They bought some new clothes and went to the best restaurant in Tallahassee. Tom Krome ordered steaks and a bottle of champagne and a plate of Apalachicola oysters. He told JoLayne Lucks she looked fantastic, which she did. She'd picked out a long dress, slinky and forest green, with spaghetti straps. He went for simple slate-gray slacks, a plain blue blazer and a white oxford shirt, no necktie.
The lottery check was in JoLayne's handbag: five hundred and sixty thousand dollars, after Uncle Sam's cut. It was the first of twenty annual payments on JoLayne's share of the big jackpot.
Tom leaned across the table and kissed her. Out of the corner of an eye he saw a starchy old white couple staring from another table, so he kissed JoLayne again; longer this time. Then he lifted his glass: "To Simmons Wood."
"To Simmons Wood," said JoLayne, too quietly.
"What's wrong?"
"Tom, it's not enough. I did the math."
"How do you figure?"
"The other offer is three million even, with twenty percent down. I promised Clara Markham I could do better, but I don't think I can. Twenty percent of three million is six hundred grand – I'm still short, Tom."
He told her not to sweat it. "Worse comes to worse, get a loan for the difference. There isn't a bank in Florida that wouldn't he thrilled to get your business."
"Easy for you to say."
"JoLayne, you just won fourteen million bucks."
"I'm still black, Mr. Krome. That'd make a difference."
But after thinking about it, she realized he was probably right about the loan. Black, white or polka-dotted, she was still a tycoon, and bankers adored tycoons. A financing package with a fat down payment could be put together, a very tasty counteroffer. The Simmons family would be drooling all over their foie gras, and the union boys from Chicago would have to look elsewhere for a spot to erect their ticky-tacky shopping mall.
JoLayne attacked her Caesar salad and said to Tom Krome: "You're right. I've decided to be positive."
"Good, because we're on a roll."
"I can't argue with that."
They'd returned the overdue Boston Whaler with a minimum of uproar, blunting the old dock rat's ire by pleasantly agreeing to forfeit the deposit. After grabbing a cab down to the boat ramp, they'd retrieved Tom's Honda and sped directly to Miami International Airport, where they lucked into a nonstop to Tallahassee. By the time they arrived, the state lottery office had closed for the day. They'd gotten a room at the Sheraton, hopped in the shower and collapsed in exhaustion across the king-sized bed. Dinner was cocktail crackers and Hershey's kisses from the minibar. They'd both been too tired to make love and had fallen asleep laughing about it, and trying not to think of Pearl Key.
When the Lotto bureau opened the next morning, JoLayne and Tom were waiting at the door with the ticket. A clerk thought she was joking when she matter-of-factly remarked it had been hidden inside a non-lubricated condom. The paperwork took about an hour, then a photographer from the publicity office made some pictures of JoLayne holding a blown-up facsimile of the flamingo-adorned check. Tom was pleased they'd avoided TV and newspaper coverage by showing up unannounced. By the time a press release was issued, they'd be back in Grange.
"This is all going to work out," he assured JoLayne, pouring more champagne. "I promise."
"What about you and me?"
"Absolutely."
JoLayne studied him. "Absolutely, Tom?"
"Oh brother. Here it comes." Krome set down his glass.
She said, "I think you deserve some of the money."
"Why?"
"For everything. Quitting your job to stay with me. Risking your neck. Stopping me from doing something crazy out there."
"Anything else?"
"I'd feel so much better," she said, "giving you something."
Tom tapped a fork on the tablecloth. "Boy, that guilt – it's a killer. I sympathize."
"You're wrong."
"No, I'm right. If I won't take the money, it'll make it harder for you to dump me later. You'll feel so awful you'll keep putting it off, stringing me along, probably for months and months – "
"Eat your salad," JoLayne said.
"But if I dotake a cut, then you won't feel so lousy saying goodbye. You can tell yourself you didn't use me, didn't take advantage of a hopelessly smitten sap and then cut him loose. You can tell yourself you were fair about it, even decent."
"Are you finished?" JoLayne inwardly ached at the truth of what he said. She definitely was looking for an escape clause, in case the romance didn't work. She was looking for a way to live with herself if someday she had to break up with him, after all he'd done for her.
Tom said, "I don't want the damn money. You understand? Nada.Not a penny."
"I believe you."
"Finally."
"But just for the record, I've got no plans to 'dump' you." JoLayne kicked off a shoe and slipped her bare foot in Tom's lap, under the table.
Tom's eyes widened. "Oh, that'sfighting fair."
"I've had a bad run with men. I guess I'm conditioned to expect the worst."
"Understood," he said. "And just for the record, you should feel free to string me along. Drag it out as long as you can stand to, because I'll take every minute with you that I can get."
"You're pretty polished at this guilt business."
"Oh, I'm a pro," Tom said, "one of the best. So here's the deaclass="underline" Give us six months together. If you're not happy, I'll go quietly. No wailing, no racking sobs. The only thing it'll cost you is a plane ticket to Alaska."
JoLayne steepled her hands. "Hmmm. I suppose you'll insist on first class."
"You bet your ass. Up front with the hot towelettes and sorbets, that's me. Deal?"
"OK. Deal."
They shook. The waiter came with the steaks, big T-bones done rare. Tom waited for JoLayne to take the first bite.
"Delicious," she reported.
"Whew."
"Hey, I just thought of something. What if you dump me?"
Tom Krome grinned. "You just thought of that?"
"Smart-ass!" she said, and poked him with her big toe in quite a sensitive area. They wolfed their steaks, skipped dessert and hurried back to the room to make love.
Judge Arthur Battenkill Jr. came home to an empty house. Katie was probably at the supermarket or the hairdresser. The judge put on the television and sat down to savor a martini, in celebration of his retirement. The early news came on but he didn't pay much attention. Instead he absorbed himself with the challenge of selecting a Caribbean wardrobe. Nassau would be the logical place to shop; Bay Street, where he'd once bought Willow a hand-dyed linen blouse and a neon thong bikini, which he'd brutishly gnawed off in the cabana.
Arthur Battenkill tried to imagine himself in vivid teal walking shorts and woven beach sandals; him with his hairy feet and chalky, birdlike legs. He resolved to do whatever was needed to be a respectable exile, to blend in. He looked forward to learning the island life.
The name Tom Krome jarred him from the reverie. It came from the television.
The judge grabbed for the remote and turned up the volume. As he watched the footage, he stirred the gin with a manicured pinkie. Some sort of press conference at The Register.A good-looking woman in a short black dress; Krome's wife, according to the TV anchor. Picking up a journalism plaque on behalf of her dead husband. Then: chaos.
Arthur Battenkill rocked forward, clutching his martini with both hands. God, it was official – Krome was indeed alive!
There was the man's lawyer on television, saying so. He'd just served the astonished and now flustered Mrs. Krome with divorce papers.