by Ruby Lang
But Simon wasn’t set to get his boxes and furniture in for a few more days. He had a lot more to wrangle than she did. She wasn’t going to enquire more closely, or volunteer to help. Hands off was her policy about everything Simon. She was tempted to have it cross-stitched and hung on her wall.
While Julia lounged in the bedroom, no doubt sending pictures of Lana’s sparse belongings to all the aunts and great aunts, and adding that the infamous ex-husband still hadn’t yet shown up, Lana wiped the cabinets clean, and poked around the boxes holding her kitchen equipment. Over the counter, she could see the one big piece that had already arrived: the piano.
Simon hadn’t been around for that, either. He’d called her earlier today sounding harried, asking if she could supervise as the instrument was delivered. She was already here, so she agreed to watch as the Steinway was trundled up the three flights by one burly Russian guy with a special moving belt. A skinnier older man whose main job seemed to be to tell Lana and Julia stories about which houses in the neighborhood had which kinds of staircases was there to warn the younger man about the angles to take when maneuvering the instrument through the brownstone’s landings. The move hadn’t taken more than an hour, but for Lana, it felt like forever. She hadn’t realized how stressful it would be to wait for the piano to arrive, to hear the shouts and orders as it came up the stairs, to see the instrument in person once again.
She did not touch it.
“I wish you’d play for me,” Julia said, coming into the kitchen.
If only Lana had a fainting couch on which she could fling herself dramatically before she answered. “I don’t play anymore.”
But there was no furniture other than what she’d put in her own room. She hadn’t talked with Simon, but she’d expected him to provide most of it. She wondered if he still had the tweed foldout that sagged in the middle.
She could definitely spring for a couch.
They’d seemingly spelled out everything else, though. They agreed to a trial period of four months. If it didn’t work out, Simon would be given time to find another place to live, and she’d be allowed to show potential new roommates around. In the meantime, quiet hours were between 8:00 pm and 10:00 am. They split utilities and internet and shelves in the bathroom. They both agreed to try to keep clutter to a minimum and have honest conversations about housekeeping. Top shelf of the fridge was for shared food. Middle was for her and bottom for him. They each had one crisper. No dinner parties or large gatherings unless one cleared it with the other.
And if they had, uh, more intimate guests over, those people could not stay more than twenty-four hours.
Lana hoped there would be no such visitors. Not because she was jealous. It was just awkward.
Simon was right, as usual. The whole thing was a terrible idea.
She stared harder at the damn piano.
She hadn’t been as sure of herself as she sounded when she’d sat in the bathroom arguing with him. But she had to let him know he wasn’t dealing with the person she used to be; she needed to remind herself often of the same fact. She’d learned over the years to keep her knives sharp, to show no fear, whether she was trying to keep her place in a restaurant kitchen or find her way out of a strange and confusing airport. Sometimes that meant sounding steelier than she felt.
Julia sat down at the piano bench and lifted the keyboard cover. “Your dad says you were really talented.”
Lana shrugged. “He’s biased.”
“He’s a music professor and former concert pianist. That’s an informed bias.”
“Despite his opinion, a lot of people play the piano and talent only gets you so far. You can practice and practice and be the best you can be and better than anyone else in your circle, and still only be the 2000th best pianist on this earth.”
“What about your dad?”
“In his prime, probably top 1000.”
Her dad lived in Ohio. He’d always loved Simon and was delighted Lana was moving in with him again.
Her father had been disappointed when she went into music education instead of trying to have a career as a performer. But by the time Lana had grown up, the industry changed. Dad might have been able to work and thrive teaching and holding recitals. But Lana didn’t have his drive, probably because she didn’t feel a spark for performance. She’d studied what she had in order to please him, and that had been a mistake because her heart wasn’t in it. And now here she was raising his hopes in a different way, by seemingly reconciling with Simon even though she’d been very clear that was not what was happening.
She reminded herself she wasn’t responsible for her father’s ambitions. She could only be in charge of herself, and judging by how tediously slow unpacking was going, she wasn’t sure she even wanted to be responsible for that.
Julia opened the lid of the piano and began to play “Chopsticks.” “Aren’t you at least going to do the bass part with me?”
“Tempting.”
Julia stuck out her tongue, and Lana gave her the finger back. It was on this warm scene that Simon arrived, slightly out of breath, hair flopping in his face, coat unbuttoned.
Eyes sparkling.
This was definitely going to be a problem.
Lana hadn’t seen Simon in person for a while. They’d conducted their business in the intervening weeks through phone calls and texts, which Simon was slow to respond to, but at least they effectively avoided having to see each other. He’d viewed the apartment one more time with their landlord to take measurements, and conferred with her on the phone. She may have eluded the invitation (though she probably should have taken her own measurements) because she hadn’t wanted to see him. Ridiculous considering they’d soon be living with each other again.
And now, here they were.
Julia was delighted. Lana’s cousin, her baby cousin, leaned against the piano and extended her hand, palm down, like a society dame. Simon crinkled his eyes charmingly, flashing Lana an amused look before turning his attention back to the woman draped across his instrument.
Ugh.
Lana barely managed to suppress the exasperation in her voice. “Simon, this is Julia, another one of my cousins. She’s the daughter of my dad’s youngest brother. She went to NYU Law, and she’s with a firm downtown.”
“Your dad’s the ornithologist, right?”
“No,” Julia said. “Uncle Yi-shang is the ornithologist. My dad’s the ophthalmologist.”
She sent another wide smile Simon’s way, and when he turned to Lana for help, Julia mimed clutching her heart and pretending to swoon.
Why couldn’t one of her other eleventy-million cousins have moved to the city and offered her their spare couch?
Simon was asking Julia about her work and about all of the various aunts and uncles. He remembered more than Lana expected. His eyes coasted around the rest of the apartment once or twice. Maybe he was looking for an escape hatch, or maybe he was trying to imagine how little he could move in before he moved out again.
Lana stayed in the kitchen behind the counter, her fort, and kept her head ducked. She pulled spices out of her boxes and put them back in.
“I’ll leave you two alone,” Julia eventually trilled.
With a sweep of her scarf, she left the apartment. Lana and Simon listened to her clatter down the stairs.
Lana realized she couldn’t also make a grand exit. This was her home now. This was where she was spending the night.
She glanced up to find Simon’s eyes on her.
He put his hands in his coat pockets. “So, settling in okay?”
“Yes.”
“And I see the piano’s all right.”
“As long as Julia didn’t sully it by playing ‘Chopsticks.’”
“At least it wasn’t ‘Heart and Soul.’”
“You take that back. You know I love me some ‘Hear
t and Soul.’”
“I remember.”
He laughed and looked down.
She’d told herself she should stick to the present when she had to speak with him, but it was harder than she’d thought. One day they’d get over this awkwardness. They had to. She wanted to tell him it wouldn’t be so bad. It was just a trial period. It didn’t have to be forever.
Simon cleared his throat. “The movers will be here tomorrow morning, we’re thinking around noon, and depending on parking. All my things I’ve accumulated over the years, turns out it’s not as bad as I anticipated.”
“Famous last words.”
He laughed again.
“Did your landlord give you a hard time about breaking your lease?”
“No. They’ve wanted me out for about the last ten years. Now they can finally renovate and sell the place for half a million or so.”
“No. That’s ridiculous. It’s tiny.”
“Manhattan real estate. Maybe my dad should have bought it when he had the chance. But now, the last Mizrahi is leaving apartment 204 after fifty years.”
“Wow. How do you feel?”
“It hasn’t hit me yet.”
Another pause. “I’ll manage, though.” He began pacing the room. “This place makes up for it. It’s almost too bad we’re going to cover up these dark wood floors with rugs. I love the way the sunlight looks on them.”
“I can contribute furniture if you’d like.”
“Do you want to? This place should be furnished in your taste, too.”
“I don’t have a strong opinion—”
“I don’t either.”
“I don’t want to step on any toes—”
They talked over each other and stopped.
Simon seemed to take a deep breath. He was avoiding her eyes. “I wanted to apologize for the other day. In the bathroom.”
“It was fine. I was pushy, too. It’s going to take some time for us to adjust.”
He didn’t answer.
She laughed a little awkwardly, and put down the spice bottle she’d been fiddling with. “Still time to back out.”
Please don’t back out.
Simon shook his head, then gave her a brief, piercing glance. Her stomach seemed to drop as he said, “I’m not going to change my mind at this hour. I’m living here for four months. I’ll try my best, and so will you.”
She bristled, not so much because of what he’d said but that he felt he had to say it. Still, it was true. They’d set out their guidelines for how to live together. They’d follow them.
But later as she grimly cleaned out an already clean cabinet, she decided she wasn’t going to have trouble sticking with her own, private number one rule that she wouldn’t fall in love with him again.
New number one rule: She was not going to let him boss her around.
Chapter Five
It was surprisingly easy for Simon to abide by his privately formed dictum not to get involved in Lana’s life. Her hours were so different from his that he rarely saw her. She slept late and left sometime in the afternoon, not returning until way after he’d gone to bed.
Some nights, he wondered if she’d come back at all. Not that he was keeping tabs on her. He had unpacking to do, a grant report to write for the worryingly opaque foundation that funded the chorus, a book to avoid working on, and a handful of seasonal concerts the kids would perform at, along with the end-of-semester grading.
But he saw evidence she’d been there in the damp towels spread out to dry on the rack near the bathroom radiator, the green vegetables she left in the fridge and the disassembled blender parts drying in the dishrack in the evenings. Their living quarters were indeed split, so thoroughly that when he was in the living room he could barely see down the brick-lined hallway to her door, which was always closed. He hadn’t caught one glimpse of her room since he’d moved in. Not that it was his business. He’d taken the large front bedroom with its tall windows and its ghostly painted-over crown molding. At first he’d worried about noise coming in from the street, but it wasn’t as if his former apartment had been perfectly quiet. At least no one would be drilling through these walls. The branches of a tall tree cast friendly shadows in the room, and in summertime the leaves would shield him from some of the sounds of cars and passing people.
Not that he was sure he would stick around long enough to find out. Although it was surprising how quickly he’d managed to adapt. The quiet helped. The light did, too. And seeing the red brick of the townhouse as he rounded the corner was an unexpected—what could he call it?—it was a pleasure. Never in his life had he thought he would become so attached to a building. A few weeks into December, he still paused, no matter how cold it was, to enjoy the black, wrought-iron gate, its solid bars ending in fleur-de-lis, lumpy and thickened with layers of paint. He smiled at the steps, slightly higher on the right side to make up for the sloping of the street, and he enjoyed the solid thunk of his key entering the old lock.
It was after such an evening, after a concert in which the kids had performed exceptionally well, he came galumphing up the stairs, a little drunk with pride and on the single glass of prosecco he’d downed at the post-recital reception, that he came up the stairs to find Lana in the kitchen.
God help him, he was happy to see her. He was so warm and full of fellow feeling, so grateful she’d suggested this whole arrangement. And she looked soft and pretty with her hair in two braids, her slim figure clad in navy blue pajamas piped in contrasting white, her bare feet peeping out from under the rolled hems. His eyes went down, then up briefly to the shallow notched vee above her throat, to her delicate skin. He moved toward her in three full steps ready to give her a hug.
And stopped short. Before he had a chance to say a word—before she did—he raised his index finger. “Hi. Let me go to the bathroom.”
He swiveled unsteadily and fumbled for the door. Shut it. And looked at himself in the bathroom mirror.
He’d almost hugged his ex-wife. He’d raised his finger when she was about to speak to him. He’d lurched for the bathroom.
He was still in his coat.
Suave.
Not that he wanted or needed to look any particular way to her. She’d seen far worse from him. But this old, ex-er version of her hadn’t.
He took off his coat, and cleaned himself up so he didn’t look quite so jovial and tried to pump some sense into his veins. His chorus had done so well, these kids, their faces glowing, their voices strong. The audience had been on their feet.
“Good performance?” Lana asked as he came into the kitchen again.
She handed him a plate with some cheese and crackers, and an orange sliced up in fat segments, the peel still on.
She still cut up her oranges that way.
“How did you know?” he asked, sitting on one of the new stools at the end of the kitchen counter.
She smiled and looked down. “It’s in your face. It glows.”
He cleared his throat, embarrassed to hear his thoughts echoed. “Probably from the sparkling wine. I didn’t have anything to eat.”
“You never could before a performance.”
“I wasn’t even the one who was up there singing or conducting. One of my interns, Abena, she was in charge of selecting the music and teaching the kids these parts. They really responded to her. She has a great future. I’m so proud.”
He pulled the peel from the orange and put the entire segment in his mouth, sucking the juices dry. It seemed to taste better than anything he’d ever eaten before.
Lana was still standing there watching him, amused.
Amused was good. It was better than slightly alarmed, which was the expression that had flashed over her face when it seemed like he was going in for a hug.
The cheese and crackers were also the best he’d ever eaten. Hands down.
>
“You are a wonderful chef,” he said, his mouth full.
“It’s Breton biscuits and store brand cheddar,” she laughed. “You’re still like this. You just love everyone and everything when people make music.”
He grinned through a mouthful of crackers. “It’s a beautiful experience.”
“Yes. Yes, it is.”
She looked down again. And suddenly he felt a little bad. Maybe she missed music.
If she did, it might explain the way she veered away from the piano the few times he’d seen her in the living room.
He was about to pose some indiscreet questions. Maybe find out things he didn’t want to know the answers to, when she asked him, “Would you mind if I adopted a cat?”
He blinked, completely thrown.
Her face had pinkened as she said hurriedly, “I wasn’t trying to take advantage of your mood. I didn’t know you’d be—it’s my night off from work and I was up so I wanted to ask...”
“You want a cat?”
“Yes.”
He thought about it for a moment more.
“Why? You never wanted one before.”
“I never asked for one before.”
She turned on the sink and started to wash the knife.
There was something in here that he should probably try to think through. But although he wasn’t really drunk, he seemed to be having trouble understanding her request.
She dried her hands. “I’d try to keep it mostly in my room. We could store the litterbox in the bathroom. Cats are nocturnal anyway so you wouldn’t really have to do anything unless I went somewhere for a trip. But that isn’t likely to happen.”
She added, “I’d like the company.”
It wasn’t a judgment precisely. It was better for both of them to keep out of each other’s way, to attempt to lead separate lives. But a part of him, rather childishly, wondered why she didn’t take his companionship. Not that he was offering.
