There is no way she should still be here, not at this time of year. She shouldn’t have still been here the last time I saw her.
And yet here she is.
But she’s not here to drink.
She just hovers there, looking straight at me.
Almost as if making sure I’m the one who’s still here.
Then she flies off.
ONE HUNDRED TWENTY-THREE
ROB JACOBSON IS STANDING at one of the main bedroom’s floor-to-ceiling windows, back in his own house in Sagaponack, looking out across the backyard and the dunes to the Atlantic.
As always, Rob Jacobson doesn’t so much appreciate the view as he does that it ishisview.
“Well,” Claire Jacobson says from the bed behind him, “that was even rougher than I remember, mister. You even left some bruises.”
“Not the first time,” he says without turning, seeing the waves begin to build in the distance. “And they’ve always healed in the past, haven’t they?”
“Come back to bed,” she says. “Says a glutton for punishment.”
“Not what I was hearing a few minutes ago.”
He continues to stare at the water. Jane was always telling him how the ocean filled her with a sense of peace. But Rob just doesn’t get it.
“Well,” she says, “you won again, didn’t you?”
“I always win,” he says.
He opens the French doors to let in the breeze.
It’s back to being all mine,he gloats.
Knowing him, he’s already thinking about going outtonight, hitting a couple of the kids’ bars, having some fun. Meeting someone new.
“Eric still won’t see me,” she says. “I keep trying. But that lawyer you hired, McGoey, keeps giving me the same message.”
“To leave him alone,” Rob Jacobson says. “The way he says we always did. When I did get in to see him at the jail, for about a minute, I thought he might want to talk. But only long enough so he could tell me to fuck off to my face.”
“But you’re going to pay McGoey’s fee anyway?” Claire asks.
“What can I tell you, honey,” he says. “I know from experience what it’s like to hate your father that much.”
He turns finally and walks back toward the bed. She has covered herself up with a sheet. She really is very attractive, and still has some body on her, for a woman her age.
“I still hate you sometimes,” she says. “But I have missed you.”
“Have you?” he says. “Because my friend Sonny Blum shared some photos with me the other day.”
He reaches over and picks up his phone from where he left it, on the nightstand on what he still considers his side of the goddamn bed.
He scrolls through photos until he comes to the ones of Claire in bed with Robby Sassoon.
Rob Jacobson hands his wife the phone.
“Howmuchdid you miss me, exactly?” he asks.
