There were no natural brakes for their bad behavior. No children who needed care, no fixed hours at work, no financial constraints. Whatever substance they felt like indulging in, they could afford the purest, and in unlimited quantities. They’d go out to clubs or to friends’ estates in the Hamptons, start doing lines, and before Griff knew it, Kate had left with some other guy. He was usually trashed out of his mind by then, and numb to the pain of it. If she left with someone, he’d leave with someone, too. Pretty soon they’d both slept with pretty much everyone they knew, Kate was on the verge of blowing out her septum, Griff’s liver was in trouble, and the whole scene had gotten toxic. They could either get out of town, go to rehab, or get divorced. Kate said rehab was a drag. Griff couldn’t stand to lose Kate. So the solution was obvious—leave New York.
For her thirtieth birthday, he bought her a house in Anguilla, not far from the beach where they’d married. The house was set high in the hills, with views for miles to the aqua bay where the yachts were anchored like so many toys. He whisked her down there on his father’s jet and had her wear a blindfold in the car. They walked in the front door, and she could see straight through the double-height living room to a twenty-foot-high wall of glass, where he’d set up a telescope trained on the bay. He guided her over to it, and directed her gaze at a particular boat sitting proudly in the water, a sleek seventy-foot Hinckley, exquisitely crafted of mahogany, with a navy-blue hull and a white bridge. It was a classic—drop-dead gorgeous under full sail, not too big for Griff to skipper himself (with the aid of a small crew).
He said, “Take a look at the name on the side. I named her the Kate, she’s your boat, baby.”
They spent their days sailing her around to wherever the weather was fairest and the beaches the most secluded. They’d cruise the Caribbean all winter, then have the crew take the boat across and fly to catch it again in the Med, where they’d spend the long summers flitting among whitewashed islands. In between, they’d catch up with friends here and there at posh resorts, over gin and tonics, or land for a while in the best hotels in Palm Beach, Capri, or Gstaad—avoiding New York like that made their problems go away, as if New York was the only place you could be unhappy. Griff was having too good a time to realize they were living his dream, not Kate’s. Yet she didn’t complain. She didn’t seem unhappy with their life, until his father fell from grace, and the money spigot got shut off. Until that moment, Griff never understood that Kate was really only with him for his money. He believed it of everybody else, yes. But never her. He was wrong about that, as it turned out.
There was a knock at the door, and Jenny stuck her head in.
“Griff, I’m really sorry, but there are TV trucks out front. Three of them.”
“How do they know we’re here?”
“I’m not sure they do know, but they know Kate is here. I talked to the funeral director. He’s got private security people coming over right now to lock the place down and make sure she’s not disturbed.”
“Disturbed?” Griff said, going pale.
“I just mean, that nobody sneaks in to take pictures or anything.”
He leapt to his feet. “Where are they? Scumbags. I’ll give them something to photograph.”
Jenny came forward and put her hands on his shoulders soothingly. “Honey, trust me, that’ll just make things worse. We’re going to sneak you out the back, through the garage, and you can discuss the arrangements with the funeral director over the phone. Just give me a minute to set it up. Say your good-byes, I’ll be back in a few minutes,” she said, and closed the door.
Say his good-byes? He walked over to the bier where she lay, and looked down at her knowing that good-bye was impossible. He was going to come out of this situation intact, except for his heart and soul and anything else about him that mattered. Oh, he’d go on—there was money for that. At noon on Friday, Kate’s fortieth birthday, at a moment when they were still legally married, she’d come into the balance of her trust. Griff suspected that that fact explained the timing of her divorce filing. After all those years when he supported her in style, Kate was planning to take her trust money and split. That money was Griff’s now, as her legal heir. It wasn’t much, two hundred and fifty K. Enough to buy a small boat that he could live on in a marina somewhere, to sail again on blue waters, have a drink at sunset and toast to her. Maybe eventually he’d get lonely enough to find some intrepid woman to keep him company. A Mexican girl who took things in stride and knew how to cook, or a South African or Australian who could go for months without seeing port and not mind. But he’d never love her. He’d never love anyone again. If only there was some way around it. If only he could bring Kate back to life.
Jenny was at the door. “Let’s go,” she said.
Griff leaned over and kissed Kate’s cold, pale lips. But unlike Sleeping Beauty in the fairy tale, she did not wake.
29
Sleet pelted the plate-glass windows of the yoga studio as Aubrey rose from her mat at the front of the class. Outside, the river ran gray and cold. She dimmed the lights and flicked on the music. The sound of wind chimes and birdsong filled the airy room, which smelled of exotic woods and incense and was heated to a tropical intensity. Aubrey passed among the closely spaced mats passing out cool towels to be used as eyeshades, gliding with such grace that she appeared to float. Women gazed at her adoringly and accepted her offering, then closed their eyes, and let out a luxuriant breath.
“As we relax into our savasana,” Aubrey said in her most soothing tone, “allow the warmth of the room to penetrate into your breath and through your breath. Cherish the warmth of your body. Relax your fingers and your toes. Open yourself to gratitude. Gratitude for your body. Gratitude for your decision to practice today despite inclement weather, despite other calls on your time and attention. Honor yourself. Honor the winter, that cleanses and redeems. Honor this moment of peace, that restores and fortifies you for the day ahead. And rest.”
Aubrey flowed toward the front of the room, stopping here and there to make gentle adjustments to a student’s posture. A moment later, she was back on her mat, seated in a perfect lotus, her serene expression belying her anxious heartbeat. The police were in the office across the hall, talking to her assistant. She could see them through the glass door.
A powerful gust of wind drove sleet against the window as Aubrey looked at the clock. It was five minutes too early, but she decided to dismiss the class. She couldn’t stand the suspense a moment longer.
“Allow your eyes to come back to focus beneath your eyelids,” she said, her voice less soothing, more rushed, than usual. “Allow energy to flow back into your limbs. Stretch your arms, wiggle your fingers and your toes. When you’re ready, open your eyes, and come to a seated position.”
When the majority of the class was upright, Aubrey struck the small gong that she used to end each class, and listened as the note flowed out, rich and sonorous. She drew her hands together at her heart and bowed her head.
“Namaste.”