Mortal Bonds by Michael Sears Page B

about his shoes.”
    That stopped her. “His shoes?”
    “They’re new,” I said. “He picked them out himself.”
    She absorbed that. “I will do that.”
    “I’m sure he’ll be glad to see you,” I said.
    Angie softened at this unforeseen kindness. “Thank you, boo.”
    And as I looked back at her, it suddenly hit me what was different about her. It wasn’t the doctor’s work—that was minor. This was deeper than the brittle beauty of her face. It had been niggling at me from the moment I saw her coming down the escalator at the airport, but I had been too preoccupied with my own insecurities to see it.
    Angie was sober.

| 9 |
    D oug Randolph lived at the end of a quiet lane in Sands Point out on Long Island. I rented a car for the day, even though I hated driving on the expressway. I would rather drive cross-country nonstop than spend an hour getting through Queens.
    Sands Point was a small community with two-acre zoning and narrow winding roads with tons of trees. It was not the most expensive place to live on Long Island. That was about two miles away. You could still get a starter home for under a million and a nice house with a view of Long Island Sound for under two. Or you could spend four or five times that. Most of the teenagers drove Beemers or Audis, except for the poorer kids, who got by with Lexuses. They all played lacrosse.
    I passed through a break in the wall of twelve-foot-tall boxwood and pulled up the white gravel driveway. Randolph’s house was a yellow stucco, with red-tile roof. Sort of an ersatz Mission. Very California. Modest by Sands Point standards.
    His wife let me in and walked me through the living room. It was not just clean, it was spotless. Immaculate.
    “Your house is beautiful, Mrs. Randolph.”
    She was a small woman, short and impossibly thin. Once upon a time she might have been described as elfin and cute, but age and stress had cut deep lines around her eyes and mouth. She was struggling, as though she didn’t know whether to thank me or burst into tears. “Thank you. We have an open house scheduled for this weekend.”
    The dining room and kitchen were so clean it looked like a boatload of Navy midshipmen had been through polishing the brightwork. It felt like no one lived there.
    Doug was working on a laptop under an umbrella out on the rear patio. Books and a few legal pads were strewn across the top of the latticed-metal table. Steps led down to about an acre of perfect grass with a marble fountain right where a grade-school kickball team would have put second base. The grass ended at a rocky beach and the water. The view was to the north and west. The sunsets over Manhattan off in the distance must have been spectacular.
    He shut down the program he had open—something like the Bloomberg trading platform, with graphs and flashing colors—and stood up to greet me.
    “Jason, long time.”
    “How you doing, Doug?”
    “I just got back from seeing my therapist. Does that answer the question?”
    I nodded in commiseration. “Believe me, I understand.”
    I could see I offended him. I had been guilty of creating my own mess. He had just been swept up in someone else’s. I held up a hand. “I just mean I understand the stress of what you’re going through. I’ve been there.”
    He gave a tight smile. “Pull up a chair.”
    “Can I get you boys something?” his wife asked.
    There was a brittle tension in the air between them—or around them—as though a raised voice or an unkind word would shatter their world like a glass figurine hitting a marble floor.
    “I’m good,” I said, shaking my head.
    “No,” Doug said. “I have a wine cellar downstairs. I’m no collector, I just bought what I liked, so it’s not worth much to the auction houses. And I can only fit so much of it in the apartment we’re moving into. So . . . ?” It was what the moment needed. It was a magnanimous gesture, wiping the slate between us clean, and announcing that