“They’re expensive, those new houses,” the man continued. “But nice inside, I’m told. Have to say I’m glad I bought my pile of bricks when I did. Been here quite a few years now.”
So he was going to rub real estate prices in Mack’s face. Mack was about to jog off, but he’d just realized that the guy was pointing toward the wall that surrounded the Eliot estate, one of the biggest properties in Bratenahl. No wonder the man was so entitled.
He was looking at Mack’s feet in disgust. “You shouldn’t be jogging in flat shoes like that, you know. Bad for the arches.”
“So is getting attacked by a dog.”
They both turned toward Colman, who was listening intently to the conversation. “See? He doesn’t mind you now that you’re not running.” The man nodded as if Mack had finally got the hang of something. “Listen, I’m in the shoe business, or I was. One of the first investors in Saucony. Made a fortune. I’ve got running shoes coming out of my ears. Come and I’ll give you a pair.”
“Thanks,” Mack said, “but I’m okay. I’d better get going.” There was no urgency in his voice, though; his fit of good intention was over, and he was staring down the barrel of a long, depressing afternoon. His brain itched just thinking about it.
“I insist. Follow me. They’re great shoes, and by the looks of it you need them.”
Mack thought about suggesting that the man drop the shoes by his house, but the lure of the Eliot estate was too great. He’d seen it from the lake a few times when he was out on the water, and the only word that could describe the house wascolossal. It was the same size as the Shoreby Club, bigger even; a handful of mansions had been built at the same time, but only this one was still a private residence. Mack’s first thought was how excited Hailey would be when he told her he’d been in the place, and then he remembered she wasn’t speaking to him. He followed the man anyway.
“You been here about six months?” the guy said as Mack fell into step beside him, careful not to trip over his dog again.
“Yeah, thereabouts.”
“I watched them build that development, of course. Followed the sales. Always risky, investing in new construction.” He studied Mack carefully. “You’re Mack Evans, right?”
Mack nodded.
“And your wife, she’s Hailey Evans, the lawyer?”
“Yes.”
“Saw a piece on her inCleveland Social.”
“Oh right.” The thought of this guy thumbing through the magazine that had just shamed him made Mack’s heart sink, and to make matters worse, for about a hundred yards he thought this was a wasted trip; they’d reached the wall of the Eliot estate and turned away from the house, and now he was going to have to go back to some run-of-the-mill split-level in a far-flung corner of Bratenahl just to get a pair of running shoes he’d never use again for fear of bumping into this guy. Then a gate appeared, almost totally obscured by ivy, the man punched in 00000 on a rusty keypad, and they stepped inside.
Immediately Mack thought,Golfcourse: the grass was greener than felt naturally possible, and the yard was huge and hilly. He saw a fountain and a sundial and topiaries—none of the brown-patched bareness of the other big houses he could see from the street. The overhang on the front of this house reminded him of the Breakers hotel; God, would it blow Hailey’s mind that this was right here on her doorstep.
“Sorry, what did you say your name was?”
“I didn’t. It’s Gerry, Gerry Baptista.”
Mack racked his brain; it seemed impossible that someone with this kind of wealth wouldn’t be known around town, but then again Bratenahl was not Mack’s town, not really. If this guy was anything to go by it might hold all kinds of secret characters, a thought that cheered Mack up a little.
“Quite a place you’ve got here, Gerry.”
“Eliot was a steel man,” Gerry said. “But then an academic like you probably knows that.”
“I’m an English professor. I know Hemingway and Kerouac, mostly. Not much local history, I’m afraid.”
“The steel barons werenationalhistory, I should think. They built a lot of this country.”
They’d walked the length of the house, under the overhang and past a five-car garage around to the back. As they climbed one side of a pair of steep curving staircases toward a shady back terrace, Mack panicked that he might not get a proper look inside—he’d already decided that this adventure was his inroad with Hailey. “Boy, those barons sure knew how to build houses. What a spot you’ve got here.”
“Yes,” Gerry Baptista agreed. “They don’t build them like they used to. No offense, of course.”
Mack was too taken with the view to let this dig get to him. The semicircular terrace on the back of the house curved in reverse of the shoreline, so it almost felt like you could step off into the steely lake and carry on walking through the sky beyond it. Even in bleak November it was vast and breathtaking. Beneath him, tucked among some trees, Mack could see a greenhouse. Farther down toward the gray water, which was crashing onto the stone barricade at the edge of the lawn in angry waves, there was a dock and a boathouse with a decent-sized powerboat still in the water.
“You better get that out soon,” Mack said. He knew next to nothing about boats, but he had seen Lake Erie good and frozen in November before.
Gerry had already turned to go into the house, and so Mack (and Colman) trotted along behind him. The house had a warm, floral scent, and right away Mack saw heavy curtains and copious chandeliers.
“Are you married?” he asked Gerry as he followed him along a narrow hallway resplendent with crown moldings and elaborate wallpaper.
