been brought up with more than a belief that Old Money was the only kind that mattered. It mattered to people on the island to keep their places up. Sometimes he thought he was going to suffocate here. Linda would miss him for a few days and send Jerry Young, and Jerry would knock on the doors and look in the windows and finally let himself inside, and there Jack would be, stretched out on the floor in front of the stove, blue from the lack of oxygen that was Margaretâs Harbor.
He looked out the window yet again. There really were people over there. They were making their way down toward the beach. He bit his lip and rubbed the flat of his left hand against his cheek, the way his father used to. He was beginning to look like his father. He was beginning to look old. It wasnât supposed to be this way. He had worked hard in school. He had gotten good grades and good board scores and good financial aid. He had gone off to a reasonably good college. And then what? The college was supposed to flx everything. Instead, he had just turned around and come home, and home had been what it always was.
He went to his file cabinet and used his little key on it. Here was something the movie people had done to him. Heâd never locked anything around his place before. The summer people locked their places. Those places were huge, and there were lots of valuable things in them. Somebody said the Rhodes actually had a Renoir. No burglar in his right mind would bother with a place like Jackâs when he had the Point to invade, and Jack knew for a fact that security at the Point was a lot less good than Kendra liked to pretend it was.
Jack looked through the little stack of manila envelopes, all of them full to the breaking point, all of them lumpy, and picked the one marked âLas Vegas.â He opened it up and dumped the contents on the kitchen table next to the contents of his backpack. His backpack was full of photographic equipment. Some of the photographers from the big media companies who hung around town these days, waiting forMarcey Mandret to fall out of her dress, had talked to him about it. There were professional carrying cases and things that professional photographers used. He looked like an idiot carrying his gear around in a backpack. Jack thought he looked like an idiot in any case, because he was older than some of the guys working crew for CNN and CBS, and yet they were there, and he was here, and never the twain would meet.
Except that they would, if Jack had his way. He was suddenly aware of being wet as well as cold. The collar of his parka had soaked through. He didnât know why he was still wearing it. He unzipped it and shrugged it off. It hit the floor behind him, and he didnât notice. The pictures from Las Vegas were good ones. He could get some decent money for some of them. There was the big picture of the whole lot of them when theyâd first arrived, Kendra in the center, because she was always in the center, and then the two toy boys, Steve Becker and Mark Anderman. Steve had his hand on Kendraâs ass. You couldnât really see it in the photograph, but Jack had taken the photograph, and he knew. Anderman was less intrusive, but his left hand was over Kendraâs right shoulder, and the big thick ring on it had spoiled the lighting.
Jack pushed that picture away and tried another one. The one he came up with was the picture of Arrow and Mark in the living room of the Hugh Hefner Suite. The Hugh Hefner Suite had come as a revelation to him. A hotel room that cost ten thousand dollars a night? That was nine thousand square feet? Who could afford things like that? Who would want to? Kendra had stayed in an ordinary suite, without all the bells and whistles, and even that had seemed too garish for her. Las Vegas was not the kind of place debutantes, or ex-debutantes, ought to spend time. The lighting was all wrong.
He went through the pictures one more time. They were
He looked out the window yet again. There really were people over there. They were making their way down toward the beach. He bit his lip and rubbed the flat of his left hand against his cheek, the way his father used to. He was beginning to look like his father. He was beginning to look old. It wasnât supposed to be this way. He had worked hard in school. He had gotten good grades and good board scores and good financial aid. He had gone off to a reasonably good college. And then what? The college was supposed to flx everything. Instead, he had just turned around and come home, and home had been what it always was.
He went to his file cabinet and used his little key on it. Here was something the movie people had done to him. Heâd never locked anything around his place before. The summer people locked their places. Those places were huge, and there were lots of valuable things in them. Somebody said the Rhodes actually had a Renoir. No burglar in his right mind would bother with a place like Jackâs when he had the Point to invade, and Jack knew for a fact that security at the Point was a lot less good than Kendra liked to pretend it was.
Jack looked through the little stack of manila envelopes, all of them full to the breaking point, all of them lumpy, and picked the one marked âLas Vegas.â He opened it up and dumped the contents on the kitchen table next to the contents of his backpack. His backpack was full of photographic equipment. Some of the photographers from the big media companies who hung around town these days, waiting forMarcey Mandret to fall out of her dress, had talked to him about it. There were professional carrying cases and things that professional photographers used. He looked like an idiot carrying his gear around in a backpack. Jack thought he looked like an idiot in any case, because he was older than some of the guys working crew for CNN and CBS, and yet they were there, and he was here, and never the twain would meet.
Except that they would, if Jack had his way. He was suddenly aware of being wet as well as cold. The collar of his parka had soaked through. He didnât know why he was still wearing it. He unzipped it and shrugged it off. It hit the floor behind him, and he didnât notice. The pictures from Las Vegas were good ones. He could get some decent money for some of them. There was the big picture of the whole lot of them when theyâd first arrived, Kendra in the center, because she was always in the center, and then the two toy boys, Steve Becker and Mark Anderman. Steve had his hand on Kendraâs ass. You couldnât really see it in the photograph, but Jack had taken the photograph, and he knew. Anderman was less intrusive, but his left hand was over Kendraâs right shoulder, and the big thick ring on it had spoiled the lighting.
Jack pushed that picture away and tried another one. The one he came up with was the picture of Arrow and Mark in the living room of the Hugh Hefner Suite. The Hugh Hefner Suite had come as a revelation to him. A hotel room that cost ten thousand dollars a night? That was nine thousand square feet? Who could afford things like that? Who would want to? Kendra had stayed in an ordinary suite, without all the bells and whistles, and even that had seemed too garish for her. Las Vegas was not the kind of place debutantes, or ex-debutantes, ought to spend time. The lighting was all wrong.
He went through the pictures one more time. They were
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