day-to-day conduct of Jason Cardiff’s life was an unquestioning acceptance that money was his ultimate servant, there to spin the wheels that revolved, always, with him in the center.
Money was the number one tool in Jason Cardiff’s Life Toolbox, the first one he reached for to solve any problem.
It was the Cardiff way.
So it did not require any stretch of the imagination to use money to solve Jason Cardiff’s single problem early that summer: how to end his marriage.
The idea came to him one afternoon as he mounted the cleaning girl from behind on the cellar steps.
She was nice in a spicy, dirty, Latin way, with smooth dark skin and a good attitude, he’d seen that from the start. Cheeky.
“I don’t know this word,” Marisol giggled, pronouncing it “sheeky.” She waited until she heard him zipping his fly before turning over and hoisting herself into a sitting position on the steps.
Jason wiped his hands on his golf shorts and took a seat beside her to catch his breath on the bare wooden steps. He made a mental note to tell Christina they needed carpeting. Not some custom imported wool she’d spend weeks on, arguing with some fag decorator, just something plush that could be wiped up.
Marisol was careful to arrange her skirt underneath her, no doubt to avoid getting a splinter in those soft, juicy thighs.
Jason looked into his wallet, peeled a bill off, and tossed it onto the step between them.
Marisol was bent over, straightening her thigh-highs, which had slipped a bit.
Sexy. Jason felt himself getting hard again.
She picked up the bill and tucked it inside her bra. She smiled. “So, what does ‘sheeky’ mean?”
Jason smiled back. “It means,” he said, reaching one hand up under the folds of her skirt and helping himself to a generous handful of flesh, “you have a nice ass.”
Marisol leaned back against the steps, giggling now. “So much to learn.”
In the shadows he could see a thin film of sweat on her face. It was a warm day.
There were footsteps in the kitchen above, passing within inches of the cellar door.
“Ees only my aunt,” Marisol said, giggling harder now.
Jason nodded. It was just after eleven. Christina never got up this early. And even if she did…“Hey,” he said, working his hand up Marisol’s thigh, “want to do something for me?”
“ Sí ,” Marisol whispered, hiking her skirt up again.
Jason stayed where he was. “I want you to watch things.”
Marisol gave him a questioning glance.
“My wife,” Jason explained. “I need to know who comes here when I’m not around.”
Marisol’s eyes narrowed, losing the playful look.
She’d be good in business, Jason thought. “I mean it,” he said. “I need to know if men come here.”
Marisol nodded. “I understand.”
And it was clear by the look on her face she did understand. “I’ll make it worth your while,” Jason said, digging his wallet out once more. This time he handed the bills directly to her.
Marisol’s eyes flickered when she saw how much, stowing the bills with the rest. “Okay,” she said, nodding vigorously. “No problem.”
CHAPTER 8
T he First Presbyterian Church of Amagansett looked the same as Christina remembered it from a wedding ten years ago. Manicured grounds and a tidy blue sign proclaiming in gold letters that the church had been established in 1860. Her spirits rose when she pulled in to park and found a spot between a brand-new Lexus and a Rolls Royce.
AA, Hamptons style.
Inside was another story. The meeting was in the basement of an outbuilding, all fluorescent lights and dropped ceilings. The place smelled like a high-school gym.
Christina shivered, wishing she had worn something warmer than a sleeveless gold-mesh tank top. She turned to leave, and practically toppled over an old lady in a snowy white cardigan and blue gingham sundress. Like Aunt Bea from Mayberry R.F.D.
“I’m Lois. Welcome to the Amagansett group of AA,” she said, grabbing
Money was the number one tool in Jason Cardiff’s Life Toolbox, the first one he reached for to solve any problem.
It was the Cardiff way.
So it did not require any stretch of the imagination to use money to solve Jason Cardiff’s single problem early that summer: how to end his marriage.
The idea came to him one afternoon as he mounted the cleaning girl from behind on the cellar steps.
She was nice in a spicy, dirty, Latin way, with smooth dark skin and a good attitude, he’d seen that from the start. Cheeky.
“I don’t know this word,” Marisol giggled, pronouncing it “sheeky.” She waited until she heard him zipping his fly before turning over and hoisting herself into a sitting position on the steps.
Jason wiped his hands on his golf shorts and took a seat beside her to catch his breath on the bare wooden steps. He made a mental note to tell Christina they needed carpeting. Not some custom imported wool she’d spend weeks on, arguing with some fag decorator, just something plush that could be wiped up.
Marisol was careful to arrange her skirt underneath her, no doubt to avoid getting a splinter in those soft, juicy thighs.
Jason looked into his wallet, peeled a bill off, and tossed it onto the step between them.
Marisol was bent over, straightening her thigh-highs, which had slipped a bit.
Sexy. Jason felt himself getting hard again.
She picked up the bill and tucked it inside her bra. She smiled. “So, what does ‘sheeky’ mean?”
Jason smiled back. “It means,” he said, reaching one hand up under the folds of her skirt and helping himself to a generous handful of flesh, “you have a nice ass.”
Marisol leaned back against the steps, giggling now. “So much to learn.”
In the shadows he could see a thin film of sweat on her face. It was a warm day.
There were footsteps in the kitchen above, passing within inches of the cellar door.
“Ees only my aunt,” Marisol said, giggling harder now.
Jason nodded. It was just after eleven. Christina never got up this early. And even if she did…“Hey,” he said, working his hand up Marisol’s thigh, “want to do something for me?”
“ Sí ,” Marisol whispered, hiking her skirt up again.
Jason stayed where he was. “I want you to watch things.”
Marisol gave him a questioning glance.
“My wife,” Jason explained. “I need to know who comes here when I’m not around.”
Marisol’s eyes narrowed, losing the playful look.
She’d be good in business, Jason thought. “I mean it,” he said. “I need to know if men come here.”
Marisol nodded. “I understand.”
And it was clear by the look on her face she did understand. “I’ll make it worth your while,” Jason said, digging his wallet out once more. This time he handed the bills directly to her.
Marisol’s eyes flickered when she saw how much, stowing the bills with the rest. “Okay,” she said, nodding vigorously. “No problem.”
CHAPTER 8
T he First Presbyterian Church of Amagansett looked the same as Christina remembered it from a wedding ten years ago. Manicured grounds and a tidy blue sign proclaiming in gold letters that the church had been established in 1860. Her spirits rose when she pulled in to park and found a spot between a brand-new Lexus and a Rolls Royce.
AA, Hamptons style.
Inside was another story. The meeting was in the basement of an outbuilding, all fluorescent lights and dropped ceilings. The place smelled like a high-school gym.
Christina shivered, wishing she had worn something warmer than a sleeveless gold-mesh tank top. She turned to leave, and practically toppled over an old lady in a snowy white cardigan and blue gingham sundress. Like Aunt Bea from Mayberry R.F.D.
“I’m Lois. Welcome to the Amagansett group of AA,” she said, grabbing
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