Beach Road

“This big fella,” says Dante, pointing to a heavyset kid on his left, “is Charles Hall, C-H. These are the Cutty brothers, and this is Buford, but we call him Boo. They’re my boys.”

Tom and I give Dante one more hug, and then we’re out of there. Actually, the more I think about it, I am in the mood for a surprise.

Chapter 111. Kate

OUTSIDE THE HOUSE, where it’s twenty degrees cooler, the rain feels like a warm, sweet shower. Tom puts an arm around me and leads me across the yard to my car. As I look down at the muddy tires, Tom pulls me to him hard and says, “I just have to kiss you, Kate.”

“Works for me.”

We kiss in the rain, then climb soaked into the car. Tom buckles me in and heads for home, but at Route 27, he turns west instead of east, and if you grew up out here like us, that’s not something you can do by accident no matter how hard it’s raining or how tired you are. When I look over for an explanation, Tom responds with a shit-eating grin.

“I told you I had a surprise.”

“Let me guess,” I say, almost too exhausted to care. “A weekend at the Peninsula?”

“Way better.”

“Really. You sure you can’t tell me? That way I’ll just be surprised now.”

“Kate, have we been working our butts off for like decades?” asks Tom, still smiling as he peers through the driving rain.

“Approximately.”

“Have we done well by our client?”

“You could say that.”

“And do you trust me?”

“You know I do,” I say, touching Tom’s shoulder and suddenly overcome by such warm feelings, I’m choking up for the umpteenth time today.

“Then sit back and relax. You’ve earned it, Counselor.”

Like a good girl, I do as I’m told, and after a while I even manage to doze off. When I open my eyes, Tom’s turned off 495 and is driving down a dark side road past overgrown lots and boarded-up houses. Where are we now? I’m disoriented and lost.

Then I see the sign for Ke

“Tom?”

Tom offers nothing but that same silly smile as he swerves into the lane for international departures and pulls up in front of the Air France terminal.

“Ever been to Paris, Kate?”

“No.”

“Me neither.”

I’m feeling so many different things, but all I can say is “Who’s taking care of Wingo?”

“Macklin,” he says. “How do you think I got this?” And he hands me my passport with an e-ticket inside.

“I’m going to drop off the car,” says Tom as if it’s the most normal thing in the world. “I’ll meet you at the gate.” But I can’t move or stop looking at him because it’s as though I’m seeing him for the first time.

Chapter 112. Tom

THE OVERNIGHT AIR France flight touches down at 1:00 p.m. local time, and we hustle through the chaos of Charles de Gaulle Airport. With no luggage to wait for, we’re first in line at immigration and pass effortlessly through customs. I’ve never felt so free and easy in my life.

Eleven hours ago, I was driving through Queens. Now we’re in the back of a black Fiat speeding past French road signs. We leave the drab motorway for the tree-lined postcard streets of Paris proper. The cab pulls off a grand boulevard, chatters briefly over cobblestones, and stops in front of the small hotel on the Left Bank I booked online this afternoon.

Our room isn’t ready yet, so we walk two doors down to a coffeeshop. We order lattes and watch the bustling streets.

“Where are we, Tom?” asks Kate, licking the foam off her lips.

“ Paris.”

“Just checking.”

Five minutes after we pay for our coffees, we’re leaning against a stone balustrade and looking out over the muddy Seine. Elegant limestone buildings, none of which is much more than five stories tall or less than five hundred years old, line the far side of the river. The best part, though, is the light in Kate’s eyes.

We cross le Pont-Neuf and follow the concierge’s directions to the nearest department store. “I could get used to this,” says Kate.

Inside the Galeries Lafayette, we allot ourselves a thousand euros each and split up to buy stuff. I get two pairs of pants, three shirts, a cashmere sweater, and loafers, all more adult than anything I’ve ever worn. Then again, I’m not the same person I was a year ago or even twenty-four hours ago, so why should I dress the same?

“No suitcases?” asks the well-dressed woman in a gray pantsuit behind the desk at our hotel.

“Traveling light,” says Kate, holding her own purchases in one shopping bag.

An elevator the size of a phone booth takes us to the third floor, where our antiques-filled room overlooks a tiny triangular square called La place de Léon.

I tip the porter way too much, lock the door, and turn around in time to catch Kate skipping naked into my arms.

Chapter 113. Kate

TRY NOT TO hate us, but here’s our Parisian routine. Tom gets up at eight, buys the International Herald Tribune, and heads to the café. I come down an hour later and help him finish off what’s left of the croissants and Jumble. Then Tom closes his eyes, cracks open our guide, and lets fate pick the day’s destination.

Monday it was the Musée national Picasso in a neighborhood of cozy winding streets called the Marais. Tuesday we climbed the steep streets to the top of Montmartre. This morning we’re walking to an eighteenth-century hotel converted into a museum for the French sculptor Rodin.

We see the powerful black-granite figure of the writer Balzac and, mounted on a podium, the famous, hulking The Thinker, who looks awfully buff for an intellectual.

And behind them both, in a corner, is the epic The Gates of Hell, on which Rodin spent the last thirty-seven years of his life. It consists of two massive black doors crawling with more than two hundred writhing figures, each living out his excruciating eternal punishment, and for some reason, Tom can’t take his eyes off it.

He’s so transfixed, I leave him to stroll the garden’s stone pathways, which are lined with as many varieties of rosebushes as, I suppose, hell has si

“So how many of the deadly ones have you committed, Tom?”

“All of them.”

“Busy boy.”

We have a sandwich and a glass of wine in the garden café, then wander into the surrounding neighborhoods, many of whose stately homes have been converted to foreign embassies, with armed sentries posted out front. As beautiful and new as everything is, the wine and ripped, writhing si

Actually, I can barely wait that long. As Tom fumbles with the key, I stick my tongue in his ear and tell him how hot I am, and as soon as we’re inside the door, I pull him into the bathroom and undress him in front of the long mirror. I get on my knees between his legs and begin to suck his perfect cock.

“Is this a sin, Tom?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Really? Am I doing it wrong then?”

“No, you’re not doing anything wrong. You’re doing everything just right.”

“Don’t look at me, Tom. Look at us in the mirror.”

A couple hours later in our bed, Tom moans in a different way, then mumbles, “No blood, no blood.”

I shake him, gently at first, then harder, and his terrified eyes blink open.

“You’re having a nightmare, Tom.”

“What did I say?”

“You were talking about blood, Tom.”

“Whose blood? What blood?”

“You didn’t say.”

“Did I say anything else?” asks Tom, his eyes still full of panic.

“No,” I tell him, and he smiles so sweetly that I need him inside me again.