blinded her.
Christina was certain she was about to be carjacked.
But the man made no attempt to open her door. He was working the camera around his neck, snapping away with a powerful flash.
Her fear turned to anger as she realized he was paparazzo, like the guys who turned up for opening night of the Bridgehampton Classic. Christina always checked the next issue of Dan’s Papers, loving the attention, hoping she’d look good in her dress.
But this was different. He was here to dig up dirt on Jason, on her, on their family.
“Fuck you,” she snarled.
“Christina!” Her vision cleared enough to see that he was tall with lanky blond hair, worn jeans, and a vest. “Do you really believe your husband drowned by accident?” He had an English accent. Straight out of central casting.
“Fuck you,” she yelled again, fumbling for the shift.
“Was it an overdose? Did he have a problem with substance abuse?”
“Asshole!”
He continued snapping away.
“How’s your son handling this?”
Christina slammed the car into reverse, lifted her foot from the brake, and gunned it, glancing in the rearview mirror in time to see the metal gates swinging closed behind her.
She hit the brakes again, a moment too late.
The Mercedes collided with the gates in a screech of metal on metal.
“Yeow!” The photographer yelled at the top of his lungs.
Christina yelped, covering her mouth with her hands.
The photographer continued to snap away. “Easy there, tiger!”
He was making a game of this.
She fumbled for the remote to the gate while the paparazzo kept up a stream of questions.
“Talk to me, sweet. How are you getting on, my love?”
She gave him the finger and backed through the gate when it opened again at last, gunning the Mercedes through in a spray of gravel.
The photographer howled and jumped back, clutching his foot.
Christina screamed in horror.
But he was laughing.
She backed away up the drive as fast as she dared.
The gate swung shut, its iron scrollwork battered and tilting at a crazy angle.
The Brit with stringy hair dropped his camera at last so it came to rest on the strap around his neck.
She wished it would strangle him.
“I’m here if you change your mind,” he called.
“Fuck you,” Christina said once more, revving her car up the gravel drive. She was too shaky to attempt to pull back inside the garage, so she turned off the engine and sat.
What she wanted more than anything was to rest her forehead on the steering wheel and have a good cry, but she didn’t dare. If she started now, she would never stop.
Instead, she collected her pocketbook and cell phone and headed inside. At the moment there was no alternative.
She climbed the steps and crossed the concrete porch. The house was massive, constructed of white concrete and glass, and had replaced the tiny Cape that had been here before. She unlocked the front door, custom-designed of leaded glass.
Inside, the house smelled of the lavender aromatherapy products she insisted the housekeepers use mixed with the briny smell of the Atlantic and something else. Stale cigarette smoke and beer.
The police said Jason had thrown a party last night.
Christina wrinkled her nose. “Party” was too nice a word to describe what Jason had been doing.
Through the glass that comprised the southern wall of the house, the tops of the dunes were visible as heavy shadows in the gathering darkness.
Inside, the house was silent as a tomb except for the tick-tick-tick of the sculpted-iron floor clock on the landing, purchased in SoHo years ago when they first got married and Jason still accompanied her on shopping trips.
There were signs everywhere of activity from the night before. Furniture out of place, couch cushionsthat still held the impression of someone’s body weight. Dining-room chairs askew, clustered at one end of the long glass table. She could well imagine what Jason and his guests had been doing on its surface.
The floor
Christina was certain she was about to be carjacked.
But the man made no attempt to open her door. He was working the camera around his neck, snapping away with a powerful flash.
Her fear turned to anger as she realized he was paparazzo, like the guys who turned up for opening night of the Bridgehampton Classic. Christina always checked the next issue of Dan’s Papers, loving the attention, hoping she’d look good in her dress.
But this was different. He was here to dig up dirt on Jason, on her, on their family.
“Fuck you,” she snarled.
“Christina!” Her vision cleared enough to see that he was tall with lanky blond hair, worn jeans, and a vest. “Do you really believe your husband drowned by accident?” He had an English accent. Straight out of central casting.
“Fuck you,” she yelled again, fumbling for the shift.
“Was it an overdose? Did he have a problem with substance abuse?”
“Asshole!”
He continued snapping away.
“How’s your son handling this?”
Christina slammed the car into reverse, lifted her foot from the brake, and gunned it, glancing in the rearview mirror in time to see the metal gates swinging closed behind her.
She hit the brakes again, a moment too late.
The Mercedes collided with the gates in a screech of metal on metal.
“Yeow!” The photographer yelled at the top of his lungs.
Christina yelped, covering her mouth with her hands.
The photographer continued to snap away. “Easy there, tiger!”
He was making a game of this.
She fumbled for the remote to the gate while the paparazzo kept up a stream of questions.
“Talk to me, sweet. How are you getting on, my love?”
She gave him the finger and backed through the gate when it opened again at last, gunning the Mercedes through in a spray of gravel.
The photographer howled and jumped back, clutching his foot.
Christina screamed in horror.
But he was laughing.
She backed away up the drive as fast as she dared.
The gate swung shut, its iron scrollwork battered and tilting at a crazy angle.
The Brit with stringy hair dropped his camera at last so it came to rest on the strap around his neck.
She wished it would strangle him.
“I’m here if you change your mind,” he called.
“Fuck you,” Christina said once more, revving her car up the gravel drive. She was too shaky to attempt to pull back inside the garage, so she turned off the engine and sat.
What she wanted more than anything was to rest her forehead on the steering wheel and have a good cry, but she didn’t dare. If she started now, she would never stop.
Instead, she collected her pocketbook and cell phone and headed inside. At the moment there was no alternative.
She climbed the steps and crossed the concrete porch. The house was massive, constructed of white concrete and glass, and had replaced the tiny Cape that had been here before. She unlocked the front door, custom-designed of leaded glass.
Inside, the house smelled of the lavender aromatherapy products she insisted the housekeepers use mixed with the briny smell of the Atlantic and something else. Stale cigarette smoke and beer.
The police said Jason had thrown a party last night.
Christina wrinkled her nose. “Party” was too nice a word to describe what Jason had been doing.
Through the glass that comprised the southern wall of the house, the tops of the dunes were visible as heavy shadows in the gathering darkness.
Inside, the house was silent as a tomb except for the tick-tick-tick of the sculpted-iron floor clock on the landing, purchased in SoHo years ago when they first got married and Jason still accompanied her on shopping trips.
There were signs everywhere of activity from the night before. Furniture out of place, couch cushionsthat still held the impression of someone’s body weight. Dining-room chairs askew, clustered at one end of the long glass table. She could well imagine what Jason and his guests had been doing on its surface.
The floor
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