I leap up and turn the place upside down trying to find my cell phone.
“Simone? Give me a break,” says Laurie. “What kind of a name is that?”
“I’ll bet it’s French,” I whisper. My side of the phone conversation takes place underneath Jake’s desk. I figure I can’t be too safe. There’s always a chance he’ll come home early and overhear me. Never mind that if he does walk in right now, I’d have a hard enough time explaining what I’m doing under the desk.
Laurie groans. “Come on. With a last name like Anderson? So not French. Pelletier. See, that’s a real French name.”
“Hardly.”
“Sarah, do yourself a favor. Forget you ever heard the name Simone Anderson. And stop snooping!”
Oh, if it were only that easy.
I realize now my prior method of ransacking had been doomed from the start. Before, it had been aimless and unfocused. But this time, I know what I’m looking for. I crawl out from under the desk and pull open the top drawer. The little black address book I discovered—and ignored—earlier lies comfortably on neat little rows of staples and paper clips. I carefully remove the book without disturbing any of the other items and flip it open to the first page.
Hello, Simone Anderson.
There are two phone numbers listed for her, one under Home, the other under Work. I retrieve my phone and duck back under the desk. I dial Work.
“Hello, Regal Bookstore?”
Downstairs, a door swings open. I hang up quickly.
Jake is home.
chapter fifteen
Julia is all smug smiles behind the counter when I return to the clinic the following day. Her droopy eyebrows make a concerted effort to lift up by way of greeting.
“Still no job?”
“I’m here to pick up Sleeve,” I remind her curtly.
“Uh-uh.” She shakes her head, jiggling the loose flab under her chin. “He’s not here. He was adopted yesterday.”
My jaw goes slack. “Really?”
“Yup. A couple came by in the afternoon. They have a garden apartment out in Bay Ridge. Plenty of room for him to run around in. He couldn’t have gone to a better home. He’s one of the lucky ones, you know?”
I can’t believe it. I should force myself to smile, pretend to be happy. But I can’t bring myself to say a word. Julia glances back down at her clipboard. I doubt she even notices when I leave.
Still reeling once I’m outside, I find myself walking the wrong way, down a stretch of Brooklyn I’ve never been to before. I could lie to myself and claim I am just wandering around, trying to walk off the shock. But the truth is, I know exactly where I’m going.
The Regal Bookstore is a quaint little shop, right down to the artfully arranged book displays and the inviting, plush armchairs tucked into hidden corners. It’s the sort of place I could lose myself in for hours. But not today. Today I have a mission.
I establish my stakeout at the Bestseller table and assume my undercover identity as someone with a passing interest in the new fiction titles. Thus, the extent of my master-spy skills. Subsequent sleuthing in Jake’s apartment turned up no discarded or even mangled photographs of my perp—can I even call her that?—so I have no idea how I plan to make this Simone Anderson. I don’t even know if she is working today.
I circle to the far end of the table and pick up a book. While pretending to read the blurb on the back cover, I look up over the spine to study the clerk behind the counter. He’s a boy—and not a very appealing one at that. Years of raging hormones have taken their toll on his complexion and his less-than-stellar physical coordination. When the phone beside him rings, he fumbles to pick it up and then drops it. After a few seconds of total pandemonium, he is finally able to clutch the receiver in a grip of panic. He mumbles something quietly as he straightens the frames of his glasses. Then, lowering the phone against his chest, he lifts up his head to address the entire store in a shrill voice.
“Simone! Phone for you!”
Well, how about that? I swivel around to see what happens next.
I know her immediately. In fact, I think I’d know her anywhere. She is stooped in front of a young girl, her skirt tucked over her smooth, bare knees. She murmurs “Excuse me,” and stands, handing the girl a paperback—A Tree Grows in Brooklyn. The choice is a little obvious if you ask me.
She brushes right past me. I can smell her hair as it grazes my shoulder. Vanilla? No, almond.
That luxurious blonde hair glides, it swims, across the store, taking long easy strokes. She reaches the counter and cradles the phone receiver against her ear, tossing that magnificent mane over her shoulder to reveal a dainty, patrician nose, full lips, and a small, sharp protruding chin. If those delicate curves weren’t enough, her chest obliges by rounding out her form, with hips to match. She listens intently to her caller and the heel of her sandal lifts and drops to the floor methodically, triggered by the pulse and contraction of her long taut calf.
My God. She’s beautiful. And I am so relieved!
Does my relief surprise you? It surprises me. I hadn’t realized until this very moment that my one true fear would be that she look exactly like me. I suppose I had imagined myself a poor man’s substitute for her, an imperfect replica. Now I can rest assured. I’m no substitute. I don’t even compare!
I approach the counter and shoot the acne-scarred boy clerk a deadly look. He trips over his feet in his haste to scurry away from me.
“Uh-huh,” says Simone into the phone. “It came in this afternoon. I have it here waiting for you.” I prop my elbows up on the counter. Simone looks up and offers me a sweet, apologetic smile. I shrug back and indicate there’s no need for her hurry on my account.
“Great. I’ll see you then.” She hangs up and straightens. I see now she’s a good few inches taller than me. And much thinner. My relief rapidly begins to fade.
“Can I help you?” she asks.
“Uh, sure. I was wondering if you had a pub date for Die Dämmerung?”
She blinks at me through a veil of long, blonde lashes. “I’m sorry. The what?”
“Die Dämmerung. It’s been a German best seller for months. I wanted to know when the English translation comes out.”
“Umm, okay.” She places her fingertips on the keyboard in front of her. “How do you spell the title?”
I spell it for her far too quickly. Her fingers make a heroic attempt to catch up.
“D-A-M …” she repeats hopelessly.
“You sure you haven’t heard of it before?”
She shakes her head and waits. “The computer doesn’t recognize it. Do you know what the title would be in English?”
“Dämmerung?” I raise my eyebrows in disbelief. “It means ‘twilight.’ ” Duh. “The Twilight?”
She types it in.
“No, I’m sorry.” She squints at her computer screen. “It’s not in our database.”
“All right. Well, what about the new Ian Pascal?”
“Oh, that!” She grins broadly, ever so eager to please. “Moments of the Day? It’s in our New Paperback section.”
“Nooo,” I let out an exaggerated sigh. “I mean the new Ian Pascal. The book Paramount just bought? George Clooney is set to star?”
“Oh.” Her smile dips. “What’s it called?”
I give her title. While she types it in, I lean on the counter and try to peer at her screen.
“You a fan of Pascal?” I ask.
“I liked his last book.”
I roll my eyes. “Personally, I think he’s in desperate need of a good editor. He’s not as sharp as he used to be, dontcha think?”
She hits her enter key and watches wordlessly as the information scrolls up. I drum my fingers against the counter impatiently.
“That book doesn’t come out until November,” she says.
“Aw, man, you’re kidding me!”
She looks up and fixes me with a hard stare. Her sweet, angelic smile has all but vanished.
Blindly, I reach for a magazine from the rack below the counter. I slap it down and stamp it with a winning smile.
“Just this,” I say.
I keep the magazine tucked under my arm on my way out the door and down to the corner. While I wait for the light to change, I decide to take a good look at my latest, and rather frivolous, new purchase.
“Oh my God!” I gasp.
You’re never gonna believe this. I’m holding the latest issue of Aspen Quarterly.
Isn’t that just always the case?
I think it might be time to leave Brooklyn.
The subway ride back to my apartment in Manhattan should take no less than forty-five minutes. And clearly the trains aren’t at full capacity on a midday journey from the outer boroughs into the city. I manage to find a good seat and settle down with my very own issue of Aspen Quarterly spread across my lap. I read it cover to cover. It’s a good magazine. Probing. Insightful. Smart. Witty.
I would have fit in perfectly.
To: Kelly Martin
From: Sarah Pelletier
Re: Associate Editor Position
Dear Kelly,
I am writing to thank you again for taking the time to call me the other day. I thoroughly enjoyed our conversation and I hope we will have the chance to speak again soon.
I also wanted to let you know that I did finally find a copy of the latest issue of Aspen Quarterly. Of course, just as I suspected, the magazine was a delightful read. In fact, I couldn’t put it down! I thought the film reviews were insightful and articulate, and, in some cases, more entertaining than the films themselves. And I happen to wholly agree with Julie Watson’s piece on the growing demand for intelligent documentary films. The documentary on child prodigies she mentions sounds particularly fascinating. I can’t wait to see it!
So, thank you again. If nothing else, at least you’ve turned me on to a fantastic magazine I will enjoy reading for many years to come.
Best,
Sarah Pelletier
chapter sixteen
It is no big secret that a well-crafted thank-you letter is a job hunter’s trump card. It is the sticky adhesive that stamps a brilliant résumé to an employer’s forehead and says, “Hey! Remember me?” It is also the varnish that glosses over the rough edges of a rather standard interview. Or, in my case, it can be the corrective fluid that erases mistakes and allows me to start anew. Or so I hope.
I step away from my computer to let the letter sit for a while, allow it to breathe. I need a moment for myself anyway before I summon up the courage to send it. So I light a cigarette, which is always a surefire way to get my phone to ring.
And ring it does.
“Hello?”
“What’s wrong?” Jake’s voice comes in quick and panicky.
“Nothing’s wrong.”
“Then why did you leave?”
“I had to come home to feed my cat.”
“Are you upset with me?”
“No.” Well, yes, but not in a way I can justify. I look at the flickering letter on my computer screen and sigh.
“That was a loaded sigh,” he says.
“I just needed to come home. You understand that, right?”
“I guess.”
When I hang up the phone my hands are shaking. It is amazing how hard it was for me to be so curt and unfeeling to Jake. What was I trying to prove, anyway?
Poor Jake. Poor, unsuspecting Jake. He has no idea how much I want to hurt him. And, to make it worse, he hasn’t an inkling how much he’s hurt me. How dare he have a beautiful ex-girlfriend he never talks about! How dare there be any part of his life that doesn’t belong to me.
And why should I care? Because for reasons I can’t even begin to fathom, I need Jake. And more importantly, I need him to need me. Someone out there has to.
There were moments in Brooklyn—times when he’d graze his stubbled chin against the back of my neck, times when he’d stir in his sleep and reach out to pull me closer—times when it occurred to me that we might truly be fated to be together. Because the alternative—that we were drawn to each other only because we needed to be, only the way two desperate, lonely people can be—is simply too awful to consider.
I feel a sharp sting against my fingers. My cigarette has burned its way down to the filter. I toss it into the ashtray and take a deep breath. Enough time elapsed. I squint my eyes to reread my thank-you letter to Miss Kelly Martin at Aspen Quarterly. On an inspired whim, I decide to attach my real estate writing sample as well.
And that takes care of that.
In the past few months I haven’t accomplished much worth celebrating. So finding the courage to send an impromptu e-mail certainly warrants a toast. Not that there’s any wine left in the kitchen. I wouldn’t expect there to be, not when I’ve left Amanda to her own devices for a full week. Instead I help myself to a bottle of beer that’s been in our refrigerator for ages. I think it may have come with the apartment. I unscrew the cap, turn on the TV, and light another cigarette.
So, of course, my phone rings again.
“Sweetie-pie?” Shit! I mash out the cigarette and wave away the lingering smoke as if she could smell it.
“Oh, hi, Mom.” She hasn’t even said two words, and already I feel the creeping of a guilty conscience her voice always provokes.
“Where’ve you been? I haven’t heard from you in ages!”
“The phone works both ways, you know.” Wait a second—was it really me who just said that?
“Tell me, sweetie, did you ever fill out that law application?”
“Yeah, actually, I did.”
“Oh, good. You know, I don’t know if I ever told you, but I worked as a paralegal myself right of college. It was so much fun. Best time of my life.”
She has indeed told me this before. And let me set the record straight: my mother’s love of law lasted just about as long as it took her to snag a proposal from my father, a budding young assistant district attorney at the time. Then I suppose her passion for him surpassed all else. A year later, she traded in the bar for a baby, and an eighty-hour workweek for extended luncheon dates with the wives.
“You know you can always work at Dad’s firm when you’re out of school.”
I groan. “Why do you do this?”
“Do what, sweetie-pie?” she asks innocently.
“You know what. Mom, you know I love you guys, but—” Okay, this is delicate. I want to say, but I don’t want to be you, but she might take that the wrong way. Instead I opt for, “But I want my own life.”
“I know that. You can always practice law in New York. I was just saying.”
“Fair enough.”
“You’ll let me know when you pick a date for the LSATs?”
“Yes, I promise I will.”
“Good. Love you, sweetie.”
“Love you too, Mom.” We hang up.
A key rattles against the front door and I leap off the sofa with joy. Never have I been so thrilled to see Amanda. I skip to the door to greet her as she walks in.
“Oh, Jesus!” She steps back, her hand clutched to her chest. “You scared me! I wasn’t expecting you.”
“Sorry.”
She inches the door closed behind her. “Where’ve you been, anyway?”
“Brooklyn.”
Amanda wrinkles her nose, not very impressed, and throws her bag onto the sofa. She stares at it for a split second, then looks up at me guiltily. “Sorry about the place.”
I glance around the apartment and pretend not to notice it is in a rather violent state of disarray. “The place looks fine.”
“It’s a shithole.”
“Yeah, well …” My voice trails off. I’m not ready to launch into another petty squabble. The truth is, I’m spent. I’ve exhausted my entire reserve of pettiness for the day.
I can sense Amanda feels the same. She lowers her head and runs her foot down th
e line of the filthy rug. “You know,” she begins. “I’m really sorry about the other day—”
“Oh, please. Don’t worry about it. That was so long ago.”
“Yeah, okay.” She looks up. “Thanks.”
Great. We’ve agreed not to fight. Now we’re tapped out.
“So,” I grin broadly. “What you up to tonight?”
“Ugghh.” She removes her suit jacket. “It’s been a long day. I was seriously looking forward to hitting the sheets and just going to bed.”
“Oh.” I’m crestfallen.
“But I’m not busy tomorrow,” she says. “You wanna hang out?”
“Sure!” I bet she has no idea she’s made my day. “Maybe we could rent a movie?”
“I’d like that.” She smiles and heads to her room.
I climb into bed a few moments later feeling all different shades of happy—the yellow that brightens, the orange that warms, the pink that tickles. But night is soon to close in, washing away my temporary bliss with a dark, heavy gray. The smile slips from my lips and wilts. And my room grows heavy, bloated with the threat of another night of sleeplessness.
Damn Jake! I damn him when I kick my sheets and search desperately with my cold toes for his warm, bare leg. I damn him when vague sepia-toned dreams elude me and become, instead, the face of Simone. I damn him when the phone wails from the living room, because I want so very much for it to be him and I know it will be.
“Hey,” he says.
“Hey,” I say.
“I just called you.”
“I know.”
“But I’m calling you again.”
“I know.”
“I shouldn’t say this—”
“Say it.”
“I can’t sleep without you.” My heart soars. “I don’t ever want to sleep without you again.”
“Me too.”
“You in bed?”
“Yeah,” I draw the sheets up to my chin to prove it. “You?”
“Yeah. I wanted your voice to be the last thing I heard before I went to sleep.”
Pounding the Pavement Page 17
