by Rozsa Gaston
“About what?”
“About—uh—me.”
“We haven’t spoken in three years, and you’re asking me how I’m feeling about you?” He had an incredible nerve, a quality she’d always admired in him, until she’d loathed it.
“I—I thought maybe you might have thought about me from time to time.”
“And what about you? Have you thought about me from time to time?” Keep it low and smooth girl. Smooth and cool as silk.
“I have.”
“You know my mother used to say something her own mother used to tell her.”
“What’s that?”
“You made your bed, now lie in it.” If only she felt half as fierce as her words. Instead, her heart pounded at the sound of Will’s polished voice. He was so refined; so everything she wasn’t, yet wanted to be.
“Listen—Farrah—can we get together for a drink? So we can talk about this in person?”
“I still don’t understand what we’re supposed to talk about. Your marriage? I don’t really want to know anything about it.” That wasn’t entirely true, but she wanted to put up a strong front.
“I’d like to see you so I can explain a few things in person.”
“Did I ask you for an explanation?” In fact, she did want an explanation—an explanation of why he’d broken up with her so inexplicably when everything had been going so right.
“Not just an explanation. I just want to see you again and—let you know about a—a development that’s come up.”
“I’m not a punching bag, Will.” Strike two. She’d said his name again.
“And I’m not a pugilist.”
Arch-toned Will had been the man she’d loved and desperately wanted. He’d represented everything sophisticated and civilized in her life that she hadn’t started out with back in Jackson Heights, Queens. A pugilist was someone who liked to fight. She hadn’t known that before Will had introduced her to the word.
“Unless you have something new to tell me, I see no point in meeting,” she said weakly, resolving to e-mail Jude the second she got off the phone and firm up their dinner plans. It was time to take charge of her new life, not slip back into the uncertainty and heartbreak of her old one.
“I do have something new to tell you.” Will was relentless, just as he’d been when he’d pursued her at the start of their relationship.
“I have something to tell you, too. I’m not up for being your sounding board either.”
“That’s not it.”
“Okay, then what?” God, if his wife was pregnant, she would just die. No way did she want to know that.
“Can we meet at the Boathouse Café?”
“When?”
“This Saturday afternoon?”
“I’m busy.” She wasn’t.
“Sunday afternoon?”
“I’m flying to Phoenix for work.” She paused. “Okay. Maybe I can move some things around Saturday. What time?”
“Say around four?”
“You’re talking about the Boathouse Café, right? Not the takeout window next to the cafe?” How could she forget one of their first dates, when she’d thought he’d invited her to the upscale Boathouse Café in Central Park, until he led her to the takeout window of the informal snack kiosk next door and bought her a hot chocolate. It had been the first moment it occurred to her he might not be the man he presented himself as. Then, she’d gone ahead and fallen in love anyway.
“Yes, the Boathouse Cafe. My treat. If it’s warm, we’ll sit outdoors.”
She got off abruptly, before she slipped and said his name again.
JUDE WOKE TO the sound of his phone ringing. It had been two days since he’d walked out of the meeting with his boss. Bills were pouring in, and the Griswolds had called to say that they needed the pool house for holiday guests between Thanksgiving and Christmas.
There were disadvantages to living on the cheap on the estate of mega-wealthy owners. His landlords changed their plans frequently, and Jude’s position as their tenant was of small concern to them. His rent was less than one quarter of their monthly utility bill. He knew, because the last time he had gone up to the big house to drop off his rent, he’d glanced at the utility bill lying open on the kitchen counter.
As he stared at his on-line bank account, trying to figure out whether to make his car or credit card payment, all he could think about was what an asshole he’d been dealing with Jim, and how he’d probably screwed up the best job he’d ever had. Working as a ghostwriter for an influential financial markets expert with his own TV show had sure beat being a corporate drone, editing equity reports at a financial firm.
The celebrity’s agent had convinced the publishing house that his client’s book franchise would sell like hotcakes. The guy couldn’t put two written words together to save his life, so Jude and a team of other ghostwriters had been hired. Jude’s first project had been called How to Get Rich. The second book had been How to Stay Rich. Then he’d worked on How to Regain Your Wealth which hadn’t done as well. He suspected it was because the title hadn’t been as catchy.
But marrying for money? It was such a scummy idea that the only way he’d consider it was if he could write it for more money in his pocket. Then, it wouldn’t seem so bad. Reaching for the receiver on his night table, he picked up just before voicemail kicked in.
“Hello.”
“Jude?”
“Yeah.” He ran a hand through hair long enough to let the world know it was wavy. Time to get a haircut.
“It’s Jim. I spoke to Dan.” Had his boss gone to bat for him?
“And—?”
“He’ll cut you a separate deal. You get 50 percent of his royalties on Marry Money alone. No other titles. And no word on this to the publishing house. This is between you and him privately.”
“How do I know that he won’t cheat me?” Jude was elated at the offer. But he wanted to be sure it was airtight before accepting.
“Dan’s not like that.”
“Right. He’s a regular Girl Scout.” Dan had gotten his start as a wealth expert using proceeds he’d gained from suing his former employers. They’d settled out of court in what some had whispered was an enormous settlement, due mostly to Dan’s lawyer’s blackmail expertise.
“Okay. I’ll have his agent send you copies of the bi-yearly royalty statements from the publishing house. Will that do?”
“I still need it in writing. Along with Dan’s agreement.”
“You’ll get it.”
“I want 50 percent of everything. Foreign rights, too.”
“The deal is you get 50 percent of domestic after the agent’s fee is taken out. But I’ll ask Dan about foreign rights.”
“Don’t ask. Tell.”
“What’s gotten into you? You must be getting laid these days.”
“Mum’s the word.”
“I need a proposal and an outline from you for MM by the end of this week.”
“Marilyn Monroe?” He wasn’t partial to blondes, but if Marilyn had been around, he might have made an exception.
“Marry Money. Your new project.”
“I need a signed contract with Dan’s name on it before I deliver.”
“Get your ass in here Friday afternoon and you’ll get it.”
“Then, you’ll take me out for a beer?”
“Your balls have gotten bigger than your head. You’re lucky no one else was around to work on this. Watch yourself, man. There are plenty of ghostwriters out there who’d drink piss to work for Dan Perlstein.”
“You’re definitely buying.”
“You’re an asshole. Be here Friday and we’ll see.”
“Thanks. You too, Jim.” He hung up.
Jude got up and ambled into the kitchen. He flicked on the coffeemaker, then threw open the French doors to the back deck.
He’d done well. How to Marry Money would sell a million copies, and he could live off the royalties without having to live down a reputation as its author.
It was going to be a good day.
How should he get started? He filled his Fairfield University coffee mug and sat out on the back deck to come up with a plan. He’d research rich friends in the Greenwich area, both male and female, many of whom were proven experts on the subject. Information gathering would require expensed lunches and investigative reporting at top galas and benefits. He could enlist Ginny Slade as head of his research committee. By the time the book came out, he’d have her married off, and she could go on TV talk shows, praising the book’s merits to the sky, all the while gesturing with a glittering, rock-laden ring finger—a win-win situation all around.
Then he laughed at himself. Ginny would never go on a talk show for any reason, especially not to talk about life’s crass necessities. She was the real thing, unlike Jude; a blue-blooded, well-born Yankee, who didn’t talk about money—neither hers nor her friends. He’d leave it to Dan Perlstein’s publicist to plug the book once it came out. He was a brash New Yorker who’d make How to Marry Money sound like the next best read to the Bible.
Heading to his computer, Jude decided to start on a rough outline after he cleaned up his e-mails. Scanning down the screen, he saw something from an unfamiliar address. A message entitled “Hi” had come in from [email protected].
She had gotten back to him. He hadn’t been sure she would, given her lukewarm reception of his dinner suggestion.
His pulse raced. Why hadn’t he seen this last night? Then, he remembered. He’d forgotten to check his e-mails after coming in from his evening run. He’d been so down about the possibility of losing the only job on his horizon that he’d just watched some baseball and gone to bed. He double-clicked on her message:
“Hi—Wanted to let you know I’m free for dinner this Friday, the 27th or the following week, either Thursday or Friday. —Farrah”
The tone wasn’t exactly warm and fuzzy, but it was a start. He looked at the time that it had been sent, 10:48 p.m. the evening before. That was a good time of day for her to have been thinking about him.
Where should he suggest they go? He knew a bunch of places in Greenwich, but they were all too fancy for a first get together. Riverdale sounded more intriguing. He knew next to nothing about it, other than hearing that it was the best neighborhood in the Bronx. He typed back.
“Farrah—Good to hear from you. What about this Friday? Want to go somewhere in your neighborhood? I’ll pick you up around 7 if that works for you. Let me know your coordinates. —Jude.”
He hit send. Then, he remembered that he’d told Jim they’d go out for a beer Friday afternoon. He’d let him off the hook so his boss could get home and start the weekend sooner with his family.
Jude pushed back his chair, satisfied. It was going to be not only a good day, but a good week.
FOUR
When the message appeared on her screen from [email protected], she froze. Opening it, she read his suggestion for dinner on Friday. He would pick her up if she’d let him know where she lived.
Getting up from her desk, she went to the window, opened it, and leaned out the sill. The brisk air felt good on her skin. He’d left the choice of where to go in her court. There might be thousands of restaurants in New York City, but Riverdale only had a few, all of them pretty basic. There was An Beal Bocht, the neighborhood Irish pub. There was Riverdale Restaurant, a thinly-disguised sports bar with wide-screen TVs mounted everywhere. There used to be a gorgeous, gourmet place called Riverdale Garden right down the hill from her apartment that had opened and closed within a year. It hadn’t taken long for the owners to figure out most of the locals couldn’t appreciate their menu, much less afford the prices.
Where to go? Farrah pulled her hair out of its ponytail and shook it out. It had been a long day on the road, with two doctors’ office visits in Long Island. She’d gotten stuck in traffic coming back over the Whitestone Bridge. And by the time she’d driven her car into the underground parking garage in her building, she’d been beat. In the elevator, she once again thanked her lucky stars for landing her in Riverdale in a luxury building on the Hudson River. After four years in Manhattan, spending countless hours circling around the block trying to find a parking spot near her apartment, she knew the value of having an assigned parking spot in her building—priceless.
Then it hit her: Ryan’s Steakhouse on Broadway. It had a manly dark wood and leather sort of ambience, but a menu that appealed to the ladies—at least to Farrah. She giggled, remembering the time her track club had celebrated Blanca Mills’s fiftieth birthday there. The women had kept the Irish waitress busy with two rounds of Sex on The Beach. The bartender had sent over a third one on the house.
At the close of the evening, the ladies had staggered down Broadway, arms linked together, singing and shouting into the night air. Thankfully, John and some of the other guys in the club had followed at a distance, making sure their female cohorts didn’t end up in a heap, passed out in a dark alleyway.
Returning to her desk, Farrah hit reply.
“Sounds good,” she typed. If Ryan’s Steakhouse on Broadway at 235th Street is okay with you, I’ll meet you there at 7 at the bar. See you Friday. —Farrah,”
Before she could second guess herself, she clicked on send. Then, she tried to go back to calculating her expenses for her last trip. It was a deadly dull task, as well as embarrassing. She’d eaten way too many chicken Caesar salads alone in her hotel room. Travelling for work wasn’t all that it was cracked up to be.
Pushing away from her desk, she got up again. She was restless and the night was young. She reached for her mulberry fleece jacket, stuffing her wallet and cell phone in the pocket.
Outside on the sidewalk, she could hear young voices and laughter wafting from the direction of An Beal Bocht. She decided to walk by, then stroll to the bottom of the hill where Van Cortland Park began. It was too late to go into the park alone, but there were plenty of people out on the sidewalks enjoying the Indian summer evening.
Outside of An Beal Bocht, a group of college-age kids loitered. They were likely students from Manhattan College, which was just around the corner. A young guy with a smudge of facial hair on his chin leaned over a cute, blonde woman. She was laughingly running her fingers through his long, wavy hair. Summer fun still lingered in the air.
Proceeding down the hill, Farrah breathed deeply. It felt odd to be walking in the direction of the park, since she usually ran to get there. But tonight, she wasn’t working out. She was thinking. Whatever new developments Will had to share on Saturday, she hoped to have some new developments of her own, after Friday evening. Though she wouldn’t be sharing them with her ex, no matter how dinner with Jude went.
In less than ten minutes, she was outside the entrance to Ryan’s. The smell of garlic bread and grilled mushrooms set her mouth watering. It was hard to eat a decent dinner when you lived alone. Earlier that evening, she’d had a takeout salad. It was supposed to be a good thing to eat foods in as close to their raw, natural state as possible. But there were times when Farrah longed for a fat, juicy, medium-rare steak covered with sautéed mushrooms. She would order one on Friday. That should put Jude Farnsworth at ease about whether she was a crunchy granola-type health nut. Part of her was, but the other part was a hearty red meat eater. Probably the Irish half.
Farrah paused outside the long rectangular windows of Ryan’s front room. The restaurant was quiet tonight. Pressing her nose against the pane, she saw only two tables occupied in the front section. At one, a family sat. The other was occupied by a dark-haired man and an attractive brunette talking intently, their heads together. She watched as the woman crossed one slim leg over the other, a sexy red pump dangling from her foot.
As the man spoke, he leaned both elbows on the table, templing his hands with the thumbs together, the forefingers pointed in the direction of the woman’s throat. Farrah saw the woman’s right hand go up to touch the indent at its base. It was as if the man had touched her there in his thoughts, and she h
ad felt it and responded.
Transfixed, Farrah stood in the dark watching the dialogue of body language unfold. The conversation was even more interesting without hearing what was being said. Attraction flickered like an invisible flame between them. After a moment, the man got up and disappeared in the direction of the bar. While he was gone, the woman pulled out a compact and studied her teeth in its mirror. Then she applied deep red lipstick. Wasn’t that a good sign?
Apparently, the young girl at the only other occupied table thought so. She stared at the woman, fascinated by the lipstick-applying ritual. Farrah’s heart tugged. She hoped the little girl, who looked to be about seven or eight, would go out on a similar date one day. It was important not only for the continuation of the human species, but also the cosmetics industry.
“Can I help you?” a Spanish-accented voice asked, directly behind her.
Startled, Farrah whirled around to face a young, male Hispanic man wearing a black jacket with “Ryan’s” embroidered on the chest pocket. The valet parking attendant.
“No. Just checking out the scene tonight.”
“It’s a slow night. Weekends are busier.”
“They are?” Should she make a reservation?
“Sure. Friday and Saturday nights, and Sunday brunches, too.”
“Should I make a reservation if I’m planning to come this Friday?”
“You’ll be lucky if you can still get one. That’s only two days away.” He gestured toward the door, then opened it for her. “Ask Eileen. She’s the hostess tonight.”
Farrah made her way to the hostess’ station, just as the man she’d been watching headed back to the woman waiting for him at the table in front. As he passed, his eyes swept over her. Farrah shuddered. Did men always have an eye out for the next best thing, even when they already had all they could handle? She remembered something a woman at her mother’s hair salon had said when she’d been about ten. The woman had said “It’s up to women to help men organize their biological urges.” Her mother and the other women had cracked up with laughter, but no one would explain to Farrah what she had meant. Now she understood. She was sure the brunette waiting at the table would help focus this guy’s.
