“I … but…” I stammered, trying to absorb and understand precisely what it was Greg was suggesting. “You don’t even know if I can write.”
“Natalie …” Greg’s smile was one of contrasts for as much as it was gentle, it still had an unmistakably predatory edge to it. The businessman I’d first come to know breaking the surface. “Anyone as widely read, as passionate and eloquent as you are about literature—surely it’s not an unimaginable stretch.”
“The ability from one hardly translates to the other,” I pointed out, finally feeling myself on firmer ground. “Well read, yes, but other than that, nothing more than a restaurant hostess and part-time tutor.”
“Let’s just say gut instinct suggested there was a bit more to you than that.” He shrugged. “And my gut has rarely led me astray.”
“And in this case, was spot on and led us to some fascinating discoveries.”
The firmer ground I’d briefly imagined myself on shifted precipitously as I stared at Jack.
“Graduated from high school at sixteen—won a sought-after acceptance to the Sorbonne—” A quiet thump drew my attention to the marble surface of the coffee table on which now rested a dark green cloth-bound volume I’d never expected to see again. “Gifted enough to have had her first collection of short works published prior to turning seventeen. I’ll admit, I was doubtful, but Greg’s gut was dead right—you know how to write. And quite well, if what I read is any indication, Natalia.”
Silence, pregnant with shock, enveloped the room as the person I’d once been at long last fully exploded into being after hovering about the edges all evening—set free by the casual utterance of the name by which I hadn’t been addressed in years.
“Jesus Christ, Jack.”
“Jack, you promised.”
Greg and Constance’s chorused shock was punctuated by the muffled thud of the snifter slipping from my fingers to land on the Oriental carpet. The smoky, sweet smell of brandy wafted up, burning my sinuses as I stared, open-mouthed. Standing in front of the fireplace, his face a shifting assembly of sharp planes and shadows, like a Picasso come to life, Jack Roemer became the menacing silhouette I’d feared from the moment he’d slid open the doors to this room.
“I didn’t so much promise as I respected your wishes for as long as I could, Constance. But really, what’s to be gained by pussyfooting around? She wants to know why. It’s been clearly established that she’s not stupid.”
“There’s pussyfooting and there’s an ambush.”
“Oh, come on. Ambush is a bit strong don’t you think?”
“I most certainly do not. You were hardly raised in a barn, Jack. You know her history.”
“Yes, I do. And I imagine she can handle this just fine once she gets over the initial shock of having her charade exposed.”
I sat there, fighting off another wave of lightheadedness as the two of them volleyed back and forth like finalists at Wimbledon with me as the unwitting ball. Finally, Jack turned to me. “I’m here because I’m Ava’s attorney and the administrator of her affairs. Perhaps of greater relevance, I’m also her cousin. And while she is without a doubt flighty and impulsive and has driven me mad throughout most of our lives, I stand firmly with Greg and Constance when it comes to protecting her. And by extension, my family. Which means a thorough investigation of any individual who could potentially get close.”
I could feel my jaw working, a faint popping sensation as it opened and closed as if desperately trying to remember how to form words. Any words. In any language.
“I know it must seem like a healthy dose of paranoia—but it’s one I’m sure you understand. How you can never be too careful.” His eyes narrowed, the intensity of his gaze closing the distance between us until I felt as if he were physically hovering over me. “Compared to the others, you did present something of a challenge—initially easy enough for our investigators to track back to when you became a citizen and legally changed your name. Even back to when you first arrived in the country. However, anything before that became … difficult. But with the means at our disposal, not impossible.”
How could a smile possibly be so cool and somber? The tone of voice so easy and measured and almost … kind—yet menacing, for all that?
“What … exactly—” I swallowed hard, my fingers curling into the edges of the leather cushions. “What do you know?”
“Everything we needed.” He circled the coffee table to perch on the edge, the fine wool of his trousers brushing my skirt. “Natalia San Martín—Havana, Cuba. Only daughter of the head of one of the oldest and wealthiest families on the island. Immensely strong and deep ties to the country, yet with an unusual history of remaining classically apolitical. Ultimately, that’s what proved their undoing, wasn’t it?” Again, not sounding completely unkind or unsympathetic. But any faint hope that he’d leave it there quickly dissipated as he continued reciting moments from my history as if they were facts memorized for a test. “After disappearing from the island in 1959, your immediate family resurfaced in Miami, where you lived with them until you came to New York. By yourself. And since then, you’ve been completely on your own—four years where you’ve divided your time between working as a hostess at Mercier’s and as a tutor at Concord.”
Did he? Really? In the midst of that matter-of-fact litany, did he actually pause—just slightly? Was I imagining that his gaze narrowed again, as if searching my face for my reaction? Or was it simply panic on my part?
“Your father has a law degree from the University of Havana, but is of course unable to use it here. He could return to school and take the bar in this country, but that would require both time and money—two resources he no longer has. So he clerks at a law office while your mother and grandmother run a small business making dresses for baptisms and First Communions and some sort of elaborate birthday parties—”
“Quinceañeras,” I offered dully as he paused to search for the word. And they had? When had they done this? And I couldn’t imagine Papi having approved of Mami and Abuelita working in any capacity, but then again, when the two of them got an idea in their head, there was no stopping them. Still … I’d had no idea.
This … man. This stranger. Knew more about my family than I did.
“Your parents and grandmother and younger brother are all still in Miami and like clockwork, shortly after the fifteenth of every month, money arrives—from you. Money that allowed your mother and grandmother to start their business and that helps to send your brother to one of the best parochial schools in Miami, yet beyond that monthly check, you maintain no other contact with them. As far as we can tell, haven’t had any in the four years you’ve been gone.” The austere lines almost appeared to relax as his brows drew together. “The one mystery we’ve been unable to resolve,” he finished on an even softer voice. “Why, exactly, that is.”
And in the scheme of things, of very little importance, otherwise, they would have worked harder to resolve it or more likely, I wouldn’t be here at all. My voice as soft as his, I said, “If you know everything, then you’ve already surmised a theory, yes?”
It was the look in his eyes, more so than the slow nod, that affirmed yes, he knew everything. Everything he thought was important.
“And you’d be wrong. Not that it matters.”
I blindly reached down and groped for my shoes, discovering them along with my bag. Constance’s concerned “Natalie?” was overriden by Greg’s quiet “Leave her be, Connie,” as I slipped my pumps on and stood, gathering enough resolve to render Jack Roemer frozen, hand extended, attempting to offer assistance.
“I’ll be leaving now.” Arms crossed over my midsection, I backed slowly from the seating area. “I—” Started to say thank you, but realized how utterly outrageous and inappropriate and wrong it would be. There was nothing to thank here. Not with Constance’s worried gaze following me. With Greg closing his eyes in what appeared to be regret. And Jack—I couldn’t bear to look at him again. How dare he
? No matter who he thought he was. Or his cousin was. Or who he thought I was.
“Please let Mrs. Mercier know I’ve left.” And no matter how hard I tried to have the words come out powerful and strong—to have my persona reassert itself into the cool competent Natalie—it was the voice of the frightened girl, Natalia, that emerged.
“Natalie, at least allow us a few moments to call the car to take you home. Or ask the doorman to hail a taxi—”
“No—” I skittered away from Greg’s plea, my arms unfolding from around my body to reach back for the door, my hands blindly scrabbling for the brass handle that would slide it open, provide freedom. “I don’t need a ride. I don’t need your charity.” The door shuddered as it slammed into its pocket frame.
“I don’t need anything. Do you understand me? I will never need anything from any of you.”
Eight
“Natalie?”
Time had completely slipped away while I’d walked. I’d managed to escape the apartment undetected for the most part—nothing more than a quizzical glance from the maid manning the coat check. Leaving the building behind with every intention of going home. I think. Or whatever it was that passed for home. But then, rather than hail one of the many cabs that streamed past, or descend into the steaming, claustrophobic confines of the subway, I’d simply continued walking, weaving in and out of the weekend revelers, out celebrating the holiday season. Ignoring the cat calls and the invitations from outside the bars to join them for a drink. I’d just kept my head down and weaved and pushed through the small knots of people, the couples, the others who were as alone as I was. Along Central Park West, around Columbus Circle, down Broadway and into the seedy bustle of Times Square with its honking horns and too-bright lights and jaded regulars lurking in shadowy doorways—a place where any whim could be indulged if only for the right price.
It was as if I was seeing it through the glass of the globes I’d adored as a child, except I was the one trapped inside, sparkling snow falling about my shoulders, reflecting the lights. Like a dream, I walked through it all, protected by the translucent walls of my bubble, the sights blurred and distorted, sounds muffled into an indistinct rumble.
I continued to meander down Broadway, no longer even bothering to pretend I had any real destination in mind, simply allowing myself to be pushed along by the cold wind and stinging snow blowing down the street, pausing for a breath when the wind did, stamping pins and needles from my feet and legs and watching the clouds of my breath dissipate into the frigid night air before the wind decided it was time for me to resume my aimless journey. It was during one such pause that I found myself in front of Macy’s, the windows brilliantly dressed in holiday splendor meant to evoke this year’s theme: Santa Claus in a multitude of different guises.
There was, of course, the traditional Santa in full Miracle on 34th Street mode, a dark-haired little girl perched on his lap and whispering secrets. The Cowboy Santa holding the reins of a bucking bronco with a delighted little boy perched in front of him. Then there was the Rock-and-Roll Santa in a red lamé jacket and piled high pompadour with sideburns as he strummed his guitar, a pose that a decade earlier would have been considered scandalous, but was today, endearingly anachronistic.
Despite the wind picking up, insisting I should go, I stood riveted in front of the final window, unable to move, even if I’d wanted to. All I could do was stare at the Santa in his old-fashioned candy-cane striped bathing suit and sunglasses, languidly reclining in a chaise lounge beneath an umbrella. Positioned beneath a glorious smiling sun, the chaise was surrounded with sparkling sand and potted palms and flowers, while a photo backdrop of endless white beach and turquoise waters completed the optical illusion of a tropical paradise. And all I could do was laugh. Peal after peal, until I slumped against the window, my breath leaving smears of condensation on the pristine glass.
Dios mío de mi alma—the irony. All this shiny, tropical splendor, as foreign and incongruous here, with cold and snow and traffic streaming past as those cool silver and blue winter-scene Christmas cards had been in the brilliant warmth of my home, all those years ago.
It didn’t make sense. None of it.
Spinning away from the window, I continued along 34th, still walking aimlessly, it seemed, but after a few blocks I paused again, leaning my head back, back, still farther back, wavering off-balance, my gaze following the Empire State Building’s sleek, endless lines, as far as I could see, the skewed perspective leaving me dizzy and disoriented.
The entire time I’d lived in New York, I’d not been here. It was too iconic, far too much a symbol of the city Nicolas had so loved. Easier for me to reduce New York to the immediate—the dirty, crowded streets and faceless, anonymous strangers streaming in and out of claustrophobic offices and apartment buildings. To make it as indistinct as any other large city. That other New York—the beautiful one of shining skyscrapers and glittering lights—that had been the fantasy. Nico’s dream. I understood that. And stayed as far away from it as humanly possible. My demons may have driven me to this godforsaken city, but they did not have agency over the entirety of my heart.
At least, until tonight.
Paying my fee and following the guide’s bored instructions to a cordoned line, I waited my turn to ride the elevator to the 86th floor, and the expansive observation deck. And even here—surrounded by the excited chatter of tourists and the quiet murmurs of lovers—with the unending panorama of the city stretched before me— Even here, I couldn’t completely shed the near overwhelming sense of isolation. Perhaps it simply wasn’t possible any longer.
The city lights appeared to wink as they merged with the gently falling snow, a riotous sea of color and pattern, undulating to the rhythm of the streets far below and tempting me with whispered promises.
Just one step.
All it would take was one step out onto its vast expanse, then I, too, could reach up and touch the heavens.
That if I did, I could be with the one person who’d always known me.
Those poor lovers and tourists—with their confused expressions and the expletives and shouts they hurled after me as I pushed past, heart pounding in my mad dash for the elevator, squeezing through the rapidly closing doors, reluctant to wait even the few minutes it would take for the next one to arrive. Ignoring the startled faces and less-than-subtle whispers of drugs or drunk—shrinking back into a corner and praying that the damned thing would get to the lobby. Just get to the lobby, please.
Through the doors and out onto the street and running, running… Horns and shouts hardly registering, icy splashes from cars speeding through puddles barely eliciting a gasp as I paused on street corners, attempting to get my bearings before taking off again. My once-lovely satin pumps, never meant for this sort of panicked flight, skidded on slick, frozen patches and sank into wet piles of slush as my gloved fingers grabbed onto iron banisters, parking meters, jutting bricks, anything that might propel me forward, including, in one tire-squealing moment, the hood of a taxi, my heart pounding in my ears as I stood, illuminated in the headlights like the star of some horribly surreal show. Through the grimy expanse of windshield, I watched the agitated motions of the driver’s hands, and the way his mouth worked—was it in fear or anger?—before limping off, thigh hot and throbbing, blindly turning corners, relying on instinct, because I’d only been here a handful of times and never for anything like this and please be home, por favor, por favor, por favor, be home—
The soles of my shoes scrambling for purchase on the stone steps, numb fingers pulling open the exterior door, then still more steps, the marble worn smooth over the decades, each step echoing briefly before being drowned out by the next one. My fist, mimicking the desperate sound, pounding on the solid wood door, forehead propped on my upraised arm, unwilling to face the possibility that no one might be home. That I’d be left alone—
I didn’t want to be alone. Not tonight. Not again.
“Natalie?”
; I clung to the door jamb, grateful to the point of tears that he was here.
“Chère, what are you doin’ here—what’s happened? Girl, look at me—c’mon now, talk to me bebe, you hurt?”
And as I stood there, teeth chattering, unable to answer or even to take the single step necessary to cross the threshold—to complete my impromptu journey—Remy took charge. Thank God, because I simply couldn’t. Cradled in his arms like a baby, I dropped my head to his shoulder as he drew me from the shadowed hall into the light and warmth of his apartment.
“You sit right there and don’t move.”
He eased down onto the sofa still holding me, as I clung to him like a limpet, afraid to let go, even for a second. Afraid if I did, he’d dissipate and I’d realize I had done nothing more than conjure an elaborate vision out of sheer desperation.
“It’s okay, chère,” he crooned. “I’ll be right back. I’m not goin’ anywhere, I promise.” With a gentle touch, he pushed lank, ragged strands of hair from my face, tilting my chin up just far enough for my gaze to meet his. “Just give me a minute, that’s all.”
After he shifted me more fully onto the sofa, rather than turn to walk away, he chose instead to retreat, nodding slowly all the while as if in reassurance, his gaze steady, holding mine the entire way until he disappeared into his kitchen with a final nod to just hold on. Just another minute longer. The minute he vanished, I drew my frozen, aching legs up, curling in on myself. Dropping my forehead to the back of the sofa, I allowed the soft velvet of the throw draped across the streamlined leather surface to cradle my throbbing head and absorb the occasional tear.
“C’mon, bebe, drink. Then we’ll get you into a hot bath.”
Between Here and Gone Page 9
