James Patterson - The Beach House

Over the next hour and a half to two hours, I steadily worked from left to right. I tossed back shots for each bought witness in the parade of perjurers. I lifted a glass to Tricia Powell, no doubt the Mayflower Employee of the Month, and another for the good Dr. Jacobson, the coroner magician from Los Angeles. Or as Mack described him, "a whore with a resume."

My old honey Dana rated two shots of Jameson. The first for coming all the way back from Europe just because she missed me. The second for her Oscar-worthy performance that afternoon.

Hardly acknowledging anyone around me, I sipped and stewed until my level of numbness nudged ahead of my rage. I think that happened somewhere around my second Dana shot, my fourth in forty minutes.

Although I'm probably not the most reliable witness, I recall that Fenton and Hank came up and each threw an arm around me but, sensing I wasn't up for a group hug, soon left me to my self-medicating. They were just trying to do the right thing.

When I put in my order I'd counted on a toast for Jane Davis, but by the time her turn came, I was more worried about her than angry. On the way back from the bathroom, I stopped at the pay phone and left a slightly incoherent message on her machine.

"It's not your fault, Jane," I shouted over the din, "it's mine. I never should have gotten you into this mess."

That was when I saw none other than Frank Volpi. He was standing in back, waiting for me to get off the phone. "Congratulations, asshole," he said. Then he grinned and walked away before I could get off a shot.

Back at the bar, I toasted Frank. He'd been there for us from the start, and his performance had been flawless. "Volpi," I said, and drank.

Numero six was for Barry Neubauer himself. The river of whiskey had opened up my poetic side, and I came up with a couplet for the occasion. Barry Neubauer, scumbag of the hour.

That was meant to be my last, but thanks to Mike, I had one glistening silver bullet left. I was afraid I was going to have to drink to something vague and amorphous like the System. Then I thought of Attorney General Robert Crassweller Jr. Even I had to hand it to Montrose for the way he set up the big punch line with his phony objection. What panache. He had played Nadia Alper like a Stradivarius. What class! What a winner!

After the last toast, the vertical and horizontal on my picture started to wander. In fact, the whole room was spinning. I treated the problem with a couple of beers. Hair of the dog. Then I made a few attempts to leave Mike a forty-dollar tip. He kept stuffing it back in my shirt pocket until I finally stumbled out the door.

Two blocks later I stopped at a pay phone and called Jane again. That awful look on her face wouldn't go away. I was planning to leave a slightly more intelligible version of my first message when she answered.

"Its okay, Jane," I said.

"No, it's not okay. Jesus, Jack. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. They came to my house."

"It wouldn't have made an iota of difference."

"So what!" She sounded hysterical.

Four weekenders walked by and got into a Saab convertible. "Jane, you've got to swear to me you won't do anything stupid."

"Don't worry. But there's something I have to tell you. I didn't before, because I didn't see the point. When I did all those tests on Peter, I also did blood tests. Jack, your brother was HIV-positive."

THE TWO-MILE WALK and the ocean air did me a world of good. By the time I passed the parking lot for Ditch Plains Beach and cut across my damp lawn, I was close to sober again.

It's something I'll always be grateful for. Sitting on the porch and leaning back against the front door in one of my old tattered sweaters was Pauline.

It was about 10:30. The street and lawn were enveloped in a light ocean mist. It's a weird analogy, and I have no idea why I thought of it, but seeing Pauline blocking my path to the door brought to mind Gary Cooper waiting patiently in the street in High Noon. Something about her stillness and her "here I am, what are you going to do about it?" smile.

"You're a sight for sore eyes, Pauline."

"You, too, Jack. I watched from the back of the gym today. Then I drove all the way back to the city. Then I drove all the way back out here. Crazy, huh? Don't try to deny it."

"Did you do something awful that made Macklin kick you out of the house?"

"No."

"You just wanted some fresh air?"

"No."

"Am I getting warm?"

"No."

Most no's aren't too good, but these were about as good as no's could be. I sat on the cool flagstone and leaned back against the red wooden door of our house. I touched Pauline's arm. It felt electric against mine. She took my hand in hers, and my mouth went dry.

"But as I was talking to Macklin, something became really clear to me," she whispered.

"What was that, Pauline?" I whispered back.

"How much I care about you."

I looked at Pauline again and did what I'd probably wanted to do for a long time. I kissed Pauline gently on the lips. Her lips were soft and fit perfectly on mine. We stayed that way for a sweet moment before we pulled back and looked at each other.

"That was worth the wait," I said.

"You shouldn't have waited, Jack."

"I promise I won't wait as long for the next one."

We started kissing again and haven't really stopped since.

Now I appreciate that for those of you who have stayed with me this far, there's nothing too surprising about this romantic development. You probably saw it coming. But I didn't.

Not until I walked across the lawn that night. Not because I didn't want it to happen. I wanted it to happen from the first moment Pauline walked into my tiny office. I wanted it so badly, I was afraid to even hope for it.

"You're a good person. And sweet," Pauline said as we hugged on the front porch.

"Try not to hold it against me."

"I won't." She showed me a blanket she'd brought out from the house.

"Let's go down to the beach, Jack. There's something else I've been wanting to do with you for a long time."

THE SUN SPILLING OUT OVER QUEENS and the East River may not be as symphonic as it is rising out of the Atlantic, but it's nothing to sneeze at. Neither was being able to reach out and slide my arm around Pauline as she slept peacefully beside me. I had thought we would be good together, but I had no idea how good it could be. For the first time in my life, I was in love.

At the end of the summer I abandoned Mack in Montauk and moved in with Pauline on Avenue B. Every day for the next five months I rode the subway to the top of Manhattan to complete my requirements for a degree from Columbia Law School.

Although the summer had dampened my enthusiasm for practicing law, I wasn't simply going through the motions. Inspired by rage and disgust, the way some of my classmates were by ambition, I worked harder than I ever had in my life. The inquest left me perversely intrigued with litigation, and I studied Trial Techniques by Thomas Mauet as if it were the Bible. I did the same with Cases and Materials on Evidence and Constitutional Law.

I worked so hard on all my other course work, too, that when the final grades were posted, I learned I'd graduated third in my class.

Although my employment prospects were murky, I figured I'd earned a break. So while some other third-year students were still jostling for associate positions in white-glove law firms or studying for the bar, I was enjoying life in the East Village. It was a good place to cultivate my soul and try to figure out what an angry, overeducated twenty-nine-year-old should do next.