And he was right, as it turned out. Over the course of the weekend, he gradually came to the conclusion that July was too early. He'd have to wait a little longer, at least until sometime in August, before he went back to Connecticut to see Georgianne again. Yes, he decided, the first half of August would be right.
Jeff woke early on Monday morning. He drew back the drapes, opened every window, and cleaned the rooms. After a long shower, a shave, and scrubbing his teeth, he put on his favorite shirt, tie, and suit, and his best pair of shoes. He felt terrific. At the office, when Ted and Callie asked him how the hike had gone, he smiled and answered ambiguously, and they smiled back at him but didn't press for details. He looked dapper and perky, and that was good enough for them.
The days ticked by with an almost sensual rhythm that gave Jeff great pleasure. He was a sleepwalker who had finally been awakened, a zombie restored miraculously to life, and now that he was learning how to live again, the simplest things were astonishingly delicious to him-the morning air, the play of light at dusk, the buzz of an insect, or the sensation of speed when he accelerated sharply on the freeway. Even if none of his plans worked out, he had gained this much, thanks to Georgianne.
He blocked out the second weekend in August. It might not be necessary, but he felt he should cover his bases with Ted and Callie. It would be a long weekend. He finished work on Thursday evening and flew out of Los Angeles early Friday morning, paying cash for his ticket and traveling as Philip Headley. At La Guardia he had to show the phony driver's license for the first time, when he hired a car-from a different rental agency than the one he had used on his trip in May. He felt a slight tingle of nervousness, but there was no trouble with the license.
He drove to Bridgeport and parked the car in a downtown municipal lot, telling the attendant it would be there for one or two nights. Carrying one light suitcase, he walked around the center of the city until he found another car-hire outfit, from which he rented another vehicle, which had Connecticut plates.
It's like a game, he thought as he drove out of Bridgeport-the secret transcontinental mission, the false identity, paying cash all the way-all slightly unreal, but with nothing less than real love at stake. If he failed, would it be Philip Headley's failure? Would he be able to return home and go back to living as Jeff Lisker? Well, yes, but never again as the old Jeff Lisker. He was dead, for sure. No matter what happened, the new life would not be aborted. Besides, he had various fall-back positions....
The run from Bridgeport to Danbury was not a great distance, but it was all country road. Jeff reached the outskirts of the city sometime after six in the evening. He got a room at the first motel he came across, the Brook Green, apparently named after the trickle of water out back and the golf course beyond it.
He couldn't eat or drink anything, he felt so excited and nervous. He thought about calling Georgianne, but he wasn't quite ready for that, and he was afraid Sean might answer. Oh yeah, Sean. Jeff seldom wasted mental energy on the subject of Georgianne's husband, but obviously he would be around. He was the problem, after all.
Jeff waited until darkness before he left the motel and drove to Foxrock. This was the crucial test, on which the rest of the weekend depended. He had not been able to figure out any way of determining in advance whether the Corcorans would be home. In another month, Bonnie would be at Harvard, and Sean would be back teaching kids at the middle school, but they could all be on vacation now, out on Cape Cod or somewhere up in Maine. He could have called from California and carefully steered the conversation around to the question of summer vacation, but he had ruled out the idea of any advance contact. The three-month gap had come to seem too important to interrupt, as if even a postcard would somehow di minish the advantage of surprise he wanted for the coming encounter. But he was prepared for their absence: he'd be back next weekend, and the one after, if need be, until he found the Corcorans at home.
By the time he reached Indian Hill Road, a warm, happy feeling had begun to come over him, and he knew his luck had held. He could sense the proximity of Georgianne even before he saw the lights on in the house. One car in the open garage, the other in the driveway. Oh yes, oh yes ... Jeff eased up the road, turned the car around, and drove back slowly. Should he stop and see them now?
Say: Hello, yeah, it's me ... back on business ... thought I'd drop in and surprise you ... listen, one thing, rather important ... Georgianne, can I talk to you ... alone ... you see, I was in love with you twenty years ago ... all this time ... I never knew how to tell you ... afraid ... and I still am, yes, I do love you now ... more than ever ... I don't know what to do about it ... there's Sean ... this fucking house ...
Or: Hello, etcetera ... Sean, I have to talk to you ... just you for now ... look here, I'm sorry but I'm afraid there's been a terrible mistake ... well, I'm glad you see it that way too ... I didn't think you'd be so reasonable ... oh, you could tell the first day ... love ... I do ... she does ...
To hell with it. Jeff had never especially liked that part of the plan, and now he decided it wouldn't work. It was getting on toward ten, and they went to bed early. Wrong time, wrong approach. But that was okay, because he had something better in mind. This little bit of reconnaissance had achieved its purpose. Tomorrow was the day.
Before he left Indian Hill Road, Jeff took his foot off the gas pedal and let the car slow to a crawl. He was tempted to park and sneak up to the Corcoran house. The notion of peeking in on Georgianne had an undeniable charm. It would be a playful adolescent thrill, innocent really. He thought she would understand, and would probably find it amusing. But he quickly came to his senses. The bedrooms were on the upper floor. It would be no fun to see the three of them just sitting around watching television. Besides, there were bound to be dogs in a neighborhood like this, ready to bark up a storm at any intruder. Sadly, he abandoned the idea and drove back to the Brook Green Motel.
He was tired from flying and driving all day, but he was still on California time and felt too tense to sleep. He wanted a drink, but alcohol was out of the question; he had to be sharp tomorrow. He would drink all the way back to Los Angeles. Finally, he dozed off for a few hours and awoke at five in the morning.
He had to talk to Sean. He was ready to talk to Sean. That was the next step. The Gorge. The man would be caught off guard, surprised. He would make him walk, not run, and talk. There was a great deal to talk about. And if that didn't work, there were other moves to be played. It was like a chess game, which would be over as soon as Jeff won his opponent's queen.
He put on his new jogging suit and shoes, and drove through the gray light to Foxrock. It was an overcast morning, warm and muggy already. The town was asleep, the streets empty. He parked about a quarter of a mile from the entrance to the Gorge, well away from any houses, and took the path he and Sean had followed in May. When he judged that he had gone far enough in from the street, he left the trail. Several yards into the woods, he perched on a low, flat rock, and waited. It was a good spot. Not much chance he'd be noticed where he was, but he could see anyone passing on the path. He looked at his watch. Be early, he commanded, and be alone.
Look here, I know this is going to be hard for you to take, even to grasp, all at once, but, well, the fact is, a mistake has been made....
Jeffs feet felt as if they were baking in his new running shoes. Ridiculous, especially at that price. And the running duds felt like glorified pajamas, okay for lazing around the house but not to wear out on the street. He couldn't help but feel a certain contempt for people who dressed like this and ran so obsessively. It seemed to indicate that there was something wrong with their lives. They were like Shiite flagellants, suburban American style. Doing penance for their prosperity and lifestyle.