She turns to look at the man who commandeered her cab—or vice versa, depending on how one chooses to look at it.
“Allison.”
“Nice to meet you, Allison. What do you do?”
“I’m a style editor at 7th Avenue magazine. How about you?” she asks, noting that he has green eyes. Nebraska-field green eyes.
“Finance,” he tells her. “I’m an investment banker.”
Ah—forget the field. Those are money green eyes.
This guy couldn’t be more not your type.
Allison has nothing against money, of course—but she’s completely clueless about finance. Then again, she also knows nothing about science, yet she was head-over-heels in love with a biologist for almost a year.
And look how that turned out.
Justin was the one person in New York who got to know the real Allison—at least, as much of herself as she’s ever shared with anyone. She’d dated here and there in college, but those relationships were superficial and physical.
With Justin, she eventually learned to let her guard down a bit. She shared things with him she’d never shared with anyone. Yes, and as soon as she was comfortable with the idea of someone having access to her past, her apartment, her innermost thoughts—bam. It was over.
Their June breakup was abysmal. Cheating, lies, accusations . . .
Thank God she’s finally over it. Over it, and moving on.
Just yesterday, while folding dryer-hot clothes in her building’s laundry room, she mentioned to her chatterbox neighbor Kristina that she’s ready to meet someone new.
“Yeah? Good luck with that.” Kristina, an aspiring Broadway actress, shook her mop of dark curly hair. “Do you know that it’s been almost six months since Ray and I broke up? Half a year. I figured I’d have replaced him by now—not to mention all the stuff he took when he moved out. But I’m not having any luck getting a new boyfriend, or a new espresso maker or CD player or—”
“Um,” Allison cut in, “it can’t be that hard to get a new CD player, can it?”
“It’s impossible when you’re flat broke. I can’t even afford a new Walkman. I haven’t had music in my apartment for months now, and it’s killing me. Meanwhile,” she went on, clearly following her own unique brand of logic, “I’ve figured out that the only available guys in this city are married.”
“Doesn’t that mean they’re unavailable?”
Kristina leveled a look at Allison. “Not necessarily.”
Allison didn’t know what to say to that. For all her eagerly embraced big-city sophistication, the Midwestern farm girl in her occasionally stirs with disapproval.
Anyway, Kristina certainly had a point about the scarcity of eligible men in New York. The fashion industry isn’t exactly crawling with straight guys, and where else—when—is Allison supposed to meet someone? She works too hard and late to have much of a weeknight social life, and on summer weekends, the city becomes a ghost town. Pretty much everyone who’s anyone leaves for the Hamptons—which she definitely can’t afford.
Probably because you know nothing about finance and investments, right?
Maybe it’s time to learn. People seem to keep talking about the flat economy, and here she is with no nest egg and very little to show for the fairly decent salary she’s finally making—other than the overflowing contents of the closet in her one-bedroom apartment, which, incidentally, is decorated with a lot of really great furniture.
Then again, is that so wrong? What else in this life—including a beach house share—can possibly guarantee the immediate gratification of an Alexander McQueen dress or Dolce & Gabbana bags?
Not even just immediate gratification. Unlike summer, or relationships, a good purse can last forever.
“So you’re coming from work?” Bill asks, and she steals a glance at his left hand. Aha! Ring finger bare. A good sign.
Marital status might not matter to Kristina. It might not matter to a lot of women.
Memories are good for nothin’ . . .
Well, it matters to Allison. Single is essential.
“Actually, I was at the BCBG show.” At his blank look, she adds, “Max Azria.” Still blank. “The designer. It’s Fashion Week.”
“Oh.”
He might as well have said, Whatever.
“How about you?” she asks, to keep the conversation going. “Coming from work?”
He shakes his head. “My office is downtown. I had a client meeting up here after the market closed.”
“Oh.” Whatever.
So much for scintillating small talk.
Whatever . . .
Story of my life.
Allison leans her head back wearily, gazing through the rain-spattered windshield at lower Manhattan’s distant skyline, the twin towers shrouded in misty twilight gloom.
Stepping off the elevator on the fifth floor after a long, hard day of secretarial temp work, Kristina Haines immediately spots the large box sitting in front of her door.
What on earth . . . ?
Someone left her a gift. Wow.
A gift wrapped in white paper stamped with red hearts, topped by a big red bow.
Hearts. Kristina breaks into a smile. Her downstairs neighbor Mack finally made his move. It’s about time.
She unlocks the door, then holds it open with her foot as she contorts herself to lift the box. It’s heavy—but not too heavy.
The wrapping is clumsily assembled, to say the least. Uneven seams, and too much tape—almost as though a child wrapped it. Or a guy. Most guys probably aren’t very good at wrapping presents.
She wouldn’t know. The only thing her lousy ex-boyfriend ever gave her was an occasional bouquet of flowers from the Korean deli on the corner. Usually only when he guiltily came home late—from God-knows-where—and the flowers were half price and wilted.
Giddy, Kristina puts the gift-wrapped box on the table and tilts it around, checking all six sides for a card, but finds nothing. It must be inside.
She tears off the paper . . .
A CD player?
That’s what the box says.
She smiles. It’s so sweet. She’s mentioned a few times to Mack how much she misses having music in the house.
There’s a shrink-wrapped CD stuck to the top with Scotch tape: Songs in A Minor by that new R&B singer Alicia Keys.
Hmm. R&B is not really her style. She’s kind of surprised Mack didn’t give her a collection of show tunes or something—he knows, after all, about her musical theater aspirations.
Maybe he figures she has all the Broadway cast albums—which she pretty much does—and wants to introduce her to something new. He’s really into music—not that he’s ever mentioned this particular artist.
Oh well—maybe she’ll like it. Maybe the songs will have special meaning to her.
To us. Me and Mack.
Her heart is pounding. This is the turning point. This means there actually is going to be a me and Mack.
She pulls the CD off the package and sets it aside. Still no card, she notes—and the flaps are sealed with thick manufacturing tape, meaning it’s not inside the box, either.
Okay—so he obviously wants to be her secret admirer for the time being. She’ll play along.
Smiling, she opens the silverware drawer and searches for a blade. A butter knife won’t cut it—literally—and of course Kristina, being a vegetarian, doesn’t have steak knives.
She jerks open another drawer. Ah, there—it figures Ray didn’t take the paring knives when he left; he never did any cooking. Not that Kristina does, either.
She grabs a nice big sharp knife from the drawer, idly wondering what Mack’s favorite meal is, whether it involves meat, and whether she can learn to prepare it if it do
es—or even if it doesn’t. Who knows? Maybe she’ll become a gourmet chef.
Oh, come on. Really? You?
She glances at the whiteboard attached to the kitchenette’s lone patch of wall space. Ray used it to keep himself organized. It was, ironically, one of the few things he left behind when he moved to his new apartment down on Warren Street.
The whiteboard was covered with his usual lists, reminders, and appointments.
Kristina took smug satisfaction in erasing it all. Then she wrote, in its place, Anything is possible.
Her neighbor Allison, who lives in the apartment below, once said that, on a gloomy day when Kristina really needed to hear it.
“Anything is possible—that’s my philosophy,” Allison told her, and Kristina decided to make it her own as well.
She looks at the words every day, and reminds herself that she believes them.
Especially now.
After hurriedly slitting the seams on the box, she tosses the knife aside, a little too carelessly. Oops—a momentary inspection reveals that she just nicked the countertop. Oh well. She’s not going to live here forever, and anyway, it’s cheap, crappy laminate.
She turns her attention back to the box, opening it and pulling out her Styrofoam-encased prize.
“Wow, Mack,” she whispers, thrilled. This is definitely the most romantic gift she’s ever received.
As the cab slows in front of Pier 54, Allison glances at the meter and fumbles in her bag for her wallet.
“Here’s my card.”
She looks up to see her backseat partner—was his name Bob? Bill?—holding out a business card. Surprised, she takes it, looks at it.
Bill.
William, to be exact. William A. Kenyon, of Keefe, Bruyette, & Woods, Inc.
“Why don’t you give me a call and we’ll go out sometime,” he suggests, and she’s even more surprised, considering he hasn’t said two words to her since midtown.
“I . . . I have one, too, somewhere in here.” She goes back to digging in her purse, feeling around for the small leather case.
“One?”
“A business card.”
“That’s okay,” he says with a wave of his hand. “Just call me.”
The cab pulls up alongside the curb. She probably should give Bill back his card with a thanks, but no thanks.
Instead, because it’s easier—and because she’s lonely, and it might be nice to go on a date some night, even with a Mr. Wrong who expects her to do the calling—she tucks the card into her bag. “Sure.”
Maybe she’ll call. Probably not, though.
She pulls out some cash, offers him a twenty. “Here—for the cab. I really appreciate it.”
“Not a problem. Keep it.”
“But—”
“Just call me,” he says again. “Maybe I’ll let you buy me a drink.”
Oh, ick. She opens the door and gets out with a wave. “Thanks again.”
“See you later.”
I highly doubt that, Bill.
Putting him out of her head, she moves on.
It’s taken Kristina quite some time to remove the packaging and set up the CD player. It’s a lot more complicated than her old one; it plays multiple CDs, and there are a number of different settings: shuffle, song repeat . . .
She figures she’ll learn how to work it all when she reads the instruction leaflet—which will have to wait.
Right now, she just wants to hear some more music.
Not Alicia Keys, though.
Sorry, Mack.
She did put on the CD he gave her, but wound up fast-forwarding her way through the album. It’s not really her cup of tea, and anyway, she’s anxious to hear all her old favorites. It’s been much too long.
Now she’s listening to Barbara Cook singing Sondheim—ah, that’s much more like it—and keeping a close eye on her watch.
Every weeknight at around seven forty-five, Mack gets off the subway over at the Canal Street station, then walks the couple of blocks to his apartment building.
Our apartment building.
Kristina prefers to think of it that way because she and Mack do, after all, live under one roof. Just not behind the same door.
But maybe someday . . . especially now that he’s made his first move, after all these weeks of flirting . . .
Anything is possible.
When the weather is nice enough for Kristina to perch on the fifth floor fire escape, she’s able to spot Mack in the distance, heading home. She discovered that by accident one evening about two months ago, when she was sitting out there to escape the heat.
This is an old building; no central air. Kristina used to have a small window unit, but of course Ray took it when he left her like the Grinch leaving Whoville.
The breakup was the first in a series of events that left Kristina wondering if she should just give up and move away, make a fresh start.
That was before she fell for Mack, of course.
Anything can happen.
That’s why you love New York. A girl like you can be waitressing one day, starring on Broadway the next.
That’s how it was supposed to work, anyway. But right after Ray moved out, Kristina lost her waitressing job because the health department closed down the restaurant. Then she tore a ligament during a dance workout—which wound up requiring surgery she couldn’t afford, particularly without health insurance. And of course, the injury has put her Broadway show auditions on hold for God only knows how long.
As a result, she’s been isolated not just from the friends she and Ray shared as a couple, but now also from all her dancer friends and all her restaurant friends—pretty much her entire social circle. She doesn’t even have family now, other than her mother’s sister in England and her father’s cousins somewhere out West, who didn’t even show up for his funeral.
It’s been a long, hot, lonely summer, and Kristina has spent it falling madly in love with the guy who moved into the apartment below her on June first . . . with his wife.
Yeah. Mack is married.
Carrie. That’s her name. Mack’s wife.
Kristina rarely sees her. She has some kind of Wall Street job, and she leaves the building really early in the morning, way before Kristina gets up.
But now that Kristina is doing office temp work at an accounting firm in the Chrysler building, Mack is pretty much on the same morning schedule.
She used to hate riding in the building’s ancient elevator, which takes forever even without stopping at other floors. She used to particularly hate when it stopped on the fourth floor and Mrs. Ogden, who smelled of old fish, would get on. Kristina was secretly almost relieved when her granddaughter found her dead on the floor of her apartment one day, having fallen, the way elderly people do, and hit her head.
Now that Mrs. Ogden is gone and Mack has moved into her apartment, whenever Kristina presses the down button and the doors close after her, she’s disappointed when it descends all the way to the lobby. On good days, it creaks to a stop on the fourth floor and Mack steps in.
He’s not the best-looking guy she’s ever known. He’s nice and tall, but somewhat lanky for her taste. His black hair is razor-trimmed above his ears, and he’s usually freshly shaven and wearing a suit. A little too put together, as far as she’s concerned. She’s always been a fan of shaggy-haired guys, the kind who go around in ragged jeans with five o’clock shadow; guys who might be hiding a tattoo or . . . something. Guys with an edge.
That’s so not Mack.
But somehow, it doesn’t seem to matter. For some reason, she’s drawn to him anyway.
Wife and all.
“I didn’t go looking for it. It just happened.”
How often did she hear those words from her mother, a British war b
ride? Mum liked to tell the story of how she fell for Kristina’s father, a young American soldier who’d married his high school sweetheart the evening before he shipped out.
Their love story was a romantic and thrilling happily-ever-after tale. Daddy divorced his hometown wife right after the war, married Mum, and they stayed madly in love until the end. Mum died a few years ago with Daddy holding her hand, and he went less than six months later—a heart attack, officially, but Kristina is certain it was a broken heart. He simply didn’t want to live without the woman he loved.
Anyway—Kristina didn’t go looking for this, either. It just happened. On that hot July night when she happened to be hanging out on her fire escape and spotted Mack below, something about him just clicked with her.
Maybe it was the way he was walking—the way his feet expertly navigated the crowded city sidewalks while his head seemed to be somewhere else, a million miles away. Somehow she sensed, even from a distance, an aura of unsettledness about him.
Until that night she’d assumed—when briefly she’d seen him in passing, and even more briefly given him a passing thought—that he was one of those boring, happily married, hopelessly domesticated guys.
That night on the fire escape, though, it occurred to her that that might not be the case.
Now she knows for sure that it isn’t.
Poor Mack.
And poor me, Kristina thinks, pacing her apartment, wondering how she’ll manage to accidentally-on-purpose run into Mack tonight. The fire escape is out of the question in this weather.
Too bad, because it’s the perfect setup. Whenever Kristina spots Mack in the distance, coming down the block, she dashes down the four flights of stairs to the lobby. Then she takes her time checking her mailbox in the small vestibule by the door, waiting for him to come in from the street.
He always seems pleasantly surprised to see her. If he thinks it’s unusual that she’s often getting her mail at the precise moment he walks in, he hasn’t mentioned it.
They ride up in the elevator together, and she’s grateful that it takes so long, even though there’s never enough time alone with him. Sometimes she wishes the elevator would just get stuck between floors. She fantasizes about what might happen between them then, trapped in that small space together for hours, even days.
All the Way Home Page 38
