by Densie Webb
“Ah.” He purses his lips and nods as if he understands. I wish he would explain it to me. Instead, he turns to Mack and says, “Well, it was nice to meet you…?”
“It’s Mackenna.” She’s pissed.
“Oh, so is Wednesday still good for the flower delivery?” he says to me.
“Don’t you mean orchids?” she says, not hiding her irritation.
I give her the stink eye before smiling at Nicholas. “Great. Thanks.”
He gestures to Jake. “Another round for these two and put it on my tab. He looks at the drink in my hand. “Extra olives for this one,” he says, pointing to me. Smiling, he says, “You ladies have a splendid evening.” He turns on his heels, taking his blond curls and turquoise eyes with him.
Mack looks at me, frowns and shrugs. “He may be hot, but he’s clueless.”
Jake sets the fresh drinks on the bar and I wait until she’s taken a sip. “Did it ever occur to you that maybe he’s not interested in women, that maybe he’s gay?”
She considers it for a moment and shakes her head. “What a waste.”
As she finishes her second drink, we spot Nicholas walking toward the door, his arm around an unlikely choice. He’s whispering in the ear of a very round and not particularly attractive young woman, who’s grinning like she just won the Bingo Jackpot.
I remember how foolish I felt when I saw his partner, Vincent, leave with a woman clinging to him. As they walk out onto the sidewalk, the girl grabs Nicholas by the collar, pushes him up against the door and begins a very public make-out session. For a second I’m sure they’re going to do it right there on 93rd and Broadway. But they disengage, she tugs at her skirt to cover her ample thighs, and they scurry off, arm in arm.
Mack shrugs it off and raises her glass in a toast. “Well, at least we got free drinks out of him.”
****
Monday morning
“What time is your follow-up interview?” Mack asks, as she puts the final touches on her signature black honey lipstick. She’s heading downtown to show a multi-million-dollar brownstone in the Village to a “really hot celebrity.” She’ll spill eventually, but she always starts off with the best intentions not to breach her ten-page nondisclosure agreement.
“At four. Cross your fingers—and toes—for me. And then maybe I can treat you to that champagne I promised.”
She laughs. “Sounds good. I’m in.”
I decided long ago that Mack has good karma. Shortly after she got her real estate license, she dated Ryan Craft, “lawyer to the stars,” as he was fond of announcing to anyone willing to listen. One of his celebrity clients was looking for a new place and he brought Mack in on the deal. She and Ryan didn’t last, but his connections provided the six degrees that launched her very lucrative career.
Now, she makes about five times more than I could ever hope to, and she’s generous to a fault. When I lost my job, I had visions of ending up as one of those sad, homeless bag ladies with matted hair, mumbling to myself on the street corner. Or worse, heading back to Iowa in defeat. But Mack stepped up. I should have known she wouldn’t stand by and watch me fail. Her big-hearted generosity runs in the family.
Before my parents died, I was blissfully ignorant of how security could be removed with such surgical precision. I had no siblings, no aunts or uncles to take me in; my only living grandparents were in their eighties and in poor health. They tried, but taking in an inconsolable, rebellious, fourteen-year-old was not something they were equipped to handle. So Mack’s parents opened their home and their hearts to me and signed on as my legal guardians.
Our moms had grown up together and we had shared communal Thanksgiving dinners, exchanged presents at Christmas, went trick-or-treating together. Only in retrospect did I understand the huge sacrifice they had made for me, for my mother. They were a beacon of sanity in my storm of grief, especially Mack’s mom. She had lost her own mother the year before and she understood my pain, let me cry on her shoulder, sometimes staying up with me until the early morning hours, as I dove head first into a murky swamp of sadness and self-pity.
They raised a force field of affection around me and took me to months of intense grief counseling with one Dr. Jane Rosenberg. When I was fifteen, she took me to a different kind of counselor after Mack ratted on me, told her that I was drinking and smoking weed nearly every day, skipping class, failing. A fog of resentment made it impossible for me to envision my future. Any future.
And I was just so fucking angry. At everything and everyone. Including Mack for a while. It frightens me now to imagine what might have happened if Mack and her family hadn't been there. They never gave up on me. At times, I thought the pain unbearable. But I eventually accepted that life goes on, no matter how much it hurts.
“Allow plenty of time,” Mack says, interrupting my thoughts. “It’s supposed to rain and you know how packed the subway gets.” She grabs her umbrella and before closing the door behind her, says, “Call or text me and let me know how it goes!”
The door shuts behind her and I slide the dead bolt in place. I’m left alone to mentally prepare for my second interview. This is the job I’ve dreamed of since Mack and I were kids and used to lie on the floor in our shared bedroom, our legs tangled together, fantasizing about how our adult lives would play out.
I was going to be a famous writer and she was going to be—famous. When we graduated university, Kristyne, a mutual friend, beelined to New York, snagged a walk-on part in an off-off-Broadway play, and convinced us that New York was Oz. It was our chance to break free of our small-town mold and really live.
But things in New York haven’t quite worked out the way I had envisioned. I’ve faced one professional disappointment after another as Mack climbed every rung of the real estate ladder. I’ve had a few almost job offers. The worst was when I got a call from human resources at Entertainment Life magazine telling me I needed to fill out the paperwork for my new job. I couldn’t believe it. Turned out my instincts were right. The guy who called was new and had goofed. I didn’t have the job. It was like I had won an Oscar, only to have it yanked away and handed to someone else. “Oh god, I’m so sorry,” he whispered, when he broke the bad news. I’m still recovering from that let down.
****
Eventually the hour is near and I shower, dress and stand in front of the mirror, deciding if I’m interview ready. I give myself an A+. I grab my umbrella and head out.
Mack’s weather forecast is spot on and it begins pouring as I round the corner of 96th and Broadway. I manage to squeeze myself and my weeping umbrella onto the first train in the station. The air inside the subway car is dank and I feel my carefully flat-ironed hair exploding like rice noodles in a wok. I catch my reflection in the window of the train and sigh. All I need is a red belted dress and to let loose a few lyrics about the sun coming out tomorrow to complete the look.
I make it to the office on time, check in with security in the lobby and bully my way onto the packed elevator, certain that my timing on the subway and the elevator are good omens, but when I reach the lobby and greet the too-smiley receptionist, I’m placed in a holding pattern. With each five-minute increment that passes, I add a new worst-case scenario to my list. If the editor-in-chief were really interested in hiring me, she wouldn’t keep me waiting so long. Maybe she’s already hired someone else and her assistant forgot to cancel our appointment. I was crazy to believe I’d actually get this job. How can I ask Mack to spot me for another month’s rent? How will I pay the florist bill?
The receptionist tugs on my mental worry beads when she says, “Ms. Rogé, Ms. Whitney will see you now.”
I enter the brightly lit hallway and head straight for the office with the nameplate that shouts at me, “EDITOR-IN-CHIEF, PATRICIA WHITNEY” and gently tap on the door.
“Come in,” she sings.
She’s sitting at her big glass-and-chrome desk that accents her severely cropped silver hair, her apple-red lipstick, and her loop earrings t
he size of saucers. She offers me a welcoming smile. That’s a good sign.
“Have a seat.” She wastes no time. “Antoinette, we typically require more experience than you have, especially for senior positions.”
I brace myself for the have-a-nice-day send off.
“But, I’ve discussed it with the editorial staff, we’ve reviewed your clips and your sample edits and they’re really good. I think you’d make a great addition to our staff. You have a fresh perspective and you’ve injected some humor into what could have been sensitive subjects. I’d like you to come on for a three-month trial period.”
“That’s fantastic!” I say, but I’m already nursing a new worry—that I won’t live up to expectations.
“We’d like to see you here next Monday at eight o’clock for an editorial meeting to bring you up to speed. After that, your editorial assistant…
I have an editorial assistant! I lose my focus after that revelation.
“Okay, well if you’ll stop by Human Resources on your way out and fill out some paperwork, that’ll be it for today.”
I jump up. “Thank you again for the opportunity.” I stand in front of her desk for a few awkward seconds, waiting for…closure?
“See you next Monday,” she says as she picks up her phone. I’m being dismissed.
I close the office door behind me. I have no idea where Human Resources is. A guy is marching with purpose in my direction. He would draw attention in a crowd with his neatly pressed grey slacks, bright pink shirt, and lavender suspenders. Art portfolios are gripped firmly under his arm. I remember his face from the meeting last week, but I can’t bring up his name.
“Excuse me?”
He stops, shifts the portfolios onto his hip and looks at me with a flicker of recognition.
“I’m looking for the Human Resources office.”
He pauses, frowns and then his face lights up. “You’re Andie, right? The new Lifestyle Editor? Congrats!” He offers me a firm handshake with his free hand. He’s wearing Captain America cufflinks.
“I’m Peter, the artistic genius around here.” He stops, backs off and looks me up and down.
“I love your hair,” he says. His voice drops to a whisper and he leans in. “The last editor was a real barker, poor thing.” He shakes his head.
Animated once again, he says, “Follow me.” And he motions for me to trail him.
“Weren’t you about to go into Ms. Whitney’s office?” I nod and point at the portfolios still firmly in his grasp.
“Oh, puleeze! Call her Patty; everyone else does. Anyway, she can wait.” He leans in and his voice drops to a whisper again. “She’s creating a crisis where none exists. Her standard MO.” He titters as if we’re already co-conspirators and leads the way, chatting the whole time about office politics, who hates who, who’s sleeping with who, who wants to sleep with who, before dropping me off at the office door. “When do you start?”
“Next week.”
“We’ll do lunch and I’ll fill in all the blanks for you. There’s a great vegan deli around the corner.” He leans in as if this too is a secret. “You’ll love it.” He turns and gives me a thumbs up over his shoulder as he begins retracing his steps back to Ms. Whit–Patty’s office.
I fill out the reams of paperwork, de rigueur for starting a new job, and get my ID photo. My hair takes up most of the frame.
I stop in the lobby to call Mack; this news warrants more than a text.
“Mack, do you know who this is?”
She laughs. “Andie?”
“This is the new lifestyle editor at New York Life!”
There’s that cheerleader squeal.
“We have to celebrate. Wanna meet at Lizzie’s?”
I’m not ready for the possibility of another chance encounter with Mr. Static Electricity. “Let me wander around and see what’s close to my office. God, I love saying that—‘my office.’ ” This time we squeal in unison. “I’ll text you and we can meet up in say an hour and a half? I want to case the neighborhood first.”
“Sounds good. So, your treat?”
“Absofuckinglutely!” I’m giddy at the thought of being able to foot the bill, my first baby step toward payback.
Ducking under my umbrella, I wander the neighborhood, checking out places where I’ll eat lunch, grab a latte, maybe shop on my lunch hour. I’m feeling lucky, so I stop at a tiny kiosk and buy a five-dollar scratch-off card, something I haven’t done in years.
My dad bought one every Friday, to kick off the weekend, he said. He never won more than a dollar or two, but as a kid, the excitement of him handing me a penny from his pocket to scratch off the silver and the anticipation of what might be underneath was enough.
I back away from the counter, grab a penny from my purse and, as I quickly scratch the silver away, I feel the same child-like excitement. Three dollar signs pop up. I scratch off the prize. Fifty dollars! I’ll buy a round of drinks with my newfound “fortune.”
As I step out onto the sidewalk, it’s stopped raining and the sun has come out. I half expect a rainbow to pop up in my path and Judy Garland’s voice to provide the soundtrack. I’m happier than I’ve been since—well, since forever. This is it. This is the reason I moved to New York. This is the day I fully embrace the future and kick my dogged doubts to the curb.
Chapter 7
Vincent
Nicholas tells me he ran into her at Lizzie Borden’s last night after our encounter at the Black Orchid. Her name is Andie. No last name, just Andie. I say it out loud and it’s like sugar melting on my tongue. I drive Nicholas crazy asking questions. What did she say about our encounter? Did she look frightened? Did she seem confused? How long was she there? Did she leave with anyone?
He stands up. “Okay, mate, get a grip! It’s fine.”
“Fine? Weren’t you listening?” I shout at him. “Nothing about that encounter was fine.”
He shakes his head. “Look, I’ve known you for a long time. Self-control is your thing.”
“This is different. Can you even remember what it was like before, to desire a woman? Pure desire, untainted by the thirst?”
He sits back down, his shoulders slump. “Vaguely.”
“Okay, multiply that a thousand times, add the thirst and that’s what this feels like. If this were happening the way I was always told, with another Kindred, the thirst wouldn’t even be part of the equation.”
The steady influx of customers into the shop keeps me focused, helps me make it through the day without acting on my compulsion to seek her out. We’re closing up when Nicholas suggests we try out a bar he’s scouted in another part of the city. He’s not thirsty, but he knows I am. When I brought the woman home from Lizzie Borden’s the other night I was distracted with thoughts of Andie. Now I’ve waited too long to fully quench my thirst, which is never smart. He gives me the address and says, “You go ahead. I’ll finish up here and meet you there.”
A new bar is a fresh start—a running theme in our lives. Before Nicholas and I met, I was going it alone. Now, we always make the decision together when it’s time to move on. As I approach the black awning and read the name, I chuckle at Nicholas’ choice. I’m about to enter The Bloody Mug. From the outside, it looks like a hundred other places in the city, with its nondescript black exterior, the paint faded and peeling. Only the rose-red door sets it apart.
Inside, it’s happy hour, free appetizers, which always draws a crowd. It’s a very different crowd from Lizzie Borden’s, an unusual hodge-podge of people—Wall Streeters, artsy types, hipsters, old, young. I hear a cacophony of languages, some I don’t recognize. The music is classical jazz. An older couple is slow dancing, holding on to one another, eyes closed. Her head is resting on his shoulder and they’re swaying to the seductive rhythm of the music.
The sting of envy is strong. Oh, how I’ve longed for that—to be grayed and wrinkled, content with the life I had lived, embracing the woman I loved. My love for Danielle was an until-death
-do-you-part kind of love. I just never expected the death part to come so soon.
I suppress the ancient ache and, as I look around the room I have to admit, Nicholas was right. I feel at ease here and my underlying anxiety dissipates for the first time since the “Andie incident.”
I slide onto a stool at the bar, lean in and wave to the bartender. He hustles over and I order a Chivas on the rocks. The bartender, as well as all the servers, have Cockney accents and the sign outside suddenly makes sense. The couple at the table behind me is speaking French, my mother tongue. A Parisian accent. Of all the languages I’ve spoken over the years, it’s the one I miss the most. I peer back over my shoulder. The man is railing about his manager. He wants to quit. She looks as if she’d rather be anywhere else. She catches me looking, listening in. She smiles.
Nicholas ambles in and joins me at the bar. “So, what do you think?”
“Good choice.”
“Speaking of choice, have you made one yet?”
“You see the woman over there, the one speaking French? I don’t think she’s enjoying her current company.”
He turns to glance at her and shakes his head. “I don’t see how you do it.”
“Do what?”
“Look at her, Vincent. She’s outstanding. That would be my undoing. The women I choose aren’t exactly lookers. I can’t remember the last time I was with a woman I was actually attracted to.”
“Really, Nicholas…”
Nicholas nods in her direction and whispers, “He just headed for the loo.”
I take the last sip of my drink, set my glass on the bar, turn in her direction. She’s ready for me. Without the years of honing my self-control, I would have sated myself right here, right now. With an audience. I know some who have done just that and suffered the consequences—death by conflagration.
I have to hurry and get her out of here before her friend returns. I approach and hold out my hand. “Come with me.” I may have lasted this long, but I know I can’t maintain control until I get her home. She takes my hand, we walk out the front door and into the alleyway. One lingering look and she’s relaxed, ready. I slowly lean in as if to kiss her and sink into the soft, warm flesh of her neck. She tastes of lemons and sage.
