“Think about it a moment,” Mr. Montana said, “you can have what you'd like. We have brandy, whiskey, wine—well, I believe we're saving the wine for dinner—scotch, but you get the picture. You can have what you'd like. Me, I always drink bourbon. Nothing but bourbon for me.” He reached forward and picked up his glass and rattled it so the ice clinked. He took a large sip—a gulp, I guess—and he continued. “What I was saying, though—” and he interrupted himself to knock back another mouthful of bourbon, then he set the glass down and, Ahh, that's good, continued as if he'd never stopped, “is that you have to look at the patterns. We're in the fifth cycle right now, right?” He pointed at me. I had no clue what he was saying, but I nodded. “Which puts the third cycle—technology and telecommunications—on the opposite side of the wheel. Why, you know, of course: Buy low, sell high—it's the only principle to live off. And that's the only way to tell when something is low. Look at the wheel.”

  “I'm not saying the wheel doesn't work,” Chas said, “I just think that the technology sector still has a little ways to fall befo—”

  “You decide on a drink yet, son?”

  “Oh. I, um…” I shook my head. Mr. Montana was looking at me again. “Yessir, sure. I guess I'll take a whiskey. With ice.”

  “Chas,” Mr. Montana said, his head swiveling, “get this young man a drink.” Swivel. “What's your whiskey of choice, son?”

  “Jack. Um, if you have it.”

  “Get him a Jack—on the rocks.”

  Chas stood. He started to leave the room.

  “Sorry about my boy's manners,” Mr. Montana said. “He just never quite learned.”

  Mr. Montana began talking again, and Jez listened.

  Chas returned with my drink.

  I looked at my watch, then I shrugged and took a sip.

  I contributed little to the conversation that morning, but I'm quite certain Mr. Montana didn't notice. He prattled on and the other two nodded, and occasionally Jez spoke up and Mr. Montana nodded, and occasionally Mr. Montana looked at me and I nodded also. Anytime when I wasn't nodding, I sank into the softness of the world outside the window. I watched the way the sunlight hit the trees in their garden and broke everything apart. I watched the ocean moving and the grass moving in the wind. I appreciated the beauty of Nantucket in a way I doubted these three men had appreciated it in ages.

  About an hour later Maxwell puttered around the corner, wearing skivvies and an undershirt, and he passed through the drawing room and flipped me off and smiled and slipped into the kitchen.

  He sprinted from the kitchen a few seconds later, laughing under a deluge of shrieked reproaches from Mamma Montana—“Make yourself decent before you come down here again!”

  Maxwell returned after another half hour and put his hand on my shoulder and squeezed and told me to join him outside. I excused myself from the men and followed him to the back porch.

  “What a colossal bore, huh? Good Gaaawd!”

  He slumped down into a white wicker chair. His shirt and pants were slightly wrinkled. The sun bounced off his face to highlight his two-or-three-day stubble.

  Maxwell's hair (greasy blond, just barely too short to make a decent ponytail) was pushed back off his face. He wore flip-flops. It was thirty-five degrees outside.

  He stretched his legs out in front of him and stretched his arms toward the ocean. He looked up at me. “I bet you're wondering where Lenore is, huh?”

  “Lenore?”

  “Lenore,” he said, and he said it as if I was stupid for not knowing what he was talking about. He slipped a cigarette from his pocket. “My brother's wife.”

  “Oh. Right.”

  “Right.” He lit the cigarette and started smoking.

  “What was your question?”

  “Why don't you sit down, brother.”

  “Okay,” I said. I sat down beside him.

  “Lenore. Haven't you wondered where she is?”

  “Oh. Not really, I—”

  “She's back in London.”

  “Okay.”

  “Yeah, poor Chas. You know, I think she might be tired of him. Getting tired of him, at least. She stayed here in Nantucket for most of the summer.”

  “Lenore did?”

  Maxwell nodded. He eased his arms up over his head. Cracked his knuckles. Pulled the cigarette from his lips and puffed a cloud of smoke.

  “What is she doing in London?” I asked.

  “Visiting her grandpa, probably. I don't know. That's where she's from, you know.”

  “Oh.” That was all I said.

  “Yeahhh, Lenore. I guess her grandpa is pretty important over there, or something. Some shit like that. Supposed to be filthy rich, too.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah, of course. Not like it matters to me or anything, but I figured you might be wondering where she is—I mean, she is my brother's wife and all.”

  “Uh-huh. I don't know who she is, really. So—”

  “Sandy and I were talking about her. You remember that, don't you? Yeah, you remember that. We were talking about how Chas is dating that girl Lily. She's pretty cute—Lily. Chas is dating her, right? But he's married to Lenore. Anyhow, I just figured you probably remembered us talking about that. I figured you were probably wondering.”

  “I sort of remember that now.”

  “I'll tell you, if Cecilia ever finds out that Chas is cheating on Lenore, brother, she'll throw a fit. An absolute fit.”

  “Cecilia?”

  “My sister. You haven't met Cecilia?”

  “I—”

  “You will,” he said.

  “Of course.”

  “Of course. Yeah.” The wind threw itself at our faces. Maxwell finished his cigarette. He crushed it beneath his foot. “How about Jez? You met him, right?”

  “I met Jez. I was just sitting in there with him.”

  “Right. Okay.”

  We watched the waves in the distance.

  I thought of Jez. I saw him inside my mind. I saw his gorgeous face and his flawless sense of unadorned style. I saw his demeanor—knowledgeable. I saw his confidence—impeccable. I saw his calm outer shell of unselfconscious success.

  I turned toward Maxwell and his disheveled appearance. “What's the story with Jez, anyway?” I said.

  Maxwell stretched his arms over his head. He cracked his knuckles again, first on one hand, then on the other. “How do you mean?”

  “How…well, who is he? Where'd he come from? Is he just an employee of your dad's? Or what?”

  Maxwell reached into his pocket. “Sort of.” He pulled out a new cigarette. Lit it. Picked up my drink and took a big gulp.

  “Sort of?” I said.

  “Sort of.” He sucked the life out his cigarette and released smoke into the air where it disappeared forever.

  I waited.

  He smoked.

  He started talking.

  He explained about himself, and about his brother, and about Jez.

  In high school, Maxwell scored twenty points shy of perfect on his SAT—and he never studied for it once. Maxwell had scholarship offers to just about every school in the country—to schools he never even applied to. Maxwell's Harvard professors called him ‘One of the brightest young men to ever attend the college.’

  Of course, this was before he almost got kicked out for all the Social Sports he organized and hosted each weekend—events like Date Popping, like Keg Burning, like School Climbing. It took numerous calls from Mr. Montana and a great deal of reasoning to keep Maxwell's Harvard career alive.

  Chas, on the other hand (oh, poor Chas) had the drive that Mr. Montana had hoped would go to Maxwell…

  Or rather, Chas had the desire for money that Mr. Montana had hoped would go to his more intelligent son.

  Chas, however, would not have made it into Harvard if not for his father's standing with the school—both as an alum, and as a premier donator. Chas was not intelligent enough. He lacked the proper sociopolitical acumen. He would never have stood on any sort of pedestal without a boost from his father.

  For instance: Chas was president of the Harvard University Boxing Club during his final two years at the school. He felt great about this achievement. He felt proud. He never found out that Mr. Montana had pulled an entire network of strings to secure him that position.

  Mr. Montana did not do this for his son, of course. He did it for himself.

  After Chas graduated, he began working for his father. He worked in order to earn two things: Money and Approval, but he never could quite do enough to earn a satisfactory amount of either.

  Maxwell, on the other hand…well, Maxwell worked for nothing, because he didn't actually work. Instead, he took the small allowance his father gave him, and he made the most of it. He maximized. He lived life.

  Then, there was Jez—the brilliant, good-looking, hard-working young man who rose from nothing to his position within Montana Inc. because of his drive, charisma, and appealing personality.

  As far as Mr. Montana could understand it, Chas and Maxwell were failures.

  Jez was the perfect employee.

  Jez was the perfect son.

  ***

  Not long after Maxwell pulled me outside and talked to me about Lenore and Jez, I had an opportunity to speak with the latter, alone, for the first time. As with many of the things that occurred during those early days that launched this story, that conversation was unsuspectingly monumental. That conversation sparked our tenuous friendship. Neither of us envisioned or even imagined, at the time, the manner in which this friendship would end.

  “Hello, Richard.”

  I looked over my shoulder at Jez standing in the corner of the porch—he had slipped outside without me noticing. “Jez, hey.” I began to stand.

  “Keep your seat there, friend. You mind if I join you?”

  “No. Go ahead.”

  He sat beside me and crossed his legs in the way women or artists or successful men cross their legs. He folded his hands on his lap. “Where did Maxwell disappear to?” he asked.

  “Oh, he—I think he went to the bathroom. That was a while ago, though. He may have gotten sidetracked.”

  “That tends to happen to him.”

  “Well—”

  “I apologize for that conversation in there.”

  “Excuse me?”

  Jez continued to watch the ocean the way a king might watch his kingdom. “Back in there, with Mr. Montana. I could tell that you were growing a bit bored—it's all rather dull at times, listening to him talk. It's insightful, mind you—you can sure learn a lot. But it's all rather dull at times. I tried to change the subject for you, but it seems that I was egregiously unsuccessful.”

  “I didn't mind so much.”

  “So, you're a writer, huh?”

  “Huh? Oh—yes, that's right.”

  “I've read your book, you know.”

  “Have you?”

  “You're quite talented, Richard. It was one of the more enjoyable books I've read. You have a nice grasp of the tone of a story. You know that? You have a nice understanding of people.”

  “Thanks. Do…you read a lot?”

  “I do. Not as much as I would like to, of course. I read whenever I have the opportunity, but my time is quite constrained between work and more work.”

  “No wife, I guess.”

  “Not yet.”

  “No girlfriend?”

  Jez smiled at me. His smile was perfect—but not perfect in that way that makes you hate someone. He looked endlessly astute and sincere and likable. “Not now,” he said.

  I returned his smile.

  Maxwell returned outside not long after that, and he stood at the end of the porch and smoked a cigarette and kept reaching up with both his hands to push his hair off his face. None of us spoke after that, but it was not a strained silence. It was the silence of a beautiful day.

  Mamma Montana poked her head outside several minutes or hours later.

  “Boys, it's time for the meal. Come on inside now.”

  The table was set in the way rich people set their table for important, informal get-togethers: china that should probably have been on display rather than on the table, silverware that a burglar might steal, ornate wine glasses, napkins you couldn't use, and a tablecloth that made you afraid to eat lest you spill some food off your plate.

  Mr. Montana said a quick, soulless grace, and Mamma Montana picked up her fork and poked around at her food and jumped right into Mamma character:

  “Richard, dear, tell us what you're thankful for.”

  Maxwell dropped his knife onto his plate. “Aw, come on, Ma—don't do that to him.”

  “Quiet, Maxwell. It's Thanksgiving, in case you didn't notice.”

  “It's Tha—it's Thanksgiving? Well shit, Ma, I didn't notice.”

  “Maxwell—”

  “Mamma,” Cecilia said, “he's only horsing around.”

  “I don't care what he's doing, I don't like that kind of language at the table. I'm sorry, Richard. Please forgive my son's manners.”

  Cecilia punched my leg under the table. I looked at her. Her mouth was scrunched in barely-contained laughter.

  “You can leave if you want to,” Maxwell said to me. He was eating mashed potatoes with his fingers. “I'm sorry to've embarrassed you with such vulgar language, I know you're not used to it. Why, it wouldn't surprise me if you didn't ever want to see us again.”

  Mr. Montana said Maxwell's name.

  Maxwell winked at me, then he returned to his plate.

  “So sorry, dear,” Mamma Montana said. “You were saying?”

  “Oh. I, um…”

  “Here, Mamma,” Cecilia said. “How ’bout if I go first.”

  “Oh yes. Wonderful, dear.”

  We all watched Cecilia.

  I watched Cecilia. I certainly didn't mind.

  Cecilia was absolutely lovely—that was the only way to describe her.

  Her eyes spoke with the same sort of passion as her lips, glowing green and beautiful, with long eyelashes and impeccable shape.

  Her hair was red. Gorgeous. Her hair would have touched her shoulders if it weren't pulled up in a ponytail, but a ponytail (loose and messy, with wisps of hair tracing the edges of her forehead so that she was always reaching up and pushing them out of her eyes) shaped her face more perfectly than any other style, and damn if she wasn't aware of all that.

  Her lips were soft, and they softly said words that I hardly even heard.

  Several minutes flew by before her words stopped singing.

  Mamma Montana applauded.

  “I'm thankful that I have such a perfect daughter like you,” she said. She showed every one of her teeth, and Cecilia did the same.

  Somewhere, a clock ticked. Somewhere, time disappeared.

  Somewhere, Maxwell laughed.

  “Oh, come off it,” Mamma Montana said. “Just because you haven't got a heart doesn't mean the rest of us can't have one. I swear,” she said to me, “Maxwell could freeze the wax off a candle—the boy hasn't got any heart at all.”

  Cecilia punched me under the table.

  After dinner we played a board game I had never seen before (Mamma Montana's idea) and—like most board games—it was confusing and mildly pointless.

  Maxwell made irreverent comments throughout most of the game.

  Chas did his best to lose so that he could leave and go anywhere else.

  “If Lenore was here, you'd be more fun,” Mamma Montana kept saying to Chas. “I sure wish Lenore was here!”

  Mr. Montana refused to play, and he poured a drink for himself and told us he would be in the library doing some research and not to disturb him unless it was an emergency.

  Cecilia trash-talked Mamma Montana and laughed at herself every time she messed something up.

  Jez looked stoic. He looked serene. He nearly managed to look as if playing this board game pleased him, but he couldn't quite pull it off.

  After the board game ended, Cecilia helped Mamma Montana with the dishes while Maxwell gave me a tour of all three overlarge floors of the house. When we came back downstairs, Cecilia took my hand and led me outside.

  I enjoyed Cecilia. She was pleasant to be around. She was pretty to look at and she wasn't dumb, so she was pleasant to be around.

  She and I spent most of that evening together. We walked along the shore. We sat on rocks and talked. We moved to Banucci Manor and sat across from one another in the sitting room upstairs.

  Outside the glass doors, the night was cold.

  “I've read A Dark Night in Rome,” Cecilia said.

  “Have you?”

  “I have.” She chuckled. “Have you ever noticed how much of conversation is nothing but empty words?”

  “Huh? I—”

  “I mean…like, I told you that I've read your book. And you said, ‘Have you?’ And it's like, of course I have. Right? I mean, I just said that.”

  “Oh. I'm sorry.”

  “No. No, don't say sorry!” She reached forward and touched my knee. “I wasn't saying you. Like, I wasn't saying what you just said was…well, not only what you just said. Was empty words. But just that conversation, all conversation, in general, really has so many statements programmed into it that do nothing but fill the air. And people need that, they really do. But it's funny, ya know? Why can't people just talk, right? Without needing confirmation that the other person agrees, or that the other person is listening. I don't know. Ya know?”

  “I know what you mean.”

  “Anyhow, sorry if I offended you.”

  “Oh! You didn't offe—”

  “Anyhow, I was saying that I read your book.”

  “Right.”

  “Right, yeah. I really liked it. A lot.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I just loved how much depth the characters had. Do you know what I mean? I…well, the way I describe it to my friends is—when I closed the book, it didn't feel like I'd finished reading a book. It felt like I was saying good-bye to real-life people.”

  “Thank you. That's really nice.”

 

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