by Marc Levy
“I’m afraid your Tilly will not be coming home with us today. And as for my daughter, she has to learn to stay close to her mother when we come to the city!” the mother replied, yanking at the girl’s arm and finally breaking her grip.
“That’s a shame. Tilly would be so happy to have a friend,” insisted Julia.
“You’re talking about a stuffed animal,” the woman said, dumbfounded.
“It’s been a rough day. If Tilly went home with you, she would be so happy. So would I, and your little girl, too, from the looks of it. Just one small yes to make three of us happy. Not too much to ask, wouldn’t you say?”
“No, I would not. There will be no presents for Alice today, especially not from a stranger. Goodbye,” the woman said, turning to go.
“Too bad! Alice seems like a fine little girl. And considering the way you treat her, it’ll be a miracle if that lasts!” Julia blurted out, trying to hold back her anger.
The mother turned and glared at her.
“You designed a stuffed animal. I gave birth to a child. You can keep your advice to yourself.”
“You’re right. Children aren’t like toys. When something is broken, you can’t just patch up the damage and make it all better.”
Outraged, the woman stormed out of the toy store. The mother and daughter disappeared down Fifth Avenue without looking back.
“I’m sorry, Tilly,” said Julia to the otter. “Not very diplomatic, was it? Oh well, that’s never really been my strong suit. Don’t you worry. We’re going to find you the perfect family. You’ll see. A family just for you.”
The store manager, who had watched the entire exchange, at last came over to Julia.
“Well, hello, Miss Walsh. So nice to see you. It’s been—what—at least a month?”
“I’ve had a lot going on at work these past few weeks.”
“Let me tell you, your character has been a huge hit around here. This is the tenth we’ve ordered. Most of the time, we only have to leave one in the window four days before it’s sold,” he assured her, putting the stuffed animal back in its place. “Though with this one, it’s been, well, just over two weeks, if I’m not mistaken. Maybe it’s the weather . . .”
“No, it’s not that,” replied Julia. “This is the original, so it’s a bit more difficult. She has to take the time to choose the right family.”
“Miss Walsh, you say that every time you come to see us,” the manager said with a chuckle.
“What can I say? They’re all one of a kind.” Julia smiled, waving goodbye.
The rain had stopped. Julia left the store and headed downtown, disappearing into the haze rising from the wet, crowded sidewalk.
All along Horatio Street, the trees sagged with the weight of rain-soaked leaves. The sun had finally reemerged in the early evening, only to slink down into the Hudson shortly thereafter. The side streets of the West Village glowed with a soft purple light. Julia said hello to the owner of a Greek restaurant as he set up outdoor tables on the sidewalk across the street from her apartment. He returned her greeting and asked if he should save her a table for that evening. She politely declined, but promised to come by for Sunday brunch someday soon.
Julia unlocked the front door of the small building where she lived and stepped inside. She climbed the stairs to the second floor and was surprised to find Stanley waiting for her, sitting on the top step.
“Hey. How did you get in?”
“The guy who runs the store downstairs, Zimoure. He was hauling some boxes down to the basement and I lent him a hand. We talked all about his new shoe collection. It’s really something! But I can’t imagine many people these days can treat themselves to such works of art.”
“Judging by all the shoppers who flood into his store on weekends and leave with stacks of shoe boxes, I’d say quite a few. So, is there something you wanted?” she asked as she opened the door to her apartment.
“No, I just thought you could use some company.”
“Ha! Me? You’re the one with the sad puppy-dog face.”
“Oh, this? It’s all an act. That’s why I invited myself over, too. All so you can save face.”
Julia took off her jacket and flung it onto an armchair next to the fireplace. The scent of the wisteria coating the brick facade of the building wafted in through an open window and filled the room.
“Mm . . . so cozy!” Stanley commented, collapsing on the sofa.
“That’s at least one thing I can claim to have accomplished this year,” remarked Julia as she swung open the refrigerator.
“What was, baby-doll?”
“Fixing up this dump. Can I get you a beer?”
“I’d call it more of a work in progress. And I’m watching the carbs. Maybe a glass of wine, though . . .”
Julia quickly set out a cheese platter for two, opened a bottle of wine, and put on a Count Basie CD. Stanley whistled with admiration at the label on the cabernet.
“Quite the party,” said Julia as she sat down. “All we need is two hundred guests and some hors d’oeuvres, and you could mistake it for my wedding.”
“In that case, may I have this dance?” asked Stanley.
Before she could reply, he pulled her to her feet and led her into a swing.
“See? Our own private party,” he said, laughing.
“What would I do without you, Stanley?”
“You know as well as I do. You’d be lost.”
The music ended and Stanley sat down.
“Have you talked to Adam since this afternoon?”
Julia had apologized to her future husband over the phone on the long, rainy walk home from the toy store. Adam had been supportive and understanding about her need to be alone. He apologized for having been so awkward during the funeral. He had called his mother during the trip home from the cemetery, and she had scolded him for being so insensitive. Now, he was heading to his parents’ country house to spend the rest of the weekend with his family.
“Between you and me? Maybe your father’s funeral falling on your wedding day wasn’t altogether a bad thing,” whispered Stanley as he poured himself a second glass.
“Why don’t you just admit it already? You don’t like Adam.”
“Honey, I never said that!”
“You should be happy for me. I spent three full years alone in a city with two million singles. Adam is kind. He’s generous and thoughtful. He puts up with my crazy work hours, and he loves me just the way I am. How about you try showing a little support here?”
“I don’t have anything against Adam. He’s perfect. But I’d rather see you head over heels, even if your Romeo is loaded with flaws, than settling for someone just because he has a laundry list of good qualities.”
“Easy for you to say. Why are you still single?”
“I’m not single, I’m a widower. Just because the man I loved is dead doesn’t mean he’s gone. You should have seen him, my sweet Edward, dashing even on his deathbed. The sickness couldn’t take his looks or his sense of humor. Down to his last words.”
“I don’t think you’ve ever told me his last words. What were they?” asked Julia as she took Stanley’s hand.
“‘I love you.’”
The two friends sat in silence for a moment. Stanley got up, put on his jacket, and kissed Julia on the forehead.
“You win. I’m off to bed. Guess I am lonely tonight after all.”
“Come on, stay a while. What’s saying ‘I love you’ have to do with a sense of humor?”
“Well, it was the least he could do, considering it was cheating on me that did him in,” Stanley said with an impish smile.
The next morning, Julia opened her eyes and found herself on the couch under a throw blanket that Stanley had laid over her. Within moments, she noticed a note tucked under a mug that read: Don’t forget, no matter what happens, you’re my best friend and I love you. —Stanley.
4.
At ten o’clock, Julia left her apartment to spend the
day at the office. The decision had come easily. Not only had she fallen behind at work, but she figured that staying cooped up at home in a hapless attempt to tidy an apartment that would almost certainly crumble into disorder was the last thing she needed. And Stanley was also a no-go. With the exception of being dragged out to brunch or tempted with cinnamon pancakes, the man rarely got out of bed before midafternoon on a Sunday.
Horatio Street was still empty. At Pastis, Julia waved to a few neighbors sitting outside and then quickened her pace. As she walked up Ninth Avenue, she sent Adam an affectionate text. Two blocks later, she entered Chelsea Market. The elevator operator took her to the top floor. She slid her security badge across the reader and pushed open the heavy iron door.
Three of her coworkers were seated at their desks. Judging from their weary faces and the crumpled coffee cups overflowing the trash, it seemed they had pulled an all-nighter. Her team had been struggling with the same issue for over a week now. And the bedraggled animators before her were proof that they had yet to crack the algorithm that would animate a squadron of dragonflies meant to defend a castle from an invading army of praying mantises. The schedule, ominously posted on the wall, stated that the deadline was Monday. If the squadron didn’t take flight within twenty-four hours, the citadel would fall into enemy hands and production would fall drastically behind schedule. Neither was an option.
Julia rolled her desk chair over to her coworkers. She reviewed their progress and immediately decided to activate the emergency plan. She got on the phone and made call after call, apologizing each time for ruining a perfectly nice Sunday afternoon but insisting her entire team be in the conference room within the hour. By noon, thirty-seven people had answered Julia’s call. The quiet morning atmosphere of the office gave way to a hive of activity. Illustrators, graphic designers, colorists, programmers, and animation experts discussed reports, analyses, and far-fetched schemes.
At five, a rookie team member’s novel idea unleashed a new burst of energy. And soon the first dragonfly began beating its wings in the middle of the screen. The entire room fell silent. Julia was the first to congratulate him, followed by a full round of applause from her team. Now all they had to do was get the other 740 armor-wearing dragonflies into the air. The young man’s confidence swelled, and he laid out a method they might use to reproduce the formula on a larger scale. The phone rang in the middle of his explanation. The assistant who answered gestured discreetly to Julia that the call was for her and that it seemed rather urgent. Julia asked the person next to her to take careful notes and went to take the call from her office.
Julia immediately recognized the voice of Mr. Zimoure, who owned the store on the ground floor of her building. She worried that the plumbing in her apartment was causing problems yet again. Water was no doubt streaming through the ceiling down onto pairs of Mr. Zimoure’s shoes, each of which cost nearly half her monthly salary (or a quarter, if they were on sale). The year before, the price of the shoes had come as an absolute shock to Julia when her insurance agent cut a large check to Mr. Zimoure to cover the water damage she had caused. All Julia had done was forget to close the valve on her archaic washing machine before leaving her apartment. Didn’t everybody make that mistake once in a while?
At the time, her insurer had insisted the company would never cover a problem like that again. He had made an exception that time, and it was a miracle he had managed to talk his superiors out of simply canceling her policy on the spot. The extra effort he made was due solely to the fact that Tilly was his kids’ favorite cartoon character and the Tilly DVDs were a savior for him on Sunday mornings.
Reestablishing good-natured neighborly relations with Mr. Zimoure had been a far greater undertaking, one which required a lot of effort on Julia’s part. It took an unaccepted invitation to Thanksgiving dinner at Stanley’s house, a gentle reminder of forgiveness during the holiday season, and a great deal of attention before the icy mood between the two neighbors thawed to its normal chilled state. Zimoure was rather unpleasant, with an opinion on everything, and he only ever laughed at his own jokes. Julia held her breath as she waited for the damage report from the other end of the line.
“Ms. Walsh—”
“Mr. Zimoure, let me start by saying how very sorry I am for . . . whatever has happened.”
“Not as sorry as I am, Ms. Walsh. I have a store packed with clients, and I have better things to do with my time than tend to a delivery that’s addressed to you.”
Julia tried to slow down her heart rate and understand exactly what Mr. Zimoure was telling her.
“I’m sorry—what delivery?”
“You tell me.”
“I haven’t ordered anything. I always have deliveries sent to the office.”
“Well, not this time. Or else, how do you explain the enormous truck parked in front of my window? Ms. Walsh, Sunday is my busiest day, and I can’t have this driving away my clientele. I have two brutes here who have unloaded your crate and refuse to leave until somebody signs for it. What do you suggest I do?”
“Did you say a crate? Are you sure?”
“What did I just say? Do I have to keep all my customers waiting while I repeat everything for you?”
“I just don’t understand, Mr. Zimoure,” Julia said. “I don’t know what to tell you.”
“How about you tell me when you’ll be here? That way I can let these guys know how much more time we’ll all be wasting while we wait for you.”
“But I really can’t come home right now. I’m in the middle of something very important at work and—”
“And I suppose you think I’m over here twiddling my thumbs.”
“Mr. Zimoure, I’m really not expecting a delivery. Not a single box or envelope, and certainly not a crate! There has to be a mistake.”
“Are you sure about that? Because right now, with your delivery sitting on the sidewalk right outside my store, I can see your name on the label as we speak, even without my glasses. Right in front of me, clearly printed, in capital letters: our address, and the word fragile. So, maybe, just maybe, you forgot. Unless I need to remind you about the last time you were forgetful . . .”
Julia was clueless as to who could have sent her a crate. Could it be a present from Adam? An order for work that had accidentally been sent to her home address? Either way, Julia couldn’t abandon her team—not after calling them into the office on a Sunday. But given Mr. Zimoure’s tone, she had to think of something. And quick.
“Okay. I have an idea of how to solve our problem . . . if you’d be willing to help out just a tiny bit.”
“Of course. Your solution couldn’t possibly involve just one person, namely you, Ms. Walsh. That would be a miracle.”
Julia explained that she had hidden a spare key to her apartment under the staircase carpet, sixth step up. Count six steps, and he’d find it. Unless it was actually the seventh. Or come to think of it, it could be the eighth . . . Mr. Zimoure could then let the delivery men into her apartment. As soon as they were in, she was sure the truck blocking his window would disappear, and all this would be behind them.
“Except . . . I will have to wait for them to leave, I suppose. And lock the apartment door behind them.”
“Mr. Zimoure. Always one step ahead.”
“Yes, well, let me just say, if this is another washing machine, Ms. Walsh, maybe you should consider having it installed by a professional. Do you catch my drift?”
Julia was about to reassure Mr. Zimoure that she had ordered no such thing, but her neighbor had already hung up. She stared at the phone for a minute and then returned to the task at hand.
As night fell, the team gathered in front of the massive projector screen in the executive conference room. A few more hours of work and the battle of the dragonflies might actually be ready to go on time. The programmers were adjusting their calculations, the graphic designers tweaking the backgrounds, and Julia began to feel superfluous. She wandered into the break room, w
here she found Dray, an illustrator who was an old friend from college.
As Julia stretched her back, Dray asked if she was feeling sore, then added that she should probably just go home, that she was lucky to live only a couple of blocks away and should take advantage of it. He promised to call and check in with her just as soon as they were finished. As touched as she was by his concern, Julia thought it best to stay with the troops. Dray delicately explained that her pacing from office to office wasn’t helping anyone, and it really only served to intensify the general feeling of exhaustion.
“Since when has my presence been some kind of burden?” demanded Julia.
“Come on, don’t overreact. Everybody’s on edge. We haven’t had a day off in six weeks!”
Julia herself was supposed to be off for a full week, and Dray teased her that the staff had actually been looking forward to the break.
“We just all thought you’d be on your honeymoon right now,” Dray went on sheepishly. “Don’t take it the wrong way. It’s just the price you pay for being the boss. Ever since you were named creative director, you’re not just another team member. You represent management. The brass. Look at today; all you had to do was pick up the phone and everybody shows up on a Sunday!”
“I thought the project was important. It was worth it, wasn’t it?” Julia asked. “But hey, I wouldn’t want my authority stifling everyone’s creativity. So, you win. I’m off. But call me the moment you finish. Because brass or not, I’m still part of the team.”
Julia grabbed her raincoat, double-checked that her keys were in the pocket of her jeans, and crossed the space toward the elevator.
She dialed Adam’s number on the way out of the building, but it went straight to voicemail.
“It’s me,” she said after the beep. “I just wanted to hear your voice. Yesterday was a gloomy Saturday . . . now a depressing Sunday to cap it all off. I’m not so sure it was a good idea being alone after all. At least you didn’t have to deal with my bad mood. My own team even kicked me out of the office. I’m going to walk around for a while. Maybe you’re already back from the country and in bed. I’m sure your mother must have worn you out, but I would have loved a call or a text. You’re probably sleeping now, so no point in asking you to call me back. Anyway, I’m rambling. See you tomorrow. Call me when you wake up. Love you.”
