Chapter 23
Late August
It’s so freakin’ hot.
I’m lying under a wide umbrella, on a striped lounger at the foot of the boardwalk leading back to Hans and Mike’s Hamptons house.
Despite the shade, my skin is sizzling. The stretch of sandy beach is almost empty, and the lapping ocean is inviting.
But I can’t stand the idea of stepping into the blazing sun to reach it.
I’m stuck . . . literally beached. And I finished my iced tea an hour ago.
I read yesterday’s entry in the green-and-copper journal on my lap.
It was supposed to be cooler in the Hamptons — that was the point of house-sitting for the whole of August. A retreat of ocean breezes, turquoise pool, billowing white curtains and fresh seafood.
A relief from 24-hour sirens, inescapable humidity, sweaty sex, and short fuses in New York.
But it seems as hot, sweaty and ill-tempered here as it did there.
It’s mostly me, of course. Rob seems okay, stoic as usual, content to work from the comfort of Hans’s air-conditioned ocean-view office, taking long lunch breaks to fix crab salads and iced tea.
He wouldn’t normally be away from the city for so long, but we need to work on our relationship, to spend time away from things that have been making me feel a little crazed.
A lot crazed.
It’s also the anti-anxiety meds, I think. I’ve been seeing Dr. Weinstein again out of sheer desperation. After the row with Rob back in June after the show, and what I said to him that night, I had to get help.
Not that Dr. Weinstein can do much, but I have to talk to somebody about my nightmares and sense of guilt.
I see him once a week now, acting out the amnesia storyline, telling him about how, ever since the accident, I have felt like another person — that I can’t shake the sense I’m not supposed to be with Rob.
That I’m not supposed to be this version of myself.
I also talk about David a lot. How I have no closure over his death, especially since I have no memory of it.
How I’ve never properly grieved his loss or been able to accept it.
They’re all only half-truths, but discussing them in that way seems better than nothing.
I can no longer talk to Rob about it, as it always ends in a fight.
Dr. Weinstein started me on anti-anxiety meds, but I’m not convinced they’re working.
They’re not helping me at the office, where I’ve made a series of ill-judged decisions and said some things I regret.
Nothing that wasn’t true, but I should’ve been more diplomatic.
Mike practically hustled me out of the door when I agreed to take him and Hans up on their offer of the beach house for August.
The meds make me drowsy, too. It helps with the insomnia, but it’s tough in the daytime and I haven’t been getting much work done.
By the time the evening rolls around, I’m too tired to do much.
There have been a few nice dinners at local restaurants, but I’m quieter than usual.
Mostly, we fix dinner at the house, eat it with some light conversation about work or the books we’re reading — then settle down to read more or watch a movie.
If Rob had been hoping for long moonlit walks along the shore, deep and healing conversations, wine-fueled banter and midnight love-making in the dunes, he must be disappointed.
We both are, I guess.
My reading is interrupted by my phone tinkling its pretty notes. It’s a text from Mike.
Better get your party shoes on, girl, Hans and I are leaving in T-minus 30 mins and will be there by 6.30 p.m. — whoot whoot!! Get the beers chillin’. Don’t worry about dinner, we’re bringing appies, then Hans is taking us all out to Oaklands for Friday night lobster around 8.
Mike and Hans are joining us at the beach house for the weekend.
They have planned a huge pool party here tomorrow, which most of the H&F staffers have been invited to.
Josh and his boyfriend, Austin, are going to stay in the pool house, Angela and her new guy in the beach house’s downstairs bedroom.
A group of other H&F agents have rented a nearby property for the weekend.
It’s going to be chaos. Hot, exhausting chaos.
I pick my words carefully in reply.
Great! We’ll be waiting, beers at the ready.
Don’t trust your appie selection so I’m going to store.
Can I pick up anything you want, for later or breakfast?
Lobster sounds fun. I’m wiped out from heat but will hopefully manage an evening out with the boyz.
Thought it was supposed to be cooler by the ocean? !?! Jx
I press send, then hate myself for giving myself an out, which I’m sure Mike will take as a slight.
For goodness’ sake. A whole month in a Hamptons beach house, friends coming for the weekend, a lobster dinner, fabulous catered pool party tomorrow — what more could I want?
I stare at the ocean, where a couple of guys are body-boarding in the swell. It takes me back to my vacation with David in Biarritz.
My brother, alive. And a clear sense of self. That’s what I want.
Trying to shake myself out of it, I rise off the lounger. Stepping into the sun is like hitting a wall of heat, and I make a break for it up the steps. I stop for a moment where the boardwalk joins the house’s pool deck, looking up at the window of the home office.
Through the bright reflection of the blue sky, Rob is watching me, talking to somebody on the phone. I wave up at him and he waves back, pointing to indicate he’ll be down soon. I push through the folding doors and enter the airy living space.
I flop on the soft white couch with its beachy throws and pillows, and sink into its deliciousness.
Why didn’t I stay inside all day? I shouldn’t be sitting on this upholstery with my sweaty, sunscreeny skin, but I don’t care.
I kick off my sandy flip-flops and put my dirty feet on the silvery velvet ottoman.
Rob thunders down the wide, wooden staircase. “Hey, baby. How was the beach?”
“Too damn hot. Even under the shade. It’s lovely in here, though. Thank goodness for air-conditioning.”
“Yeah, the office upstairs is nice. Got plenty of work done. That was Hans. They’ve pre-sold two more Tribeca units. He said they’re leaving, be here around seven.”
“Nice. Mike said 6.30, but I suspect that’s way optimistic. I should go to the store, get beers and appies, maybe something for breakfast.”
Rob sits on the ottoman, taking my feet onto his lap, brushing sand off onto the gray hardwood.
“I’m done with work, so I can go, if you’re too hot? You seem wiped out. And sweaty, to be honest.” He rubs my feet with the pads of his thumbs. I’m instantly less anxious.
“Not yet. That feels lovely.”
He looks up from my feet, under his dark eyelashes, and smiles at me again with his lazy grin. “Oh yeah? Need some of my magic healing hands?” He rubs with more intensity, sending all kinds of sensations over my body.
“Mmmm . . . That’s wonderful. Takes me back to that spa in Venice.” I let my head loll on the pillows, closing my eyes, surrendering to the moment.
“Now that was a fantastic vacation.”
Rob pauses, perhaps worried he is implying this one isn’t.
Then he presses on with his foot rub. He uses the moisture of the sunscreen to massage his way up my bare legs, kneading my ankles, my calves, the backs of my knees, wheeling himself toward the couch on the mobile ottoman, pulling my legs each side of him.
He pushes up the light skirt of my floaty sundress, slowly massaging each thigh in turn, letting his thumbs get close to my bikini line, deliberately turning me on.
I lift my head to look at him. In the light of the cool, pale room, he is so beautiful.
He is gazing at me with a half-smile, and pulls me closer, dropping to his knees, wrapping my legs around his hips, pushing my skirt right up to my waist. He glances down at where my pelvis is starting to circle against him and traces a hand across my lower stomach, above my blue polka-dot bikini.
He speaks in a low, quiet voice. “You know what I love about this bikini?” He lifts his eyes to me again but doesn’t wait for an answer. “These side strings. No pulling it down over your feet. Just . . . this.”
Rob tugs, painfully slowly, at the bows of my bikini, pulling each one open so the sides fall away, looking at me the whole time, feeling me arch my back with desire.
I haven’t wanted him this much in ages. He takes the front of the bikini and draws it out from under me.
It pulls between my legs, the back and side strings tugging through my butt cheeks before emerging, slick, from the front.
He holds it up high and drops it on the hardwood floor. I giggle, a teenager in love.
He laughs too, then leans down and is silent.
As he buries his mouth and tongue into me and I surf the waves of pleasure again and again, I wonder how I thought I couldn’t be with this man forever.
This incredible, kind, loving man. The best imaginable husband.
I roll down off the sofa, stripping him of his linen shirt and long shorts, taking him in my mouth, devouring every delicious inch of him.
I grip his back as we make love on the floor, rolling onto the deep-piled fireside rug for comfort, eventually splitting apart and lying back, naked and spent.
“Man,” I say, after a while. “Guess this ocean air is doing me good, after all.”
“Apparently.” Rob gives a low laugh. “I’m getting hungry. You?”
“Yep.” I prop myself on my elbows to check the mantel clock. “It’s 4.45. We can shower and go to the store, as long as we’re back by 6.30.”
“You first, you’ll take longer. I’m fixing us emergency cheese and cracker snacks, as I don’t think we’ll make it through.”
“Fair point.” I clamber to my feet, giving Rob an eyeful as I lean over to pick up our clothes from the floor. “Better clean up after ourselves, or we’ll be in trouble when our daddies get home.”