The flight from Texas had hollowed Frank out. The man sitting next to him in the fifth row was wearing an LSU sweatshirt, snakeskin shoes, and just about the amount of cologne it would take to drown a mama cat and all of her kittens.
It was a blessing that the good old boy hadn’t talked all that much.
Frank no longer liked to fly commercial. The talk from other passengers made his head spin; the food made his bowels hurt; the stewardesses treated him (or so he felt) like a baby. When he was lucky enough to drift off, he dreamed of driving through the very same landscape—that long drive from Texas to California, with pit stops in Santa Fe, Tucson, Los Angeles. But there never was time enough for the drive, and Richard Raley’s private plane was a luxury, not a day-to-day thing he could use whenever Suzanne sank into one of her moods.
“Frank,” she would say. “You said you would leave her. But here we all are!”
The way Frank figured it, he’d spent millions of dollars on the woman. The least she could do was be grateful. But, of course, some part of Frank knew she was grateful. She missed him was all, and was lonely for him. And when she opened the door in that lace nightgown that Frank had bought her, Frank was grateful too.
Together, they moved through the house. It was as if they were dancing. From the entryway to the living room. From the living room to the staircase. Then up the stairs to the bedroom, with Suzanne whispering in his ear the whole way.
“Frank,” she said, in that low, sultry voice she used when she was feeling seductive. “Oh, Frank, the things that I’m going to do to you.”
* * *
It was dark and they were naked and spent, drinking champagne in the bedroom, when Frank reached over, stuck his hand deep in the pocket of his black Burberry coat, and pulled out a baby-blue jewel box.
The box was small and wrapped with a ribbon, just the right size for a ring.
Suzanne squealed when she saw it. She tore off the ribbon. And then her face dropped.
“Baby, they’re diamonds,” Frank said. “You don’t like ’em?”
“They’re perfect,” Suzanne said, and managed a smile.
“You were expecting a ring?”
“Years, Frank. It’s been years. How much longer am I supposed to wait?”
“I’m here, aren’t I? Here, on Christmas, in the house that I bought for you. Can’t you just wait a bit longer?”
He flashed the same smile that got to her back in Tahoe and she couldn’t help but smile back. It really was Christmas. He really was here, and not back in Texas with her.
“Yes,” Suzanne said.
“Promise?”
“I’m yours. And don’t ever forget it.”
The next day they drive to a casino. Suzanne forgets herself there, flirts with two men at the blackjack table, and ignores Frank until the moment her chips are all gone, at which point she asks him for another $10,000.
Frank nods to the floor manager. A moment later, new stacks of chips appear in front of Suzanne. But Frank’s smile is as tight as it was in Texas, when Nancy was nagging him about those Christmas lights that he should have paid someone else to hang—and as he walks away from the table, that smile turns into something twisted.
Outside the casino, Frank pulls out a disposable cell phone—a burner—and punches out a short text.
Need to see you, he writes. SOON. Next week. I’ll drive out to your town.