Overseas (19 page)

“No.” I was too shocked to say anything more.

“All right, then you’ll have to program the navigation system. You’re going to drive up to Lyme, to my cottage there. It’s in Connecticut, about a half-hour past New Haven. The address is in the GPS; just scroll through the menu until you find it. Kate, are you listening?”

“Yes. Lyme. Address is in the GPS.”

“I’ll drive down from Boston and meet you there, all right? Can you do that for me?”

“Yes.” I cleared my throat and said it louder. “Yes. Meet you in Lyme.”

“Good girl. Pack a few things; we may be there for a bit.”

“What?” I shook myself. “What do you mean?”

“I’ll explain when you arrive. Could you please just trust me, all right? Are you okay to drive?”

“Sure. Yes.”

“Are you sure? It’s a manual transmission; that’s all right?”

“Yeah. Yes. I drove one in high school.”

“The traffic shouldn’t be too bad, on a Monday morning. It should take you a little more than two hours, if you have a straight shot.”

“Two hours. Okay.”

“There’s plenty of petrol. You can stop on the way, if you get hungry; there’s about a dozen bloody McDonald’s along the highway. But hurry along, all right? Pack your things and get on the road. I’m just off to hire a car myself.”

“All right. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

“Darling, we’ll sort everything out, I promise. I’ll see you soon.”

I swallowed. “See you soon.”

The phone clicked off. I stood there a moment, frozen, staring north.

It took me a few moments to gather my wits, but then I moved in a
frenzy. The longing to see Julian again overpowered everything else. I threw some clothes in my overnight bag, an extra pair of shoes, my travel kit.

I went into the living room and headed blindly for the door. Out of the corner of my eye, I spied the Sterling Bates contact list, still on the table. I grabbed it and shoved it in the front pocket of my overnight bag. Then I took a pencil and scribbled a note for Brooke on the message pad on the kitchen counter.
Brooke, I’m off to spend a few days in Connecticut. E-mail my Yahoo account if anything comes up. Thanks.
Kate.

I slung my laptop bag over my shoulder—it still had my wallet and things in it—and made for the door.

“Where are you going?” demanded Frank, as I hurried through the lobby.

“Away for a few days,” I called back, over my shoulder. “Get my head back together.”

“Cool. Oh, wait. Package just came for you. I was going to send it up.”

I turned around. He held out a small cardboard-wrapped package in the shape of a book. My Amazon order, probably, from a few days ago. I couldn’t even remember what it was. Some business book. “Thanks, Frank,” I said, tucking it into my laptop bag. “I’ll see you soon.”

A
N HOUR LATER
I was soaring past the outer Connecticut suburbs in the taut green Maserati, relishing the eager surge of power every time I touched the accelerator, the obedient snarl of the engine, the way life had been reduced to the elegant simplicity of my body commanding this machine. No phone, no computer. Nobody could reach me, I realized: a strangely liberating feeling, not lonely at all.

The GPS kept me on the freeway until exit 70, just on the other side of the wide gleaming Connecticut River. I made a left at the bottom of the ramp, away from the shoreline, and followed the road northward, past tilting old colonial houses and crumbling stone walls; past fields thick with second-growth forest, filling in the abandoned farmland. Eventually
I turned left, back toward the river, down a succession of winding roads, until I came to a gap in a stone wall with the number 12 painted in white on a small wooden square to the right.

Destination,
the GPS voice informed me dispassionately.

I eased through the gap and down the drive, surrounded by oaks and birches in the lush middle green of springtime. The clouds had been breaking up for some time now, and as the Maserati bounced down the narrow gravel road I could feel the sunshine press against the glass, warming the car’s interior. I let the window glide down, and a rush of fresh air rolled around my face.

I drove around another bend and a little white two-story clapboard house stood abruptly before me, with a gray Ford Focus parked in the drive outside and Julian sitting on the front step, next to a stone urn frothing with pale impatiens. He leapt to his feet and began walking rapidly toward me, tall and sunlit, irresistible.

I pulled up and jumped out, not even bothering to close the car door, and then I was scrambling in my heels over the rough deep gravel, around the front of the car, pitching myself into his outstretched arms.

11.

Don’t cry,
I reminded myself sternly, and I didn’t. I held myself still, pushing down the sobs, letting Julian draw me to the ground and tuck me into his chest, against the soft thick cotton of his shirt and the steady thud of his heart. His hands drew soothing little circles on my back, and he murmured in my ear. “Hush, now, hush,” I thought I heard him say. “It’s all right, sweetheart. I’m here.”

We sat that way, sprawled together on the gravel, for what seemed like a long time, though it might have been only a few minutes. He went on murmuring into the country stillness, his
Hush, my love, it’s all right
stirring the air, answered only by the subdued shimmering chatter of the neighboring birds.

Gradually I became aware of other things. I felt the sun soak through the thin silk of my sleeveless blouse, my work blouse, which I hadn’t bothered to change before leaving New York. I looked down at my black pencil skirt, my three-inch calfskin slingbacks, and began to laugh.

His grip loosened. “What is it?”

“I’m not exactly dressed for the country,” I said.

“No, you’re not. But you look ravishing all the same.”

I twisted around to look at him. He was dressed more casually, in a faded blue henley shirt and jeans, barefoot; I’d never imagined him so relaxed. “I didn’t know you had a place out here,” I said, almost accusingly.

He shrugged. “It never came up.”

“But it’s not exactly a country estate, is it? I mean, why not a mansion in the Hamptons?”

“Kate,” he said reproachfully, “you should know me better than that.” He paused to study me. “Are you disappointed?”

I smiled. “You should know me better than that.”

He stood up, drawing me with him. “Then if you’re quite recovered,” he said, “why don’t you take off those ridiculous shoes and come inside. Have you eaten?”

“No.” I reached down to draw off my right shoe, and then my left.

“Oh. Well, we’ll sort something out. But come along.” He pulled me up the flagstone path to the front door.

It was an old house, a true center-chimney colonial, with lovely worn wainscoting lining the plaster walls and cabinets built into the corners. Someone, probably Julian himself, had modernized the kitchen and the bathrooms, but the original fireplaces were still in place, and the wide chestnut floorboards creaked comfortably beneath our feet. “I had someone in to furnish it,” he explained, waving his hand at the living room, “since I couldn’t spare the time. A local woman. I didn’t want one of those over-decorated showpieces, like Geoff’s got.”

“I love it,” I said. “It’s exactly what it should be.”

“I’m glad. I want you to feel at home here.” He checked his watch. “There’s nothing to eat, however, so I suppose I’ll make my way down to the A&P in the village.”

“I’ll go with you.”

“No, you should rest.”

“But you’ll get all the wrong things,” I protested.

“Kate, I
have
been fending for myself up here for some time.”

I shook my head. “Julian, there’s no way I’m going to let you cook me anything. You were way too impressed by that omelet yesterday. And if I’m going to do the cooking, I should pick out the food.”

“Make me a list.”

“You’re seriously going to do the grocery shopping?” The idea of Julian Laurence sniffing cantaloupe and checking expiration dates was completely absurd.

“What do you need?”

I went into the kitchen and took inventory. The refrigerator didn’t hold much, just basic condiments; the pantry was a little better, with a wide assortment of canned goods and cereal and a few jars of dried herbs and spices. “Spam?” I demanded, holding up a package. “You have a billion dollars, and you keep
Spam
in your pantry?”

He snatched it away. “It’s a perfectly good product,” he said defensively. “You can make any number of dishes with it.”

“Not on my watch.” I tapped my finger against the door molding. “Do you have a Weber grill?”

He looked blank.

“Shoot. Okay. Let’s just stick to the basics. Eggs, milk, cheese, tomato, maybe some bagged salad, fruit, a steak or something for dinner…”

He sighed. “Hold that thought. I’ll fetch a pen and paper.”

H
E LEFT IN THE RENTAL CAR
, and I stared after him until the last flash of metallic paint had long disappeared into the foliage. I’d forgotten to ask him why we were here in the first place. Why Lyme? It wasn’t like I’d been banned from Manhattan, after all, just that corner of it occupied by the Sterling Bates headquarters. It felt almost like we’d gone into hiding, like fugitives, as though we were concealed here, deep in the Connecticut woods, surrounded by an impenetrable layer of trees and birds and rambling stone walls.

I hauled my suitcase and my laptop bag out of the Maserati and carried them into the house. I wasn’t sure where to leave them. The subject of sleeping arrangements was so far untouched. I felt a curl of divine nervousness wind through my midsection at the thought, at the sudden mental image it conjured: white sheets and warm naked skin and intimacy. Well, why not? It must be why he’d asked me here. A sanctuary, a love nest.

The phone rang from the direction of the kitchen, making me jump.

I hesitated for a second. It was Julian’s house. I probably shouldn’t answer
it. But what if it was Julian himself, wanting to ask me whether I liked skim milk or 2 percent? He knew I didn’t have a cell phone anymore.

I hurried in the direction of the ring, and found the telephone on a small desk next to the wall. My hand hovered for a second or two, and then I picked it up.

“Hello?” I said, and then added quickly, “Laurence residence.”

Silence. A hint of someone’s breathing.

“Hello?” I tried again. “Julian, is that you?”

A pause, and then a male voice asked hesitantly, “Is Mr. Laurence available?”

“Um, no. He’s stepped out for a moment. May I tell him you called?”

“No message,” the caller said, and hung up.

A half-hour later I heard the crackle of gravel from the driveway and went outside. Julian was unloading groceries from the car. I reached in and grabbed a few bags. “Stop it,” he said. “That’s my job.”

“I could use the exercise. I haven’t been running in days.”

“That’s not the point,” he said, but I was already walking up the path.

We took the groceries inside and began unloading. “Oh, someone called while you were out,” I said.

He stopped and turned to me. “Did you answer it?”

“Yes. I thought it might be you.” I felt the weight of his stare, and reached into the bag for the orange juice. “Um, is that okay? I didn’t mean to, like, overstep.”

He exhaled, and I realized he’d been holding his breath. “No. Of course not. I mean, no, answering the phone isn’t overstepping at all.”

“No crazy ex-girlfriends or anything?” I prodded, only half teasing.

A snort. “No.” He set the grapes in the fruit drawer of the fridge. “Did he say who was calling?”

“No,” I said. “I asked, but he said there was no message.”

“American or British?”

“American.”

“Did you give him your name?”

“No. Why?”

He cleared his throat. “Given the circumstances, you might not want to give out that information.”

“What circumstances?”

“Kate,” he said, “there might be questions asked, if word of this… this incident today leaks out. Our names are already connected; if someone puts two and two together and realizes you’re staying at my house…”

“Worried about your reputation?” I inquired coldly.

“No. I’m worried about yours. And your safety.”

“My safety?” I set down the loaf of bread I was holding. “What do you mean,
safety
?”

“Nothing. Just that, taking everything into account, we should err on the side of prudence.”

“Is that why I’m here? You’re worried about my
safety
?”

He tried to smile. “That, and other things.”

“What other things?” My stomach growled.

“Hungry?”

“Don’t change the subject.”

“Have a sandwich,” he said, reaching into the last bag and tossing me a ham and cheese hoagie, fresh from the deli counter. “We’ll talk about it later.”

J
ULIAN SPENT THE AFTERNOON
on his laptop and BlackBerry, working. I’d forgotten about that, strangely enough. The private Julian was, to me, almost irreconcilable with the public version.
The dude has mythic fucking alpha,
Charlie had said, all those months ago, in the Sterling Bates conference room, meaning, in Wall Street shorthand, the rare and godlike ability to beat the market, year after year.
Alpha:
Julian was drenched in it.

I tried not to eavesdrop—poking determinedly through the books
in the living room, plunking out a few notes on the baby grand in the corner—but I could still hear the commanding tone of his voice through the door of the library on the other side of the entry hall: the brusque way he issued orders, the evident passion with which he approached his work. He wasn’t even thirty-five years old. Where had he acquired that confidence, that experience, that ease of command?

Eventually I went outside to the back garden, which had an unexpected and glorious view of the river, glimmering in the falling light; there I perched atop one of the ancient fieldstone walls crisscrossing the meadow and watched the sun slip down against the hills on the other side of the water.