The Deadhouse (23 page)

A small tree, not even two feet high, had been set up beside the
stone hearth. There was a giant box, gift-wrapped and ribboned, from
the great toy store FAO Schwarz. "I hope none of my wires got crossed.
That's probably something that was supposed to be shipped to my niece."

"You're not the only one with a Christmas list, Goldilocks."

I unpacked two red stockings from my tote and laid them across the
back of the sofa. My mother had needlepointed them for each of us, our
names stitched in white and green on the cuff. "Why don't you put some
music on while I clean up?"

I went into the bedroom and undressed. I stared out my window over
acres of land ringed by ancient stone walls, secure that the problems
against which I protected myself in the city couldn't reach me here.
The fishing village of Menemsha was no longer visible across the pond
through the haze as the first soft flakes of snow began to blow against
the panes of the French doors and melt. This was my sanctuary.

I set the timer for the steam shower at ten minutes and the
temperature to ninety-five degrees, stepped inside, and reclined on the
wooden bench. The room filled with mist and I began to sweat. Memories
of Lola Dakota's videoed faux shooting swirled and mixed with visions
of the actual bloodstained elevator shaft. I wanted the toxins to be
removed from my body and my mind to be cleared of all thoughts of death
and violence. The physical cleansing worked, but the opportunity to do
nothing except think made it impossible for me to erase the mental
images.

After six or seven minutes, I shut off the steam and turned on the
nozzle, holding my face up to the twelve-inch showerhead that cascaded
hot water all over me. I washed my body and shampooed my hair. Jake was
outside the steam room when I emerged, standing naked and holding a
bath sheet to wrap me in. We kissed again, long this time, and tasted
each other lovingly, until I rested my head against his shoulder blade.
He stroked my wet curls and pressed his lips against the nape of my
neck.

I led him over to the bed. "What makes you think this was
unscheduled? You never give me credit for anything."

Jake's mouth moved along the lines of my body, kissing my arms
first, and then up and down the length of my back. I rolled over to
face him, bringing his face up to meet mine and inviting him to be
inside me.

"Not so fast," he whispered.

"There's time for slower later. I've missed you so badly this week.
I've needed you, Jake."

We both stopped talking and lost ourselves in making love to each
other. When we had finished, I nestled against his lean body and rested
my head on his outstretched arm. I closed my eyes, and when I opened
them again I realized that I had actually fallen asleep for almost an
hour. "I'm sorry. I must—"

"You must have needed it, darling. Relax." Jake had already showered
and dressed for the evening, in jeans and a cashmere crewneck sweater.
I showered again and this time when I walked into the bedroom, there
was a long red shiny box wrapped with a gauzy silver ribbon on the bed.
"I'm such a baby. I'm going to wait till midnight." "No, this one's a
gift for
me,
and I want you to open it now." I pulled at the
ribbon and opened the lid. Beneath the tissue paper was a pair of
lady's silk lounging pajamas in the most delicate shade of aqua. "It's
the color you're wearing when I dream about you. When you have clothes
on, that is." He held the top up against my skin. "Would you wear it
for me, please, tonight? For dinner?"

I dressed in the pale, smooth outfit, brushed my hair, and dabbed
some Caleche behind both ears, on my throat and wrists. Jake was in the
living room, where he had started the fire, while Ella Fitzgerald was
singing Cole Porter to him. He had poured us each a scotch and was
standing by the window, watching the flakes pile up on one another.

"I understand that dinner is part of my holiday surprise, but a
hungry guy tends to get nervous when the woman he loves can barely boil
water. Do you need help in the kitchen?"

"The ladies who feed you so well all summer have helped me put
together this wonderful feast. You'll simply have to trust them, not
me. It's all island food." I disappeared into the kitchen and opened
the refrigerator, where everything had been stored for my arrival,
along with explicit instructions. My first task was the hardest—to open
a dozen Tisbury Pond oysters.

I had learned after many summers here how to use an oyster knife to
pry the lids apart without drawing blood on both my hands. Fifteen
minutes of lifting, twisting, and scooping the delicious creatures out
of their shells, and I returned to the living room with one of Jake's
favorite treats. The fresh, briny oysters tasted as though they had
been pulled from the water just hours ago.

"You're off to a winning debut, darling. What's next?"

"You open the wine. I'll set out the first course in the dining
room."

There was a smaller fireplace in my dining room, as well. And I
started that, after I lighted the six candles in the chandelier above
the table. Jake found a bottle of Corton Charlemagne,
grand cru,
and
worked on drawing out the cork.

"The first course, Monsieur Tyler, is compliments of the Homeport."
Jake loved the chowder at the lobster house in nearby Menemsha,
which—like every other restaurant on our end of the island—closes in
the fall. "I actually had the good sense to freeze a quart of it.
Cheers!"

When we'd finished the soup and I had cleared the dishes, I sent
Jake back into the living room. "The next one is trickier." There was a
tiny wooden shack in Menemsha called the Bite. And for years, the Quinn
sisters, who owned the business, had been cooking and selling the
world's absolutely most delicious fried clams. Jake detoured to the
Bite, straight from the airport, on every trip to the house. He had
even convinced NBC to have the
Today
show do a summer
feature on the tasty little enterprise.

Before they closed in October, I had urged Karen and Jackie Quinn to
sell me a batch of the batter in which they roll the morsels before
deep-frying them. I bought clams to store in the freezer, and a Fry
Daddy in which to attempt to concoct their magic recipe. When I was
done with the effort, I carried a trayful into the living room.

"Not even close." Jake laughed. "Tell the girls they've got nothing
to worry about. Must have something to do with their shack and its
ambience."

The main course was the easiest. Chris and Betsy Larsen kept one of
the family fish markets open in town all year long. They had boiled two
three-pound lobsters for me in the afternoon, and the caretaker had
brought them up to the house. I reheated them in the oven, melted some
butter, and we feasted for an hour on the meaty tails and claws.

Jake added logs to the fire, and I stretched out on the living room
floor while he opened a bottle of champagne. "Merry Christmas,
Alexandra," he said, joining me in front of the hearth and filling a
flute for each of us. I rested my head against his knee and wished him
the same. We clinked our glasses together and I watched the bubbles
rise and burst before I began to sip.

"Where are you?"

"Just thinking."

"About what?"

I rolled onto my back, a pillow from the sofa beneath my head, and
stared into the flames. "How much my life has changed this year. What a
sense of stability you've given me, in the middle of all the turbulence
I see on the professional side every day."

"Can't you look me in the eye when you tell me these things?"

I slowly turned my head to glance at Jake, smiling. "I wasn't
planning on saying them. I'm not sure that I've even stopped to reflect
on them before now. I just know how very differently I feel about
everything I do and think. If I hadn't been able to talk to you when
Mercer was shot, I can't imagine what—"

"You don't let people in easily." He was stroking my hair and
placing tender kisses on my nose and forehead. "You've got to be more
trusting."

"The problem is that at the beginning I trust everyone. That's
what's so damn disappointing. It seems as though every time I open the
door to something new, the odds are twice as likely that it will slam
shut on my fingers."

"Let's try to come up with solutions. For example, darling, think
about this. Here's two of us, each with a ridiculously over-priced, way
too large for one person who's hardly ever home, Manhattan apartment.
Same general neighborhood—same proximity to your favorite restaurants,
delis, liquor store, and Grace's Marketplace. Critical factors in a
relationship."

I had been drinking enough to know that whatever Jake said, I wasn't
going to have the appropriate answer. I could feel my pulse quickening
and knew the silken pajama top couldn't muffle the sound of my pounding
heartbeat. I shifted back to watch the flames dance in the fireplace.

"I think this morning's broken window and bumbling scaffolders were
an omen, Alex. Why don't you give up that place and move in with me?
I'm not even in town enough to get in your way very often." Jake had
rested his glass on the floor and was massaging my neck. "Imagine that
every single night could be like this one."

He couldn't see the tears that had welled up in my eyes. My head was
swimming with conflicted feelings. It had been so long since the
heartbreak of my fiancé’s death, and I had struggled for years
to keep free of emotional attachments, fearing that I would lose
whomever I let get close to me. For the first time, I had someone to
come home to who listened to me talk about my passion for my work, the
failures when I couldn't solve a victim's case and the triumphs when
justice was actually achieved. Jake never carped when something kept me
late at the office or when the phone rang in the middle of the night.

"I know what you're thinking now. You can't make this kind of
decision yourself, without consulting your friends. This move will take
a summit meeting. All the major powers have to be assembled. No
problem, darling. I've covered summits for years. The Middle East, the
former Soviet Union, the Pacific Rim, Camp David. How difficult can it
be to move one five-foot-ten-inch, hundred-and-fifteen-pound prosecutor
less than ten city blocks? Even a stubborn one? We'll bring Joan in
from Washington and Nina from Los Angeles. We'll import Susan and
Michael. Louise and Henry, are they on the island for the holiday? With
Duane?"

I nodded my head, licking the tear that had dripped to the corner of
my mouth and smiling despite myself as he ticked off the names of my
friends.

"Well, I'll start with them at the crack of dawn. Take a doe sleigh
up Herring Creek Road to get to them through the snow, if you insist.
If I can't win you over myself, then I'll bring in all the allies I
need to persuade you that it's the only sensible thing to do. Get
Esther on the line. Get me Lesley Latham. Where are Ann and Vernon?"

I wanted to speak but knew that I would break the spell of the
moment. Nothing Jake could say would convince me to move in with
anyone, without being married. And he wasn't any closer to thinking
about that permanent kind of commitment than I was. I knew him well
enough to know that. I cherished my freedom and my independence. As
much as I loved being with him and around him, it had only been half a
year since we met, and we both had such frenetic lifestyles that it was
impossible to know whether we could sustain the intensity of our
relationship.

Jake put on his best anchorman's voice. "News flash. Ladies and
gentlemen, this bulletin just in to our desk. Exclusive from Liz Smith.
We take you live to Chilmark, on Martha's Vineyard, where former
prosecutor Alexandra—"

"Former
prosecutor?" I rose on one elbow and faced Jake,
sure that the tip of my nose must be red, betraying my tears.

"—Cooper has announced that, after a conference with her college
roommate and dearest friend, Nina Baum, and with the encouragement and
support of a bevy of other loyal Cooperites, she is going to vacate
apartment number 20A at—"

"Can we get back to this 'former' business?"

"I needed to do something to get your attention, didn't I? You
seemed positively spellbound by the flames. How about it, darling? Of
course you can bring your clothes. Yes, all your clothes. I'll get rid
of my own, and the golf clubs and tennis rackets cluttering up the hall
closet. You look bleary-eyed." He paused to kiss my damp eyelids. "I
swear I'll make plenty of room for all the boxes of Stuart Weitzman
shoes. What am I forgetting?"

"You're forgetting that anything I say at this glorious moment—my
brain soaked in scotch and wine, topped off with a touch of champers—in
the state of Massachusetts, lying off the coast of North America
somewhere in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean, is not binding on me
when we get back into the jurisdiction of New York. So even were I to
acquiesce to your generous offer—"

"You can say anything except the word 'no.' You can tell me you're
flattered, that you'll think about it, that the movers will be there on
Thursday, that you had them come in earlier today because you hoped I'd
ask you, or that you'll leave all your worldly goods behind and come,
barefoot, with just the silk pajamas on your back. Any of those answers
is fine. The only thing I want for Christmas is that you do not turn me
down tonight."

"That's a deal. It's a wonderful offer and you make me very, very
happy, just for wanting me to be there."

Jake took a minute to reflect. "Didn't you always hate it when you
were a kid and you asked your parents if you could do something
wonderful or exciting the next weekend—go to the fair or get a new
bicycle or buy a puppy—and they answered, 'Maybe'? I think that's what
I just got. A big, fat 'maybe.' Think about my offer, Ms. Cooper. I
hope it keeps you awake all night tonight, and every night hereafter
until you give in and throw up your hands and knock on my door, begging
me to let you in."