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  Until now, they’ve always lived in rentals. Someone else took care of the maintenance, inside and out.

  Brett is ready to put down roots here, but not literally. He wants nothing to do with yard or garden tending at this stage in their lives.

  But Elsa really, really wanted a house. A real house—not a condo or an apartment.

  She wasn’t sure why, at the time. But Joan, the new therapist, has since helped her figure it out.

  “Somewhere in the back of your mind, Elsa, do you feel the need to maintain your lifestyle the same as it was when Jeremy lived with you? Just in case?”

  She could only nod.

  “Yet you’ve said you have a strong feeling that your son is gone forever.”

  “I… I guess I just can’t let myself completely give up hope. Even if there’s one chance in a billion that I’m wrong, that he’s alive and might find his way back to us again…”

  “But if that were the case, Elsa, you must be aware that Jeremy’s no longer a little boy,” Joan pointed out gently. “He’s old enough to live on his own. He wouldn’t need to have a room in your house, or a yard to play in…”

  Elsa nodded. She got it. Really, she did.

  But a mother doesn’t give up, no matter what she senses in her heart.

  So now they own a circa 1950 ranch with a perpetually overgrown lawn. It’s less than a mile from the golf course—a huge selling point for Brett, whose handsome face is ruddy, tonight, from playing eighteen holes before meeting her here for dinner.

  Ordinarily, he’d have waited until Saturday morning to hit the links, but it’s supposed to rain tomorrow. And God forbid he begin a summer weekend without golf.

  There had been a time, Elsa recalls, when he’d wanted Jeremy to learn, too. Brett used to fantasize about the father-son rounds they’d play in years to come. He even signed him up for junior lessons at the club when Jeremy was old enough, with encouragement from Elsa and whatever doctor they were seeing at the time.

  It seemed like such a good idea to everyone, until…

  Remembering the incident that had put an end to that venture, Elsa toys with her fork, poking at the wedge of salmon on her plate.

  I should have known that wouldn’t work out. Maybe I did know. But it was so nice to see Brett enthusiastic about spending time with Jeremy…

  Across the table, her husband crushes a crab knuckle with a crustacean mallet.

  Jeremy…the golf club…those horrible screams…

  Elsa sets down her fork, her stomach churning with the memory.

  “What’s wrong?” Brett asks, but she can’t bear to meet his eyes.

  He remembers that day, too, she knows, though they haven’t spoken of it since Jeremy disappeared.

  The last straw, Brett had said at the time. But of course, it wasn’t.

  “Elsa?”

  She forces herself to look up. “The…the salmon. It’s overcooked, I think.”

  “Send it back.”

  “No, that’s all right.”

  “Want some of this crab?”

  “No, thanks,” she says, and tries not to wince as he brings down the mallet with another sickening crunch.

  “Long walks on the beach.”

  Nick glances up at Beth, who stands by the king-size bed holding a pair of flip-flops. “What?”

  “Long walks on the beach,” she repeats, a smile playing at her lips as she tucks the flip-flops into her open suitcase. “That’s what people say in all those personal ads—people who are looking for love.”

  “Oh. Right.”

  But he’s not following her train of thought.

  A moment ago, they were surveying the pile of dirty laundry on the floor and discussing whether to throw a couple of loads into the washer, or just pack their bags with dirty clothes for the trip home tomorrow.

  Now, out of nowhere, Beth has shifted to walks on the beach and personal ads. She has a habit of doing that—jumping from one topic to another—and he has a devil of a time keeping up.

  With Lauren, Nick always pretty much knew what she was talking about—sometimes, even what she was going to say before she said it—and why. After all those years together, you learn to read a person.

  That’s not necessarily a good thing. Or a bad thing.

  It is what it is, as Beth would say. She’s fond of little catchphrases like that.

  “I just think it’s interesting”—she stoops to pick up a damp beach towel—“that some people go to such lengths to find the perfect partner, and other people who are perfect for each other just kind of stumble across each other. Like we did. Is this yours, or did it come with the house?”

  He blinks.

  Oh, the towel.

  He peers at it. “I’m not sure. Just leave it here.”

  She nods agreeably and tosses it aside.

  Lauren would have asked him how he could not be sure whether something belongs to him, and how he could so carelessly discard something that might be his without at least taking a closer look.

  But then, Lauren would know whether the towel was his or not, because she always keeps—kept—track of things like that.

  Not just household items, but his clothes, too. With his wife—ex-wife—around, he never would have managed to show up at a beach house for a week with only one pair of swim trunks because he had no idea what he’d done with the others and didn’t have time to hunt them down. Lauren would have packed his bag along with hers and the kids’, a few days in advance, the way she always did when they were going somewhere.

  Sometimes, he misses that.

  Misses her.

  Sometimes.

  But there’s Beth, self-assured and sexy in a short, flirty coral-colored sundress and a beaded ankle bracelet, bare skin golden brown from their week at the beach, blond hair long and loose. Even her feet are pretty—tanned, toenails polished to match the dress.

  He can’t help but compare her to Lauren, the sunscreen queen, who freaked out a few years ago when the doctor removed a tiny precancerous speck from her shoulder. It wasn’t even the dangerous kind of skin cancer, but she’s doused herself and the kids in sunblock ever since.

  “We can take another long walk on the beach tonight,” Beth tells him, “and maybe one more in the morning, before the ferry.”

  “That would have to be pretty early. We’re a long way from the dock and we’re on the 6:30 ferry.”

  Beth sighs. “I don’t want to go back to the real world. I don’t want to get back out there with my résumé. Nobody’s even thinking about hiring until September.”

  She was, until she got laid off last spring, a graphic designer at a prominent fashion magazine. That drew him to her—the blend of corporate and creative. She would ride the train in suits and heels that were sexy yet businesslike, not easy to pull off. He noticed her long before they ever met; admired her looks in a detached, married-man sort of way. It never occurred to him that he could have her, that he even wanted her. Not until that restless, magical December night, when out of nowhere, forbidden need came roaring to the surface.

  Had he even realized, before then, that he was frustrated or unsatisfied by his life?

  Does it matter?

  Once he understood that he wanted Beth, could have her—had to have her—there was no turning back.

  Now, he puts his arms around her from behind and buries his face in her neck. She smells like shampoo and soap and suntan lotion. Not the protective, dermatologist-recommended, triple-digit-SPF kind. No, she smells like coconut oil, a scent that evokes the tropics and bikinis and wanton sex.

  “I don’t want to go back, either.”

  “So let’s stay.”

  “Another night?” Nick lifts his head in surprise. “Can you?”

  If she can, he can maybe call in sick to work. No, wait, they have to vacate the rental house for someone else. But maybe there’s an inn, or—

  “Not another night. Forever. Let’s just run away.”

  He laughs and goes b
ack to nuzzling her neck. “I thought you were serious.”

  “I was, for a split second.” She sighs and turns to face him. “Why does life have to be so complicated? Why couldn’t we have met twenty years ago, when we were free?”

  “We’re free now,” he reminds her. “Your divorce is final, and mine will be—”

  “We’re not really free. We have to deal with exes, and kids, and finances…”

  “At our age, who doesn’t?”

  But her ex is remarried and left her well-off, her kids are in college, and anyway, Beth isn’t Nick’s age—she’s older.

  So much for the theory that men only leave their wives for younger women.

  “Reality does bite, doesn’t it?” Beth shakes her head. “It’s a nice fantasy, though. Running away together.”

  It’s what his mother had done—just took off with another man.

  He never imagined in a million years that he’d be able to forgive her for that, but maybe he has, now. Maybe he’ll find her and tell her.

  Maybe not.

  After all, he’s done just fine without her, all these years. Was probably better off. His father did a great job raising him. His mother had never been the maternal type.

  “Where would we go?” he asks Beth.

  “I don’t know…the South Pacific?”

  “Or Europe. Tuscany. Think of the views. And the food—organic, fresh…”

  “I’ve never been, have you?”

  “To Tuscany? No. How about Morocco?”

  “That’s not in Europe,” she points out.

  “No, but I’ve always wanted to see it.”

  “Rio.”

  “Hawaii,” he counters.

  “Some deserted island in the Caribbean? Or we could just stay here. Forever.”

  “That,” he agrees, “would be amazing.”

  “Let’s do it.”

  Seeing the serious expression in her brown eyes, he says, “Wait—you’re serious?”

  “No. But let’s pretend I am, just for tonight. Let’s talk about all the things we’d do if we never had to go back.”

  “Deal.” He pulls her closer. “Maybe we can even do one of the things we’d do a whole lot more if we never had to go back.”

  She laughs silkily. “Is that a proposition?”

  “Hell, yes.” Grinning as she reaches up to untie the halter of her sundress, Nick decides that life is just about perfect.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Jay-Rod, his teammates called him, back when he was playing third base for his high school team on Long Island. Of course, Jason Thomas Rodriguez is no relation to the Yankees’ A-Rod, but no harm in letting people assume so. Not that many people did—unless he managed to mention it.

  Like many a teenage athlete, he’d always dreamed of playing in the majors. And like the vast majority of them, he didn’t even come close. Flubbed a minor league tryout after graduation, and that was that. Jay-Rod gave way to Jason again—just another screwed-up kid from a lower-middle-class broken home.

  Dream over.

  Nightmare begins.

  For a few years, he got himself into and out of trouble, onto and off of the streets. Drugs, petty crime. Then he met Irena, fell in love, cleaned up his act.

  He found an affordable studio apartment in Queens, landed a job in Manhattan—custodial work at Grand Central Terminal, but still.

  Now he goes by JT, having distanced himself from both the disappointed athlete and the street thug he’d once been. These days, he lives his life on the up and up—most of the time.

  With a twinge of guilt, he pats his pocket to make sure the folded piece of paper is still there.

  What he did wasn’t really wrong, though. In fact, it was actually kind of heroic. He imagines himself telling Irena about it when he sees her. She has a soft spot for little kids. Wait till she hears how he helped a total stranger get his dying daughter’s favorite toy back from whoever snagged it from the lost and found.

  Heroics aside, no one in his right mind would have turned down the offer to make such easy money. Especially since JT had been told he’d be paid a token amount for his efforts to find the toy even if he failed.

  But he hadn’t. It had taken all of two minutes for JT to let himself into the closed lost and found office and find the record of the person who had mistakenly claimed the damned thing.

  Mission accomplished, easy breezy. The ultra-organized lost and found photocopies the driver’s license of everyone who claims lost property, attaching it to the original claim form and filing away a hard copy just ripe for the taking.

  Now all JT has to do is go over to the pub, hand over the photocopy, and collect his money.

  Exiting the terminal on the west side, he’s hit with a blast of muggy August air laced with the faint stench of stagnant gutter water from a late day thunderstorm. A few stray commuters hurry along Vanderbilt Avenue, but midtown is relatively quiet at this hour.

  Passing a hand-in-hand couple, JT thinks wistfully of Irena, who’s probably in bed by now. Her breakfast shift at an Astoria Boulevard diner begins at four.

  Someday, they’ll be able to see more of each other. Someday, when Irena has graduated from Queensborough Community College and no longer has to work two jobs just to pay her tuition. Someday, when she’s his wife.

  His pulse quickens at the thought of the diamond ring he’s been saving up to buy. With his next paycheck and the extra cash he’s about to pocket, they’ll be engaged by Labor Day.

  He crosses the narrow avenue and walks up two blocks, toward the pub. Turning west, he sees that the sidewalk between here and Madison becomes a plywood-framed tunnel, protection from the construction zone on an overhead skyscraper.

  Yeah. Like some flimsy strips of wood will keep pedestrians safe from a falling crane or steel beam. Things drop from the sky all the time here—construction equipment, air-conditioning units, suicides—but native New Yorkers take that sort of thing in stride.

  His footsteps echoing through the deserted wooden walkway, JT notes that the overhead bulbs meant to light the area are burned out. Figures.

  He wipes a trickle of sweat from his brow, thinking that a cold beer would go down easily right about now. Maybe this guy he’s meeting at the pub will buy him one, in addition to paying him for his efforts.

  If not, maybe I’ll just treat myself.

  “Excuse me?”

  JT glances over his shoulder to see a beefy-looking stranger coming up through the shadows behind him. After he looks around to see that there’s no one else in the walkway, JT’s street smarts kick in. He takes a wary step backward. “Yeah?”

  “I’m supposed to give you this in exchange for some information.” The guy flashes a fistful of green.

  “But—”

  “Yeah, I know, my brother was supposed to meet you over at the pub…”

  Brother? Momentarily confused, JT thinks of the guy he met earlier. He was on the short side, wiry, balding.

  This one is built like a bull. A bull with a hand that’s now fanning a bunch of hundred-dollar bills—a lot more than JT was supposed to be paid. His eyes widen.

  “But,” the bull continues, “he couldn’t make it. Had to rush over to the hospital.”

  Oh geez. JT wonders if the brother’s kid is going to live long enough to see her favorite toy.

  “So he sent me to close the deal for him.”

  Close the deal?

  JT laughs nervously. This guy makes it sound almost like they’re doing something shady here.

  Which you are, he reminds himself. But in the grand scheme of things, considering his own past, this isn’t so bad. He’s not hurting anyone—he’s helping.

  “Did you get the information for my brother?”

  JT nods, again checking the street, making sure there’s no one around to see the exchange and mistake it for a drug deal or something.

  Coast is clear.

  He reaches into his pocket and pulls out the piece of paper.

  T
he guy unfolds it and looks at the photocopied driver’s license while JT looks at all those hundred-dollar bills, almost within his reach. Yeah, he’ll definitely go get himself a cold one after this. Maybe a couple, to celebrate the unexpected windfall.

  Giving a satisfied nod, the guy folds the paper again and tucks it into his pocket. When his hand emerges, it isn’t empty.

  Too late, JT spots the pistol. Before he can react, he feels its hard nose probing point-blank against his chest…

  And then he feels nothing at all.

  Lauren wipes a trickle of sweat from her forehead as she carries a glass of ice water into the living room. She stepped out of a tepid shower less than ten minutes ago and she’s wearing only a thin baby doll nightgown, but it’s impossible to cool off tonight.

  Exhausted, she sinks onto the living room couch, directly in front of the rotating floor fan. The blades stir the sticky air but don’t cool it, and there’s not a breath of breeze through the screen at the open window.

  Chauncey, lying on the rug, opens one eye to look at her, then closes it again as though he doesn’t have the energy for anything more strenuous.

  That’s why they call this the dog days of August, Lauren decides, and yawns.

  She should probably just go up to bed.

  But that would feel, in some strange way, like giving up. In bed before nine o’clock on a Friday night?

  No way. She isn’t giving in yet, no matter how tired she is.

  Anyway, the house is cooler downstairs.

  Yeah—maybe ninety-five degrees compared to ninety-six upstairs.

  This is stupid. When she was married, she had no qualms about turning in early. Nothing to prove, not even to herself.

  It isn’t just the thought of her ex-husband living it up on an island tonight with his new girlfriend while Lauren sits here drinking tap water and sweating…

  Come on—yes it is. It is just that, and you know it.

  Thank God this summer is almost over. It’s time she exited the pity party and reclaimed her life.

  Last year at this time, she was wistfully thinking about all the home improvement projects she could do if she just had a couple of kid-free days. Nothing major, but over the years, she taught herself how to paint and wallpaper and slipcover…