And if anyone else ever learned about it, it would destroy Adam in a different way.
Jennifer had decided to buy a house in the country, somewhere outside of Manhattan, where she and her son could live together in their own little world.
She found the house by sheer accident. She had been on her way to see a client on Long Island and had turned off the Long Island Expressway at Exit 36, then had taken a wrong turn and found herself in Sands Point. The streets were quiet and shaded with tall, graceful trees, and the houses were set back from the road, each in its private little domain. There was a For Sale sign in front of a white colonial house on Sands Point Road. The grounds were fenced in and there was a lovely wrought-iron gate in front of a sweeping driveway, with lamp posts lighting the way, and a large front lawn with a row of yews sheltering the house. From the outside it looked enchanting. Jennifer wrote down the name of the realtor and made an appointment to see the house the following afternoon.
The real estate agent was a hearty, high-pressure type, the kind of salesman Jennifer hated. But she was not buying his personality, she was buying a house.
He was saying, “It’s a real beauty. Yessir, a real beauty. About a hundred years old. It’s in tip-top condition. Absolutely tip-top.”
Tip-top was certainly an exaggeration. The rooms were airy and spacious, but in need of repair. It would be fun, Jennifer thought, to fix up this house and decorate it.
Upstairs, across from the master suite, was a room that could be converted into a nursery. She would do it in blue and—
“Like to walk around the grounds?”
It was the tree house that decided Jennifer. It was built on a platform high up in a sturdy oak tree. Her son’s tree house. There were three acres, with the back lawn gently sloping down to the sound, where there was a dock. It would be a wonderful place for her son to grow up in, with plenty of room for him to run around. Later, he would have a small boat. There would be all the privacy here that they would need, for Jennifer was determined that this was going to be a world that belonged only to her and her child.
She bought the house the following day.
Jennifer had had no idea how painful it would be to leave the Manhattan apartment she and Adam had shared. His bathrobe and pajamas were still there, and his slippers and shaving kit. Every room held hundreds of memories of Adam, memories of a lovely, dead past. Jennifer packed her things as quickly as possible and got out of there.
At the new house, Jennifer kept herself busy from early morning until late at night, so that there would be no time to think about Adam. She went into the shops in Sands Point and Port Washington to order furniture and drapes. She bought Porthault linens, and silver and china. She hired local workmen to come in and repair the faulty plumbing and leaky roof and worn-out electrical equipment. From early morning until dusk, the house was filled with painters, carpenters, electricians and wallpaper hangers. Jennifer was everywhere, supervising everything. She wore herself out during the day, hoping she would be able to sleep at night, but the demons had returned, torturing her with unspeakable nightmares.
She haunted antique shops, buying lamps and tables and objets d’art. She bought a fountain and statues for the garden, a Lipschitz, a Noguchi and a Miró.
Inside the house, everything was beginning to look beautiful.
Bob Clement was a California client of Jennifer’s and the area rugs he had designed for the living room and the nursery made the rooms glow with subdued color.
Jennifer’s abdomen was getting bigger, and she went into the village to buy maternity clothes. She had an unlisted telephone installed. It was there only for emergencies, and she gave no one the telephone number and expected no calls. The only person in the office who knew where she lived was Ken Bailey, and he was sworn to secrecy.