Mercy Falls

44

The day, which began so well with Cork’s call that he was safe, was destined to end in a nightmare.

When she hung up the phone, Jo felt an enormous weight lifted from her, felt as if she were floating. Cork was out of the Boundary Waters, tired but alive. She gave a prayer of thanks, then called Mal’s cell phone. Rose answered, said that they were on the interstate halfway to South Bend. Jo told her the good news, declared that she felt like getting drunk, like celebrating, and proposed that she whip up a gourmet Italian dinner that night-spaghetti and meatballs, the one thing she knew for certain how to make. Rose sounded skeptical but agreed, and said to expect them between six and seven.

Most days in Aurora, she found an hour to slip away from her office and work out at the YMCA, but she hadn’t exercised at all since she’d come to Evanston. She knew she needed an outlet for all the energy that filled her now, so she put on a sports bra, a T-shirt, and her Reeboks, and stretched in the living room for fifteen minutes. After that, she doffed her blue warm-up suit and drove along Green Bay Road to Kenilworth, then east to Sheridan Road. She parked on a side street in front of a house decorated with jack-o’-lanterns and ghosts and witches in anticipation of Halloween. She locked her car and began a relaxing jog on the sidewalk heading north. The homes on the eastern side of Sheridan, huge affairs with vast grounds, sat with their backs against Lake Michigan. Those on the opposite side were still grand, but all the windows seemed like jealous eyes glaring at the greater splendor across the road. She passed Ben Jacoby’s house and kept running.

A long time ago, Jo had dreamed of being a part of this kind of wealth. Her desire had had little to do with money, but was instead a desperation to rise above the drab, unhappy existence that had been her adolescence. She’d driven herself to be the best at everything, to get into a first-rate law school, and for a while to be on the partner track of one of the top law firms in Chicago. It had been her great fortune, she believed, to marry a man of a different ambition, whose life had been rooted in a small town buried deep in the remarkable beauty of the Minnesota Northwoods. She’d never regretted abandoning the chance for a splendid estate on Sheridan Road in favor of the cozy house on Gooseberry Lane.

As she ran through the glorious morning light, through the deep shadows of trees on fire with autumn color, with the lake silver-blue in the distance, she knew absolutely that her life with Cork couldn’t have been more satisfying or full.

She spent the afternoon napping, catching up on the sleep she’d missed the night before worrying about Cork. At five-ten, she took the cylinder with Rae’s painting rolled inside and headed out. She stopped at a grocery store and picked up a few items she needed to make the spaghetti dinner, then went to Ben Jacoby’s home. She rang the bell, waited, and rang the bell again.

Phillip Jacoby opened the door. He smelled of alcohol.

“Ah, Ms. O’Connor. I was told to expect you.”

“Your father’s not here?”

“He’s been delayed. He asked me to play host until he arrives.” He stood back and welcomed her inside with a deep bow and a sweep of his hand. “Would you like to wait on the veranda? That’s where I’ve been hanging out. It’s a lovely afternoon, warm for this time of year, don’t you think?”

He led her through the large dining room to the French doors that opened onto the veranda. The view was stunning, the long carpet of grass set with the blue swimming pool, the low hedge at the back of the property, the lake beyond. He offered her a chair at a white wicker table and she sat down. “May I get you something to drink? Myself, I’m having a martini. Several, actually.”

“No, thank you.”

“Oh, come on. How about a martini?”

“Nothing, thank you.”

“A Coke at the very least. Dad would never forgive me if he thought I’d neglected you.”

“A Coke, then. Diet, if you have it.”

“Coming right up.” He walked a bit unsteadily toward the sliding door that opened onto the kitchen.

She took in the view, checked her watch, wondered how long Ben would be. A notebook lay open on the table, and on top of it a book facedown. A bookmark had been slipped between the pages near the end. She turned it so that she could read the spine. The Great Gatsby.

“For my American lit class,” Phillip said, returning from the kitchen. “A big bore, if you ask me.” He held a tumbler in one hand and a martini glass in the other. “Here you go. Diet, just as you asked.” He handed her the glass and sat down in a wicker chair. “Did you have a good time the other night?”

“Last night?”

“No, at my grandfather’s house, the night the stone pillar attacked my Jag.”

“I’m sorry. That must have been difficult for you.”

“If by difficult you mean humiliating, then yes, it was.”

She thought about pointing out that Ben had simply been worried about Phillip’s safety but decided it wasn’t her place to defend or explain the father to the son. She drank her Coke.

“You know, I have to give my old man credit. He knows how to choose his women.”

“I’m an old friend of your father, nothing more.”

“Is that why he has a picture of you on the desk in his study?” He held up his hand in surrender. “Sorry. None of my business.”

She looked again at her watch.

“Somewhere you have to be?”

“I’m just wondering what’s keeping Ben.”

“Oh, it could be anything. He’s a very important man, my father. You’d be surprised, all the excuses he’s found over the years not to come home.” He sipped his martini. “How’s the Coke?”

“Fine, thank you.”

“So. Your daughter-what’s her name?”

“Jenny.”

“That’s right. Jenny. Is she, like, all in love with Northwestern?”

“At the moment, it’s her first choice.”

“But you’d let her go anywhere she wanted?”

“Within reason. A lot depends on financial aid.”

“It must be a bitch being poor.” He shrugged. “Me, I could afford to go anywhere. But here I am, stuck in my own backyard because it’s where my old man went to school. You think I look like him?”

“Yes.”

“Everybody tells me that, as if it’s a compliment.”

“You don’t think it is?” She was suddenly feeling a little ill. Where was Ben?

“I don’t want to be him,” Phillip said with venom.

Jo put her hand to her head, feeling dizzy.

Phillip said, “You don’t look so good.”

“I don’t feel well. I think I need to lie down.”

“Sure. Let me help.”

He took her arm and eased her up. She could barely stand. He walked her inside.

“Oh, my,” she said, and her legs gave out.

Phillip caught her in his arms and lifted her.

The room seemed out of focus. She tried to gather herself, but everything was swimming. She was aware of stairs, of rising, then a soft bed beneath her and Phillip looming into view near her face.

“You think my father is an important man,” he said, his voice distant. “Sure you do. All his women think that.”

She wanted to tell him once and for all that she was not one of Ben Jacoby’s women, but she couldn’t make her mouth form the right words.

“By the way, my father called and canceled your rendezvous. He asked me to look after you, to give you anything you need.”

She felt his hand on her breast and she wanted to scream, to fight him off, but she could not move.

“That’s what I’m going to do,” he said. “I’m going to give you exactly what a woman like you needs.”