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Now he’s the one leaning forward, lowering his voice. I idly turn my head and see the photographer snapping away, not even trying to hide in plain sight.
“I need to tell you something, just in case none of us makes it out of this alive.”
“Now there’s a cheery thought.”
“I think I’m falling in love with you,” Rob Jacobson says.
SIXTY-THREE
A FEW DAYS LATER I’m still reeling from Jacobson’s profession of undying love, or whatever that was.
“I’ve told you before, we’re more alike than you think,” he said.
“And I’ve told you on multiple occasions, no, we’re not. Never have been and never will be.”
“I knew I probably wouldn’t get the response I wanted.”
“Here’s my response:Get over it!” I snapped. “And in case you’ve forgotten, I already have a boyfriend.”
It turns out my breakup with Dr. Ben continues to be the least successful in recorded history, which is how the following Sunday I end up accompanying him to the annual Hampton Classic Horse Show in Bridgehampton.
Ben used to ride as a kid, even rode in the Classic a few times. Still loves horses. Still attends the Classic every year. I’ve never been, but he assures me I’ll like this show-jumping circus more than I think I will.
“And it will be a nice change of pace for you,” he says, “dealing with horses instead of horse’s asses.”
The Classic’s showcase event, Grand Prix Sunday, is held the day before Labor Day in the big ring closest to Snake HollowRoad. As a way of fitting in with the rest of the swells, I’ve even purchased a new straw hat for the occasion.
“Are we arriving early so I don’t miss batting practice?” I ask after we’ve parked.
“You promised to be a good sport.”
“I might have lied.”
“How are you feeling today, by the way?”
Lately I’ve been complaining to him about the fatigue he can see for himself when we’re together. It’s as if my body already knows I’ve got another round of chemo staring me smack in the face.
“I feel like a million damn dollars,” I answer, lying about that, too.
Ben has VIP passes for us. Once we’re inside, wearing our festive cloth bracelets, I see Claire Jacobson across the crowded tent, holding a champagne flute, laughing at something Congresswoman What’s-Her-Name has just said.
I know Claire sees me, but when I wave, she immediately turns away with a phantom wave at somebody else, or nobody at all. That old proverb, if you save a person’s life, you’re forever responsible for it, is made to be broken.
I point that out to Ben.
“I’m convinced she knows who put her in that pool,” I tell him. “She just won’t say.”
“Whatever her reasons are, they belong to her,” Ben says. “And maybe, just maybe, we can stroll around the tent, mingle with some people I know, and enjoy the horsies.”
“I know enough people,” I tell him, kissing him on the cheek. “I’d rather stick one of the toothpicks from the appetizers in my ear than do this scene.”
He heads in one direction and I head in the other, toward thebar, to order a Bloody Mary, knowing midday champagne will make me feel even sleepier than I already do.
After I’ve collected my drink, I think I see Edmund McKenzie standing where Claire Jacobson had been, but Larry Calabrese, the East Hampton police chief, intercepts me. Maybe McKenzie saw me coming, but he is long gone by the time Larry and I have finished making small talk.
While I wait for Dr. Ben to make his rounds, I make my way outside and toward the closest ring. I don’t know what the time on the clock means, but I know the tall young rider has his horse moving fast by the way his hair flows from underneath his helmet. He gets around the course without knocking down any rails and the crowd cheers.
When I turn back toward the tent, Bobby Salvatore is standing in front of me. I know what he looks like because I have googled him, on multiple recent occasions.
