Thursday evening, June 10, Greenwich Avenue

Jake

I head to Greenwich Fitness after work, planning to blow off some steam. Since Jess and the kids left, I’ve been coming here most evenings. I’d like to say I’m motivated by a need to stay fit, but the truth is I just can’t stand being home alone during daylight hours. As Carpstein predicted, there’s nothing more depressing than moping around an empty house.

“Hey Goodwin!” a male voice calls out as soon as I enter the weight area. I turn to find Sam Golding – an acquaintance through Emma, who is best friends with his daughter. He’s sprawled out on the bench press, looking like he’s about to rip through his tank-top.

“How’s it going, Sam?” I say, shaking his sweaty hand.

“Shitty,” he grumbles. “Got screwed out of the usual bonus this year. Ever since the bailout and new regs, the fuckin’ government’s got its hands in everything.” He shakes his head gravely. “I tell you, man. The party’s over. I should’ve been smart like you and gone to med school.”

I smile, picturing a younger, less bald version of Sam Golding sitting in a lecture hall taking biochem notes. Somehow, I don’t think that would have been his speed.

“Don’t worry,” I reassure him. “Things will get back to normal soon enough. You’ll be pulling in seven figures again in no time.”

“Back to?” he snorts, adding more weight to the bar. “Dude, who said I wasn’t still there? I said things were shitty, not catastrophic.”

I should be offended by Sam’s smug attitude, but then again, I’ve learned to ignore these sorts of comments. For someone like him, bragging comes as naturally as breathing. Like most of Wall Street’s masters of the universe, the guy was probably born with a swagger.

“You wanna work in on this set?" he asks.

“Thanks, but I usually start with an aerobic work-out. You know, rowing, treadmill… stuff like that. Maybe I’ll catch you later.”

“The treadmill, huh?” He glances over my shoulder toward the treadmill area and gives me a smart-assed grin. “Gee… I wonder why you’d wanna start there.”

I follow his gaze, already knowing where he’s looking. It’s hard not to notice the toned bodies of the women who spend most of their work-out time bouncing between the gym's selection of treadmills, Stairmasters, and elliptical equipment. Greenwich has its share of beautiful people, and the evening is prime time for the younger, child-free set – a group of ridiculously fit and attractive twenty-somethings who like to drop by on the way home from their jobs in the city.

“I noticed her as soon as she walked in,” Sam continues, leering like a sex-starved teenager, and I have to admit he’s picked the right woman to lust after. Even though I’m seeing her at a distance, I recognize Briana Caulder instantly. She’s bobbing up and down on her treadmill, hair drawn back in a ponytail and iPod buds in her ears, seemingly oblivious to the fact that every man in the room is checking her out.

“Jesus,” Sam moans. “It’s just not fair. Some lucky bastard gets to go home to that every night.”

I inspect him, taking in his receding hairline, hairy shoulders and beginnings of a beer gut, and think: you already were a lucky bastard. Sam had a cute, vivacious wife who, for some reason, seemed to adore him – in other words, he had the far better end of the deal – but that still didn’t stop him from thinking he could do better. Even before the divorce.

“Probably dating some goddamn struggling artist or musician,” he continues to gripe. “What a waste.”

“Hey… I know her. She’s one of my patients.”

“No shit!” Sam’s eyes pop wide open. “So let’s go over there! You have to introduce me, Goodwin. I’ll owe you, big time.”

“I hate to break it to you, but she’s married.”

“So?” He gives me a brutish smile. “Just because there’s a goalie guarding the net, doesn’t mean you can’t score.”

“Wow.” I wince, thinking of how he used to flirt with Jess on the few occasions that we got together socially. “I haven’t heard that one since eighth grade.”

“Me neither, but don’t discount the message. Kids come up with some pretty profound shit sometimes.”

“Yeah, well this goalie isn’t someone you’d want to mess with. Are you familiar with the name Roy Caulder?”

“No way!” Sam looks stunned. “You mean the Roy Caulder? As in Caulder Capital Investments?”

“Yup.” I casually motion toward Briana. “That’s his wife.”

“Well… I guess that makes sense. From what I hear, Caulder’s the man.”

“Oh? How’s that?”

Sam leans forward, eager to share his insider’s information. “Let’s just say if you want Caulder to manage your money, you’d better have a lot of it. The guy’s a cash-making machine, but he only deals with big players.”

“Interesting,” I say, deciding to see how much information I can get by stroking Sam’s ego. “I’ll bet you’ve worked with him.”

He nods smugly. “Couple of times.”

“Enough to know his secrets? I mean, how does he do it?”

“Who knows? He just has the touch. I mean, the guy could turn pig shit into gold.”

“Oh, come on.” I give him a conspiratorial wink. “There’s got to be more to it than that.”

“Well…” Sam smirks. “There was some buzz a couple years back about some insider trading.  You know, back when Kevin Pitt was still the Attorney General of New York. He had it in for hedge funds in general. You probably remember from the newspaper headlines. They couldn’t get enough of the ‘Pitt Bull’ and his war against corrupt Wall Street.”

The way he says this, dripping with sarcasm, you’d think that cleaning up Wall Street was a bad thing.

“Are you saying Caulder was involved in some sort of insider trading scandal?”

“Nah. Pitt never touched him, but he sure tried. Even talked about launching an investigation, but then we all know how that worked out for him, right?”

I give him a blank look.

“Oh yeah, I forgot,” he smirks. “You doctors are too busy to follow the news. So anyways, Pitt just drops off the map one day. Resigns for ‘personal reasons,’ whatever that means. Rumor has it, he left ‘cause of some health issue.”

“But you don’t buy it.”

He grunts, sliding another plate onto the barbell. “Who the hell knows? Maybe he got sick. Then again, maybe he got rich, courtesy of Roy Caulder. No one will ever know the truth.”

“But you have an idea.”

He tightens his weight-lifting belt and readjusts his gloves, sweat dripping from his biceps. “Let’s just say I favor the padded Swiss bank account theory. Whatever happened though, the ‘Pitt Bull’ turned out to be all bark and no bite in the end. If Caulder had anything to do with that, I’d like to buy the man a drink.”

“Sure. Chalk one up for the little guy.”

Judging from Sam’s reaction – an enthusiastic “Damn Straight!” – he hasn’t picked up on my sarcasm.

Now that we’ve shared that bonding moment, he invites me to spot him on the next set.

I stick around, hoping to extract more dirt on Roy Caulder, but all I get is five minutes of grunts interspersed with small talk, mostly about Sam’s brilliant financial conquests. Fortunately, he’s narcissistic enough not to ask me about Jess and the kids, and I’m not about to volunteer any personal information, so the conversation peters out once he’s done with the bench press.

After I’m through with Sam, I walk past rows of elliptical equipment and exercise bikes, going out of my way to avoid Briana. She’s still on her treadmill, looking like she’s sprinting the home stretch of a marathon, so I position myself as far away as possible, on a rowing machine at the opposite end of the gym. At this point, avoiding both Caulders seems like the best idea.

I slip in my iPod earbuds, cranking up the volume to drown out the workout noises around me, and ease into my usual rowing routine. Closing my eyes, I feel the familiar looping rhythm as my muscle memory kicks in. After the first few minutes, I can almost hear the crisp sound of oars slicing through the still waters of the Charles River, the rhythmic panting of my teammates, then the cheers rising up from the riverbanks as we race toward the finish line. Just as I did back then, I call on my muscles to push harder, straining until it feels like I’m no longer in the water but surging above it. The alternative music throbbing in my ears drives me forward, each song pulsing more urgently than the last. When the rowing program finally ends, it feels like I’ve spent the past fifteen minutes being stretched out on the rack. I collapse forward into a sweat-soaked heap, both loving and hating the feeling of being beyond exhaustion.

That’s when I catch a whiff of gardenias and vanilla.

Briana Caulder is standing right behind me.

When I spin around, she greets me with a familiar laugh. “Whoa there! I think you won that race.”

I give her a sheepish grin. Seeing Briana up close, it’s clear why my instincts steered me away from her. It’s the same reason why a recovering alcoholic crosses the street when he’s approaching a liquor store.

“How long have you been going at it?” she teases, resting her hands on her hips. “You look like someone dumped a pitcher of water on your head.”

I glance at my wrist, realizing I’m not even wearing a watch. “I, um, I guess I lost track of time.”

“No kidding. I’ve been standing here for the past five minutes, waiting to get your attention. In fact, I’d be frowning right now…” She points to her forehead with a grin. “But I can’t. See, not even a twitch. Totally paralyzed.”

“Looks good. Not that you needed anything to begin with.”

“Now you tell me.”

We share a laugh and she leans forward to tap my shoulder. Her touch is casual. Flirty.

“We'd better get you a drink,” she suggests, “before you die from dehydration.”

Feeling my legs wobble like stilts beneath me, I follow her to a nearby water cooler. "Tell me," she says, handing me a cup. "Is this a regular hangout for you, Doc?”

I take a sip, shaking my head as I catch my breath. “I wish I could say yes, but I’ve only been coming here for a few weeks.”

“Trying to get back in shape, eh?”

“When I have the time.”

“Well...” She smiles mysteriously, and for a moment, I almost get the sense she’s checking me out. “Whatever you’re doing, I’d say it’s working pretty well for you.”

I raise an eyebrow and her smile widens.

“No, really. I’m not just saying that. Take a look around you, Jake. All these guys are posers, but you’ve got a naturally athletic body type. You’re either born with that, or you’re not. I’d guess crew and soccer, right?”

I grin, touching the tip of my index finger to the thin vertical scar above my right eye. “Lacrosse, not soccer.  And hey, thanks for the compliment. You’ve now officially redeemed yourself from our first encounter.”

“Is that right?” She pivots to look me in the eyes – a graceful motion that manages to be both childlike and flirtatious at the same time. “Then I’m glad to hear I’m making a comeback.”

I can’t help but chuckle at that. “You certainly are.”

We’re interrupted by Briana’s cell phone, and she excuses herself for a moment to take the call. When she’s finished, she stretches to re-clip the cell to the waistband of her black leggings, her T-shirt lifting just enough to reveal an exquisitely toned, tanned abdomen.  That’s when I notice the angry-looking purple blotch on her left side. Right next to the diamond belly-button stud.

“Pretty sight, isn’t it?” she says, hiking her shirt up higher to show me the full extent of the bruise. It stretches all the way to her lower back, where it blends into the outline of a winged tattoo. “I got that horseback riding a couple of days ago.”

I flinch, wondering if she’s telling the truth. “Looks like you took a nasty spill.”

“You could say that. Bella – that’s my filly – stopped short during a barrel jump. She threw me pretty hard.” She must notice my confused expression, because she grins. “You don’t know much about riding, do you, Jake?”

“I know nothing,” I admit, “except that I don’t plan on letting my daughter try it.”

“That’s not exactly fair now, is it?” She leans closer to me, her lips curving into a suggestive smile. “Don’t you know that all little girls love horses?”

“Yeah, I’ve heard something about that.”

“Well, then… I’ll just have to take you guys out riding some time.”

I thank her for the offer, not sure what to say next. In the silence that follows, she bends down to re-tie her shoelaces, taking her time. The notion that I could be making a woman like Briana Caulder nervous seems so absurd, but then again, she’s definitely fidgeting with those laces.

“So,” she finally says, her eyes darting to mine. “I was planning to grab some coffee with a girlfriend before heading home, but she just bailed on me. Would you like to keep me company? I mean… if you have the time.”

Of course, the obvious answer here should be “no thanks.” My conscience practically screams out the words, but then again, I’m being driven by something more powerful.

“Sure,” I say. “Just let me take a few minutes to change and I’ll meet you out front.”

As we head toward the locker area, Briana gives me a playful hip-check, and that’s when I catch a glimpse of Sam Golding. He’s stopped mid-stride on his Stairmaster, widely spaced eyes bugging out of their sockets. I pretend I haven’t noticed him, but we make eye contact just long enough for me to recognize the words forming on his lips. The question practically hangs there, like a cartoon caption floating in a bubble above his head.

What the fuck?

In truth, as I leave the gym with another man’s wife, part of me is asking the exact same question.

*

At Briana’s suggestion, we pass up on the routine Starbucks stop for Versailles, a cozy patisserie that looks like it was lifted from the cobblestoned side streets of Paris and dropped into the heart of Greenwich Ave. The café area is packed as usual, but we’re lucky to find an open corner table. Briana takes in the scene, surveying the crowd with an amused expression.

“See anyone you know?” she whispers into my ear as we follow the hostess to our table, passing a display case filled with brightly colored pastries. “Any pain-in-the-ass patients you’d like to avoid?”

Just you, I think, wondering what the hell I’m doing here.

I scan the tables, seeing no familiar faces. “Nope. Looks safe.”

“Good.” She slides into her seat with a mellow smile. “Then we can make ourselves comfortable.”

As the hostess hands out our menus, it’s hard to shake the unnerving feeling we’re on a first date. When Briana crosses her legs and brushes a knee against mine, I jerk backward, as if jolted by an electric shock.

“Hey there,” she says, studying my expression. “Are you all right? You look stressed.”

“No, I’m fine.” I shift uncomfortably in my seat, lowering my head. “It’s just… well, I’m afraid maybe I’m being inappropriate here. You are, after all, my patient.”

“So what?" She laughs, eyes twinkling with mischief. “Don’t worry, Jake. I’m not going to report you. Jeez, we’re just having coffee!”

“I know, but are you sure you’re… comfortable?”

She reaches across the table to pat my hand. “Yup. Perfectly comfortable. And you should be too. There’s nothing wrong with two friends grabbing a cup of coffee.”

I let her hand linger on mine for a moment, the corners of my mouth curving into a grin. “Oh, so we’re friends now? Just a week after you stormed out of my office.”

“I didn’t storm out,” she corrects cutely. “I just threw a small hissy fit. And what about your attitude?”

I raise a challenging eyebrow.

“Hey, don’t give me that look, Doctor Accutane Cop. Does this sound familiar?” She lowers her voice to imitate me, in a lecturing tone. “‘I’m afraid Accutane is a very powerful, serious drug. We can’t prescribe it without first registering you in a serious, very important, mandatory government program. Seriously.’ I mean, could you have been any more uptight?”

When she trails off into a giggling fit, I can’t help but join in.

“Well,” I say with a grin, "maybe we didn’t get off to the best start.”

“Yeah, but that’s okay. You’re making up for it now. Thanks for keeping me company.” She glances down at her menu, eyes suddenly shimmering. “I really didn’t feel like being alone right now.”

I let that comment hang in the air, fighting the urge to take her hand. It’s damn near impossible to keep myself from reaching across the table.

“Then I’m glad I came,” I admit. “Truth is I could use the company too.”

Judging from the awkward silence that follows, both of us are thinking the same, obvious question: so then why are you here with me instead of your partner?

Fortunately, our waiter lightens the mood by arriving to take our orders. We spend the next few minutes talking about our daily routines, skirting any real issues until Briana comes up with a total zinger.

“So,” she says, stirring her freshly arrived cappuccino with a piece of biscotti. “I’m sorry if this comes across as rude, but I just have to ask: how did you lose your mother?”

“Same way I lost my father and kid sister Abby," I reply matter-of-factly. “In a plane crash.”

 “Oh…” She bites her lower lip. “I’m so sorry. I had no right to ask you that.”

“That’s okay. Like I said before, it’s in the past.” I smile, feeling the creases form around my eyes. “I learned a long time ago that brooding about things does nothing to dull the pain. For some reason, it even feels good to talk about it sometimes. Do you know what I mean?”

All I have to do is look at Briana to know she gets it. She’s suffered too.

“Do you mind if I ask what happened?” I can tell from the way she asks that she’s not interested in the voyeuristic details. She just wants to understand what I went through.

“Well, I’m sure you already heard about it, since the story made front-page news for a while. Here’s the highlight reel…” I lean in closer. “December 24th, 2002. Solaris Air, Flight 1069. Five miles out of Minneapolis-St. Paul. Icing on the wings. Inexperienced flight crew. Catastrophic loss of lift, resulting in a two-thousand foot, near vertical nosedive. Whole families wiped out in one tragic moment, and on Christmas Eve, no less.”

“I remember,” Briana murmurs sadly.

“Everyone does. The media ate it up for a while. Eventually, people lost interest, but I still get interview requests from time to time. Someone from a local network even called last year. You can guess how that conversation went.”

I deepen my voice, mimicking the melodramatic baritone of the reporter who contacted me to pitch the storyline: “We’re here today for an exclusive interview with Doctor Jake Goodwin, a local-area physician who lost his entire family in the Solaris Air Flight 1069 disaster. Tell us, Doctor Goodwin: how do you feel on the ten-year anniversary of that tragic day?”

Briana nibbles her lip again. “What did you say?”

“I told him to F— off. Then I hung up.”

“Smart move.”

“I guess so, especially since I already knew his angle. They’re always fishing for the same story. It’s all about survivor’s guilt. They just love that crap.” I raise my hands theatrically. “Tell us, doctor: Why weren’t you on that plane? How does that make you feel?”

She nods, eyes filled with sympathy.

“I guess they’re hoping I’ll spill all the details, true confession style. How I flew in from Logan earlier that day, connecting through Montreal. How Mom, Dad and Abby took a later flight out of LaGuardia.” I clench my fists under the table, fingernails biting into my palms. “How the ski trip to Whistler had been my idea.”

Briana stares at me, her eyes widening. “Is that last part true?”

“Unfortunately… yes. I guess you could say I killed off my entire family.”

“But it was an accident.”

“That’s what my therapist kept saying. After a while, I even convinced myself I believed her.” I laugh bitterly. “Goddamned truth is I’m the only one who really loved skiing. If Mom and Dad had listened to Abby, we’d’ve spent Christmas break in Cancun.”

“You can’t blame yourself.”

“Why not?”

“Because that’s the last thing your family would want.”

I raise an eyebrow. “What exactly is it you do for a living? ‘Cause I’ve gotta say, you really are sounding a whole lot like my last therapist.”

Briana laughs, her eyes sparkling. “Let’s just say I have a lot of real-life experience.”

“All right then.” I take a long sip of my decaf, contemplating how to ask the question that’s been on my mind all evening. “Now that I’ve spilled my heart out to you, will you return the favor by letting me ask my own sensitive question?”

Briana holds up her hands, palms open. “Go for it.”

“What’s the story behind your tattoo?”

It’s not what I’d intended to ask, but the question just jumped from my lips.

“You noticed that?” She meets my gaze. “I guess we all do dumb things sometimes, especially when we’re bored teenagers. I’m too much of a wimp to go for laser removal, but now that I know a good dermatologist….”

I laugh, telling her I’ll be happy to give it a shot. “It’s unusual though. The design…” I picture the black-and-red tattoo I saw in the gym earlier: the image of a bird or dragon, stretched across her lower back about an inch above her waistline. “What is it?”

“It’s a phoenix. You know…” She gives me a distracted smile. “Rising from the ashes. I thought it was a cool symbol at the time.”

“And the date beneath it?”

“My, my,” she says, her grin widening. “You really got a good close look, didn’t you?”

“Well… it’s my job to be observant.”

“All right. Then let me test you: what was the date?”

“6-5-92.”

She nods, looking impressed.

“And the significance?”

“Oh…” Her eyes cloud over as she considers the question. “That’s the day I was… born.”

“Happy belated birthday then. That would make you what? Twenty-three?”

“Something like that.”

“Jeez. You’re still a kid.”

She shrugs. “We’re not that different.”

“Only by around ten years or so.”

“Yeah, but girls mature faster than boys, right? Emotionally, we’re the same age.”

I take another sip of my coffee, grinning. I seem to be doing that a lot with her. “That’s probably true. So can I ask you another question then?”

“Why not?”

“Will you promise not to be offended?”

“Now how can I promise that without knowing the question?”

“Fair enough,” I say, realizing I’ve gone too far now to back down. “Did you…” I focus squarely on her face. “Did you really get those bruises falling off of a horse?”

As I’d feared, she jerks away as soon as I finish the question.

When she finally turns back to face me, it’s clear I’ve crossed some red line. Her expression has turned foreign, cold. It’s as if we’re strangers once more, regarding each other from opposite sides of a barbed-wire fence.

“I’m sorry,” I blurt, “but I just had to ask.”

“Well I’ll forgive the question. Even though it’s totally inappropriate. If I said that I fell off my horse…” Her delicate nostrils flare. “Then I fell off my horse.”

I nod, averting my eyes.

What little remains of our coffee break passes mostly in silence. When we’re back outside, I trail Briana for a short stretch, wondering whether or not she’s even going to bother saying good-bye.

“Please wait,” I call out, lengthening my stride to catch up with her. “Do you need a ride to your car?”

She stops and pivots toward me, shoulders squared for a confrontation. “No. I’m just one block down.”

I follow her gaze to a red Mercedes convertible. “Nice wheels,” I joke, but she doesn’t even crack a smile.

Now is probably the worst time to reach out for her, but I can’t stop myself. “Listen Briana,” I say, feeling her flinch against my touch. “I’m really sorry if I offended you. You’re right. That comment was way out of line. I just thought…” I trail off awkwardly, arms dropping to my sides.

“I know what you thought.” She gives me a hard, critical look. “And even if your intuition was correct, you still had no right to ask that question. If I want to share something with you, then I will. Okay?”

I nod, shoulders slumping. “It won’t happen again.”

“Good.” The tension instantly leaves her body, like air rushing from a balloon. “Now that we've straightened that out..." She holds out her palm and gives me a shy smile. “Can I see your cell?”

When I hand it to her, she taps the screen. “I’ll be visiting some friends up in Boston this weekend, but I should be back by Sunday evening. Here’s my number… just in case you feel like talking to someone who knows what you’re going through.”

I take back my iPhone, feeling the warmth of her fingertips as they brush against mine. That’s when she surprises me with a quick kiss on the cheek.

“You’re a hard person to stay mad at, Jake Goodwin,” she says, before pirouetting to walk away.

Five minutes later, I’m still reliving that warm, confusing moment as I approach my Audi, which remains parked in the now almost empty Greenbeck Dermatology lot. When I get there though, I’m immediately pulled back to the moment. Something is wrong.

Terribly wrong.

Despite the envelope of darkness, I can still make out the jagged white cobweb of broken glass covering my windshield.

I freeze. Strain to hear any noises coming from the darkness.

That’s when I see movement in the shadows.

Without thinking, I spin and bolt toward the streetlights of the Avenue, my brain screaming at my legs to run faster. To fly.

Like a gazelle on the Serengeti plains.

Because I don’t need to turn around to know there’s someone closing in fast, right behind me.

“Probably just kids,” the Greenwich cop mumbles to his partners. The four of them are huddled together in a cluster next to my vandalized Audi, their cruiser lights pulsing blood red. They’ve already taken my report, and now we’re waiting for the tow truck to arrive. One thing seems certain: I won’t be driving home tonight.

From a distance, I inspect the damage. All four tires are slashed, fragged actually. It’s as if someone took a machete to them. The front, rear, and side windows have all been smashed. Mysteriously, the car alarm never went off. That’s what has the cops scratching their heads. I overhear one of them grumbling about how this looks more like an attempted auto theft. Something about shredded wires and a deactivated alarm.

Smart kids, I think to myself.

But then again, I already know kids had nothing to do with this.

I could tell the cops my theory, but I doubt they’d believe me. After all, the ragged scratches in the paint could just be a coincidence. There’s no proof of a deliberate pattern.

Nothing but my wild imagination, telling me the person who brutally vandalized my car and then chased me into the road has left his calling card: a giant letter ‘C’, gouged deeply into the hood.

*****

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