by Densie Webb
Hands trembling, my heart playing ping-pong in my chest, I take a breath, walk over to the bed and slowly sit down. This is it. A coward’s kiss off. I’m sure of it. It’s so like Vincent to announce his departure with a handwritten note, rather than a text filled with typos. I slowly flip open the folder paper.
Andie,
I am sorry to leave you in the dead of night like this, but a delivery is expected at five am in the shop. I need to shower and change beforehand. And I didn’t want to wake you. You were sleeping so peacefully.
I am without adequate words to convey how much last night meant to me. My existence is infinitely better with you in it.
Je t’aime,
Vincent
I dash to the living room, waving the paper in my hand like it’s the winning ticket in a MegaMillion lottery. “He left a note! He left a note!”
Mack peers over her purple-framed readers, one of about five pairs she owns but refuses to wear in public, looking dubious. I slip the note into her hand and she quickly scans the words before handing it back. “Okaaaay.”
“What?”
“If he knew he had a delivery this morning, why didn’t he just tell you last night, so you wouldn’t wake up in such a panic.”
“I wasn’t panicking.”
“Uh, yeah,” she huffed, “you were.”
She’s right, but I’m defensive. “Okay, so I was disappointed when I thought he had left without saying a word, but did you see how he signed off? Je t’aime, I whisper in the best French accent I can muster. “Don’t you think that’s like, over-the-top romantic?”
“Yeah, it’s over the top all right.”
“Mack, this is serious. I think I….”
“You think what? That this changes everything? Anything? Andie, sweetie, he slipped out the morning after.”
“No,” I look at the note, at Vincent’s beautiful words, “Mack, you don’t understand. I think I…”
“If you say you think you love him I’m checking you into Bellevue.”
When I don’t respond, she raises her eyebrows and jerks her head back, creating the hint of a double chin. “Andie, seriously? You just met the guy like two minutes ago and thirty seconds ago you thought he had dumped you without a word.”
“But it doesn’t feel that way; it feels as if I’ve known him forever.” I hesitate. “It’s like this was meant to be or something.” She shakes her head. Even I know how that sounds.
“That you even thought he would sneak out in the middle of the night without telling you, means you don’t really know him.”
My anger is a flash fire, sudden and impossible to control. “And neither do you! Since when are you such an expert on relationships? Huh?” I cross my arms in defiance. “You have no idea how I feel, how he makes me feel. I mean, how could you? It’s not like you’ve ever even been in a real relationship. It’s not like this thing with Chester is going to last.”
She looks stunned, hurt, about to fight back, but instead takes a deep breath.
“Okay, okay,” she says, holding both hands up in surrender. “I don’t have a great track record. Thanks for pointing that out, by the way.” She stands up and throws back her shoulders. “All I’m saying, Andie, is be sure you can trust him with your feelings.”
And with that, she grabs her coat and walks out. The door slams, punctuating her last stinging words, salt in my self-inflicted wound.
Chapter 21
Vincent
As the sunlight begins to filter through the curtains, Nicholas drifts in. He says nothing. I grab a beer from the refrigerator, hand it to him and he gulps it down in record time. Gets up and grabs another. He is attempting to tamp down his true feelings, something for which we’ve both had a great deal of practice. I don’t press him. He slides onto a barstool in the kitchen, the kitchen I have no use for, and when he finally looks at me, he asks casually, “You were chuffed when you walked in last night, until you saw… Must have gone well with Andie. Shag her, did you?”
I’m going to let it slide this time. “Yes.”
“And I take it she survived?”
“Yes.” Again I envision the body of the girl, Maisie, exposed, bleeding, no longer breathing. Judging by his pained expression, he is experiencing the same mental image.
“Does she know?”
“No, she does not.”
“Well, she’s in a for a hell of a surprise, isn’t she now?”
I walk over and sit on the bar stool next to him. “Nicholas, I’m truly sorry for what happened.”
“Sorry for me or for her?”
“Both. It was a moment of weakness, a single sin. You will continue as you have been and no one else will be harmed.”
“Bollocks!” He leans in and beams a manic smile, “Vincent, it was glorious, orgasmic, a bloody high—no pun intended.” He stops, sits back, and shrugs apologetically. “It was like I had stepped outside my own body and was a spectator, viewing the whole thing from above.” He raises his hand as if reaching for the sky. “Like it wasn’t me, but him.” He’s always distanced himself from the monster he used to be by referring to it in third person.
“It was so easy to stop fighting and just let it happen and now that I’ve crossed that line again, I don’t know if I can stop myself next time.” He stops and slumps over the bar. “We’re killers, Vincent. It’s what we are. It’s in our DNA. Does the shark stop to consider its victims? Does the viper? Do either of them have a choice?”
He’s too raw right now for me to talk him down, bring him back, stem his savagery. Fear wraps its slimy hands around my neck and squeezes, hard. Fear that I may have lost Nicholas to his bloodlust. Fear that I may be looking in the mirror.
“Nicholas, take the day off. I’ll handle the shop today.” He’s wringing his hands, his brow furrowed. He answers with a mere hint of a nod.
“It’s going to be okay, mon ami.”
I can only hope he finds his way back and things will continue as they have always been. I know Nicholas. The alternative would be unbearable. He can’t erase what he’s done, but he can start over. Again. And I will be by his side.
But for now, he leaves for the solitude of his apartment, to wrestle with his conscience. I wander to the window. It’s a bright morning sun that shines through the nearly bare winter branches and onto the now empty park bench in Riverside Park. Yellow tape surrounds the area, but it garners little attention from New Yorkers on the move. The police are questioning passersby to find out if they heard anything, spotted anyone suspicious. The answer will be no, but if they could question the coyote, he could tell them everything they want to know.
I leave for the shop and as I turn to head downtown, an officer jogs across the street from the park, dodging traffic, calling out and waving his hand at me, “Hey, can I talk to you a minute?”
I stop and wait for his approach. “Yes?”
“You live in this building?” he asks as he peers into the lobby.
“Yes.”
“Did you happen to hear anything or see anyone suspicious around here last night, say around three a.m.?”
He is admirably earnest in his crisp, blue uniform. “No, I’m afraid I was asleep at that time.” I look over toward the park and the tape. “Why? What happened?”
“Incident in the park.” He looks at me again. “You sure you didn’t hear anything?”
“I’m a heavy sleeper.”
“Okay. Well, if you remember anything, let us know.” He looks me in the eye as he hands me his business card. I look back at him and make sure he won’t remember me. It’s better that way, in case our paths should ever cross again under similar circumstances.
He jogs back to the park. I’m relieved it wasn’t Nicholas who was questioned. He’s in no frame of mind for such scrutiny. I fear he would have confessed to the murder, to what he is, to what we are. He wouldn’t have bothered to wipe anyone’s memory clean.
And he might have ripped his throat out.
Chapte
r 22
Andie
After Mack leaves so abruptly, I marinate in my lingering anger. She’s never been in love, doesn’t have a clue what it feels like. But, if I’m being honest with myself, I’m not sure if this is love—or a megadose of raw lust. I loved David, but what I feel for Vincent is on a different plane altogether. I’m not sure how to categorize my feelings or if I should even try. All I know is that when I’m with him, it feels good. Really good. Too good?
As I replay our exchange, my anger morphs into regret. Mack’s just looking out for me, trying to protect my feelings. She’s the only person who knows how much my feelings have been pummeled in the past. I shouldn’t have been so blunt, so incredibly bitchy. I sip my coffee, read the note over and over again, with Vincent’s voice in my head, especially his sign off, “Je t’aime.” But Mack’s words are competing to be heard, “Just make sure you can trust him with your feelings.” Their words take me down very different paths.
I glance at the clock. “Shit!”
****
As I rush through the office doors, I greet Shirley at reception. “Morning, Shirley.” I realize she has her Bluetooth protruding from her ear. Waving in my direction, she answers a call. “New York Life. How may I direct your call?” I glance at the clock on the wall just as it hits nine a.m. I’m rushing down the hall to my office, so Patty doesn’t think I’m late, when Peter intercepts me.
“Code Red, sweetheart. Patty Panic. We’ve been summoned.” He loops his arm through mine, we make an about face and march in unison into her office.
Patty’s staring at a stack of papers on her desk. We’re standing front and center, waiting for her to acknowledge our presence. She doesn’t look up as she says, “Have a seat.”
After a few uncomfortable seconds, for me anyway—Peter is casually examining his nails—she looks up. “Okay,” she says after sighing heavily, “we have to develop a special issue, pronto.”
“Define pronto, please,” Peter says as he crosses his legs.
Her expression steels, daring us to break through. “Four weeks. Scheduled to hit newsstands three months after that.”
Peter laughs. “Surely you jest, Patty.”
“Do I look like I’m kidding?” She cocks a single, perfectly shaped brow.
“So who’s going to take over my regular gig?”
“No one. We don’t have the budget.”
I’m listening to this exchange and wondering why I’m here when she turns to me.
“Andie, you’ll be working with Peter on this project, while you’re getting up to speed with the regular issues.”
I bite my lip and swallow hard. “Of course, whatever I can do to help.”
“Not ‘help,’ Andie. You’re editor on this one. You’ll be assigning the articles, working with Peter on layout and coordinating with advertising for the ad pages.”
I glance at Peter, in a semi-panic, my second of the day. So much for my rush of confidence yesterday. Peter stands up, his left hand on his hip, the index finger of his right hand pointed at Patty, circling the air. “This is totally unrealistic and you know that.”
Her face softens. “I do know that, but Eric is insistent. We need the ad pages. Sorry, but it’s not negotiable.”
“So, what is this special issue supposed to be about?” Peter asks, his arms now tightly folded against his chest.
“And I quote, ‘New York Kids—A Guide to the Good Life.’ ”
Peter’s mouth drops open. “What the hell? Why doesn’t Jenny do it? She’s the one that handles all the kid stuff.”
“She’s about to go on maternity leave, remember?”
“How convenient.”
“I’m not going to argue with you, Peter. You and Andie have your assignment. Get back to me by the end of the day with an outline and a list of freelancers who can get it done. I’m working on the budget now. I’ll get it to you by tomorrow morning.”
Peter taps his foot. He frowns and opens his mouth as if to say something, but then he turns to me with an exaggerated smile. “So l guess we’d better get the ball rolling.”
I follow Peter out of Patty’s office. As soon as we’re out of earshot, I ask, “Who’s Eric?”
“The publisher. It’s a dictatorship around here, not a democracy. Shall we meet up in your office at 1500 hours?”
I laugh as I salute him, but my head is pounding, my stomach lurching. “Yes sir.”
“I have a ton of special issues you can look through and get a sense of what these ridic projects are all about.”
****
Peter rushes into my office at precisely 3:00, with a whiteboard under his arm and a handful of markers. He sits on the edge of my desk and says, “Okay monkey, you ready for your circus?”
I chuckle, despite my anxiety that’s rocking and rolling to a deafening beat. “Yeah, I guess this is my circus now.” I motion to the stuff in his hands. “Looks like you’ve already done your homework.”
“She’s expecting something resembling an outline in about three hours.”
I place my palm on my forehead. I think I have fever.
He jumps off the desk and comes around to where I’m sitting. “Andie, hon, we’ve got this.” He pulls the cap off a red marker and points it at me. “I’m armed and dangerous.”
“Let me bring Tyler in on this. He’s been researching some stuff for the regular issue, but I’m going to need all the help I can get.”
“But of course.” Peter sticks his head out of my door and yells to the next office, “Oh, Tyler! Your presence is requested by one Ms. Rogé! Don’t keep her waiting.” He leans in to me and whispers, “He’s such a doll.”
Tyler hurries in, ducking his head in the doorway. “Yes, ma’am?”
“Tyler, please. I told you, that makes me feel like I’m a hundred years old.”
“Oh yeah, sorry, Andie.”
“Have a seat.” I hear myself and I sound like Patty. “Or stand if you want.”
His Adam’s apple bobs up and down as he swallows hard. The pupils of his light blue eyes constrict to tiny dots. “Am—am I being fired?”
“What? No! What in the world would make you think that?”
He lets out a sigh of relief. “You just sounded so serious.”
I’ve been on that side of the conversation more than once. “Hardly,” I say, “we’re just getting started.”
Peter and I fill him in on the assignment and he’s all lanky enthusiasm. When five o’clock rolls around, the whiteboard is full and I tell Tyler he can go home, that Peter and I will take it from here tonight and we’ll figure out next steps in the morning.
It’s six-fifteen when we finally finish a rough outline, which is damn good, if I do say so myself. As soon as I finish typing it up and email it to Patty, along with a freelancer list, Peter slaps a high five on me and engulfs me in a bear hug. For a day that started off so incredibly shitty, it’s been a great day. He rocks me back and forth and says, “You’re the best. You would so be my girlfriend.”
****
Three Weeks Later
It seems forever since Mack and I “disagreed” over Vincent. The day after our argument, she had readily accepted my sincere apology for my angry outburst and she has since reluctantly accepted that Vincent is a fixture in my life. I’ve seen him almost every day since the night we made love and our time together has been full—a trip to Brooklyn to the subway museum, the movies. And then there was the New York City ballet, performing Giselle.
Walking through the lavish entrance to Lincoln Center, the starburst chandeliers sparkled and shone brightly. Everything was sharper, more defined—the curved, lushly carpeted stairway as we made our way up to our seats, the sounds of people milling around’ the orchestra tuning up. And Vincent was there beside me, guiding me to the balcony, with a winged view of the stage. It was like heaven and earth had aligned and I was in the center.
Sitting next to him in the dark, feeling his every move as the lithe dancers perfectly ara
besqued and pirouetted, his hand encircling my fingers, slowly taking his eyes from the performance to look into mine, was the most sensual experience of my life. When we walked out from the heart-rending performance, he stopped in front of the lighted fountains outside Lincoln Center and faced me.
It was the perfect movie backdrop for my unquenchable fascination with him, which deepened with each kiss, each embrace. The throng of theater goers swarmed around us, but we were alone. He held my face in his cool hands and I closed my eyes in anticipation as he leaned over and kissed me softly. When I opened them, a veil of melancholy draped his face.
“It breaks my heart to love you,” he whispered. His words were spoken with such sorrow, I had to replay them to be certain of what I had heard. As I tried to reconcile his words of love with the deep sadness in his voice, he grabbed my hand and rushed me to the curb.
I was filled with lustful anticipation as he stood in his perfectly tailored navy suit hailing a cab, his cashmere scarf waltzing in the biting breeze. My imagination had me lying beneath his bare chest, breathless with desire, tangled in rumpled, twisted sheets.
As I entered the cab, I slid over to make room for him, but he shut the door, handed the driver some cash and leaned in the window. “I’ll call you in the morning, Antoinette. Sleep well.” He tapped the roof of the cab and backed away before I could protest. The driver took off up Columbus Avenue.
“Where to?” the driver said, as he glanced in the rearview mirror.
My confusion and crushing disappointment didn’t stop me from turning around to catch a glimpse of Vincent from the rear window. He was still standing in the same spot, watching me go.
“Lady, where to?”
I swallowed hard. “93rd and West End.”
He’ll call me in the morning?
I suddenly felt ridiculous, dressed in the Herve Leger dress and blood red suede Jeffrey Campbell strappy stilettos I had borrowed from Mack. The dress was a sexy little number, with a cut-out back and a peekaboo front. It was the color of gunmetal and fit like a second skin. The price tag—$1,500—took my breath away, but Mack had insisted. And I had let my unruly, shoulder-length hair hang naturally, the way he liked it. I was dressed to kill. Or at least to seduce.
