Forty-Nine

FORTY-NINE

SAM WYLIE AND I are at a restaurant we both like, Highway, on 27 in Wainscott. The place sits in front of the VFW post, and standing guard from across the parking lot is a venerable World War II tank. Highway features an interesting menu and a good bar crowd on most nights.

"I do believe there's a couple of studs at the bar checking us out," Sam says.

She's dressed up more than I have, in a silk summer dress she informs me she bought at J. McLaughlin in Bridgehampton for the occasion. She's clearly had her hair done, no point in me asking, it's there for the whole room to observe. She's not Dr. Sam tonight. More glam Sam.

"They're too young and we're too old," I tell her.

"Speak for yourself," she says. She turns and smiles at them. They raise their glasses in response.

"Don't encourage them, unless you're considering adopting them."

"Just because I'm married doesn't mean I can't check out men the way I used to when we'd go bar hopping," Sam says. "Remember the time—"

"No."

"That sounds like plausible deniability."

"Doesn't sound like," I say. "Is."

We both order white wine. We have an understanding that tonight we're not going to talk about my condition, the resumption of chemo in a couple of weeks, none of it or any of it. I don't tell her about what happened to Jimmy, because he wants to keep the circle tight for now as he tries to track down Wolk and figure out who the woman shooter is.

When the wine is delivered, Sam raises her glass. "To better days."

"When?"

We both drink. When we put our glasses down, neither one of us making a move to look at the menu, she says, "Tell me about Martin. Leave nothing out. Take as much time as you want. My darling husband says I have no curfew tonight."

I describe the scene at the house when I walked in and found Martin with Ben, tell her why Martin was out here, how he'd ended up at the same dinner party with Rob Jacobson's old classmate Edmund McKenzie and a bookie whose name keeps popping up for Jimmy and me.

"I'm sure the bookie person and the other person are fascinating to you," Sam says. "But Martin is the one who fascinates me."

"You act like this is still high school."

"As it should be."

Sam leans across the table, trying to act conspiratorial. "Was it still there?"

"Was what still there?"

She grins. "What my grandmother used to call the old zookety-zook."

"You want the truth?"

"You're practically required to be truthful with your personal physician."

"No."

"Really?"

"Really. And even if I did still have feelings for him, which I don't, they wouldn't matter because I'm with Ben now. Who loves me for who I am, instead of what I'm not."

"Who was it that said the heart wants what it wants?"

"Woody Allen," I say. "You still want to play that particular card?"

We both laugh. It feels good, if fleetingly.

Then, almost in the next moment, I start to cry.

I wouldn't do it in her office. But I'm doing it here. The tears come freely and in full force, nothing I can do to stop them, no point in even trying. Our waitress is on the way back to us, probably to tell us about the special. She turns right around and heads back toward the kitchen. My hands are pressed firmly on the table, as if I'm afraid to lose my balance or further lose control. Sam reaches across and covers them with her own.

I'm no longer making any noise, but my shoulders continue to rise and fall as I try to get enough air into me, and not make more of a scene than I already have.

"It's okay, Jane," Sam says softly. "It's okay."

My voice is practically a whisper.

"I want to live so much."

We sit there like that, at the window table, her hands still over mine. I don't know what the other people at Highway think, how many of them might recognize me from all the television airtime I'd gotten during Rob Jacobson's first trial. For as long as I've known Sam, she's always told me there's nothing I can't tell her, nothing I should hold back, no matter how private or personal.

I don't hold back now.

"I want to be happy," I say. "Is that too much to ask?"

Then I'm crying again.