by Sophie Lark
Marco obviously knew a lot more about Bennet Knight than she had expected. He seemed well versed on its recent history, financials, and even its employees.
As Anika introduced the remaining members of staff, Marco smiled and greeted warmly, but then asked Anika penetrating questions about their work performance, their inter-office relationships, and even their personal lives. She wouldn’t have felt comfortable answering even if she had been privy to what he wanted to know. She could only say, “I’ve only worked with a few of them, and usually remotely from the Red Line offices.”
Sensing her discomfort, Marco said, “Well, that’s enough for today. I can meet everyone else when I come in tomorrow. Let’s get some lunch.”
Marco suggested a trendy grill, but Anika knew she’d be sure to run into one of Stella’s friends there, or even Stella herself. She didn’t want to deal with the fallout with her sister, or even the stares that Marco Moretti was sure to attract.
Instead, she took Marco to one of her favorite Indian restaurants. It was tiny, only six tables in a storefront that looked as if it might be the back door to a laundromat. It was just the metal door, with a small hand-lettered sign overhead in Bengali.
She laughed at Marco’s nervous face. “I promise it’s good!” she said as she pulled him inside.
She waved to Daaim, who was both owner and waiter. His grandmother Gaena did the cooking.
“Anika!” Daaim said, bringing the tower of fresh condiments to their table. “I haven’t seen you lately.”
“I’ve been so busy,” she said. “This is my friend Marco.”
Daaim gave a slight bow to Marco. He never shook hands while he was working, to avoid germs. As unprepossessing as the exterior of his restaurant might be, every surface inside was kept immaculately clean.
“What are these?” Marco asked bravely, gesturing to the condiments.
“Hari, Imli, Raita, and Nimbu Ka Achaar,” Daaim said, pointing to the cilantro and tamarind chutneys, the cucumber-yogurt palate-cooler, and the sweet-and-sour sauce.
“I have to admit,” Marco said. “We don’t eat much Indian food in Italy.”
“Daaim can make it less spicy if you prefer,” Anika said.
“No, no,” Marco said. “Just order what you’d normally get. I want to try what you like!”
Anika ordered her favorites: Alu Gobi, Malai Kofta, Butter Chicken, coconut curry, and of course plenty of Naan bread. True to his word, Marco tried it all. After a few nervous bites, he said, “This is delicious!”
Emboldened by the mild butter chicken, he took a few heaping mouthfuls of the coconut curry.
“Careful!” Anika cried, noticing the chili peppers floating in the broth. It was too late. Marco tried to pretend nothing was amiss, but an unmistakable flush was rising up his face. Despite Anika’s earlier impression that Marco never sweated, she could see droplets forming on his brow.
“That’s got a bit of heat,” he said. He took a sip of his ice water, which quickly turned into desperate gulping.
“Ahh,” he moaned, “I think I might be dying.”
Anika couldn’t help laughing. For all his charm and polish, she liked Marco best like this—not so perfectly composed.
Daaim hastened to the table with a glass of strawberry lassi, which Marco drained in a single swig.
“Another of those please!” he said.
Marco insisted on paying for the bill, despite Anika’s protestations. She couldn’t help but notice the generous tip he left for Daaim, and how sincerely he thanked him for the meal.
“Are you tired of me yet?” Marco said. “Because I do have some apartments to see. I’d love it if you came with me.”
“Alright,” Anika said.
They spent the afternoon touring the three apartments Marco was considering. They were all lovely of course—clean and modern with exceptional views of the city.
The first was a bit too far from the Bennet Knight studio for Marco’s taste.
“I want to be there bright and early in the morning,” he said. “I take my responsibilities there very seriously. I don’t want to be a figurehead. I want to expand on what my father has already done, to take Bennet Knight to the next level.”
“I’m sure you’ll make Dominic proud,” Anika said.
Marco’s face was set with resolve.
“For a long time, I didn’t care if he was proud of me,” he admitted. “I lived with my mother in Rome. They married when she was very young. She was a little spoiled, a little wild. My father wanted to come to America for the opportunity; she didn’t want to leave her friends and family in Italy. They separated. My father asked me if I would come with him, but I didn’t want to. I had friends as well. My mother and I lived like free birds, doing whatever we wanted whenever we wanted. But after a time, I found the meals and the parties and the boats and the islands weren’t as satisfying any more.
“I started to look for something more. My father bought the race car, and I thought that would be it, the thing that would bring purpose, and maybe build our relationship as well. But it ended badly. And then he was diagnosed with cirrhosis. It’s quite extreme. He hasn’t told many people, but I don’t know how long he has. So I don’t necessarily have much time, to do what I hope to do. To make him proud, to bring closure to both of us.”
“I’m so sorry,” Anika said, shocked. “I didn’t realize it was so bad. He looked well the other night.”
“He is very strong,” Marco said, “and stubborn. His doctor may be too pessimistic. He doesn’t know my father, after all.” But his expression didn’t match the hopefulness of his words.
“Anyway,” Marco said, calling the listing agent back from the balcony where she’d been hovering to give them space to look around. “Let’s look at the other places closer to the office.”
The second apartment belonged to a cinematographer who travelled often. He wanted to rent it out while he was on location for the next eighteen months. The twenty-foot ceilings and professional-grade kitchen were dazzling, but Marco said he wanted something more permanent than an eighteen-month lease.
“Besides,” he said, “I’m not certain about the decor.”
The apartment came furnished, but almost all the decorative items were in homage to Scarface—presumably the cinematographer’s favorite film.
Framed memorabilia hung on the walls, including a replica of Tony Montana’s gun—which a placard identified as a custom-made M203 grenade launcher attached to a Colt AR-15—and a teal silk gown which, if memory served, had been worn by Michelle Pfeiffer in the film. A large silkscreen over the fireplace proclaimed, “In this country, you gotta make the money first. Then when you get the money, you get the power.” The total effect was intense, to say the least.
Marco grimaced at Anika, who laughed quietly so as not to offend the listing agent.
The agent only sighed. “You’re not the first to say that,” she admitted. “Well, third time’s the charm. You’ll love this last place.”
The third building seemed to have all the amenities one could desire: full concierge service, spa, gym, rooftop pool... The apartment itself was a lovely space, with wall-to-wall windows, exposed beams, and beautifully restored hardwood floors.
“What do you think?” Marco asked Anika. “Would you visit me here?”
“It wouldn’t be far to come,” Anika pointed across the park. “That’s my building over there. The cream-colored stone with the dark glass windows.”
“I can see you from my window?” Marco said.
“Well not really,” Anika demurred. “My room is on the other side.”
“Still,” he said, “I think I’ll take this one.”
Practically rubbing her hands together over the undoubtedly astronomical commission, the listing agent encouraged Marco to sign the lease on the spot.
When they finished, Marco insisted on riding in the cab with Anika back to her building. She was shocked to notice that the sun was setting already. They’d been
together almost seven hours. The time had flown by so quickly.
Marco hugged her and thanked her again for her help. She noticed again that almost thrumming energy in his arms, felt the warmth of his cheek against hers. Up close, he was almost too good-looking. It was slightly inhuman how smooth his skin was, how white his teeth and how artful his waves of dark hair.
“I’ll come pick you up on Saturday,” he said.
She had promised to go running with him in the park.
“I’ll see you Saturday,” Anika agreed.
When she took the elevator up to her floor, the doors opened on Stella, who was waiting to go down.
“Where have you been?” Stella asked, noting something suspicious in the brightness of Anika’s face.
“I’ve been out,” Anika said, “with Marco Moretti.”
Without waiting to hear her sister’s reply, Anika swept past her into the apartment.
12
Saturday morning, Marco arrived promptly at Anika’s door to take her out running.
Knowing that Marco was coming, both Stella and Bennet had bestirred themselves earlier than usual. Stella was dressed in silk pajamas and a dressing gown bought specifically for the occasion. Bennet prepared by criticizing Stella’s selection of bagels and pastries and bemoaning the mediocrity of the coffee made by their espresso machine, which doubtless could not compare to that which Marco had drunk daily in Italy.
Marco graciously accepted the substandard americano Bennet offered him, drinking it down without any sign of disappointment. Still, tension lingered between Marco and Bennet.
Anika was aware from her father’s complaints that Marco was indeed taking an active role in the management of Bennet Knight. He had fired a number of employees, changed the line-up for Fashion Week, and most egregious of all, trashed the old movie theater-style marquee that had headed the flagship store for twenty years, replacing it with modern signage. Bennet had not been able to control his temper when he had walked up to his store to find such a drastic change enacted without his foreknowledge or consent.
The argument that followed had been contained in Marco’s office, so no one was sure what had been said, but Anika noted that her father seemed cowed by Marco to a degree she had never before witnessed. Bennet fussed about the kitchen with a queer mix of resentment and nervousness, showing an obsequiousness completely at odds with his usual nature.
Stella seemed oblivious to all this. She lolled about, encouraging her robe to slip off her bare shoulders, quizzing Marco on all the places he’d been to eat in New York. She batted her lashes, well coated with mascara. Knowing how long it took Stella to do her makeup, Anika shuddered to think how early she must have set her alarm that morning.
After a polite interval of conversation, Marco said, “Thanks so much for the coffee. We’d better head out before it gets too hot.”
“Are you running outside?” Stella asked in amazement.
“Where did you think we were running?” Anika said.
“I have no idea.”
“There’s plenty of trails in the park,” Anika said.
“Of course,” Stella said, loftily, but Anika was struck with the distinct suspicion that despite their proximity, Stella had never actually set foot in Central Park.
“Come on,” Marco said, cheekily tugging on the hem of Anika’s tank top.
As she followed him into the elevator, Anika noted how trim and fit Marco looked in his shorts and lightweight athletic shirt. His tan skin looked glowing and healthy against the white fabric, which all seemed crisp and new, down to the sneakers that might have come out of the box that morning. Marco had said that he loved to run, but maybe he hadn’t bought much clothing with him from Italy and had indeed purchased his outfit that week.
They stretched briefly at the gates of the park, then took off at a jog down the shaded path. At their easy pace Anika ran lightly, able to chat at the same time. But she noticed Marco immediately beginning to puff and flag, though they had hardly started. Gamely he tried to keep up with her, but his responses to her conversation became briefer and briefer. After only a mile or two, he proposed they stop to admire the view from the nearest bridge.
Marco was flushed. He tried to lean casually on the rail, pretending that he wasn’t panting hard.
“You’re in incredible shape!” he complimented her.
“Thanks,” Anika said. “Running is my stress-reliever. It’s what allows me to cope with—well, everything.”
“You must have to run a marathon every time you’re done chatting with Stella,” Marco said.
Anika couldn’t help laughing.
“You can’t deny it,” Marco said, laughing as well. “You want to, because you’re kind, and loyal to her. God knows why.”
“She is my sister,” Anika said.
“I wouldn’t believe it if she didn’t look a bit like you,” Marco said. “I can’t imagine two people more different. Has she always been like that?”
“Mostly,” Anika admitted. “There were times when she was almost a friend. When I was very little, she liked to pick out my clothes for me and style my hair. But then my father would compliment me, not her for doing it, and it made her so angry. She wanted his approval. Maybe if he gave it more often, she would be happier.”
“You didn’t want his approval?” Marco asked.
“No,” Anika said, “I had my mother. That was enough for me.”
“What was she like?” Marco asked.
“She was one of those people that everyone loves. She was so vibrant, she had this gorgeous laugh, this way of moving her hands when she talked, you couldn’t take your eyes off her. Everyone wanted to be like her. If she wore red lipstick, it looked like the most elegant thing, and the next day you’d see five other women had bought the same color. She would walk around in a gypsy blouse and old leather sandals and her hair in a braid and it looked so natural and lovely, like a painting. You could always tell exactly what she was feeling—it was all over her face. And she would tell you anyway. She had this honest way of speaking. Not blunt, just completely genuine.”
“You must miss her so much,” Marco said.
“I do,” Anika said.
“I feel like I’ve met her, by meeting you,” Marco said.
“Oh no,” Anika said, turning her face away, “I’m not like her.”
“But you’ve described yourself exactly,” Marco insisted, taking her hand and drawing her back toward him. “You look like a painting right now. The way the sun’s shining on your hair, and your skin is glowing. You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. And those eyes…I look in your eyes and I can see your whole soul open before me. It’s clear and perfect and I can’t look away.”
He put his hand gently on her cheek and tilted up her face so she had to look at him. His eyes were dark green with heavy brows, dark lashes.
He pulled her toward him and kissed her, gently at first and then more insistently. He had full lips; his mouth was warm and wet and slightly aggressive. He put his other hand around her waist to press her tight against his body, as if they were alone in a hotel room, not in the middle of the park where anyone could see them.
Anika broke free, her heart beating much harder than it had during their run.
“Let me…let me catch my breath,” she gasped.
“I’m sorry,” Marco said. “I’ve wanted to do that since the moment I met you.”
He forgot that we met before, Anika thought. The night that he fought with his father. He hadn’t so much as glanced at Anika then. Why would he? She was only a child. Still, the fact that it hadn’t actually been love at first sight steadied her a little. She remembered what Stella had said, that Marco was a playboy, dating a string of models and actresses and heiresses.
“I’m sure you say that to everybody,” Anika said.
“No,” Marco insisted, “I’m telling you the truth. I know I have a reputation. And maybe a few months or a year ago I might have given you a line. But I
’m different now. You’re making me different, every moment I spend with you. You’ve completely bewitched me.”
“We’ve only just met,” Anika said, laughing.
“I know what I feel,” Marco said. “I won’t tell you yet because I don’t want to frighten you. But in time, I’ll prove it to you.”
Anika couldn’t look at him. She felt flushed and confused. She hadn’t expected any of this, and she wasn’t sure if she wanted it.
“Do you want to run again?” Anika asked, her eyes still cast down at the ducks floating by under the bridge.
“Sure, if that’s what you want,” Marco said. “I’ll run a thousand miles after you.”
Anika wasn’t accustomed to all this flowery romanticism, and she didn’t know how to respond to it. She supposed it was the Italian in him.
Yet, she had to admit, that kiss had taken her off guard. It had ignited a fire within her, set her heart pounding and her mind spinning. She had kissed a half dozen people since James, but that was the first time she had felt anything like she used to feel when he would touch her.
Buoyed by that kiss, she could have run many times around the park, but she didn’t want to torture Marco too much. Instead, after another mile or two, she led him out the east gates onto 71st street. They planned to get a bubble tea, which Marco had never tasted and was curious to try.
Instead they walked right into James and Hannah coming out of a record shop.
“Oh, hello!” Hannah cried, kissing Anika on the cheek. Hannah was wearing a bright yellow eyelet sundress and sandals, her hair held back with an Alice band. She looked very pretty, her crispness making Anika feel sweaty and bedraggled by comparison.
At least she was wearing proper running gear and not a ratty old t-shirt as she might have been if she hadn’t been meeting up with Marco. In fact, Anika noticed James glancing at her bare legs beneath her shorts. She couldn’t help but feel glad her legs were becoming slim and strong again, and even nicely tanned from a few afternoons on Stella’s deck chair.
