Russell Andrews - Hades

Justin hesitated just a split second before he nodded. He didn't know why he hesitated. He was never going to say anything but okay. "Got somewhere in mind?"

"How about your place?"

"The bad news," he said, "is that my place isn't any nicer than here."

"What's the good news?"

"There isn't any good news."

"Let's go," she said, "sweet talker." And it was the "sweet talker" that did it. He saw her sense of humor and her toughness and her soft spot at exactly the same moment.

That first night was sensational. He wasn't at all surprised at how sexy she was, how uninhibited and demanding she was in bed. He was surprised at her tenderness and the way, after sex, she kind of rolled into him, collapsing, drained, as if it wasn't just about the pleasure and the physical relief but also about getting rid of anger and shaking off the outside world and all sorts of things that didn't have anything to do with him or what they'd just experienced together.

After that, they began seeing each other. Not constantly. Sometimes once or twice a week. Occasionally even three times. They'd have dinner, usually in his small, Victorian house on Division Street at the end of East End Harbor's historical district. They watched a few DVDs, mostly old movies. They drove into Manhattan one night, had dinner at Barbuto, way west down in the West Village, and spent the night at the Soho Grand Hotel.

And now here they were sitting on his bed, eating the steaks and pasta he'd cooked up, finishing off their martinis. He didn't even mind that he knew one of the reasons she was smiling and shaking her head affectionately was because she was enjoying the fact that he was a clumsy oaf.

He'd come back into the bedroom with the food and a pained expression on his face, and as soon as he'd set the plates down, he began looking at his right hand with his eyes narrowed. She didn't have to say a word, just gave him that look, that cocked head, and he said, "I have those stupid electric burners on my stove. You can't tell if they're on or off-"

She'd interrupted him, saying, "You mean you can't."

He gave her a mock scowl and said, "Okay, I can't." And then he said, "But what I can do is burn myself every damn time I go near the stove because I can't even remember to turn the thing off."

She'd laughed-laughing at the big tough guy who couldn't handle a small burn-and she'd taken his hand and softly kissed the blister that was forming, letting her tongue linger and gently lick the heel of his hand until he didn't really care about the minor burn.

Yes, it was safe to say that right now, right this minute, in this woman's presence, Justin Westwood was reasonably happy.

When they were done eating, Abby picked up both plates from the bed, saying, "Nobody'd believe it, me clearing the table." Then she said, "I'll be right back," and wearing only his light cotton summer robe, she made her way down the stairs, dropped the plates in the kitchen sink, then half walked, half ran to her car, which wasn't in his driveway but parked about a quarter of a block away on the street. She was back in his bedroom in less than a minute and in her hand was a red cardboard box. She handed it to him.

"Open it," she said.

Justin cocked his head a bit to the left, looked at her curiously, and did as he'd been told. He pulled out a small, perfectly round cake. With one candle sticking up in the middle.

"Happy birthday," she said. Then she reached for a match, struck it, and lit the candle. "June twelfth, right? Think I'd forget?"

"I didn't know we'd ever even discussed it. So I didn't think there was anything to remember. I-"

"I know. You haven't celebrated your birthday in years. I figured it was about time to start again. I mean, since this is the last time you'll be able to say you're in your thirties."

"Thirty-nine's the prime of life," he said. "Everybody knows that."

"Uh-huh. You gonna blow that out?"

"In a minute."

He put the cake down on a small end table by her side of the bed and then he kissed her. Slow and nice, a lingering kiss that told her a lot more about how he appreciated the gift than he'd ever put into words.

"Now I'll blow it out," he said. But as he took one step toward the cake and leaned over, the phone rang.

"Other women hoping to shower you with gifts?" Abby asked.

He didn't answer, just walked over to the phone, which was sitting in its cradle on the end table on his side of the bed. He looked at his caller ID and frowned.

"It's the station," he said.

"Now?"

He nodded, let the phone ring twice more. Then he picked it up, against his better judgment.

"I hope it's important," he said into the mouthpiece.

It didn't take him long to realize that it was.

It was a magnificent house. There was no other way to possibly describe it. The house of his dreams. Built to specifications with seven bedrooms in the main house and a guesthouse with three more. There was an Olympic-sized swimming pool that was barely visible from the French windows, almost lost amid the Japanese sculpture gardens, and an angular glass pool house and a man-made freshwater pond that was stocked with an endless supply of koi; and perhaps his favorite thing: the outdoor redwood Jacuzzi and sauna.

There was nothing cheap in this house, from the crystal doorknobs and chandeliers in almost every room to the original Warhols on the walls to the walk-in closets in the master bedroom suite that were filled with three-thousand-dollar men's suits and even more expensive designer dresses and women's shoes. The carpets were plush and virginally white, the curtains the most delicate silk. Even the kitchen was magnificent, with a professional Wolf eight-burner stove, a stainless steel Sub-Zero refrigerator the size of a New York City studio apartment, and gleaming copper pots that seemed to glow as they hung on the walls.

Best of all was its location. In the glorious Hamptons. On the border of chic Bridgehampton and the more blue-collar but charming East End Harbor. The best of all possible worlds. The glamour of the Bridgehampton and Sagaponack beaches and the Calvin Klein and George Soros parties, combined with the small-town simplicity of the village of East End, where the shopkeepers knew you by name and the woman at the post office would ask how your pets were and knew if you were a Mets or a Yankees fan.

He had dreamed about living in a place like this, in a house like this, and now that he was here, alone for the moment, he suddenly wasn't sure what to do. Maybe strip off all his clothes and take a moonlight swim in the heated pool. That sounded good. It was unseasonably cool outside, so a nice swim, then a quick dash through the chilled air to the sauna. Then open a splendid red wine, an '85 Mouton Rothschild-he knew there were several bottles in the cellar, he'd checked the very first thing after he'd entered and reset the alarm system. Then, after one glass of the Bordeaux, taken in the living room, perhaps an omelet, something simple, with some caviar on the side. Slowly finish the bottle of wine-in the den might be nice, with the very manly oak paneling and the cracked leather easy chairs. Then slip on a robe and put some Mozart on the stereo and stretch out on a freshly ironed linen sheet, under a goose down quilt, and read Evelyn Waugh. Brideshead Revisited was the book he'd selected for tonight. It just seemed so apt.

But first, there was something he needed to do. The urge was too overpowering.

He climbed the stairs to the master bedroom, went through to the walk-in closet on the left, the one that led to the slightly smaller of the two bathrooms in the suite. He stood before the elegant, conservative suits-he estimated there were fifty, maybe seventy-five-and crisply starched shirts that hung on wooden hangers as firmly as if they were being borne on perfectly formed shoulders. He opened one drawer, then another, and then a third, each one filled with the softest, smoothest cashmere sweaters. He selected a powder-blue cardigan, tenderly removed it from its bag, and wrapped it around him. He loved this sweater and it fit him as if it had been handmade for the contours of his body; plus the color went divinely with his dark blue eyes. He moved to stand in front of the full-length mirror and couldn't help admiring his looks and his sophistication, reveling in his luck and the unlimited upside that was surely waiting for him in the future.