Chasing Harry Winston (22 page)

“You don’t get paid enough to make house calls,” Russell murmured as he stroked Leigh’s back gently, with just his fingertips.

“You’re telling me,” she said, praying he wouldn’t stop. She snuggled in closer against his wide, warm, nearly hairless chest and buried her head in his underarm. She had always loved their cuddling, and even now it encouraged her; she might not want to have sex with Russell, but at least she wasn’t repulsed by his touch. Leigh remembered Emmy going through that with Mark, the boyfriend before Duncan. She claimed the sex had never been great, not even in the beginning, but things grew steadily worse—mostly in Emmy’s mind, she admitted—until she recoiled in disgust every time he tried to touch her. The story had always haunted Leigh, someone who understood perfectly what it felt like to shrink away from a boyfriend’s kiss, but that was precisely why she found these snuggle sessions so reassuring. She wouldn’t
want
to lie naked in bed with Russell, spoon with him and enjoy his touch, if there was something wrong…would she? No, it was a clear indication that everything was as it should be. What woman didn’t have shifts in sexual desire at times? According to the article in
Harper’s Bazaar
she’d read at the nail salon the week before, a woman’s libido was a tenuous thing, affected by stress, sleeping patterns, hormones, and about a million other factors she couldn’t control. With a little time and a lot of patience—something Russell had exhibited in spades until very recently—
Bazaar
swore that most women would return to normal. She would simply wait it out.

“So what’s he like?” Russell asked. “Is he really as crazy as everyone makes him out to be?”

Leigh wondered when Russell had Googled Jesse. “What do you mean? He seems like…I don’t know, like an
author.
They’re all nuts.”

Russell rolled over on his back and slung his arm over his eyes to block out the early-morning sun that streamed in around the sides of the window shade. “Yeah, but he sold five million copies and won the Pulitzer and then vanished. For
six years
. Was it really a drug problem? Or did he just lose it?”

“I have no idea. We’ve only had one lunch; he hasn’t exactly confided in me.” Leigh tried to keep the exasperation out of her voice but it wasn’t easy. “Look, I’m not dying to go out there, either.”

Which was true enough. There were definitely things Leigh would rather do with two days out of the office than drive to the Hamptons right before Labor Day weekend.

“I know, sweetheart. Just don’t let him push you around, okay? He may think he’s some hotshot, but
you’re
still
his
editor. You call the shots, right?”

“Right,” she said automatically, although she was really thinking how much it rankled her when Russell sounded so much like her father. Mr. Eisner had said those exact words to her the night before in what was probably intended to be a helpful pregame pep talk, but which to Leigh had sounded like a condescending lecture from the consummate professional to the flailing amateur.

Russell kissed her forehead, pulled on a pair of boxers, and strode to the bathroom. After turning the shower to its hottest setting, he headed to the kitchen, closing the bathroom door behind him. There he’d wait for the bathroom to get all hot and steamy—just the way he liked it—while he made his daily power breakfast: soy protein shake, fat-free yogurt, and three scrambled egg whites. This ritual irritated Leigh beyond description.
What about all that wasted water?
she asked him over and over again, but he merely reminded her that water was included in the monthly maintenance fee she paid, so it didn’t particularly matter. It was just one of the things about him she found utterly maddening. She completely understood the need for him to wear a full face of TV makeup once a week when he recorded the show, but she loathed watching him remove it. He used her makeup remover and pads and swabbed so delicately under his eyes and around his nose, and although she couldn’t quite pinpoint why, she found it revolting. Not quite as revolting as when he forgot to remove it and she ended up with pillowcases smeared with man foundation, but still—the whole thing was just gross.

She chided herself for being so rigid and intolerant and took a deep, relaxing breath. It was only nine o’clock on a sunny Thursday morning and already she felt like she’d been awake for forty-eight hours and lived through a world war. Exhausted yet still simmering with low-level anxiety, Leigh hauled herself from bed and ducked into the steam-drenched bathroom.

She managed to throw on a pair of white jeans and pack everything else before Russell finished his own shower, so she blew him a kiss through the bathroom door and quickly left. She rolled her small suitcase to Hertz on East Thirteenth Street and, after accepting all the insurance offered—better safe than sorry!—Leigh grabbed a large iced latte from Joe, popped two pieces of Nicorette, and slid into the driver’s seat of her red Ford Focus. The trip took less time than she’d planned; in a little over two hours she pulled into the parking lot of a restaurant called Estia’s. It was shaped like a little clapboard cottage, just as Jesse had described it; she went inside to use the bathroom and gulp another cup of coffee before calling him.

He answered on the fourth ring.

“Jesse? It’s Leigh. I’m at Estia’s.”

“Already? I wasn’t expecting you until this afternoon.”

She felt her blood pressure rise even higher. “Well, I’m not sure why, considering we spoke just yesterday and I told you that I’d be arriving between twelve and twelve-thirty.”

He laughed. His voice sounded like he’d just woken up. “Yeah, but who’s ever actually on time? When I say noon, I really mean three.”

“Oh, really?” she asked. “Because when I say noon, I actually
mean
noon.”

He laughed again. “Got it,” he said. “I’m going to get dressed, and I’ll be right there. Have a coffee. Try to relax. We’ll get right to work, I promise.”

She ordered yet another coffee and flipped to the Thursday Style section someone had left on the counter.

She heard his entrance before she saw him, since she was staring fixedly at the newspaper, pretending to be completely absorbed in an article on natural boar-bristle hairbrushes. All around her, the restaurant patrons—all locals and, from the look of it, not associates of the Billy Joel set—waved and called out their hellos. One particularly crusty-looking old guy in workman’s overalls and a sewn-on name tag—the original, not one of the retro ones on sale in the Bloomingdale’s young men’s department—that read
SMITH
, raised his coffee mug and winked at Jesse.

“Morning, sir,” Jesse said, clapping the man on the back.

“Chief,” the man said with a nod and a swig of coffee.

“Still on for Monday night?”

The man nodded again. “Monday.”

Jesse made his way down the breakfast counter, greeting each and every person along the way, before taking the empty seat next to Leigh. Although she couldn’t pinpoint exactly why, Leigh thought he looked better today than he had at either of their previous meetings. Still not hot or even handsome in the conventional sense, Jesse again looked casually rumpled and, as stupid as it sounded,
cool.
It was partly the way he dressed—a slim-cut vintage plaid shirt with Levi’s that looked custom-cut for his body—but it was also something more than that, something in the way he carried himself. Everything about him screamed “effortless,” but unlike the self-conscious grunge of the nineties or deliberate bed-head hair, Jesse’s look was genuine.

She realized she was staring.

“What’s going on Monday?” she asked quickly; it was the first thing that came to mind.

“Not into the usual niceties, huh?” Jesse asked with a smile. “Me, neither. Monday is poker night and it’s Smith’s turn to host. He lives in a minuscule studio apartment above the village liquor store, so he arranged for all of us to meet at the East Hampton Airport—he’s a flight mechanic there. We’re going to play in the hangar, which I’m rather looking forward to. It will be doubly festive since we’ll be celebrating both the end of summer and the end of the Great Asshole Invasion—at least until next year.”

Leigh shook her head. Maybe all the gossip and tabloids were right, and Jesse really had lost his mind. A few years earlier he was jet-setting on international book tours, gorging himself on the world’s finest food and clothes and women, using his newfound literary fame to chase every next hot party, and now he was sequestered away in this working-class neighborhood of eastern Long Island, playing poker in deserted airplane hangars with mechanics? The new book had better be
damn
good, that’s all Leigh knew.

As if reading her mind, Jesse said, “You’re desperate to get started, aren’t you? Just say it.”

“I
am
desperate to get started. I’m only out here for two days and a night and I still haven’t the first clue what you’re working on.”

“Let’s go, then.” He slid a $10 bill to the woman behind the counter and led the way outside. The instant his feet hit gravel he lit a cigarette. “I’d offer you one, but something tells me you’re not a smoker.”

He didn’t wait for her to answer; instead, he jumped into his Jeep.

“Follow me. The house is only a few minutes from here, but there are lots of turns.”

“You sure I shouldn’t check into the hotel first?” Leigh asked, twisting a piece of her ponytail around her finger. She was staying at the historic American Hotel in Sag Harbor village, a place that was just as famous for its clubby, wood-paneled, old-fashioned hospitality as it was for its mammoth martinis.

Jesse leaned out his window. “You’re welcome to try, but I called on my way over here and they insist that check-in isn’t until three. I’d be more than happy to wait till then, trust me….”

“No, no, let’s get moving. I’ll take a break this afternoon to check in and then we can get back to work.”

“Sounds like a dream.” He rolled up the window and threw the Jeep into reverse, the back wheels kicking up dust in his wake.

Leigh rushed to her rental and pulled out behind him. He turned left onto Sagg Road and drove straight through the village and past the hotel, which he indicated to Leigh with a wave in his rearview. The main street was absolutely adorable. There were quaint boutiques, family-owned restaurants, and local fresh-food markets interspersed with the occasional art gallery and wine shop. Parents pulled kids and vegetables in red wagons. Pedestrians had the right of way. People seemed to be smiling for no reason. Everyone had a dog.

They drove through town and toward the bay, which was fronted by a marina straight out of central casting, and then over a bridge before careening back into the winding, wooded roads. Jesse’s driveway was half a mile long and unpaved and the glints of light that darted through the trees gave it an ethereal feel. As they drove a bit farther, Leigh spotted what looked like a guesthouse off the side of the path. It was a small white cottage with blue shutters and a charming little porch for rocking and reading. Another five hundred yards beyond that was an elaborate—and brand-new—children’s outdoor play area. It wasn’t one of the brightly colored plastic Fisher-Price ones, either; rather, it appeared almost hand-carved from a rich mahogany and included a rock-climbing wall, tree house, canopied cupola, sandbox, kiddie-sized picnic table, and two slides. This left Leigh momentarily breathless. She knew Jesse had a wife (although he had given Leigh the impression that she wasn’t in the Hamptons), but she had never,
ever
envisioned him as a father. Of course it made complete sense—it would almost be strange if he weren’t—but something about seeing proof of this made her feel vaguely irritated and a little disappointed.

By the time they reached the house, her heart had started to beat faster and her breath began to shorten in the telltale signs of anxiety. In front of her, Jesse climbed out of his Jeep and approached her car. She felt a sweat break out on her forehead, and she wished she could be parked on her couch, reading a manuscript or chatting with Russell about his upcoming interview with Tony Romo. It’d be worth it even if he wanted to have sex
and
watch SportsCenter
and
the upstairs neighbor was hosting a dance party full of leg brace–wearing guests. Anywhere but right here, right now.

Jesse opened Leigh’s car door for her and led her down a walkway to the front porch, a wide expanse of open space decorated with only a hammock and a love-seat swing. Beside the swing was an empty bottle of Chianti and a single dirty wineglass.

“Are your children here? I’d love to meet them,” Leigh lied.

Jesse looked around the porch, appearing confused for a minute, and then smiled knowingly, like he could read her mind. “Oh, you mean the playground? It’s for my nephews—
not
my own.”

Something about the way he said this seemed definitive; even though she told herself she didn’t care either way—and despite being well aware that it was rude and way too personal—she pushed it. “Does that mean you just happen not to have kids, or you don’t want them ever?”

He laughed and shook his head while he opened the front door. “Jesus Christ, you say whatever you’re thinking, don’t you?”

In for a penny, in for a pound
. “Well?” she asked.

“No, I don’t want children. Not now, and not ever.”

Leigh held up her hands in mock defense. “Looks like I hit a nerve.”

Jesse tried to suppress his smile, but Leigh caught a glimpse of it anyway. “Anything else you’d like to know? How I’m eating, how I’m sleeping?”

“Well, then, we got the kid thing out of the way. So…how are you eating and sleeping?” She grinned broadly and felt her anxiety begin to dissipate. She’d forgotten how fun it was to banter with him.

His eyes were bloodshot and his face was unshaven and pale. Even his hair looked a little dull—not dirty or greasy, exactly, just uninspired. He struck an exaggerated modeling pose—hip jutted out and lips pursed—and said, “You tell me. How do you think I’m eating and sleeping?”