He was fired shortly after the first Justice Department query letter arrived two years ago. With little else to do, he began writing. Writing the truth was all he has left. The company CEO remains. Yearly Christmas cards arrive, a smiling family portrait fronting a fireplace. He wonders why the CEO seems so secure while he is tormented. But he was the fall guy. The CEO’s smile says: “Tough shit, Posner.”
A car horn returns Posner to the present. He moves out of the lot past the library until a delivery truck blocks the exit. He wants to get home and return to his writing, but he realizes he should pick up a few food items for Sara. If she comes as promised, she’ll arrive too late for anything more than something light to eat. The delay lasts a few minutes and his mind wanders. When the traffic finally moves, he swings his car to the right toward East Hampton.
He stops at the Suffolk County National Bank’s drive-by ATM. The last CD from his working days has just matured. It’s money he’s earned and saved before he lost his job. He withdraws five hundred dollars. Now he won’t need to touch the joint account for some time and a renewed feeling of even temporary financial independence quickens his pulse.
He pushes the Lexus to maximum legal speed until he enters a slow lane of traffic. He finally nears the corner of Newtown Lane and Main Street, the village’s only major commercial intersection, and is surprised to see two empty spots in front of Citarella’s, the newest upscale food emporium. He executes a U-turn at the Chase Bank and effortlessly swings the Lexus eastbound. At that moment he almost wants to thank Sara for the car’s mobility. He approaches the corner where the Citarella store sits, but in less than a minute the spots are already taken, so he pulls into the rear lot.
He collects a pound of cooked shrimp, a few ripe tomatoes, a wedge of Gruyère, and a sourdough baguette. All these are Sara’s favorites and should please her, although at this point he feels unsure whether it’s likely to warm the atmosphere. It’s just as possible she’ll say a late lunch has diminished her appetite. He’s about to head to the checkout when he decides to pick up lunch. At the take-out section, he selects the first sandwich he sees in the bin. He is not a picky eater. He chooses chicken and avocado. He could have done worse, he thinks, as he plucks a Diet Sprite and moves to the cashier.
He sits at one of the outside stone tables despite the chill. He is suddenly very hungry. His last meal was a chef’s salad the previous night at a local Manhattan bistro.
“Oh, so it’s you.”
The words draw his eyes upward. The woman in pink and white stands above him, a burst of white teeth against tanned skin. He has never gotten used to people who smile so openly.
“May I join you?” she asks, resting a hand on the back of the other seat even before he can answer. Such tables are meant for sharing, yet she wants to be invited, and so he waves his hand while his wiry five-foot eleven body swivels to the side to let her pass.
This is the first opportunity to see her face without turning his neck. Her skin is remarkably smooth, as if she is newborn, her natural pink lips full to bursting. There is eye makeup and her brows are neat and dark, but he sees no other artificiality. He hesitates for words. He has rarely engaged a woman like this, but it is all frivolous and Sara is, frankly, not here to think otherwise. He suddenly enjoys the opportunity to relax.
“I thought you got off at a later stop,” she says.
“I did, but I needed to shop,” he answers and pulls the shopping bag upward.
She ignores his bag, saying, “Can you show me the beach?” She is almost so direct that he nearly winces.
All he can think to say is, “If you want to see the beach, you can take a taxi, or I guess I can drop you there.”
“That’s good,” she says without hesitation, yet even before the last words leave his mouth he realizes that a line has been crossed. He has left an opening, and a part of him, that piece of brain housing genetic material that determines conscience, hopes she declines. He has never been unfaithful to his wife, nor even considered it, despite Sara’s recent illusions. Yet this woman whom he now admits to himself looks exotically attractive does nothing to dispel this thought as she accepts the invitation.
“That sounds great.” She reiterates her approval. “Thank you.”
She replaces the top on her soup container and carefully lowers it together with the plastic spoon, wedge of bread, and napkin into a bag that matches his. He stands and directs her to the rear lot and into his car.
“It’s chilly here,” she says from the bench at the very back of the beach, only steps from where he parked. He has taken her to Atlantic Avenue Beach in Amagansett. There are no other cars, the unseasonable cool keeps everyone away save a couple dressed in yellow rain slickers standing near the water, tossing shells into the breakers.
She holds her cup of soup, which she says is too spicy, but nevertheless she eats greedily. In the short drive from where they met, introductions are exchanged. Her name is Heidi Kashani.
“I know Heidi is not a common American name,” she says, “but it is very normal in Austria.”
He agrees and tells her that he likes the name and that it makes him think of green meadows and snow-covered mountains and The Sound of Music. Her English is very formal, almost precise. He asks her how long she’s been in New York.
“It will be two years next October. I have one more year of residency left. Then I will probably move to California, perhaps to Los Angeles. I am tired of cold winters.”
He concurs with her weather analysis, but avoids noting his own disdain for Los Angeles. Some people love it there, yet her speech is so formal and L.A. so laid back that he finds it hard to picture her in such a place.
She begins to shiver and they agree to head back to the car. She’s right, he thinks. If a fifty-degree day drives her indoors, it’s time to live somewhere else.
“Would you take my picture before we go?” she asks as they stand, but it is more a statement of fact, a command as if she is the one who lives here, and he the visitor. She pulls a camera phone from her bag and shows him where to press for the digital photo. She stands several feet away, the water some hundred feet behind her, a turbulent boil with white froth in the far background. He snaps a photo and she checks it. He has caught a broad, white smile, enhanced by an overhead midday sun.
“Now you,” she says. “If you give me your e-mail address, I’ll send it to you.”
He reluctantly moves from the bench and hands her the camera phone. He has never liked posing, but agrees. He stands with his feet spread and his arms akimbo. He tries to smile and feels relief when the shot is taken. She shows him the image, an olive-complexioned, dark-haired middle-aged man in a white button-down long-sleeved shirt and dark pants. The likeness is actually flattering. His age barely shows.
“Are you Jewish?” she asks after they have settled in the car’s front seat.
He doesn’t hear such a question often. Certainly not in New York. It is, however, not a new sensation. He is a Jew and Jews are integrated into the fabric of American life, yet there is an uneasiness that sits there. His family has been here for more than a hundred years, but nothing is settled. The Nazis had no qualms about killing Jews who had lived in Germany for centuries.
The woman’s words are innocent enough. He answers, “Yes,” and she goes on, oblivious to what flicks through his mind.