Now, sitting across from his father, Jake took a deep breath. “I don’t know what Demeter said.”
“Well, did you ask her?”
Yes, he had asked her. It had taken him eleven attempts to get her to talk to him-she’d ignored his calls to her cell phone and his texts, and pretended to be asleep when he showed up at her house. It was only two nights before he and his parents were to leave that his cell phone finally lit up with Demeter’s number.
“Hey,” he said, as kindly as he could. Demeter was touchy, but he knew she could be won over. “How are you doing? I’ve been worried about you.”
“Me?” Demeter said.
“Yeah. Are you okay?”
“Not really,” she said. She either laughed or hiccupped, and Jake realized she was drunk. He didn’t like to be judgmental about people, and especially not about Demeter, because he knew her life was difficult, but he did think that she was probably an alcoholic. Already, at seventeen.
“Me either,” he said. “I keep thinking about the accident.”
“I’ve blocked it out,” Demeter said. “They tell me I was in shock.”
“But you remember stuff from before the accident, right?” Jake said. “You remember being at the party?”
“I remember working the tap,” Demeter said. “After that it all gets blurry.”
“Really?” Jake said. “Because…”
“Really,” Demeter said.
“Do you remember going into the dunes with Penny? I think you guys were going to pee?”
“That’s where I sort of blank out,” Demeter said.
Convenient, Jake thought. “You didn’t say anything to Penny in the dunes?”
“We must have talked a little bit,” Demeter said. “But I don’t remember what about.”
“Really?” Jake said. “Because she was pretty upset when she got back to the car.”
“Was she?” Demeter said. “I don’t remember.”
“You don’t remember Penny being upset?” he asked. “You don’t remember Penny ripping the keys out of my hand, you don’t remember her screaming, you don’t remember her leaving burnt rubber on Cliff Road?”
“No,” Demeter said. “I mean, I remember the speed. I remember going fast and being excited about it at first. I remember being scared. She could have killed us, you know.”
Jake swallowed. He said, “By any chance, was Winnie Potts in the dunes with you guys? Do you remember?”
There was a long pause. Then Demeter said, “Yes, actually I think she was.”
“I asked her,” Jake said to his father now. He threw back his short black all at once, like John Wayne with a shot of whiskey. “But she couldn’t help me.”
ZOE
It was embarrassing for her now to think about how blessed her life had been before. The things she had taken for granted mocked her. She had known hardship, certainly-Hobson senior had dropped dead, she had been left to raise the twins alone-but for the most part Zoe considered herself lucky.
She had grown up the only child of older parents. Zoe had been an accident, born after her mother believed herself to be beyond conceiving. Her parents were professional, urbane, and erudite: her father had worked on Wall Street for years before opening his own brokerage firm in Stamford, Connecticut, and her mother was a vice president at Mount Sinai Hospital, a job she was unwilling to give up after her daughter was born.
Zoe had been raised by a string of beautiful blond au pairs who lived on the third floor of their stone mansion in Old Greenwich and who accompanied the family on vacations so that Zoe’s parents could dance the night away in the ballrooms of cruise ships. Their names remained with Zoe-Elsa, Pleune, Dagmar-though the girls themselves were interchangeable. Zoe had learned about nearly everything from these girls, including how to ride a two-wheeler, how to swim the backstroke, how to play “Chopsticks” on the piano, how to apply mascara to her lower lashes, and, later, how to roll her own cigarettes and tie the stem of a maraschino cherry into a knot with her tongue.
At fourteen Zoe had been sent out into the world-to Miss Porter’s, where her natural abilities got her decent grades but where she couldn’t summon the ambition to battle it out for the top ranks. She was happier being known as mellow and laid-back, a bohemian, a connoisseur of the Grateful Dead and CSNY and the Band. She wore long silk broomstick skirts or the batik sarong that her parents had sent back to her from their holiday in Bali. Zoe let her hairstyle get dangerously close to dreadlocks, inviting a firm talking-to by school administrators. She had her left ear pierced three times and got a tattoo of a dancing bear on her hip bone. While her mother never learned about the tattoo, the words of Zoe’s roommate Julia Lavelle, a straitlaced girl who wouldn’t even deign to watch Life of Brian in the commons room on a Saturday night, would later come back to haunt her: “That tattoo is going to be with you for the rest of your life, you know, and it might not seem so cool in thirty years.” Julia Lavelle had been correct: the rainbow-colored bear still graced her hip, and though the men she had been with-Jordan being the most vocal among them-claimed to find it cute, to Zoe herself it now seemed sorely ridiculous.
The summer between her junior and senior years of high school, Zoe’s parents took her to Italy for a month. Zoe had thought about declining this invitation, asking for the money instead, and following the Dead through the American Southwest and California. But the idea of actually spending time with her parents was novel enough to be intriguing.
And sure enough, that month in Italy had changed Zoe’s life. Her parents treated her like an adult. Her mother, using the lightest touch, suggested a haircut in Rome, and the result was a layered style that, unlike the tattoo, had weathered the test of time. Zoe selected an Italian perfume to replace her patchouli; she bought suede Fratelli Rosetti boots and retired her Birkenstocks. Her new look got immediate results. One night at a trattoria in Trastevere, Zoe met an American graduate student in art history named Alex, who invited her to share a bottle of wine and a plate of fried artichokes with him. Zoe lied and told him she was a sophomore at Vassar. She lost her virginity to Alex (last name unknown, a source of minor embarrassment now) in a studio apartment in the shadow of the Vatican. She walked past Saint Peter’s Square and back to her hotel at two o’clock in the morning, feeling as if she had just conquered the free world. Alex’s body had been as smooth as the surface of a Bernini sculpture.
The only thing that would have made it better, she thought, was if Alex had been Italian.
Next time.
But for Zoe, the most important aspect of Italy was this: it was there that she discovered food. This happened in a tiny restaurant in Ravenna, where she and her parents had traveled to see the Basilica of San Francesco, the site of Dante’s funeral. One of Zoe’s father’s impossibly sophisticated friends had recommended a restaurant to them, a place with just fourteen seats, where the wife cooked and the husband waited on tables. Zoe ate squid ink ravioli stuffed with fresh ricotta in a truffled cream sauce, grilled langostini, and crema calda with wild strawberries. Her parents poured her wine on the implicit understanding that she was to drink it not to get drunk but to enhance the pleasure of the food.