by Grey, R. S.
“Miss? Can I help you?” his doorman asks.
He’s a short man wearing a black suit trimmed with gold, and I think he’s taking pity on me.
I show him the address on the paper written in Cornelia’s neat handwriting. I knew the place would be fancy, given Rosethorn, and yet I’m still surprised when he nods and tells me I’ve found the right building.
“Oh, okay…then I think I need to go in there,” I say, pointing to the door.
He smiles and throws his hands out like, Who wouldn’t?
“Unfortunately, I’m only allowed to admit residents and guests of residents.”
“Oh, well, technically I’m a guest.”
“Of who?”
“Mr. Hunt,” I say, suddenly trying to sound very serious and formal, as if that will matter.
“All right, let me call Mr. Hunt and confirm that. I don’t mean to be rude, but our residents expect a certain level of security from us. You seem nice, it’s just rules are rules.”
“No, I understand.”
I watch as he goes into the vestibule that separates the lobby of the apartment complex from the street. He picks up a small black phone and dials, holding his finger up to me so I know to wait.
A few moments later, he shakes his head and drops the phone back on the receiver.
“Sorry, ma’am. Mr. Hunt wasn’t home. Do you want me to tell him you stopped by or…?” His eyes fall on the shoebox.
Right.
“Would it be okay if I left this here for him? Will you make sure he gets it?”
“Sure thing. Will he know who it’s from, or do you want to leave a name?”
“He’ll know. Thank you, Mr.…”
“Barry.” He grins. “You can just call me Barry.”
From there, I head back to my hotel.
It’s an hour later when the phone in my room rings. It’s so loud and unexpected that I jump out of my skin, only realizing after the third piercing trill that I’m actually expected to answer it.
“Oh, hello. Hi!”
“Ms. Mitchell, you have a guest waiting for you in the lobby. He says his name is Nicholas Hunt.”
“Really?! Okay! I’ll be right there!”
I hang up and look down. I was in the middle of eating a gourmet vending machine dinner consisting of Nutty Buddy bars and potato chips. Crumbs are strewn across my pajama shirt. The fingers of my left hand are a winning combination of melted chocolate and salty chip dust. I leap off my bed and head into the bathroom, washing my hands and glancing up in the mirror. The reflection staring back at me is good, not great. I brush my teeth quickly and throw my hair into a ponytail.
Back in the room, I run around, trying to quickly replace my pajamas with a pair of jeans and a white shirt. In my rush, I thunk my shin against the edge of the bedframe and hiss as I try to soothe the pain.
I have no idea how much time lapses between the phone call and the moment the elevator dings before I step out into the lobby, but Nicholas isn’t there when I arrive.
There’s a big family with matching FIRST TIME IN NEW YORK CITY t-shirts filling the small space.
“Asher! Jacob! Mason! STOP RUNNING AROUND!” the dad yells before turning back to face the front desk clerk. “Sorry. Say that again, will you?”
“DAD! Are we eating dinner? I’m sooooo hungry,” a little girl moans, tugging on his shirt.
“Leave your dad alone, he’s trying to talk to the nice man here about our hotel room,” their mom says, yanking the child away.
She throws a fit. The volume level inside the lobby reaches a piercing crescendo, and the clerk looks to me with one eye comically twitching in pain in response to the noise.
“Went outside,” he says, nodding toward the door. “Just a second ago.”
I throw him an appreciative smile and sidle past the family. I push the door open and step out onto the city sidewalk, exchanging the sound of the family for the sounds of the city streets. Cars and people rush past me, a bar across the street plays a basketball game for patrons on their patio, and a team must score because everyone shoots up to their feet and starts to cheer.
It takes a moment to orient myself and then I look to my right, finding there’s no Nicholas.
“Maren,” he says, and I turn over my left shoulder to see him leaning against the brick wall, a few feet away from the hotel’s front entrance.
It hasn’t even been a full week since I last saw him, but I take him in slowly all the same, appreciating the way electricity zings through my body as he pushes off the wall and starts to walk toward me. Tall, confident, sure of himself, Nicholas holds my note in his hand, the one with my new phone number on it.
“What are you doing here?” he asks with an amused smile.
I rock back on my heels and try to affect a very casual tone. “Oh, actually, I think I live here now.”
His brows rise in shock. Then quickly, his eyes dart to the hotel as if he thinks I mean I live here, at this very address.
I smile and tilt my head. “Well not here, exactly. New York City.” I wave my arm to encompass the street around me, enveloping everything in my reach. “I’m not quite sure where I’ll end up, but I have a plan.”
“Can I hear about it?”
He nods his head down the sidewalk and takes half a step back. It’s an invitation to walk beside him, and I don’t hesitate.
Together, we turn onto 65th Street, and he asks me if I’m hungry. I say I’m starved. He unfurls a wolfish grin and tells me he knows just the place. Twenty minutes later, we’re standing outside his building. Barry graciously holds the door open for us.
“You’re back! And you found her!”
He grins, genuinely excited as if we’re all old friends.
“Yes, thank you, Barry,” Nicholas says as he presses his hand to my lower back and guides me into the lobby. We ride the elevator up to the eleventh floor and when we exit, I’m surprised to find there’s no hallway leading to different apartments. We’re in a foyer that leads directly to his front door.
“Does your apartment take up the whole floor?”
“Yes. The whole building is set up that way,” he says, as if it’s not his fault he has a massive apartment in New York City. I can’t help but laugh as he unlocks his door and guides me inside.
My chest tightens as I take it in. It’s everything I expected, and yet still, somehow, more. It seems to go on forever in every direction. Dining room, living room, kitchen, hallways leading to God knows where—perhaps China?
“How many bedrooms do you have here?”
“Five.”
“Jesus.”
“It’s been in our family forever,” he says, trying to make it seem more reasonable.
“But everything looks so new,” I argue, tipping my head back to look up at the decadent chandelier hanging overhead.
“I had it renovated a few years ago.”
I turn in a circle, watching the twinkling light bounce off the walls.
“I’d give you a tour, but it’ll have to wait. I want to talk about the box you left me.”
I look back down as he walks into the living room. My shoebox sits on the coffee table there, unopened.
“Did you look inside?” I ask.
“Yes. That’s how I found you.”
I frown in confusion.
“The hotel’s name was on the stationery you used,” he explains as he sets the note on the table beside the box.
I nod, only now realizing that.
“Why didn’t you cash any of these?” he asks, pointing toward the box before he turns to look back at me.
I’ve seen Nicholas in a million different ways. With the wind whipping his hair on his sailboat. Seated across from me at a formal dinner as we battle it out. Among friends and acquaintances.
Never have I seen him with his guard down like this. He stands with his heart on his sleeve, waiting for my answer, and I walk toward him, hoping to put his mind at ease. My first instinct is to touch him someh
ow—take his hand, wrap my arms around his waist—but it doesn’t seem appropriate given the topic at hand. For a moment, at least, this is about business.
“Well, first of all, it didn’t seem right. Cornelia liked to say I was her employee, but you and I both know what I did at Rosethorn hardly counted as work.”
“I disagree. You helped her a great deal.”
“Well, even if that is the case, she more than paid for my labor with other things. Room and board, for one. All those clothes and gifts. That trip to Paris.” I shrug. “It just didn’t feel right to take her money on top of all that.”
“So then why did you bring them here? Why leave them for me?”
“Well…now is where I’m about to contradict myself. I need your help with something.”
“Anything,” he says, not missing a beat.
I bite back a smile and shake my head. “It’s something related to your work, and I know you’re already so busy. I don’t want to take advantage. So, I thought maybe I could pay for your services.”
“With these checks?” he asks, pointing down to them.
“They’re all I’ve got.”
“You don’t have to pay me a thing.”
“I’d like to,” I argue, picking up the box and pushing it toward him. “It seems fair, and like I said, I don’t want to take advantage of you.”
“Does this have to do with clearing your record?”
I look away, embarrassed. “Yes. I need to get the felony removed somehow. It’s part of my plan.”
He smiles. “Your plan, which you still haven’t told me about.”
“That’s on purpose. I distracted you with questions about living in New York on the way here so you wouldn’t interrogate me about it. I’m still not convinced I should tell you. It’s a little far-fetched, and I wouldn’t blame you if you thought it was insane.”
“I’d still like to hear it.”
“Okay. Well first, sit down.”
He sits then pats the cushion beside him. I don’t hesitate before joining him on the couch, leaving a little distance between us. He laughs and reaches out so he can drag me closer to him. We’re hip to hip, and the tension between us is palpable.
“Tell me,” he says, bending to kiss my cheek.
His cologne consumes me, and before I can stop myself, I lean into him and kiss him on the mouth, a proper greeting we haven’t shared yet. It’s supposed to be a simple peck, but nothing’s ever simple with Nicholas. He kisses me back, harder, and my hands are on the collar of his shirt, fisting the material so he can’t pull away. He leans me back, hovering over me as the kiss deepens.
Plans fly out the window. There is no plan that doesn’t involve his mouth on me, his hands tugging up the bottom of my shirt and then unbuttoning my jeans. There is no future beyond his lips kissing a trail down my stomach, his breath falling on my panties.
Has it only been days since we were last together?
It could have been a lifetime. I’ve forgotten how wonderful it feels to have his weight pin me down, how out of control I feel when he takes charge, how much I like it.
“Tell me your plan,” he teases, hooking his finger around the edges of my underwear and brushing them down my legs. I’m bared for him for a long, agonizing moment before he puts me out of my misery and leans down to kiss me there.
“Nicholas,” I say breathlessly, arching up off the couch.
“Tell me,” he says, swirling his tongue. “My love.”
I lace my hands through his hair and words fall out of my mouth, no sentences, not even real language of any kind. I murmur pleas for him to continue, whimpers as pleasure starts to build inside me.
He gets me so close, and then he backs off, coming up off the couch to stare down at me. I wonder what he sees in me, but I don’t have to wonder if he likes it. His hooded eyes and dreamy expression convince me that I’m everything he’s ever wanted. His words confirm it as he bends down to unzip his pants.
We come apart together on that couch, him rolling his hips and thrusting into me, my nails scraping down his back. It feels endless, like we might never return to life as we know it. This is our new normal. This couch encompasses our entire world.
“Maren,” he whispers against my cheek as we lie there together, after.
“Hmm.”
“Tell me your plan.”
I keep my eyes closed, all the better for concealing how nervous I am to give breath to the dream living inside me. “First promise me you won’t laugh.”
“I won’t laugh,” he says, brushing a few strands of hair off my face.
At that, I begin to talk, telling him what I envision for my future. I talk until my voice is hoarse and we’ve moved from the couch to the shower to his bed.
Nicholas doesn’t laugh once, and when I’m done talking, he assures me we’ll start first thing in the morning, once we’ve rested.
He goes to sleep first, his arm a band of weight across my stomach. I stay up, staring out at the city lights filtering in through his windows, too excited and hopeful, feeling for the first time in my life that things will work out exactly as they should, that the future isn’t so scary and unknown.
It can be an adventure, if I let it.
Epilogue
Maren
“‘The Newport Symphony Orchestra Youth Program is celebrating its fifth year in residence with a free summer concert series. Families are encouraged to bring a picnic dinner and make their way to the gardens of Rosethorn at seven PM, every other Thursday from May through September, starting this week.’”
Edward pauses and looks up at us to see if we want him to continue.
“Go on,” Cornelia says with a nod.
He starts to skim through the article. “There are more details about where to park and all that. And then—oh, listen! ‘The symphony youth program is a collaboration between the Rhode Island Music League and the Newport Preservation Society, but it owes its continued success to its founder, Mrs. Maren Hunt. A graduate of Juilliard and a proponent of youth music programs, Mrs. Hunt works tirelessly to bring awareness and funding to arts programs across the state, and some could say she puts her money where her mouth is.’”
“Oh, I do hate that phrase. It sounds so crude when they put it like that,” Cornelia argues.
Edward ignores her and reads on. “‘The Cromwell Foundation—the charity organization overseen by her husband, Mr. Nicholas Hunt—is the symphony’s largest benefactor. Over the years, the foundation has contributed…’” He pauses and scrunches his nose. “This is getting boring.”
“Edward,” I chide. “Keep reading!”
His eyes alight on something lower down in the article. “Oh! Cory! Listen! They talk about us. ‘Their two sons, Edward (9) and Cory (7), are both participating musicians in the symphony and will take part in the concert series this summer.’”
“Mom! They mentioned us in the article!” Cory shouts, as if I’m not sitting across from him at the table, listening to Edward myself.
Cornelia covers her ears and throws him a reproachful glare. “Cory, shout like that again and I’ll have you removed from this table.”
His cheeks redden and he goes back to cutting into his pancakes. “Well, I think it’s pretty cool,” he murmurs under his breath.
“They didn’t include our picture or anything,” Edward argues, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “It’s not like we’ll be famous.”
“Fame isn’t all it’s cracked up to be,” Cornelia says with a haughty tip of her chin. “Better that you two continue to keep your noses to the grindstone. Study hard in school—that’s all that matters.”
Both boys know better than to argue with their great-grandmother, so they just nod along with her guidance.
Footsteps draw my attention to the door of the dining room just as Nicholas walks in with Louis in his arms. I smile at him as he comes around the table to drop a kiss to my hair before he hands the dog over to Cornelia, whose arms are outstretch
ed. Then he starts to load his plate up with breakfast food at the buffet behind me.
“Is that the article?” Nicholas asks.
“It is.”
“They mention you in it, Dad,” Edward says.
“Why on earth would I be in there?”
“They discuss the Cromwell Foundation,” Cornelia replies, picking up the paper and handing it to him as he takes the seat beside her and across from me.
The boys fidget in their chairs, so much like their father even though they share no biological relation with him. Still, it’s been so interesting to see how much they take after him. I swear they absorb everything he does, copying his every move. They share his attitude and work ethic and, most importantly, his confident approach to life. They love to be out on the water with him. They’d much rather be sailing than sitting down for music lessons, but they humor me, especially Edward. He has such a good ear for it.
“Can I go now? I’m done eating,” Cory asks, already starting to push back from the table.
“So am I!” Edward hurries to add.
“Take your plates down to the kitchen first. Don’t leave them for Patricia,” Nicholas says, reaching over to ruffle Cory’s hair before the boy leaps out of his chair. “We’ll be heading out to the club as soon as I’m finished here,” Nicholas adds as they start to gather their breakfast dishes. “Don’t make me come hunt you both down.”
“Can I cast the main sail today?!” Cory asks excitedly.
“You got to do it last time!” Edward argues.
Cornelia levels them both with a glare that has them laughing and rushing to run out of the room as if they’re worried she’ll actually follow through on her threat to really reprimand them. She never has. She has too much of a soft spot for those two.
“Are you going sailing with us?” Nicholas asks me.
“I can’t. Tori’s coming over in a little bit so we can go over the plans for Mary Anne’s surprise party.”
“And what about this evening? Are you going to find time to pencil me in then?”
“I suppose.”
He’s teasing, so I tease him right back. He knows we have plans; it’s our tenth wedding anniversary today. Ten years since I walked out into Rosethorn’s rose garden and down the aisle toward a tuxedo-clad Nicholas, unable to catch my breath at the sight of him standing there with the ocean at his back. Ten years of ups and downs and fights we never saw coming, hardships we were forced to weather. The early years—when I was still at Juilliard and he was trying to maintain business as usual at the Innocence Group—put such a strain on our relationship. We’d go weeks at a time barely seeing each other, like two ships passing in the night. We adjusted. Fought. Relented. Compromised. He hired more staff and a partner. I eventually graduated. Looking back, I wouldn’t trade those years for the world. Strength grew out of that time, resilience in ourselves and our love. An unshakable bond.
