Lara Reznik - The Girl From Long Guyland Read online

  “In Reznik’s debut novel, a woman confronts long-buried secrets when an old college friend commits suicide… . While effective as a page turner, the novel also tells a timeless, universal tale of a woman’s journey toward self-acceptance. An exciting tale of past crimes and dangerous friendships.”

  Kirkus Reviews

  Barbara Gaines, Executive Producer, The Late Show with David Letterman

  “Reznik has an instinct for complex characters in threatening situations with twists and uncertainties to catch the reader by surprise. I couldn’t stop reading until I found out how the executive would face the rock ‘n’ roll music of her past misdeeds as a naïve seventeen-year old who only wanted to belong somewhere.”

  Cynthia J. Stone, Author, Mason’s Daughter

  “A doozy of a tale. The masterful dialogue and structure race to the end.”

  Beth Fowler, Author, Drawn

  Includes Discussion Questions

  THE GIRL FROM LONG GUYLAND

  Lara Reznik

  Austin, TX USA

  All rights reserved.

  Copyright © 2012 Lara Reznik

  ISBN: 978-1-938749-04-9

  NOTICE

  All rights reserved under International and Pan American Copyright Conventions. Published in the United States by Violet Crown Publishers LLC. No part of these pages, either text or image may be used for any purpose other than personal use. Therefore, reproduction, modification, storage in a retrieval system or retransmission, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical or otherwise, for reasons other than personal use, is strictly prohibited without prior written permission.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Cover design: Tosh McIntosh

  Front Cover Photo: by permission granted from iStockPhoto.com

  Back Cover Photo: by Don Peterson

  Also Available In Paperback

  ISBN-13: 978-1-938749-03-2

  ISBN-10: 1938749030

  For Rudy, Jacob, Matthew, Marshall and Madison

  CONTENTS

  Chapter 1 – Lost in Texas

  Chapter 2 – Joey, The Hash King

  Chapter 3 – The Feast

  Chapter 4 – Eduardo

  Chapter 5 – You Can Take The Girl Outta Long Island

  Chapter 6 – Danny the Pig

  Chapter 7 – The Demonstration

  Chapter 8 – The Family

  Chapter 9 – The Funeral

  Chapter 10 – The Window Pane

  Chapter 11 – The Note

  Chapter 12 – The Big A

  Chapter 13 – Bagels & Salsa

  Chapter 14 – The Emancipation Proclamation

  Chapter 15 – The Go-Between

  Chapter 16 – The Pretender & The Bitch

  Chapter 17 – The Family Business

  Chapter 18 – The Split

  Chapter 19 – The Land of Enchantment

  Chapter 20 – The Promotion

  Chapter 21 – The Letter Opener

  Chapter 22 – Blood of Christ

  Chapter 23 – Margaritaville (Chris’s Story)

  Chapter 24 – Easy Rider

  Chapter 25 – Darlene & Bob E.

  Chapter 26 – The Husbands

  Chapter 27 – The Plaid Suitcase

  Chapter 28 – Back to Bridgeport

  Chapter 29 – Past & Present Collide

  Chapter 30 – The Affair

  Chapter 31 – Laila’s Explanation

  Chapter 32 – The Reconstruction

  Chapter 33 – The Lockout

  Chapter 34 – The Surprise

  Chapter 35 – Ivy’s Version

  Chapter 36 – The Saab

  Chapter 37 – The Deposition

  Chapter 38 – Angel Dust

  Chapter 39 – A Woman Scorned

  Chapter 40 – Out the Window

  Chapter 41 – The Real Truth and Nothing But the Truth

  Chapter 42 – We Gotta Get Outta This Place

  Chapter 43 – The Burial

  Chapter 44 – Gotcha One More Time

  Discussion Questions

  THE GIRL FROM LONG GUYLAND

  Lara Reznik

  CHAPTER ONE

  Lost in Texas

  Austin, Texas, 2012

  A couple dozen stars and the eye of a yellow moon pierce light through a sky filled with smoke. I look out the broken window to the ground below. Crumpled in the weeds is a lifeless body with red-flecked eyes, a bushy mustache, and sweet smile.

  Vapor seeps into the room. I can barely breathe. Ben wraps his arms around me as I weep. Denise lies in a catatonic state perched on the bed. Why is she only wearing her bra and panties?

  Chris stumbles inside the room. His eyes glow like diamonds. He cranes his head out the window. “We gotta do something, man.”

  “I’ll call for an ambulance,” I say.

  Ben gulps, “That’s not a good idea.”

  “We have to,” I insist. “For Godsakes.”

  “He’s dead, Laila,” Chris says.

  Tears sting my eyes.

  WITH A JOLT, I awake whimpering. The nightmare has infested my dreams for years. It may be time to see a shrink.

  The anxiety subsides when my husband Eduardo arrives with a cappuccino and the morning paper. “Are you okay? It sounded like you were crying.”

  I clear my throat. “No, no, I’m fine. Just a dream, I guess.” I’ve never discussed these recurring nightmares with him. Eduardo’s got his own problems. He was recently laid off in a corporate downsize and refuses to talk about it. There’s lots of tension in our home right now. Maybe we should both see a shrink.

  From our king-size Tempur-Pedic bed, I sip the coffee and stare at a cloudless sky and the sapphire water of Lake Travis. The serenity of the moment is interrupted by the sound of NPR news blaring from my alarm clock. Time to go to work. I shower and dress for a managers’ conference forty miles away.

  AN HOUR LATER, I enter a pavilion filled with mounted animal heads and good old boys, and wonder how this counter-culture Long Island girl ended up in Texas. Yes, it’s Austin, home of tree huggers and music lovers, but I’m mystified by the path my life has taken.

  The Hobbs brothers, proud owners of the Burnet County Landfill and Exotic Park where LBJ Electric holds its annual manager retreat, greet me with toothy Texas grins and matching Stetson hats. “How y’all doing today, darlin’? Welcome to our home.”

  I flash a smile but it pains me to know these men are the proud hunters of the dead animals in the hall. It gives me pleasure imagining their heads mounted next to the trophies.

  As I head to a long pine table and retrieve my white-sticky badge with the letters LAILA LEVIN printed in magic marker, Darlene McIntire, dressed business-gorgeous in a navy suit and cleavage-leaking blouse, approaches me and waves. Darlene is an upper-level manager who advocates for women in the company and played a key role in my promotion from Database Analyst to I.T. Solutions Manager two years ago. “Meet me in the little girls room at break, hon,” she whispers. “There’s something I want to share with you.”

  During the morning, two hundred LBJ managers and I feign interest in long-winded corporate presentations. One of the executives reminds us that DIVERSITY is one of our company’s “Foundation Values.” Right. As one of only twelve women in the room, I try to look at the bright side: short lines to the ladies room.

  A bald guy grabs the microphone and informs everyone it’s time for a break. Conversations revolve arou
nd Longhorns and Aggies, and of course, the beloved Cowboys. Go Tony Romo!

  With nothing of substance to add to these discussions, I dash to the ladies room where I find Darlene at the mirror applying a fresh coat of mascara. She smiles at me. “Nice outfit.”

  “Thanks.” My reflection reveals a contrast of wild curly hair with the Ralph Lauren suit and high-heeled boots I bought at Dillard’s yesterday. Like most in I.T., my preference is jeans and sneakers.

  Three coats later, Darlene pops the mascara back in her purse and turns to face me. “Can you keep a secret?”

  “Of course.”

  “John is going to announce his retirement.”

  John Bell is the LBJ Chief Executive Officer. Rumors of his impending retirement have been rampant for weeks. “I’ve heard talk.”

  “That’s not the secret. Bob E. is the heir apparent. Not to be announced today, but it’s pretty much a done deal. And he’s promised me V.P. of Corporate Services.”

  I look away hoping she didn’t see my eyebrows jump to my hairline. “Congratulations.” Darlene is important, but not that important. This promotion is a big leap from Human Resources Manager. Certainly not done often in a company like LBJ. “Wow. Didn’t realize you had the seniority.”

  Darlene blushes. “Succeeding in the boardroom is not the only way to get ahead.”

  Oh my God. She’s sleeping with Bob Englewood, a.k.a. Bob E., the biggest flirt alive. Darlene has a great-looking husband and two kids. Makes no sense to me. But then I’m not that ambitious.

  I’m trying to think of a good response when the buzzer goes off over the building’s loud speakers indicating the end of the break. I produce a weak smile and head back to the conference area with images of Darlene and Bob E. spinning in my head. Why did she share this with me?

  I take a seat at my assigned table. John Bell, a short, stocky man sporting a bolo tie and a fine pair of ostrich boots, stands onstage tapping the microphone. “Good morning, LBJ managers. It’s good to be here at our annual meeting. I have some important announcements to make today. Before I do, I want to point out the emergency exits, and ask y’all to make sure to turn your cell phones off.” John delivers his big retirement announcement then drones on about the accomplishments of the company under his watch.

  I doodle with colored pens trying to digest Darlene’s news, wishing I was anywhere but here.

  John pauses, takes a sip from his bottled water, and clears his throat. “While I can’t promise there won’t be another layoff…”

  The news jolts me to attention. I look around at my compadres who clearly are thinking the same thing. Brace yourself, it’s going to be a big one, and it could be ME this time.

  Everyone sits in stunned silence as the sound of a cell phone chimes the Beatles’ song “Yesterday.”

  Damn, it’s mine!

  My neighbors smirk at me as I rummage through my purse. This cannot be happening. I could swear I turned it off.

  Finally, I locate my iPhone, press a couple of buttons, but the melody plays on. Oy vey, my troubles don’t seem so far away. I just switched to the phone from my tried-and-true Blackberry last week. Vainly, I attempt to locate my reading glasses but after endless seconds, I bolt from the room. My face feels red and puffed like a ripe tomato.

  On the patio, damage done, I finally locate my glasses and glance at the display, which reads “PRIVATE NUMBER.” Could it be Human Resources calling already?

  The voice on the other end says, “Hey Laila, it’s Katie.”

  It takes a moment to recognize the New York intonation behind the affected English accent. “Katie, how are you? Gosh, we haven’t spoken in ages. You sound so British.”

  “I lived in London for a couple years, but I’m back in L.A. now. You better sit down.” Katie B., always the drama queen.

  I sit in an antique rocker and stare at the pale blue Texas sky.

  Katie clears her throat. “Denise committed suicide yesterday.”

  I try to speak but my mouth feels like it’s full of marbles. Finally, I gasp, “My God.”

  “She was never right after—”

  “Don’t say it. Remember the pact,” I whisper.

  “I remember it.”

  I suck in my breath. “It’s kept us safe.”

  “We’re gonna have to talk about it. Denise left a suicide note,” she whispers.

  Fear fills the membranes of my eyeballs. “Oh, Jesus.”

  “I just got off the phone with Chris. A private detective showed up at his house in Tucson.”

  “I can’t believe that son of a bitch lives in Tucson. My sister has lived there for years.” It’s been four decades since I’ve seen or heard of Chris, yet his name causes goose bumps to parade up my arms.

  “I’m surprised you’ve never run into him,” Katie says.

  “Tucson’s a big place.” Would I even recognize him now?

  “He googled me and found my phone number. He and Ben think we should go to the funeral.”

  “Ben. You spoke to him, too?”

  She laughs. “Yes, Jesus still lives.”

  I blush at the sound of his name. “What is he like?”

  “I don’t know. Same old Ben, I guess.”

  “Did they find…?”

  She swallows. “No one knows what they’ve found or what she wrote in her note.”

  To think just five minutes ago I was worried about my job, trophy animals, and Darlene and Bobby E. doing the deed.

  Katie takes a deep breath. “We could all go to fucking prison.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  Joey, the Hash King

  Bridgeport, Connecticut, 1969

  Sailboats floating on the blue water of the Long Island Sound filled the cover of the University of Bridgeport brochure. False advertising and a full academic scholarship offer had lured me to the mediocre Connecticut school against the advice of Mr. Cosco, my guidance counselor. He’d argued I should go to Wellesley or Johns Hopkins, two excellent academic colleges where I’d been accepted. But the schools hadn’t offered me near the amount of grant money as Bridgeport. Mr. Cosco was used to working with all the rich kids who attended West Meadow High and seemed clueless that the daughter of a NYC fireman could not afford private school tuition.

  A pre-college visit to Bridgeport would have told the real story: trashed beaches, a dismal gray sky, and the stench of factory smokestacks. But I didn’t really care. Playboy Magazine rated Bridgeport as one of the top ten party schools. My folks hadn’t let me go to Woodstock last summer. Now was my chance to have fun.

  Accompanied by my parents, I arrived at Bodine Hall, a red brick building on the corner of University Boulevard and Main Street. The dormitory bordered a tough Puerto Rican neighborhood where a gang of bikers loitered in front of a diner. My mother, a tall woman with bouffant hair, pointed at them and clutched her hand to her chest. “What type of school is this?”

  Pop ran his fingers through his wavy salt-and-pepper hair and then shifted his eyes. “This is nothing like I expected.”

  Inside the Bodine lobby, girls dressed in Levis and U.B. sweatshirts smiled at me as they lugged suitcases down the hall. Right then I knew the pleated skirts and loafers in my bags would never see the light of day. Thank goodness I’d brought along a pair of old Wranglers.

  We rode the elevator up to the fourth floor and ambled down the hall with my overstuffed suitcase and duffle bag. LAILA LEVIN and DENISE MANELO were posted in bold lettering on the door of room 423.

  My mother pursed her lips as she read my roommate’s name out loud. “Good lord, sounds like she’s Italian.”

  I looked up and down the hall, thankful that no one was within earshot. “Who cares, Ma?”

  My mother spent the next hour unpacking the suitcases. She insisted on organizing all my clothes. “Underwear and socks in the first drawer, hang up your sweaters—”

  “Ma,” I began, and then gave it the kibosh. They were leaving soon enough. I decided to set up my new Panasonic all-in-o
ne stereo instead.

  Pop checked his watch. “We better get going, Ethel. We don’t want to get caught in rush hour on the L.I.E.”

  My mother dabbed her eyes with a crumpled Kleenex. “You’ve always been a good girl, Laila. Remember, we trust you.”

  I hugged her. They hadn’t let my older sister Rachel go away to college because of what Ma called her “wild ways” in high school.

  Pop drew me into a bear hug. Then he pushed me away like he recognized the new phase beginning in my life. A tear slid down his cheek, which he quickly wiped off with his thumb. “Now, don’t forget your old dad.”

  I’d never seen Pop teary-eyed before. “Of course, not.” I felt so mixed up. While I loved them a lot, it was time to leave the nest. I walked them to their Chevy Impala, hugged each parent again, and waved when they drove off.

  Pop tooted the horn as he pulled out of the parking lot into the street traffic. For some reason that honking made me cry. Our final goodbye. I took a couple of deep breaths, wiped away the tears, and squinted at the sun peeking through the smog and clouds.

  The new Laila Levin marched down the street in search of student orientation. I spent the next two hours listening to b-o-r-i-n-g speeches given by the college administrators, professors, and a couple of alumni.

  Exhausted, I headed back to Bodine where I skipped the crowd at the elevator and marched up the four flights of stairs. When I reached my room, the door was open and it smelled like cinnamon incense. A small girl with granny glasses and this totally cool auburn hair that flowed to her waist stood thumbing through my record albums.

  I lingered in the doorway unnoticed as she read the artists’ names out loud. “Laura Nyro, Joni Mitchell, Bob Dylan, James Taylor, Joan Baez, Traffic, The Band, Van Morrison.” She pulled out my new Grateful Dead album and placed it on the turntable. Who was this girl rummaging through my stuff? Ef-in nervy of her.

  I cleared my throat.

  My new roommate peered at me over thick glasses. “You’re okay, Laila.”