“There’s just one hitch.”
“You want to ride on the handlebars?”
“No, you have to let me take you out for coffee within the next forty-eight hours.”
“Sure,” I said, smiling back. The moment felt straight out of a rom-com.
Our initial sexual encounters turned out to be nice enough and mostly physically satisfying for me. They weren’t, however, truly electric, and I was left with the nagging sense that something was missing. I told myself that sex would get better as we grew even closer, and when that didn’t happen, I decided it was unrealistic to expect the type of sex women had in movies, especially when they were having it with Brad Pitt.
It worked for a while—until I found myself constantly fantasizing about another man, one who’d unexpectedly walked into my life one day. I never so much as kissed this person, let alone slept with him, but the mere thought of him left me breathless.
And that eventually led to the awakening that changed everything: I cared about Jamie deeply, and I’d regained even more of my confidence in the many months we’d been together, but our relationship lacked any true spark for me, in or out of the bedroom. Most of the time, in fact, he seemed more like a friend than a lover.
By then, though, he’d already popped the question, and we’d set a date for a small wedding. With a sinking heart, I knew I had no choice but to pull the plug. I broke the news on a cold March morning.
My hand drops to the duvet and I stroke the fabric a couple of times, letting myself imagine Jamie peeling it back and sliding into bed, and then sleeping with his right arm lifted above his head on the pillow, as he always did.
Why didn’t you want to come back here? You bought a new coffee table and bookshelf and a fresh-start duvet. Was something troubling you enough to make you want to take your life?
I’d come here today looking for insight, but all I have are more questions. Certain small details—the missing photographs, the almost empty “active” file—hint at sadness, maybe even depression, and yet the list of houses I found suggests Jamie had hope for the future. I don’t know what to think.
I reflect back on what Sam said—that whatever was tormenting Jamie was in Litchfield County, in the area he’d known since he was a boy.
And I realize that the only chance I have of figuring out what was going on is to return there as soon as I can.
9
ILEAVE FOR CONNECTICUT MIDDAY ON THURSDAY, A BIT LATERthan I would have liked, but it took me a few days to get all my ducks in a row. I’m just praying I haven’t lost valuable time.
So far, no official cause of death has been announced, I’ve heard from Ava. Though the autopsy was conducted earlier in the week, the police must still be waiting for the toxicology report, which Detective Calistro had mentioned would take at least ten days.
Ava also told me the memorial service was held yesterday, a private event at Jamie’s uncle’s house to which only family and a couple of very old friends of Jamie’s were invited. Jamie’s body was cremated, which means there’s not even a gravesite to visit. Some of his New York friends are arranging a memorial in the city this fall, so at least I’ll have that to attend—if I’m invited.
One reason for my late start was trouble locating a place to stay. I decided against a room at an inn or a B&B, because of both the price and the fact that I’d have to eat all my meals out. That left Airbnb, and there were slim pickings this late in the season. But something finally popped up on Wednesday—a small, simple house in New Burford, one of the many small towns that dot the county—and I grabbed it. Fortunately, I won’t be far from Jamie’s old rental, so I’ll mostly know my way around, and Ava and Vic are only a twenty-minute drive.
Though it’s cheaper than a hotel, the house, along with the car rental, is going to cost a bundle, and I’ve had to tap into savings I created five years ago with a portion of my dad’s life insurance payout, which my mom was kind enough to share with me. But I don’t care what it’s costing. As the days have gone by, I’ve felt even more desperate for knowledge. I’m having trouble sleeping and eating, and work has felt impossible. During one session yesterday, I found myself staring at the obnoxious young male client and thinking,Why don’t you grow the fuck up?
When I’m halfway to my destination, Ava calls to check in. I’d let her know midweek that I’d decided to come back for a short while, but I decided not to mention what Sam had divulged or that I’m on a quest for answers. Instead, I told her that I needed a break, and that being in the area Jamie loved would be a comfort to me.
“Are you sure you wouldn’t like to stay with us?” she asks now after we’ve exchanged greetings. “The guest room is free for the next couple of days.”
“Thanks so much, Ava, but the house I found looks just fine. And it’s probably good for me to spend some time alone right now, with everything I need to process.”
All true, but beyond that, I wouldn’t feel comfortable interrupting her summer with Vic or possibly distracting him while he’s busy promoting his new book.
“Can we at least have lunch tomorrow here at the house?” she asks.
I tell her I’d love that, and we agree on one o’clock.
As I’ve spoken to Ava over the past several days, appreciative of her attempts to console me, I’ve been trying to be mindful of the fact that she and Vic are suffering, too. Not only had Vic been tennis friends with Jamie, but I know he and Ava must be devastated that the deathoccurred at their home. How long will it be before Vic can catch sight of the barn without picturing the gruesome scene he discovered behind it? Maybe never.
And what will it be like formeto be on that property again?I’m just going to have to steel myself, I think—because I need time with Ava.
Nearing New Burford, I make a short detour to a local gourmet market, where I pick up fresh vegetables, milk, yogurt, and butter, as well as sliced turkey, shrimp salad, and a couple of chicken breasts. It’s a place I sometimes shopped with Jamie, and a wave of sadness rolls over me as I settle up with the familiar cashier.
From the parking lot, I text Clarissa, the manager of the house I’ve rented, to let her know I’m close by. The couple of times I’ve used Airbnb with friends, we’ve always retrieved the key from a lockbox on-site, but this rental requires a person-to-person handoff.
As soon as I reach the address on Ash Street, I spot Clarissa on the stoop, but I take in the property first. The house is a white clapboard with hunter-green trim, and though it’s small, it appears to be in as good shape as the online photos indicated. There’s a decent-size front yard, and though there are neighbors on each side, they aren’t so close that I’m going to hear theJeopardy!theme song through an open window every night.
