by Marti Green
After a few minutes, Lisa pulled away, then took his hand and led him to the bed. “I need you now,” she whispered. “Dinner later?”
Ben nodded. He wanted her.
Shortly before ten, Ben returned to his townhouse. It couldn’t be more different from the apartment he’d just left. Instead of mismatched pieces of furniture garnered from friends and family’s discards, every inch of the space had been meticulously planned. Although Charly had worked with a decorator, Ben knew that his wife had been instrumental in choosing every piece of furniture, every item that went up on the walls or down on the floors and over the windows. Every lighting fixture was unique, and every decorative item was a showpiece. Ben didn’t know one type of furnishing from another, but he’d been told their home was decorated in the Mediterranean style, in colors of the sea, mixed with terra-cotta and yellow. It felt comfortable to him, and that’s all he cared about.
Fifteen minutes later, Charly walked in, just the time he’d expected her. She had attended Canada’s international annual fair for modern and contemporary art the past few days, and her flight had been scheduled to land at 9:30 p.m.
“How was it?” he asked his wife after she’d gotten settled.
“Tiring. But I sold a few pieces, enough to make the trip worthwhile.” Charly attended a number of art fairs throughout the year, although she didn’t always attend Toronto’s. She never missed Art Basel in Miami Beach, or Tefaf in Maastricht, Netherlands, though, and with their hip scene, she always returned from those fairs energized rather than fatigued. At first, she’d encouraged Ben to take a few days off work and join her, but it quickly became clear to him that he just didn’t fit in with that crowd. It was bad enough that he had to smile through their endless social events in New York; he didn’t need to extend the forced socialization. Besides, it gave him more time with Lisa.
“That’s great!”
“Dad said you met some friends tonight?”
Naturally. His father-in-law would make a beeline to his daughter. “A couple of old high school buddies. You don’t know them.”
“Have a nice time?”
“Actually, it was kind of boring. Not much in common anymore.”
“I’m surprised you didn’t tell me beforehand.”
“Last-minute thing. One of them called me at work to say the old group was in the city. Invited me to join them.”
Charly nodded. “I’m beat. I think I’m going to head to bed now.”
His wife walked into their bedroom, leaving him alone. He took a bottle of Sam Adams from the refrigerator, then turned on the TV in the den to watch the last quarter of the Knicks game, wondering the whole time how his marriage had become so barren, so devoid of love and tenderness. They never talked about it, but Charly had to feel the same way. When did it start? he wondered. Was it because he didn’t want a child? No, it preceded Charly’s request that they start a family. Maybe it was when she’d opened the gallery? Yes, that was it. Before then, he’d been happy. At least, as happy as he could be working for a man he hated, at a job he loathed. But he’d been happy with Charly back then. He’d come in from work grumpy, and she’d never fail to cheer him up. That’s why he’d been attracted to her in the first place—because she’d always been able to read his moods and know precisely what he needed.
Now, it seemed like he was an afterthought. That’s why he hadn’t wanted a child so soon. It would push him even farther down the ladder, in her eyes. First, the child, then the gallery—or maybe even the reverse; he couldn’t be sure—and last, him. Being last had never been acceptable. Valedictorian in his high school class, top 5 percent in his college class. Marrying the beautiful and popular Charlotte Jensen was part of the plan to stay on top. Only it hadn’t worked out that way.
He felt no guilt for his affair with Lisa. Like his previous liaisons, it hadn’t been planned. This time, though, it had lasted longer. He’d bumped into Lisa at a Barnes & Noble as they browsed through the books in the history section. He’d recommended the biography she’d had in her hand, and from that, a conversation had ensued, then coffee. It had started so innocently, through their shared interest in historical figures. She knew from the start he was married—the wedding band on his finger announced that fact. They met there again the following week, at the same time. They hadn’t arranged it, but both showed up. He’d been pleased to see her again, and once more, they’d finished their book purchases and then had coffee together. When he’d suggested a drink after work, she’d hesitated only for a moment before accepting his offer. Their affair had begun that night, almost a year ago. He would leave Charly in an instant if it didn’t mean giving up everything he had. Everything he’d gotten so used to.
CHAPTER 3
Wednesday through Sunday were the days I worked. Noon to 10:00 p.m., with an hour off for dinner between 3:30 p.m. and 4:30 p.m. It was an absurd time for dinner, but that was the slow hour. Usually, I found a stool in the kitchen and sketched, then grabbed a bite just before 5:00 p.m. when it really started to pick up. Mondays and Tuesdays were the days I lived for. That was when I took art classes at the Manhattan Institute of Art, on West Twenty-Third Street in the Chelsea section of Manhattan. It was the reason I came to New York. It was the reason I lived in the boardinghouse. Every dollar I saved went for art classes.
I arrived ten minutes early for my class in portraits and set up my easel next to Brian Swann. Brian was fifty-two, with curly hair that had already begun to have sprinklings of gray and a face that looked like it had been sculpted by Michelangelo. More important, he had no interest in dating me, or any other woman, for that matter, which was just what I wanted. I wasn’t going to let myself get distracted by a romance. I was in New York for one reason only—to study art, to become recognized as an artist. I’d put my life on hold for too long in Scranton. Now, I only focused on my goal.
“Hi,” Brian said, as he leaned over and gave me a peck on the cheek. “You doing good?”
I smiled at him. “Just peachy.” I went to the storeroom in the back and rummaged through the canvases until I found mine. The model for the past three classes had been a woman in her seventies, her face filled with creases, her hair a silver white, her eyes a pale green. She dressed the same for each class—a flowing emerald-green gown, a necklace dangling down her neckline that I assumed was rhinestones, a similar bracelet on her right wrist, and draped over her lap, a silk scarf in colors of magenta, turquoise, puce, and gold. I found my canvas, then returned to my space and set it up on the easel. The first two classes we’d focused on drawing her; then last week we’d begun to paint.
The remaining students straggled in over the next few minutes, a total of fourteen, ranging in age from early twenties to one woman, Clara, who proudly proclaimed at the start of the new class that she was ninety years young. When they were all settled at their easels, Professor Greenblatt strode in. He was thirty-two years old, with long, almost black, wavy hair that he wore pulled back into a ponytail. With his aquiline nose, full lips, and thickly lashed eyes, I thought he was dreamy. When I allowed myself to fantasize about a relationship, I pictured his face. I suspected every other woman in the class, except perhaps Clara, felt the same way.
“Come by for dinner tonight,” Brian whispered. “Stan is making boeuf bourguignon.”
It was tempting. I liked Brian’s husband, and he was a gourmet cook. Even if he weren’t, just getting away from The Dump was a treat. I’d planned, though, to stop by the art gallery that Findly had mentioned. I’d looked it up, and it was only a few blocks away, near West Twenty-Seventh Street. I knew it was silly, but he’d made me curious. It was in the opposite direction from Brian’s apartment, though. Still, I supposed I could go to the gallery anytime.
“Sure,” I answered, just before the teacher began to speak.
When the class finished, I headed with Brian to his condominium in the West Village. As soon as I walked into the apartment, I was bombarded with the rich odor of beef cooking in a wine sau
ce. I headed into the brightly lit kitchen, where Stan stood over the stove. Stan’s bulbous nose matched his bushy, carrot-colored hair. “Thanks for the invite. It smells yummy.”
“Glad you could make it, sweetie.”
It was funny, I thought. Whenever any other man called me sweetie, or another term of endearment, I bristled. But not with Stan. He was so affectionate with everyone—man or woman—that it never seemed offensive.
“I would have brought something if I’d known in advance.”
“Oh, honey, I’m just glad to see you. You never need to bring anything.”
I knew that was true. Stan worked at Goldman Sachs and earned good money. Yet, he never acted snobbish. He and Brian had talked about moving uptown, maybe an apartment near Central Park. But the West Village had always been their home. It was where their friends lived, where they felt comfortable.
Just as I asked, “Want me to set the table?” the doorbell rang. Stan raced to the front door. I glanced over at Brian, who quickly looked away. This isn’t good, I thought. A moment later, Stan returned to the kitchen, another man by his side.
“Brian, Mallory, this is Adam Jordan. He works with me.”
Adam smiled. “It’s nice to meet you both.”
Adam was about six feet tall, with a quarterback’s build. He had dark, tightly curled hair and a dimple in his cheeks when he smiled. Handsome. He was no doubt invited to meet me. Brian and Stan were always trying to fix me up, and I always rebuffed them. At least they have good taste. I would be pleasant to him, get through the evening, but nothing more. I knew from my mother where romance led—the death of dreams and saddled with a child. That wouldn’t be my life, no matter how handsome Adam was.
CHAPTER 4
“Mallory? This is Adam Jordan. We met last week at Stan’s.”
Of course I remembered him. I’d half expected him to call, even though I hadn’t given him any signals that I was interested in him during Stan’s scrumptious dinner. I’d been polite, though, paying attention to his stories, smiling when he was amusing, serious when he touched upon matters that concerned him. I knew guys thought I was pretty, maybe even beautiful, if I believed the high school boys who had always tried to get in my pants.
“I was wondering, would you like to go out to dinner with me, maybe Saturday night?”
“I’m sorry, I work weekends.”
“When are you free?”
“Adam, you seem very nice, but I don’t want to get involved with anyone right now.”
“It’s just dinner, not a marriage proposal.”
I laughed. Maybe it wouldn’t be so terrible to go out to dinner, to be served by someone else. As long as he understood it wouldn’t lead anywhere. “How about next Tuesday? I have an art class in Manhattan but finish up at eight.”
“Perfect. Do you like French food?”
“I’ll eat anything but Italian. That’s all I eat where I work.”
“I’ll book us a table at La Grenouille for eight thirty. It’s on Fifty-Second, just east of Fifth Avenue. Is that okay?”
“Sure.” I’d heard of it, of course. It was one of the best restaurants in Manhattan, serving top-rated food, with prices to match. It was a place I’d never go to on my own. Jeans and a peasant blouse—my usual attire for class—wouldn’t be seen there, where men were required to wear jackets and women dressed to show off. I had one decent dress and one pair of drop-dead-gorgeous heels, my only big splurge when I’d moved to New York. I’d have to tote them to art class and change afterward.
We chatted a few more minutes. Adam was easy to talk to, surprisingly low-key for someone who worked in a high-pressure job. When I hung up, I couldn’t help smiling. I was pleased that I’d agreed to dinner. Although my resolve to refrain from romantic attachments hadn’t changed, I could easily see him becoming a friend.
For the first time, I had difficulty concentrating during class, so I was relieved when the teacher announced he needed to end fifteen minutes early. I gave Brian a peck on the cheek before heading to the bathroom to change clothes. When I finished dressing, I stepped over to the mirror to see how I looked in my black jersey knit dress, with its deep vee neckline. Not bad. The knit fabric clung to my curves, and the neckline showed just the right amount of cleavage.
I stuffed the discarded clothes and shoes into a tote, then headed out of the building and walked toward Eleventh Avenue, then north up to Thirty-Fourth Street, where I could catch a series of trains to East Fifty-First Street. Manhattan never ceased to amaze me. Not just the buildings, crammed into every inch of space, but the hordes of people, any time of day or night. It suffused me with energy, just watching them rush to their destinations.
Chelsea was lined with art galleries, but I walked briskly past them, not wanting to be late, or at least not more than fashionably so. A man should always wait for a woman, my mother had often said. I’d just been casually glancing around me as I walked when I realized that right across the street from me, between Twenty-Seventh and Twenty-Eighth Streets, was the Jensen Gallery. It was in a two-story brick building that had been converted from a warehouse. The street level had no windows, just roll-up garage doors. I looked up to the row of windows across the second floor and saw that the lights were on. I was interested in seeing what artists they displayed. And, to be truthful, a little curious about the owner of the gallery, my supposed look-alike. The evening had turned chilly, and I pulled my lined trench coat closer around me as I started to cross the street, then suddenly stopped.
A man and a woman had walked into view. My breath caught, and I could feel palpitations in my chest. The woman’s blonde hair was both lighter and shorter than mine, and she wore a dress that looked like it came from the window of Saks Fifth Avenue. But for those differences, I was looking at myself.
My hands were still shaking as I sat across the table from Adam Jordan at La Grenouille. I held them below the table, between my knees, in an effort to still them. Dimly, I could hear the sound of Adam’s voice but scarcely comprehended his words. Instead, I couldn’t shake from my mind the image of the woman I’d seen inside the gallery. As soon as I’d glimpsed her face, I’d jumped back, away from the window. I hadn’t wanted to be seen. Not yet. So, instead of going inside, I ran from the building, confused and frightened. Now, sitting across from Adam, I tried to will my heartbeat to slow down.
“So, what do you think?”
I suddenly realized Adam expected a response from me. I felt myself blush and shook my head slightly. “I’m sorry. I was lost in thought about something. What did you ask?”
“You seem like something’s bothering you. Want to talk about it?”
Did I? Should I just come out and say I’d seen my doppelganger? But the woman I saw through the window wasn’t a ghost. She was real. And before I told anyone what I’d seen, I needed to first find out more about her. I smiled sweetly. “Sorry. I’m all yours now.”
“I asked if you thought we should order a bottle of wine.”
“I’m probably good for two glasses.”
“Any particular likes?”
“You choose.”
Adam motioned for the tuxedo-clad waiter to approach, then ordered a bottle of Puligny-Montrachet. I knew from my waitressing jobs that the bottle retailed for around sixty dollars. That meant the restaurant was charging at least $300. The prix-fixe dinners were $154 each. Briefly, I wondered if Adam was trying to impress me with how much money he had, then thought no. He was single, with no family, and earned enough on Wall Street that he didn’t have to think about the cost of a meal out. I looked around the restaurant, fully taking it in for the first time. Each table was covered with a white linen tablecloth, and heavy mirrors hung on the walls. The room we were in, the main room, contained a profusion of flowers, each table with its own bouquet, and along the walls were tall vases with flowering branches reaching up to the ceiling. The lighting cast a golden glow over the patrons.
“Is this like a busman’s holiday for you?” Adam
asked.
“Hardly. Being served in an elegant restaurant is a far cry from waiting on others.”
“Still, you’re in a restaurant five nights a week. Maybe next time we can go to a play.”
He’s thinking next time already. I reached over and placed my hand on his. “Adam, I enjoy spending time with you, but as a friend, that’s all,” I reminded him.
Adam leaned over the table. “I came to New York two years ago, after I finished my MBA. I work six days a week, often till midnight. Sometimes straight through the night. It hasn’t left me much time to make friends. If that’s all you’re looking for, then I’m grateful for that.” Adam looked up and saw the sommelier standing by the table, a bottle of wine in his hands.
“Your Puligny-Montrachet, monsieur.”
Adam nodded, and the sommelier poured a small amount into his wine goblet. Adam twirled it around in the glass, sniffed it, then took a sip. “Perfect,” he said.
The sommelier filled my glass, then filled Adam’s, and quietly retreated.
“There’s no one at your job? Someone there you like?”
“Stan. He’s been great.” He chuckled. “Not exactly my type, though.”
“How about one of the online dating sites?”
“I’ve tried. Met one or two that seemed promising, but then I’d keep breaking dates because something would come up at work, and they lost interest.”
“I’m sorry.”
Almost out of nowhere, a waiter appeared at our table. “Are you ready to order?”
Adam looked at me, and I nodded. “I’ll start with the Salade de Chèvre Chaud, Fondant de Poires Épicée, and then the Sauté de Homard et coquilles Saint Jacques a la sauge.” I had studied French in high school, although by now I’d forgotten most of it. Still, I’d always been told my accent was perfect, so I ordered the warm goat-cheese salad and sautéed lobster and scallops in the language printed on the menu.
