Social Lives (17 page)

They were talking about music, some new underground band that could be heard only online, some video on YouTube that was so outrageous it was removed and relegated to personal sites that made the band all the more popular. A bottle of Grey Goose, still icy from the freezer, was being passed around, along with three prescription bottles.

Amanda leaned over to her—into her, really—and, smiling, whispered, “Take the OC.”

Caitlin whispered back, “What?” But it was followed only by a
shhhh.
She was high. They all were. High and happy. The conversation was easy, relaxed, and the room was filled with a kind of calm that was almost disturbing.

“Who's ready to play?” a tenth-grade boy asked as he set one of the prescription bottles down on its side in the center of the table.

“Let's give everyone a chance to catch up.” Kyle grabbed the bottle and opened it. He took out a white pill and handed one to Victoria.

“Thanks,” she said. Then she reached for the vodka. “Something to wash it down, if you don't mind.”

The vodka was passed, and everyone was smiling, except for Caitlin, who knew she was next.

 

 

 

 

 

L
IKE MOST OF THE
homes in Wilshire, the house had an old part and a new. At the Barlow estate, the old part was toward the back and was rarely used. The rooms were tight, the ceilings low—nothing that resembled functional. It was a stone structure, not easily changed, and it held a sense of history that no one really wanted to alter anyhow. Staking claim to its 1812 birth was part of its charm, and its value—and besides, after several renovations it was no longer a bother. There was a small formal living room, which the Barlows used for intimate gatherings, and the kids had spent their early childhoods hiding in the small crevices that could be found behind the wood-paneled walls.

But it was the basement that held the real mystique. Once nothing more than the bare guts of the house, the underground of the Barlow's estate was an intricate maze of stone-lined passageways, and it was in this part of the house that Ernest Barlow had insisted on building his wine cellar.

Jacks was no longer thinking when she pushed through the small wooden door that led to the underground. Ducking her head to clear the opening, she gathered her skirt and the massive ruffle that gave it volume, and began her descent. The smell of cigar smoke filled the narrow stairwell,
growing stronger as she proceeded through the hallways that led to the wine cellar. That led to Ernest Barlow.

Though it was in the old part of the house, Barlow had spared no expense in building the room. It was state of the art—the shelving, the cooling system, and ventilation for his cigar smoke. Reds were kept at forty-five degrees. Whites at fifty-five. The hard liquor remained in the wet bar at room temperature, and it was there that Jacks found him, laid out across a red velvet couch.

She took him by surprise. “Hi,” she said, nearly out of breath from the journey. From the anticipation.

Barlow sat up, cigar in mouth, glass of scotch in hand. “Christ, you scared me!”

Jacks smiled casually, though she could feel her lips trembling. “Sorry. Didn't think I'd find anyone here. What on earth are you doing?”

Barlow took a long pull on the cigar and let the smoke drift out of his mouth. “I could ask the same thing of you.”

Jacks walked to the door that enclosed the wine. “I came for a bottle of Romanée-Conti. One of the guests wanted a glass.”

Barlow looked perplexed. “What—the Cristal isn't good enough?”

“Guess not,” Jacks said, smiling again.

“Who is this finicky guest?”

“Me,” she answered, her smile narrowing, along with her eyes.

Barlow smiled back as he stood, placing his cigar in a silver ashtray. “Well, then. Allow me.”

He walked past her and into the cooler. When he returned, he held a dusty bottle of the Romanée-Conti, vintage 1978. He placed it on the bar.

“Barlow—not the 1978!” Jacks said, feeling a rush of guilt. Barlow had paid nearly $24,000 for it at an auction.

But Barlow insisted. He was in one of his moods—tired of his wife, these parties, and the human race in general.

He opened the bottle as though it were nothing and poured it into a carafe. “It'll need to breathe. Better sit down.”

Grabbing his cigar and his glass of scotch, he placed himself back on the couch, legs crossed in a gentlemanly fashion, and patted the space next to him.

Moving slowly, gracefully, Jacks gathered her gown and sat down. Then
she turned herself to face him. “So—the party isn't doing it for you tonight?” she asked in a playful tone.

“I'm waiting for the strippers to show up.”

“Ahh. I see. Only the nice tart upstairs said nothing about strippers.”

“Well, then, I guess I'll have to wait until the guests get drunk enough. Someone will take their clothes off by the end of the night. I'll bet my good name on it.” He was being his usual sarcastic self, only tonight his tone had taken a sharper edge. “Assuming my name is still good.”

“Oh, Barlow . . . ,” Jacks said, looking at him now with sympathy. “Is it Cait? How is she?”

Barlow shrugged. “I wish I knew. I'm just trying to get used to the idea that I have precious little control over anything.”

Jacks felt a knot in her throat.
No
, she thought.
No control at all.

“That's a hard thing.”

“You say that like you know something about it.”

Jacks looked at the beads on her skirt and nodded.

“From your childhood?”

“Barlow—I don't . . .”

He waved his hand in the air then, as though erasing his last question from the conversation. “I know—you don't like to talk about it.”

“Right.”

It was then that she knew, from the change in his look, the softening around his eyes. Ernest Barlow was a suffering man. Of course, Rosalyn paid no notice to it, and it was because of her indifference that Jacks had come to see them as individuals rather than as a married unit. They lived separate lives, Barlow and Rosalyn, and they missed each other completely. Barlow missed the ghost of Mrs. Eddings that lived in the house with them and that followed on his wife's heels everywhere she went. And Rosalyn missed the side of Barlow's brilliance that made him see the irrelevance of their world, that made their world intolerable to him. And yet he couldn't help himself from coveting everything it held. At his core, he was the geeky outsider who would always have something to prove. Jacks knew them both, and in her own way, loved them both as well.

But tonight was not about that. Her life was under siege, and every friendship, no matter how dear, was expendable.

“I understand because I understand. It's that simple, Barlow,” she said,
getting up from the sofa. She walked to the carafe holding the precious wine. Taking it gently in her hands like she might a newborn infant, she rocked it back and forth, then held her nose to its rim. “Do you think it's ready?”

But Barlow was silent. He was staring at her now, feeling a connection between them, beyond the flirtation that had been so innocent it had been practiced in the open for many years. This was something new, born of the secrecy of this underground place. She could sense the vulnerability of a man close to breaking and felt the shift that it provoked, the chemical change of her blood that came on like a sudden charge that had been latent within her for decades. It had been years since she'd felt it. Life had been steady as a rock. There had been no reason for such a response. And now, with her world coming apart, her own children at risk, she recognized the feeling. In spite of the shame it dragged along with it, the instinct for survival had resurfaced.

“What should I do, Jacks? Tell me what to do.” His eyes were filled with yearning.

She turned to face him. “I don't know, Barlow. Just keep loving her. She's so lucky to have you.”

A long silence passed as Jacks struggled with the internal conflict. This was the chance, the last chance, to leave this room, to find another way. Years of self-re-creation stood in the face of the instinct that was embedded deep inside her. Barlow was a good man, but a man with everything. In the end, she didn't move.

“You're a sweet soul, Jacqueline Halstead.” Barlow got up from the sofa and walked to her. He took the carafe from her hands and smelled the wine, all the while making his own calculations.

She could see his mind spinning as hers was, deciding how badly he needed to feel the comfort of another person.

He set the wine back down and turned to her. “What happened to you?” he asked.

Jacks turned her eyes away. He needed to be let in by someone, but it could not be her. Not like this. She struggled to find a clever reply, but none was at hand. She said nothing.

“Where did you come from?”

His hands reached out for her face, holding her gently at first, then with conviction.

This was what she had wanted, was it not? To pull him close, make him want her and in that wanting render him vulnerable? Still, she couldn't answer. Her past had no part to play in this life, her Wilshire life, though the two had been coming closer and closer to a disastrous collision.

She looked at him then and shook her head slowly. “I can't,” she said.

But he was not turning back. “Tell me. . . .”

With his hands embracing her face, his eyes searching for the pieces of her only David had known, she could feel his frustration. He was shut out now, from everything in his life. His company, his daughter. His own wife. His need was powerful as he stood beside her.

“Tell me!”

But Jacks couldn't. She looked away as she placed her hands on top of his.

The feel of her skin against his was the final blow to whatever resistance he had garnered, and in an instant, his mouth was on hers, his arms wrapped now around her back. It was shocking, the feel of another man against her body, and it took a moment before she was able to respond, before she could kiss him back. But when she did, it was with the force of abandon.

They stumbled onto the sofa, mouths locked together in a kiss that was laced with need and the hunger to survive. He lifted her skirt and ripped out the ruffle that was keeping his body from feeling hers beneath him.

“What are we doing?” he whispered. “What the hell are we doing?”

He pulled away from her for a second, searching her eyes. And in his she saw a sadness that made her sick at her core. They both knew his marriage to Rosalyn had grown cold over the years. Still, that was no reason to end it. Not for people like them. He had accepted his fate like so many others. He had beaten down his desire to love, and now this—a chance to feel again. How could she be the one to do this? How could she be the one to break him?

She didn't answer him. Instead, she reached under her skirt, pulling off the black-laced thong, then the garter belt and hose. He buried his face into the soft fold of her neck as he unbuckled his belt. His face was wet with tears, the consequence of imprisoned emotions finally set free. His heart felt like it would explode against her.

Together, they slid off his pants, lifted her dress over her head. Barlow
stroked her hair, kissed her cheek as he lay down beneath her. And as Jacks felt him inside her, she kissed him hard, thinking of the words she needed to say.
I'm sorry
filled her head over and over as his body moved with hers. But when she whispered into his ear, other words left her mouth. The words she had rehearsed, knowing they would not come easily.

“I love you, Ernest Barlow.”

 

 

 

 

 

I
T TOOK TWENTY MINUTES
. One tablet of oxycodone and a shot of Grey Goose, and Caitlin had forgotten nearly everything that was wrong with her, with her life. Unlike anything she'd felt before—drunk (a few beers), stoned (once with her brother)—this was a high that surpassed all others. It was euphoric.