Yet I know that I must tread carefully. I know that with Orla, as with many of my patients, the confrontational approach will not work. I want to lash out at her, to scream—but it would get me nowhere. It would only make more trouble for Alice. Shouting implies threat, and Orla is not a woman who will respond to threats. In order to achieve my goals, I must be as calm as she is, and more calculating.
We walk in silence. In the beginning, I keep an eye on her, waiting, ready for the dialogue to begin, waiting for the words to turn poisonous. Her silence is maddening, and it’s difficult to resist the urge to empower her by filling it with my own words.
“I like to walk,” she says at last. “It allows me to think clearly. Do you believe, Jake, that you are thinking clearly?”
“I’m thinking more clearly than I have in months.”
She doesn’t reply.
Eventually, we crest a hill, and I see a wide cottage blending into the grassy landscape below. The house is instantly recognizable. Its combination of reclaimed wood and walls of glass brings me back to the photographs lining the hallway outside the courtroom in Fernley. Is Alice there in the courtroom? Has she looked at those photos the way I did, desperate to be in a different place? Is she safe?
Orla glances at me, and the expression on her face makes me wonder if I spoke my thoughts aloud. “Friend,” she says as we make our way down the hill, “we have much to discuss.”
I’m surprised by the size and simplicity of the home’s interior. Yes, it is impeccable, with its polished concrete floors and magnificent views, but it somehow manages to feel modest. The furniture is sparse and white. I expected something more—a world headquarters, a command center, video monitors, smart boards, a building filled with administrators, sycophants, and acolytes.
There is none of that. In fact, as far as I can tell, it’s just the two of us.
“Make yourself at home, Friend.”
She slips off her walking shoes and disappears. I pace the room, impatient for her to return. I parse the contents of the bookshelves, looking for some clue to Orla’s character. I find the collected works of Yeats; William Dean Howells’s brilliant marriage novel, A Modern Instance; collections by Joan Didion, Cynthia Ozick, and Don Carroll; signed first editions of 1984 and Catch-22. On the top shelf, Romney Schell’s At the Disco stands beside Michal Choromanski’s Jealousy and Medicine. My gaze falls on a tattered spine, and I do a double-take: Stanley Milgram’s Obedience to Authority: An Experimental View.
And there are photos. A picture of Orla, a man who is perhaps her husband, Ali Hewson, and Bono. Orla with Bruce Springsteen and Patti Scialfa. A younger Orla with Tony Blair and his wife, Cherie. Bill and Melinda Gates. A blurry black-and-white of Orla with the late James Garner and his wife, one with the Clintons. Jackson Pollock and Dolly Parton with their respective spouses. Scattered among the books and photos are a few knickknacks. I pick up a Breitling watch with a red 5 on the front and turn it over to find an insignia that might not be popular with all of the residents of Rathlin.
I browse with a boldness that surprises me, yet even this time alone in her house feels orchestrated. If Orla didn’t want me to look at her things, would she have brought me here?
In the kitchen, I find a metal container of ten different spatulas, all different types and colors. I’m turning the purple silicone one over in my hands when Orla returns. “I was trying to see where it was made,” I say. “Believe it or not, I collect spatulas.”
“I know.”
I drop the spatula back into the container.
“That one is from a design shop in Copenhagen. Richard and I were there nearly a decade ago, and the color caught my eye. I didn’t say anything, but somehow he noticed. A few months later, it mysteriously appeared in our kitchen.”
She moves to the counter and hits a button, prompting a touch screen to rise from a hidden compartment. “When the architect gave me the keys to this house, he told me it was designed to go better with music. I’m not sure I understand why, but I’ve come to think he was right.” Alfred Brendel’s rendition of “Für Elise” emanates from hidden speakers throughout the house.
Orla takes a bottle of wine from a cabinet. “It’s a special bottle,”she says, “a gift from a member. I’ve been wanting to open it, but I guess it’s still a bit early.”
“It’s night somewhere,” I say.
She opens the bottle and pours the wine. It is a pinot noir, mossy and dense.
“Please, have a seat,” she says, leading me into the living room.
“I’m not sure I can drink red wine on your white couch.”
“Don’t be silly.”
“Seriously, one sneeze and Alice and I will be bankrupted.”
Orla almost smiles, and for an instant I catch a glimpse, I think, of the real woman behind the measured responses. “You would be doing me a favor. I despise that sofa.” She swirls the wine in her glass and sips, closing her eyes to savor it.
I place my glass on the coffee table and sit. Orla slides into the leather chair next to me. She moves like a much younger woman, tucking one foot underneath her, holding her glass high and straight.
“I’ve come to talk to you about Alice.”
“Of course you have,” she says serenely.
“One week ago, my wife was kidnapped. Dragged away, terrified, half-dressed.”
Orla looks at me directly. “I am sorry, Jake. I will be the first to admit that excessive force was used.”
Her reaction takes me by surprise. I assumed she would admit nothing, apologize for nothing. “She’s at Fernley?”
“Yes. But in the hotel wing.”
I think of the comfortable bed, the view, the room service. I imagine Alice there. And yes, I admit, I remember Declan’s words—“Adultery in the First Degree”—and I imagine her with nothing to do but contemplate our marriage. Then, guiltily, I picture her in one of the solitary confinement cells, or worse.
“Why should I believe you?” I demand.
“Your wife has a powerful ally in Finnegan,” Orla replies, unfazed. “I will tell you the details later. But first, humor me. I’ve been waiting for so long to talk to you.” Clearly, she will talk about Alice when she’s ready and not a moment sooner. I can almost hear Alice’s warning in my head: Play nice.
Orla leans slightly toward me and I can sense that she is sizing me up. “Allow me a question. Assuming that five hundred years from now the planet is still here and mostly the way we know it, do you think marriage will exist?”
“I really don’t know.” I’m impatient with this nonsense. “Do you?”
“Not how it works. I asked you first.”
I think for a moment. “Deep down, our one true goal is immortality,” I say. “The only way to achieve immortality is through procreation. When a couple remains together, particularly within the legal construct of marriage, the offspring have the greatest chance of survival, and thus the individual has the greatest chance at immortality. The question of children aside, I believe that most people have a strong desire to have a life partner.”
“I imagined you would say exactly that.”
Orla is gazing at me intently. I’m not sure if she has complimented or insulted me.