I never shared this secret life with anyone. Ever. My favorite book was The Count of Monte Cristo by Alexandre Dumas. I’ve read it many times over the years, the characters from the story jumping off the page because of how often I’d imagined them. Dante, the main tragic hero, was engaged to the most beautiful woman inhabiting my fantasy world of book characters, Mercedes, which is saying something because I had read an average of five books a month since I was seven, so she had a lot of competition. Over time, Mercedes became the ideal against which all other female characters—and the women in my life—were measured. As far as I was concerned, Mercedes was perfectly beautiful, or beautifully perfect. I’d never run across any woman in my real life that came anywhere close to matching her beauty.
Until now.
Because if Mercedes had stepped off the page into my life, she would have looked exactly like the woman standing beside me in the elevator. The realization shut down my vocal chords and my nerves took over.
Pulling her eyes away from the paper, the smile carrying to her eyes, she looked at me. “It is something like that.”
I was unable to meet her gaze, staring at the doors, wishing they would open up. Rather than be happy to see my fictional world come to life, I panicked. I didn’t know what to say to her. The seconds ticked by slowly, the quiet creaking of the elevator filling our ears. Finally, the doors opened and she exited first onto the third floor where I needed to go, but my feet wouldn’t move. As the doors began to close, she turned back toward the elevator.
“Nice to meet you.”
Stupidly, I just nodded, my lips stuck together.
As the elevator doors closed, she turned on her heel and I caught a glimpse of her muscled calves just visible below the hemline of her skirt, flexing as she walked.
When the doors shut, I got my voice back. “You, too.” But I was on the way to the fourth floor. Flustered, I gathered my senses, pushing the third floor button, hoping the elevator would go back down quickly enough for me to get one more glimpse before I had to start my interview with Vespucci’s daughter. When I stepped onto the third floor, Mercedes was gone.
I had to believe the encounter was a fluke, not to be dwelled on or judged an omen. It just was. Yet, I felt guilty because of Sara, trying to rationalize it away because I hadn’t done anything measurably inappropriate. I just looked. Sara could have nothing to be upset about.
Getting back to task, I looked around for room numbers, but didn’t see any, so I took a right, the direction my elevator mate had taken. Passing office doors, I saw an occasional light on inside the rooms, though the majority of them appeared vacated for the day. Near the end of the hallway, I spotted number 324 over the final office door on my left before the hallway turned right. I was disappointed I had not caught a glimpse of Mercedes, but I did my best to forget her and focus on my upcoming interview. I squared off at the door, about to knock, faltering at the last moment. This would be the official start of the project. There would be no turning back. I took a deep breath, knocking with a sure hand.
A female voice from within said, “Come in.”
I pushed the door open, stepping inside. Large bookshelves sat at right angles, taking up two walls in the back corner. I immediately noticed Mercedes standing on her tiptoes, reaching up to pull a book down from the top of one of the bookshelves. Her right hand was extended high above her head, her blouse riding high and pulling away from her long skirt, revealing pale skin and a tiny waist. I stood in the doorway staring once again at her flexed calves as she strained to pull the book down, close to hooking the top seam of the spine. For the moment, I was frozen. My Mercedes was Maggie Vespucci. Or rather, Maggie was Mercedes. Or Mercedes was an invention of my mind, and Maggie was Tony Vespucci’s daughter, and I was deeply in over my head. Forcing myself into action, not wanting Mercedes-Maggie to think I was gawking at her, I averted my gaze just as she hooked the back of the book with her finger. The book fell on her head and then to the ground with a smack. She leaned down to pick it up, turning toward me with an embarrassed smile.
“My mother always said I was a bit clumsy.”
I didn’t know how to respond to that. We stared at one another. I blushed. Maggie appeared to be running calculations in her head.
“I’m Dante.”
Maggie looked nonplussed. I mentally kicked myself in the butt.
“I mean, I’m Jon, Jon Fixx,” I added hastily.
Maggie inadvertently glanced at the book in her hand, then back at me. “You’re the wedding writer.”
I nodded.
“Please, come in.”
I took a few steps into the office, hesitant. That nervous feeling was back, throwing me off balance. I never got nervous on interviews. This was a first. I became hyperaware of my surroundings, of my every move, of Maggie’s reactions. Feeling disoriented, my feet followed Maggie’s offer to sit in the chair facing the large office desk, and I dropped into the seat with a thud. I tried to reorient myself, having a little success now that I was off my feet. To take my mind off the woman before me and to collect my thoughts, I glanced around. The bookshelves, the desk, the small sofa against the wall were the only pieces of furniture. Above the sofa, I saw a framed photograph of a beachside city built into cliffs overlooking the ocean.
“Sicily. Palermo,” Maggie volunteered. She was sitting on the edge of her desk, her legs crossed and I could see her small ankles, just as I had imagined Mercedes’ to be. Then, standing up, she shook my hand and said, “Glad to meet you, Jon Fixx.” It was a strong, sure grip. “Thanks for taking us on as clients. It was my father’s idea. When he told me what you do, I was intrigued. Then I read the story you wrote for Cranston and Judith Jefferson and I was sold. It was so beautiful.”
“Thank you,” I said, a little too modestly. I didn’t do well with compliments.
“I was surprised he was able to get you here so fast, considering he only told me about his plan yesterday.”
“Your father can be very convincing,” I said.
“He was nice, of course?”
“Of course. I just mean he made it clear he only wants the best for his daughter—you—and would spare no expense,” I said in my best salesman voice.
Maggie was nothing like I expected. She had undeniable intelligence reflected in her Mercedes-like eyes. She smiled. “That sounds like my father. He won’t take no for an answer. Ever.”
I nodded. I had discovered this Vespucci characteristic firsthand. I glanced around the office, hoping to change the subject. Nothing caught my eye to comment on. I returned my gaze to Maggie, unable to ignore her beauty up-close. I was feeling a raw, visceral reaction toward her. It took all of my self-control to keep myself in my seat, putting every ounce of energy I could muster to keep my voice normal, my face neutral. Feelings of guilt washed over me, Sara’s face looming large.
“Are you okay?” Maggie asked.
I was breathing heavy. Trying to get it together, I said, “Oh, sure. Sorry. I came straight from the airport. I should have eaten something.”
“Jon, please. We can do this later. Would you like to get something to eat?”
The soft lilt of her voice calmed me. I threw my best smile at Maggie. “No, no. I’m fine, just got a little dizzy. I don’t want to waste any time. So please, let’s continue.”
The visceral pull had been so powerful that I’d felt a sharp pain in my gut, accompanied with a strong desire to grab her, pull her close, and touch her intimately. I tried to look at the reaction objectively, but there was no place for objectivity here. I kicked my thoughts into autopilot. “So, I’m assuming you got your Ph.D. in anthropology here at NYU?”
“That’s right. I finished my Ph.D. last year. When I was done, the powers that be offered me a position to teach here in the Anthropology Department for two years as an assistant professor.”
“Wow, that’s an honor. I’m
guessing not many of your classmates were given the same opportunity.”
She shook her head. “Thank God I was given the offer, because when I first declared my major in anthropology as an undergraduate, my father couldn’t understand the point. You know, what kind of work it would lead to.”
“I imagine it must be very hard to get a job in the field with only an undergraduate degree in anthropology. I can see why your father would be concerned. You’d really have to see it through to a Ph.D. to get the payoff for time spent. Right?” I realized I must have sounded patronizing.
Smiling, Maggie responded, “I’d have to say you’re right. Where did you go to school?”
“Franklin & Marshall College. In Pennsylvania.”
“Good school.”
I gave a noncommittal shrug.
“What did you major in?”
“Anthropology.”
“You’re joking?”
I nodded. “Yep.”
“Really? What a coincidence. So you speak from experience. Did you go to graduate school too?”
“Never finished. I left in my senior year. Unforeseen circumstances of life.”
She was silent a moment, considering. Then, “May I ask what kind of unforeseen circumstances?”
As a rule, I never shared personal information with my clients. I decided early on it muddied the waters. But something in Maggie’s look made me want to confess. Up to this point, I’d never told anyone other than Luci the story about Jennifer. “I discovered my thesis advisor in bed with my girlfriend a week after she dumped me.”
“Oh.” Whatever she was expecting to hear, that wasn’t it. “How did you catch her in bed if you were split up? Did you live together?”
“It’s a long story, so I won’t bore you, but in short order, I went to her apartment unbidden on a Friday night, stole into her bedroom, and waited for her to come home because I was working under the foolish misconception that maybe we could work it out.”
“What happened?” Maggie asked.
“She came home with my professor and I had no way to sneak out. So I hid in the closet.”
She stifled a laugh. “Oh, I’m sorry, that sounds terrifyingly, tragically funny. How long were you stuck in the closet?”
“About two hours, during which time I got to discover they’d been having an affair for some time.” I gave Maggie my best cover-up smile. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be talking about me. That’s not why I’m here. I’m here for you and Marco, so let’s talk about you.”
But she wasn’t ready to let it go. “Did you report him?”
“No. I dropped out of school that same week. Moved across town. Got a job. Just walked away.”
“Oh, that’s horrible. You didn’t go after the guy?”
“In a way, I’ve learned to accept what happened as fate. If Jennifer hadn’t cheated on me, I don’t think I would have found my way to this,” I answered.
“Is that why you do this?”
“Do what?”
“Write other people’s love stories?”
I had never thought about it. Was that why I did this? Because I couldn’t get it right in my own life? I deflected her comment with a laugh. “That’s funny. No one has ever asked me that before, and I’ve been doing this for eight years. I’m in a serious relationship now, so if that was my original motivation, it has changed since. But we’re not here for me. We’re here for you. That’s why I flew to New York.”
But she couldn’t take the hint. She pressed on. “So, who’s going to write your love story when you get married?”
I was getting annoyed. I had never encountered a client who wanted to know about me. Usually, my clients were more than happy to talk about themselves for unconditional lengths of time if I allowed them to. “I don’t know. I guess I’ll have to wait and see.” I changed the subject. “So, what was your thesis for your Ph.D.?”
“Early Italian settlement in New York City and the long-term cultural and financial impact their settlement had on the City. The crux of my thesis, though, was about what New York would have looked like if the Italians had not come here en masse. That was the truly interesting part for me. Trying to create a New York City with no Italians. Raised a lot of eyebrows when I made my final submission.”
“Sounds fascinating.” Of course, Italians. I wanted to ask her if “early Italian settlement” was code for Mafia, but I needed to discover the lay of the land before I asked anything even remotely connected to her father.
“Since I wasn’t sure what I wanted to do by the time I finished my program, the offer for this teaching position seemed like a good idea.” She looked around the room. “I wanted to meet you here before you met the rest of the family.”
At the mention of the word “family” my heart rate sped up. I would have to get myself together if I wanted to see this project through. Maggie noticed my reaction.
“Don’t worry. It will just be my immediate family. My parents, grandmother, brother and his family. And Marco, my fiancé. It shouldn’t be too overwhelming for you.” A conspiratorial look crossed her face. “My father told them all to be on their best behavior. So, good luck!” She glanced at the clock. “We should go if we don’t want to be late.” She grabbed a colorful wrap hanging on the back of her chair and hung it around her shoulders. I stood up and followed her out of the office.
“Will Joey be at dinner?”
Surprised, Maggie asked, “How do you know Joey?”
“I met him when your father flew out to Los Angeles to meet with me. I got the impression your father doesn’t go anywhere without Joey.”
Maggie didn’t say anything, staring at me a moment, considering what I said. Then, “C’mon, let’s get out of here.” We took the elevator down to the lobby and walked out onto the New York streets.
As we stepped onto the sidewalk, I blurted out, “So what exactly does your father do?” I immediately regretted having asked the question and wished I could take it back.
Maggie frowned.
I worried I’d crossed the line. Maybe it didn’t matter what he did for a living. Maybe all that mattered was writing Maggie’s love story, because the sooner I finished it, the sooner I could be on my merry way back to Los Angeles to work on repairing my own love story. After several moments, Maggie responded in a flat tone, “He’s an entrepreneur. He dabbles. Raw fabric, dry cleaning, commercial real estate, the restaurant business. He’s got it all.”
“Oh.” Simple as that. I decided I would not spend any more mental energy on her father’s almost guaranteed mob involvement.
Maggie looked at me. I was unsure if she was warning me off the subject, or if she wanted to make sure I believed her. She spun around, hailing a taxi. Moments later, a taxi screeched to a halt and we climbed in.
A dark-skinned Sikh asked, “Where to?”
“Dyker Heights, 82nd & 11th,” Maggie said. As the taxi pulled away, she explained she had left her car at her apartment. “So, rather than go back to get it, I figured we could just take a taxi to save time. Otherwise, we’ll be late for dinner.”
“I thought your father lived in Brooklyn?”
“Dyker Heights is part of Brooklyn, southwest section. More like a suburb of Brooklyn, though. We moved there when I was in high school. I grew up in Bensonhurst on 61st near Bay Parkway. Dyker Heights was a step up, as far as my father was concerned. A little more chichi, if you will.”
Maggie caught my blank stare. “How many times have you been to New York?”
“Only a few times.” I felt excluded from a special club. Throughout my life, I’d met a number of people who were not native New Yorkers but had spent more than enough time in the Big Apple to engage in an educated discussion about streets and neighborhood intersections. I, however, knew little more about the city than what I could locate on a map.
Maggie laughed.
“So, I’m speaking a foreign language to you?”
“Basically.” I laughed with her. It was an ice-breaking moment. “I thought Bensonhurst was where the Italians lived.”
“True while I was growing up there, but it has changed quite a bit. A Chinese immigrant influx started in the 1990s, part of the reason my dad wanted to move, though I didn’t agree with him. I think he wanted to live in a house that reflected his financial success, one that would be good for the family in the long run.”
As we headed south through Manhattan, I took in the low-rise buildings we were passing, noting the hustle of early evening rush hour around us. “Will we be crossing the Brooklyn Bridge?” I asked Maggie.
Maggie nodded.
“I’ve never been on it.” As we passed through the intersections, I leaned forward to note the street signs. We were heading south on Bowery, passing Canal Street. “This is Little Italy, right?”
“That’s right. Though it’s a bit of a misnomer now. Not a lot of Italian heritage left here. Except for one of the best Italian restaurants in the City. My absolute favorite place to eat. Funny enough, though, an Italian doesn’t own it. Your friend Cranston does.
“He never told me he had a restaurant,” I said, surprised.
“It just opened up last year. The restaurant, or rather the building, has a colorful history. It was once owned by Carlo Gambino.”
I perked up. I knew from my research that Gambino had been a major Mafia player from early in the organization’s history.
Maggie said, “I think Cranston bought the building several years ago. Eventually he booted out the shoe store that was where the Ravenite club had been. Do you remember John Gotti?”
Jon Fixx Page 12
