James Patterson - The Beach House

Two and a half hours later, as the sun was losing its edge, he made his triumphant return. In one hand he held the first local corn of the summer. In the other, three fat swordfish steaks.

"Sal swears on the soul of his mother that he carved these out of a three-hundred-fifty-pounder this morning," boasted Mack.

After unloading his treasure, he cracked open three beers and joined us on the deck, where we brought him up to speed on Pauline's latest discoveries about Barry Neubauer.

After he listened to the dirt, Mack surveyed our respective strengths in food prep. Then he doled out assignments. I headed to the garage to dig up the old hibachi. He and Pauline disappeared into the kitchen.

Just having Pauline around was making everyone happy. For the first time in years, the place felt like a home instead of a dorm for lost boys.

Mack was particularly euphoric. It was as if someone had slipped him a tab of Ecstasy. Every once in a while he'd wander out from the kitchen just to stand beside me and share his affection as I poked the coals.

"I know you're dying to tell me how much you love Pauline, so why don't you get it off your chest?" I said.

"You should see her working on the salad dressing, Jackson. Madame Curie in cutoffs. I strongly urge you to marry this woman. Tonight if possible."

"I haven't even touched her yet."

"Yeah, well, what's that about?"

"Macklin, can I ask you a personal question, just between us? Mullen to Mullen?"

"But, of course. Please do."

"You think these coals are ready?"

"I talk to you of the longings of the human heart and you ask me about coal. Cook the damn fish, Jack. Show how you can do something right."

"I like her, all right?" I finally said in an exasperated voice.

"That's not good enough, Jack. This one deserves more than 'like'!"

"Mack, I know what she deserves."

Thirty minutes later we all sat down on the back porch to a perfect summer dinner.

Everything turned out just right – the swordfish, the corn, the wine. Even Pauline's salad dressing lived up to the hype.

We were all a little laid-back after the meal. I looked at Mack's ragged map of a face. It seemed to be lit from within, like a lantern. Pauline looked more relaxed and lovelier than I'd ever seen her.

Mack drew out Pauline about her childhood in Michigan. She told us that her old man was a retired Detroit cop, and her mother taught English in an inner-city high school. Most of her aunts and uncles were autoworkers.

"How'd your parents meet?" asked Mack, still persistently steering the conversation.

"My father is my mother's second husband," said Pauline. "Her first was this big, bad charismatic dude from the old neighborhood named Alvin Craig. Craig was a drag racer, a brawler, always in and out of trouble with the law, and once when he was drinking, he beat up my mother. The last time he tried to do it, she was five months pregnant with me. She called the cops.

"The cop who arrived at the house was a big tough guy, too. He took one look at my mother and asked Alvin if they could talk outside for a little bit. My parents lived in a tiny row house, and for about an hour Alvin and the cop sat on the stoop out front.

"There was no fighting. No yelling. Neither one even raised his voice. When they got up, my lather went upstairs, threw his stuff into two suitcases, and left for good. The cop stayed for coffee, and a few months later my mother had a new husband.

"I might never have known the real story except that one day when I was fifteen and acting like a total brat, I called my father an asshole. My mother was furious. She decided it was time I learned how they met and fell in love. They are a sweet couple, actually."

It was an impossible story to top, so Mack didn't even try. But he offered childhood tales of his own, including the time he and his best mate, Tommy McGoey, hopped a lorry and spent three days walking around Dublin, sleeping under wagons and living on stolen milk and rolls, mesmerized by everything they laid their eyes on. Pauline had inspired him to dredge up stories that were new even to me.

That's the kind of serenely magical night it was, when friendship feels as solid as family, and family as light and untroubled as friendship. I suppose it was too sweet to last. Just before midnight we heard a car door slam in the driveway. Then the sound of shoes scraping on the gravel.

When I turned to look, Dana was walking toward us like a long blond ghost.

"Ah, speak of the devil," said Mack.

FOR THIRTY EXCRUCIATING SECONDS, the eye contact around the table was as fast and furious as a Kabuki drama.

"Don't all act too excited to see me," Dana said finally. She turned toward the dark-haired stranger.

"I'm Dana. Jack's girlfriend. I think."

"Pauline."

After extending an urgent conciliatory shrug toward Pauline, I turned to my self-described girlfriend.

"Pauline's a very good friend from Nelson, Goodwin and Mickel," I said, and regretted it instantly.

"Where I understand you're no longer employed."

"They offered me a golden parachute."

"So, what do you do there?" Dana asked Pauline. "Are you a lawyer?"

"I'm an investigator," said Pauline, her voice flat and neutral.

"What do you investigate?"

"You sound like an investigator yourself," said Pauline, the warmth and openness of the evening a memory now.

"Sorry, just trying to make a little awkward conversation."

As for Mack, he still hadn't said a word. To make it absolutely clear which side of the fence he was on, he hadn't even looked at Dana. He hadn't looked at me, either, but I didn't have to see his face to know how upset he was, and that he considered this my fault.

Pauline, having sat through enough of this bad soap opera, rose to leave. "Dinner was delicious," she said, smiling at Mack. "So was everything else."

"You were the best part of it by far, Paulie girl," said Mack, standing and giving her a long hug. "Let me walk you to your car."

"You don't have to leave," I said.

"Oh, but I do," said Pauline.

Then she and Mack took off, arm in arm, almost as if Dana and I weren't there.

"Let me walk with you, Pauline," I said. "Please. I need to talk to you."

"No," said Pauline, without turning to face me. "You stay and talk to your girlfriend. I'm sure you two have a lot to catch up on."

"I HOPE I DIDN'T INTERRUPT ANYTHING," Dana said. Her mouth was in a pout, but her eyes were smiling slyly.

"Yeah, right. What are you doing here, Dana?"

"Well, you can't expect a girl to give up without a fight," she said with one of her more charming, self-effacing smiles.

"You haven't seen or spoken to me in two months. It was your idea, remember?"

"I know that, Jack. I was in Paris. And Florence. Barcelona. I needed some time to think."

"So, Dana, what did you figure out in Europe? That you don't like yourself as much as you thought you did?"

"You've put me in an impossible position, Jack. You, or my father."

"A no-brainer, obviously. Daddy treated you to Europe, right?"

"Sometimes you don't know what you're talking about, Jack. My father is a wonderful man in many ways. He's great to my mom. He's blindly supported me in anything I've ever tried to do. Plus he's my goddamned dad. What do you want from me?" Her filial loyalty actually made me miss my own father.

"So, what brings you here tonight?"

"You," said Dana, staring at me intently. "I missed you even more than I thought I would. You are special, Jack."

When she touched my arm, I almost jumped.

"God, you hate me, don't you?" Tears welled in her eyes. "Oh, Jack. Don't you have anything to say to me?"