You two are sick. There is nothing funny about this!” Meg said. Jane smiled in spite of everything at the ferocity of Meg's reaction. Jane loved that Meg would never laugh at something so sadistic. She was too nice a person. Plus, she was hugely superstitious and probably thought that laughing about Jane's death would somehow make it a reality. There weren't enough muffins on earth to bring her back from that if Jane were to suddenly drop dead in the living room. “Honestly, Jane. What are you going to do about this? Can you call the news yourself and issue a statement?”

“I don't know. I probably should call my doorman and make sure that my crazy-ass neighbors haven't tried to sell my apartment out from under me by enacting some death clause in the co-op bylaws, and I should probably call my parents and make sure that they know I'm fine in case word travels down south. My brother, too. He will just love this.”

“You should probably call Alecia what's-her-name and tell her that she should eat her microphone before she goes on the news again and says something that ridiculous,” Meg added—harsh words, coming from her.

“They're probably trying to draw you out and force you to issue
a statement. I think the fact that you've said nothing is driving them crazy,” Cara suggested.

“What makes you think that?” Jane asked. She wasn't trying to antagonize the press; she was just trying to pretend they weren't there.

“I don't know,” Cara answered, though the look on her face made it quite clear that this was not the first time the thought had crossed her mind.

“Except, I think you do,” Jane responded, demanding an answer. “Tell me.”

“It's just that every time I saw something about this on the news and you refused to comment, it made me wonder if you knew more than you were saying. I'm sorry, but I wondered. And if I wondered, then you can bet other people are wondering, too.”

“Cara!” Meg gasped. “How could you say that?”

“Oh, come on! Don't tell me you didn't think it! I'm sorry, Jane, if I'd been privy to anything that was going on I wouldn't have doubted you for a minute. But I knew as much about this as anyone else who read the paper, and I was curious! So are other people. That's all I'm saying. People are dying to hear you tell a different side of the story, any side. And you're not giving it to them. So now the press is just beating the drapes to see what falls out.”

“I never thought about it that way,” Jane admitted. It hurt to hear Cara say she had doubted her, but Jane understood it. Most women know their husbands; most women have intuition that tells them when something isn't right. She didn't. That made her hard for people to understand. It made it really hard for her to understand herself. “I always felt like it wasn't my fight because it wasn't my crime, and I shouldn't be forced to speak out about
anything. People who say there's no such thing as bad press have clearly never had any. They've tormented me for so long under the bullshit First Amendment crap that saying nothing seemed like the only option I had. I just never thought any of it would go on this long. I thought they'd get bored chasing the woman who never said anything and would leave me alone. I underestimated them.”