Dune Road (13 page)

Lust very quickly turned to hate, but he had made his bed and he honestly didn’t know how to get out of it. It was his idea to buy in Highfield, and he thought that perhaps things would change, for there were still times when he looked at her and caught his breath because she was so beautiful.

She would never be what he wanted her to be, but if he moved her out of the city, if they bought a country place, maybe she would settle down and they would have children, the quiet peaceful life he had always wanted.

He drove out of the city one Saturday when Penelope was at a photo shoot in Paris, with a list of properties the realtor had told him about, and spent the morning trudging through house after house, each one more pedestrian than the last.

“There is another house,” the realtor said slowly, just as Robert was beginning to feel despondent. “Although it’s more money than you wanted to spend.”

“Tell me about it,” Robert said, as they drove through town toward the beach.

The house on Dune Road was the last one on the list, and the most expensive. It was out of their price range, but the realtor said they had to see it, because it had been in one family for generations, and was, in her opinion, the most beautiful house in Highfield, and certainly a house worthy of a famous author and his equally famous and beautiful wife.

As soon as they turned on to Dune Road, the rosa rugosa overgrown, almost overtaking the sandy track, Robert’s heart started to pound. And then around the curve, through the gates, and up a driveway to a large square house with elegant pillars which was the most beautiful house he’d ever seen.

He didn’t need to go upstairs to see the views over the sparkling waters of Long Island Sound from the master bedroom to make his decision. He didn’t need to appreciate the antique library, the many fireplaces, the high ceilings and gracious French doors that opened onto a terrace with a pergola covered by an ancient wisteria.

He knew, as soon as he saw the place, that this would be his home, and that he would never leave it, never live anywhere else, for the rest of his days.

“You will love it,” he told Penelope the next day, when he finally managed to get hold of her, and Penelope, when he drove her out there the following weekend, simply shrugged and said it was nice. She didn’t have the yearning for a home that Robert had, didn’t have, he realized with sinking heart, an ounce of nesting instinct, nor of domesticity.

Before they closed on the house, Robert sold a film and, for the first time, money was no longer an issue, so buying the house was no longer a stretch. They had staff from the beginning, needed them to pick up after Penelope, who would literally grind her cigarette butts out on the wooden floors, drop her clothes wherever she was standing, knock over a wine bottle and not bother cleaning it up.

The staff turned a deaf ear when they heard the screaming, learned to disappear if Penelope was in one of her rages. Picked up the pieces quietly, having signed confidentiality agreements, knowing that they could never tell anyone of what really went on in the McClore house.

The only times she would be okay, the only times she didn’t resent him for dragging her out of New York, was when the house was filled with her friends and models and rock stars were draped over all the furniture. Robert learned to acquiesce, learned to accept the constant stream of people for it was easier than dealing with Penelope on her own.

Their parties swiftly became orgies. It was, in some respects, a sign of the times, or perhaps a sign of their marriage, because after a while Robert stopped caring and started sleeping with other people too, models who turned up, friends of Penelope, women who made themselves as available to him as the air that he breathed.

And it was becoming harder to breathe. There were nights when he would wake up and feel as if he was suffocating with unhappiness, with dread, with the fear of what was going to happen next.

But his fear, his nervous anticipation, his sense of dread fueled his writing with the same, and each book became bigger than the last. And then came the first of the movies, starring Warren Beatty, and he was Hollywood’s golden boy as well, the man who could do no wrong.

Then that invitation to sail around the Mediterranean on Plum Apostoles’s yacht. They had already met a number of times, and Robert knew that Plum was Penelope’s latest conquest. He had seen the hurt in Ileana’s eyes when Penelope had led Plum upstairs, led him by the hand, turning on the stairs to kiss him fully and passionately in front of the rest of the people in the room, who applauded and laughed.

Ileana was attractive and sweet and so obviously ill at ease in this world. He took pity on her, took her to bed that night. Tried, with his actions, to apologize for the behavior of his wife.

He hadn’t wanted to go on the yacht, but Plum had decided he wanted to make it in the movie business, and was one of the major investors behind the smaller studio that was making Robert’s next movie. It was a business move. Nothing more.

Penelope came to bed in the early hours of the morning, ignoring Ileana, who, embarrassed, scuttled out, not before hearing Penelope belittling Robert, laughing at him, accusing him of being hopeless in bed, and feeling sorry for Ileana.

“You are a joke,” she hissed, turning to go up to the deck, and this time, for the first time, Robert lost his temper.

Perhaps lack of sleep, perhaps the wrong combination of drink and drugs, perhaps the final straw, but Robert felt a surge of temper at being dismissed, yet again, in front of someone else, and he followed her up to the deck and stood over her, almost nose to nose.

“Shut the hell up!” he shouted, louder than he expected.

“Why? Because you know it’s true? Because you’re not really a man, you’re just a pathetic little boy? A pathetic little boy who doesn’t know how to keep a woman happy?” She glared at him, then spat at him, full in the face.

He grabbed her arm, and something about the look in his eyes suddenly told Penelope he’d had enough, and she backed away from him, stumbling as she hit the railing.

And Robert stopped. It wasn’t worth it. They just needed to divorce. To stop making each other so miserable.

“You’re pathetic,” he whispered. “It’s not worth it.” He turned to go back.

Penelope flung out an arm to slap him, as she had so many times before, and she lost her balance.

No sound. Not a shriek, not a scream, nothing.

Robert heard the splash as he was walking down the stairs. He ran back up, and Penelope had vanished. He turned, his face white, to see Plum.

“Stop the boat!” Plum said. “I saw her go over. Get the crew up
now
! ”

 

By the time they were flown back, accompanied by the police, by the press, he was a changed man. Or perhaps unchanged. It was a terrible, tragic accident, and he blamed himself. If he hadn’t lost his temper she wouldn’t have backed away, wouldn’t have been scared of him.

He ran the tape of that night over and over in his head for months. Finally he started to forgive himself, started to understand that no amount of guilt could change what had happened.

As he healed, he began to live the life he had always thought he was going to lead, before Penelope came into it, just with more money, more people wanting more things from him.

For he had come to realize that his life with Penelope was not what he would have chosen.

He had felt like an impostor much of the time, had known he didn’t fit in, found peace only when Penelope and the entourage that always surrounded her were traveling and he could be in the house by himself, build a fire and sit in an armchair with the papers, reading quietly, no need to be anywhere else, to see anyone else, to be doing anything else.

He stopped returning calls, burned the hundreds of condolences that arrived in his mailbox every day, didn’t answer the door to the flowers that arrived. He also stopped writing for a couple of years, finding that there was only one story that needed to be told back then, and he couldn’t tell that story, would never be ready to tell that story.

 

Until now. Until the idea of a mystery, of a series of mysteries raised its head. Last night, for the first time, he managed to stop worrying about where to find an idea for a mystery, and lost himself in the quiet breathing of his yoga class.

And afterward, he mentioned to Tracy that he was thinking about a mystery, and she said what a wonderful idea, and pointed out, laughing, that he had been at the center of a mystery of his own, and perhaps he could use his own story as inspiration.

The more he thinks about it, the more he realizes Tracy has definitely hit upon something—what better mystery than the one surrounding the death of Penelope?

It won’t be his story. He will never tell his story entirely, but he can always write it, then change it. Write it as it was, then change the names, change the facts, make sure to disguise it so people don’t know.

He can draw upon his life, write about that unique time in history, the parties, the people, the atmosphere of freedom, of possibility, that has never existed before or since.

He can write about a free-spirited actress, a woman whom everyone adores, who chooses to seduce a scientist, perhaps, a serious, quiet man who falls under her spell, who feels as though he is playing a part in a movie of his own making, until the movie turns dark and he doesn’t know how to get out.

He will change the ending, of course. Not Plum and Ileana, but maybe Vladimir and Alla. Or Marco and Francesca. Or Serge and Jeanne. And it will not be a yacht sailing around the Mediterranean, but possibly a vacation at a villa in the hills above St. Tropez, a vacation where it all goes wrong.

He will write about the mystery of Vladimir/Marco/Serge. How he is a man of significant means, but has come about those means in dubious ways, rumors swirling about larceny, impersonation and deceit.

He loves the idea of writing it under a pseudonym. But not Robert McClore writing as someone else. A true pseudonym, one that will never be linked to him. What a genius idea, what a perfect solution to this book that will otherwise undoubtedly garner huge media attention.

He can also, he supposes, use a ghostwriter, although might the subject matter be too sensitive?

As a writer Robert often puts his own life into his books, often without realizing it—but a ghostwriter? How would he possibly know the details? He would imbue the writing with details of his own, details pulled from his imagination, or from his own life.

Robert could write the storyline, could draft each chapter, describe the characters, and then leave it up to a ghostwriter to fill in the blanks.

He will have to decide which path to choose.

And in the meantime, he will have to give the yoga girl a call. He has met her a few times since the initial book reading, but his physical attraction for her increased enormously during their private lesson.

He keeps thinking of her pert bottom pointing up at the ceiling in Downward Dog, the way her T-shirt fell forward over her breasts, giving him a glimpse of her firm stomach. He shivers. He hasn’t felt such a strong attraction for a woman for a very long time.

How can he possibly let this pass?

Chapter Ten

K
it opens her eyes and looks at the clock: 9:03. A brief moment of panic before she sinks back in the pillows with a smile. Of course. Saturday. The kids are with their dad, and she has the whole weekend to herself. No work, no phone calls, no rushing through breakfast to get the kids on the bus, just hours of wonderful leisurely time to do whatever she chooses.

Right now she chooses to stay in bed, to replay every wonderful second of her date with Steve last night.

He picked her up from home, and she could see from the look in his eyes that her choice of the gauzy navy form-fitting dress was perfect.

They went to the Highfield theater to see the new David Hare play, and shortly after curtain up Kit realized how close the seats were: her leg was pressed up against Steve’s, and there was nowhere to move it to. Suddenly she realized that the buzzing she was feeling, a buzzing that was so loud it was virtually drowning out the voices of the actors on stage, was lust.

It was so strong, it was almost palpable, like a current of electricity running between them; unexpected, entirely new, she spent the entire play lost in fantasies of her and Steve.

When the intermission arrived, she was so embarrassed at what he had been doing to her in her head for the past hour and a half, she could barely look at him.

They hadn’t bothered with dinner. They had left the theater, walking awkwardly to the car, Kit aware only of this incredible connection between them, and as they reached the car he grabbed her and started to kiss her, and—she swore she didn’t think this could ever actually happen—her knees went weak.

They sat in the car for an hour, making out. He drove her home and they sat in the car for another hour, making out. Nothing more, not yet. She wasn’t ready for more, and he didn’t push.

But oh joy, oh the joy of feeling these feelings she thought were dead forever. Oh the joy of finally meeting a man who may not be Mr. Right, but is certainly good for Mr. Right Now.

And more, the joy of feeling
heard
.
Seen
. She hasn’t realized, until now, how low her self-esteem has been, first during her marriage, when she tried to turn herself into someone else, and then when recovering from the knock of her divorce.

Because however much she was a part of the decision to divorce, she still felt bruised and battered, never thought that she would have the energy or the will to go through all this again with someone new.

It has been so much easier, since she separated from Adam, to be cocooned with her family, to nest in her cozy home and allow life to carry on for others, outside the safety of her house.