The Winners Circle (17 page)

“
Sorry about that.” Jerry stashed the phone in his blazer.

“
There are choices, you know, paths to take.”

Jerry’d forgotten where they were in the conversation. He buzzed in the afterglow of his chat with Chelsea. She had actually accepted his invitation to dinner.
Good deal. Double good deal.

“
A blood test can be deterministic,” Tisch said.

“
What kind of blood test?”

“
On the baby.” Tisch paused. “Gina Spagnoli’s baby? The one that’s supposed to be yours?”

“
Oh, right.” Jerry ripped himself from thoughts of his beloved Chelsea. “Will Gina do that?”

“
Not without a subpoena.”

“
Let’s do it.”

“
It will bring public attention. I guarantee that. I know her attorney.”

“
I don’t want that.” His thoughts returned to his dinner date with Chelsea. He hoped to build a chain of devotion that drew her back to his heart. “She can’t find out about the baby.”

“
Who can’t?”

“
Anyone.”

“
You said
she
. Is there another woman involved?”

Jerry looked at Tisch as if he might read his mind. “No, I don’t want anyone to find out. Do you hear me?”

“
Okay?” Tisch sounded confused yet determined to execute his client’s needs. It was all billable hours in the end. “I think I understand.”

“
No one can know about this.”

“
Then get ready to open your wallet.”

Late Thursday afternoon, the air felt warm for the small days of March. Jerry kept the kitchen windows ajar, as he rolled pasta dough upon the counter. The scents of Mascarpone and fresh cut parsley lent an alluring aroma to the kitchen. Cortez lapped water from a bowl in the expanded breakfast nook, and a woodpecker hammered the old pin oak beside the house.

Jerry stuffed fresh raviolis with cheese and spices and pinched the edges closed. He was building more than Chelsea’s favorite meal. To create love from food, he required certain basic ingredients: Parmigiano, lemon, garlic, and olives. Breaded veal cutlets sat on paper towels near the burners, and spinach for the salad drained in a colander by the sink. His senses were more acute than ever. He imagined Chelsea across the table, taking his hand, undressing beside the dining room table. She liked to mix food with sex, complimenting his best work in the kitchen.

A puddle gathered on the ochre floor tiles near the cabinets, and as he carried the pasta to the refrigerator, his bare toes dipped into the water. He must have been careless and sloshed his glass. He bent down and mopped up the spill with a dishcloth.

He went to the sink and shook the spinach in the colander, but it wasn’t dry enough. He returned to the island counter and spilled the walnuts on the cutting board. The thick nuts popped beneath his blade.

The puddle reappeared on the tiles. Jerry stared at it, thinking he’d discovered another spill, until he identified the source. The ceiling was leaking. A ring of water formed on the stucco ceiling, dripping down into the kitchen.

“
No.” He immediately thought of the old kitchen roof—the one Chelsea hounded him to fix—but this was new, and it hadn’t rained for days. It must have been the pipes in the refinished master bath.

Jerry squeezed the phone in his fist. His current plumber was like any other that he hired. He was lucky to get the man on the line when he really needed help. “You’ve got to get over here.”

“
How bad is it?” The plumber sounded distracted, or was it disinterested?

“
It couldn’t be worse.”

“
Is it pouring out?”

“
Any other part of the house could be leaking, and I wouldn’t mind. Do you understand?”

“
I’ll try to get right on it.”

“
You must. I’ll pay you anything.”

Jerry heard the plumber hang up. He marched into the basement and meddled with the myriad of specially installed cutoff valves. It took him twenty minutes of running up and down the steps before locating the line for the master bedroom. He was behind schedule, and he still needed to buy wine.

He tacked a note for the plumber on the front door and aimed his Porsche toward Princeton. The car spun out on the driveway.
That leaky pipe better be history when I return.
He wanted no reminders of the past. He needed a spotless house and a stunning meal if he hoped to create magic.

The man at the wine shop counter wore a tunic top and a pair of bellbottom jeans. He sat on a stool and sipped latte, engrossed in a novel by Robert Gover. He bobbed his head, mumbling an occasional line from the book.

Jerry mulled through the dusty wine racks, listening to the man snort and laugh. He tried to grab the man’s attention. “Where are the Italian reds?”

The man waved his hand without looking up. “Keep going.”

“
Where?”

“
The middle front.”

“
Middle front?”

“
Yes.”

“
Do you have Riserva Millennio?”

The man propped his glasses upon his head, annoyed by the interruption. One of his sandaled feet dropped to the floor. “What’s that?”

“
Riserva Millennio. It’s a Chianti.”

“
Then it would be with the rest of the Italians.”

“
1985?”

“
Sounds like a tasty year.”

Jerry’s cell phone began ringing, and he plucked it from his blazer. He noticed the counterman roll his eyes. “Hello.”

“
Jerry?” Chelsea’s voice competed with a loud sucking sound in the background.

“
Where are you?”

“
Trenton Airport.”

“
Are you broken down?”

“
No.”

He recognized the gushing sound by Chelsea. It was the swirl of a jet engine turbine. “Are you picking someone up?”

“
I hope this won’t put you out.”

“
Are you going to be late?”
Good deal
. He’d get extra time to clean up the leak and prepare the vegetables.

“
I’m going to have to cancel.”

“
Cancel?”

“
I have special news. Haskell’s proposed.”

“
Proposed what?”

“
What do you think?”

It took a moment for the concept to hit home. It dropped down on him like one of those cartoon weights, the 500 pound iron block, the full out flattener. Now he heard a different gushing sound. It was the wind leaving his lungs.

“
Jerry? Are you still there?”

“
What did you tell him?”

“
Yes.”

His knees went weak. He propped himself against the doorframe of the wine shop. He’d been aced-out by that little creep again.

“
I want your blessing.” Chelsea sounded tentative.

My what?!
“My blessing?”

“
I want to be friends.”

“
Friends?”

“
Jerry, you’re repeating everything I’m saying.”

“
I am?”

“
It’s been more than a year since our divorce.”

“
Has it been that long?” He’d been counting too but for a different reason. He thought their time apart was too long. He gripped the doorframe, aware that the ground beneath him was shifting. “You’re joking, right?”

“
I’m boarding a plane for Mexico in a half hour. We’ll be married at sunrise.”

“
Can you do that? Is that legal?”

“
Haskell says that in Mexico you can get whatever you want, when you want it, fast.”

“
Are you going to live there?”

“
I’m coming back. I’m sorry. I hope you didn’t go to too much trouble for dinner.”

“
Well, I … well, no.”

“
I knew you’d understand.”

“
Yes.” That was him, always understanding. He wondered how he might be understanding and persuasive at the same time. It probably wasn’t possible. That’s how some men got everything. They took what they wanted. They weren’t liked by others, but who cared?

“
Can we reschedule when I get back?” she asked.

“
Sure.”

“
Oh, and the house looks great. I watched every episode.”

When she hung up, Jerry thought of the things he didn’t say. He didn’t bless her marriage, not to that money-grubbing twerp. He didn’t want her to go. He still loved her.
Don’t do this!

He saw his Porsche at the curb and hopped inside. He drove down Nassau Street, shifting up the gears. The engine growled. His tires crushed an empty soda can on the dividing line, spitting it out like a spent ammo cartridge. He ripped past the yield-to-pedestrian signs and thick white crosswalks, daring jaywalkers to cross his path. He gripped the gearshift and looked to the horizon, plotting a course for the airport.

As Jerry raced through the heart of town, people scattered to the sidewalks. A cyclist smashed into the bumper of a parked car and flipped. A lady with a baby stroller screamed at the top of her lungs. Jerry pushed down on the gas, pounding the horn, willing obstructions out of his path. A squad car jumped on his tail.

He swerved onto Mercer Street, running the traffic light. He nearly clipped the side of a mail truck. He was heading for the interstate highway, without really plotting a course. Red lights flashed in his rearview mirror. He’d smooth out his troubles at the airport. He needed to reach Chelsea before she lifted off the runway and out of his life forever. He’d pay any price to speak with her one last time.

Traffic slowed to a crawl. Jerry leaned on the horn, deciding to drive in the opposite lane. He weaved off the road to avoid oncoming cars. Dust flew up with bits of garbage in the shoulder. Car horns wailed, and brakes locked up. He smelled his clutch burning. He didn’t care if the engine blew, as long as he reached the airport on time.

The police shouted through the PA system in their car. Jerry ignored their commands to pull over. He saw the open fields at Battlefield Park, as another squad car sped toward him in the shoulder. The chrome grille and fluttering lights bore down on his little sports car. For an instant, he imagined himself going head on and underneath the approaching car.

He cut the wheel and spun out on the lawn. Mud and hunks of sod sprayed his windows. He cut back several times to avoid people afoot. A man and dog leapt over a trashcan. One teenager paused before diving with her companions into the thorny bushes. Jerry lost control on the wet turf, stabbing at the floor for the brakes. His steering wheel felt loose in his palms; no traction at all. Trees and blue sky whirled past his eyes, but just as quickly, his tires took hold, and the Porsche jerked to a halt.

Two squad cars hemmed him in, front and back. Jerry hopped out and glanced over the Porsche’s hood. By chance, he hadn’t hit anyone or anything. Tire ruts extended from the road, a pair of serpentine trails leading back to the Porsche. A photographer stepped from a news van and snapped pictures.

The first policeman was a kid with his hair shaved like a boot camp marine. He started to yell without benefit of the PA. “What are you doing?”

Jerry stared at the crowd. He was dazed, catching his breath. His heart still pumped at full throttle, and he broke into a sweat. Something was wrong. There were too many people around for a weekday afternoon. How did they get here so fast?

“
Alright, pal.” the policeman yelled louder.

The second officer was older than Jerry. He had thick gray hair, like Haskell Cogdon. Jerry’s problems blazed anew in his mind.

“
Let him be,” the senior officer said, noticing the bewildered look on Jerry’s face. “He’s not armed. He’s not moving.”

“
Sir?” the senior officer asked. “Are you alright?”

Jerry saw the problem. The Mercer Oak was completely collapsed, split down the middle. Its colonial limbs sprawled across the lawn like a dead soldier. People carted away sections of bark and branches. A twisted limb poked from the back of a Subaru. Two kids dragged another branch. They’d been busy collecting souvenirs but stopped to watch Jerry.

The news photographer, on the scene to cover the fallen tree, had lucked into the moment. He snapped more pictures of Jerry beside his car. The flashbulb blinded Jerry, which was good because he no longer cared to see.

“
What happened here?” Jerry asked.

The senior officer’s gaze shuttled to the tree and back. “It’s the oak.”

“
But what happened?”

“
It fell last night. Didn’t you hear about it?”

“
Fell?”

“
I suppose the windstorm took it down.”

“
They should’ve knocked it down years ago,” the kid cop added. “What a waste of time it was saving this thing.”