Touchstone

by Karen Stivali

  I could see the wheels turning in her beautiful head. I was going to propose tonight. I almost said it out loud. I wanted to tell her that I’d spent three hours stringing fairy lights in the trees and making sure the fire pit was set. I wanted to tell her that I loved her and wanted to spend the rest of my life with her. I wanted to take back every rational thing I was saying and plead with her to stay.

  If I’d had the ring on me, I might not have been able to stop myself from getting down on one knee and proposing right then and there. But the time wasn’t right. Nothing felt right. My heart wasn’t even keeping a steady rhythm. And her silence seemed to be speaking volumes. She hadn’t argued with me. Hadn’t contradicted a single point I’d made.

  Because I was right. She needed to go. And I knew what that meant. I’d been through this before. I was about to lose the person I cared about most in the world.

  If you love someone let them go…

  I loved her. So I did.

  35

  Phoebe

  Sitting in traffic en route from the airport to the hotel should have been familiar, but after nearly three months in Vermont, it felt really weird. I fidgeted, looking out the window at the sea of cars. Was it always this loud? People yelling, horns honking, jackhammering. None of that used to bother me, but now it overwhelmed me. Probably because I was already on emotional overload thinking about this job.

  And Sam.

  Leaving Sam this morning had been brutal. He hadn’t said anything awful. He’d been his sweet, loving, supportive self, and that was what had fucking killed me. It would have been easier if he’d been a dick about it. A snide remark. A pouty look. An ultimatum.

  But no.

  He’d understood why it was important and wanted what was best for me. And not even in an annoying martyry way where I could have rolled my eyes and been pissed at him. He’d been selfless and sincere. How the hell was I supposed to respond to that?

  My hands shook, and I tried to do Rose’s centering and grounding technique. Breathing in through my nose brought in Fifth Avenue bus fumes, not peace and tranquility. Grounding felt impossible as my taxi bounced over a construction site, with a random cabbie yelling at no one in particular as he narrowly missed our car and a half-dozen pedestrians. Centering would have to wait until I got to the hotel.

  What seemed like an eternity later, we finally arrived at the Washington Square Hotel. In all the years I’d lived in the city, I’d never once stayed in a hotel. There’d never been a need. It should have been exciting. Fancy hotel on someone else’s dime? Who wouldn’t want that?

  Me, apparently. I felt…nothing.

  The desk clerk was super friendly and polite, the lobby and elevator were gorgeous, my room had not only a massive bed, but a glorious view of the park. And all I could think about was how much fun it would be to have Sam with me. To be on that bed with him. To show him around my city.

  I shook the thoughts away. I needed to focus on the matter at hand, and that was going over all the questions I had to ask about this new job offer. I’d made a list on the plane and added a few more in the cab. What I hadn’t done yet today was eat. The one thing I had missed most about the city was the food. Not that food in Vermont hadn’t been abundant and delicious, but I hadn’t had a decent bagel in what seemed like forever.

  It was only ten o’clock, and I didn’t need to meet up with Mark until one. That gave me plenty of time to pick up a bacon, egg, and cheese everything bagel and get myself acclimated.

  I chuckled as I headed back down to the lobby. Who would have thought I’d ever need to acclimate to Manhattan? What the fuck? I was a lifelong New Yorker. I could do this.

  I’d seen a deli around the corner, so I made my way there, once again assaulted by the various smells of the city. How had I ignored this my entire life?

  The line was small, but it wasn’t one of my usual haunts, so no one knew my order or was about to let me cut the line. I knew exactly what I wanted, but I scanned the menu above the cook station anyway.

  One of the house specials caught my eye: The Sam-which. I did a double-take. It was there. I wasn’t hallucinating his name. Their house special was the Sam-which.

  I read the description: Vermont ham, Swiss, and maple mustard. Vermont? Maple? Are you fucking kidding me? Was the universe trying to unnerve me or was I just so caught up in my feelings about Sam that I was making connections where there weren’t any?

  I ordered my sandwich and a coffee and ate while strolling. Going for walks had always been my city-girl version of grounding. New York was my city. My home. So why did I feel like a foreigner?

  My phone buzzed as I finished the last bite of my bagel, which was every bit as good as I remembered. At least that hadn’t changed.

  Ellie: still coming by tonight?

  My heart sank. I wanted to see Ellie, but I’d hoped the message might have been from Sam. I needed to get my head on straight.

  Me: of course! Can’t wait to see you and your belly.

  Ellie: you cannot miss seeing this belly. I swear it grows every minute.

  Me: can I bring you anything? Got any cravings?

  Ellie: Bring? No. But I wouldn’t stop you from making me rice pudding while you’re here.

  Me: The oven kind?

  Ellie: is there any other? I’ve been craving it and the store bought shit isn’t cutting it.

  Me: I’ll grab what I need before I head over.

  Ellie: love you

  I checked the clock. It was time to see my potential new restaurant. Damn. How weird was that? Excitement bubbled inside me as I made my way downtown.

  Mark greeted me at the door.

  “You made it! Good to see you!”

  I shook his hand and he ushered me inside. Large SoHo spaces had been at a premium for decades and this one was absolutely gorgeous. Massively spacious, high ceilings, and windows on two sides thanks to its corner location.

  There was an open staircase on one side. “Wait, is this two levels?”

  He grinned like an evil mastermind. “It is, indeed. Second level will have a dance floor and a more club-like feel, with a different menu.”

  My eyes nearly popped out of my skull. “You want me to plan two menus?”

  He laughed, the pitch near diabolical. “Nope. Four. We’re doing lunch and dinner downstairs, light dinners and eclectic bar food upstairs, and brunches on Saturday and Sunday, plus special menus for every holiday with prix-fixe menus.”

  Holy. Fuck. That took this job from dream job to beyond my wildest dreams. I followed him on the tour in a state of shock. This place was going to be a hit. I could feel it. Drew’s venture would be a flash in the pan once this opened. Gone before it was even on the map.

  And I could be in charge of it all.

  Mark babbled on about décor plans, how many sous chefs I would have, the estimated number of patrons per night. My mind was officially overloaded. I could imagine it all, up and running, packed with people, the kitchen buzzing, servers zipping in and out. It was as if Mark had reached into my brain and plucked out every career fantasy.

  So why was I wondering if Speakeasy was going to be okay? Why was I thinking about how if Drew hadn’t been a dick and kicked me out of our endeavor, some big shot would probably be plotting both of our demises? Why couldn’t I imagine my life in this beautiful new restaurant?

  My brain knew this was what I’d spent years wanting.

  But my heart was no longer on the same page.

  36

  Sam

  My phone vibrated in my pocket, and I knocked an entire box of rock samples off the storage shelf trying to see who the message was from.

  Spam.

  “Fuck,” I said aloud to the empty room, eyeing the sea of cotton batting and rose quartz I’d just dumped on the floor.

  “Having a bad day, sweetheart?” My grandmother appeared in the doorway, cat-like in her stealthy approach.

  “Sorry. Didn’t know you were here.”

  “
Would that have stopped you from yelling?”

  “Probably not.”

  She smiled and walked straight to me, putting her palms a few inches from my heart and then moving them up and to either side of my shoulders. Scanning my aura, which no doubt looked gray as fuck. “What’s wrong?”

  What wasn’t wrong? Nothing had felt right since Phoebe had told me about her job offer and since she’d left. Even my own skin no longer felt comfortable. I was a giant exposed nerve and everything, even air, was just irritating. I shook my head, afraid of what I’d say if I started talking.

  “Sit,” she commanded, herding me toward the desk at the back of the storage room. “Eyes closed.”

  I didn’t have the strength or desire to argue with her.

  “Breathe. Focus on your breaths and release everything that no longer serves you.”

  I inhaled, letting my stomach expand, realizing how tensely I’d been holding myself. I release everything that no longer serves me and accept whatever is to the highest good of myself and others.

  I willed myself to believe that was true. It was true. I wanted whatever was best for Phoebe, I truly did. I just wanted that to be me. My exhale stuttered out of me.

  “Try the breathing again, dear.”

  I could feel her hands fluttering in the air around me, probably cutting cords. Was that the issue? Was I still so fucking damaged from Camilla leaving me that I still had negative thoughts—cords—attaching me to her? To that past? Probably. And this situation with Phoebe was way too similar for comfort. Fuck. It was torture. It felt as if I was dying.

  “Breathe.”

  Dammit. I had been holding my breath again. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale.

  I let as much calm as possible wash over me. My chest warmed, my head ached less.

  “Okay, open your eyes.”

  My grandmother eyed me, calm and knowing. “That’s better. You were barely even in your body when I arrived. At least I see you now.”

  “Thanks. I’m sorry. I’m just…” My hands rose and fell.

  “You’re in love, dear. I know. And you’re afraid you’ve lost her.”

  Ouch. “Don’t sugarcoat it.”

  “Would it make it any less true?”

  “No.” My shoulders dropped.

  “She loves you, Sam.”

  Not enough. I couldn’t say the words out loud, but I felt them. And they hurt like a son of a bitch. “I know.”

  “Have you thought about what you want to do? You could go with her to New York.”

  I shook my head. “No. I can’t. My life is here, with you and Iris and the shop.”

  “Sam, when Iris and I asked you to come home, it was because we sensed you needed to be here. To find yourself again. And you did. With Phoebe. If you want to go with her, go. We would never hold you back. You need to live your life, not ours. We can find someone else to run the store. We’ll be fine.”

  I hadn’t even considered that possibility, but now that I thought about it, I realized Phoebe hadn’t asked me to go with her. “I don’t know that she’d even want that.”

  “Didn’t you discuss things before she left?”

  “Not really. I was focused on making sure she didn’t feel obligated to stay. This is her dream.”

  My grandmother looked at me like I was five and had just told her something ridiculous. “Why are you so certain that you’re not her dream?”

  I opened my mouth then shut it again. I didn’t have an answer.

  “Did you ask her what she wanted?”

  I hadn’t asked. I’d pretty much just told her to go. “No.”

  She patted my knee. “Don’t you think maybe you should?”

  No. If Phoebe had wanted me to consider coming to New York, she would’ve asked. Right? I didn’t know anything anymore. Except this. “I’d been prepared to ask her a question. Then she got the offer, and I didn’t.”

  “What question?”

  I reached into my T-shirt and pulled out the chain. I’d been wearing the engagement ring that way since she’d left. I didn’t even want to take it off to show my grandmother, so I just held it out where she could see it.

  She sucked in a breath. “Oh, Sammy. It’s beautiful. Does she know you had this made for her?”

  I shook my head, dropping the ring back into my shirt and feeling it tumble down my chest.

  “Whyever not?”

  “I didn’t want to pressure her.” That was true. Mostly. I sincerely didn’t want to pressure her. I’d also been terrified that she might have turned me down flat after getting a different, better offer. Tears prickled the backs of my eyes. I was not going to cry. “I need to get back to work.”

  “Okay.” She sighed but got up. “Come by later for dinner.”

  I nodded. That actually sounded great. My house reminded me of Phoebe. Speakeasy reminded me of Phoebe. Hell, being in my own body reminded me of Phoebe. Maybe eating something someone else cooked—in the kitchen in the house I grew up in—would help me feel less adrift.

  Or maybe I’d think about Phoebe the entire time.

  37

  Phoebe

  I picked up milk, cream, arborio rice, vanilla beans, and nutmeg at Dean and Deluca and headed to Ellie’s apartment off Washington Square Park. Her husband, Dominic, taught film at NYU, and they’d managed to snag an apartment being vacated by a retiring professor in his department. I waited for Ellie to buzz me in, watching NYU students traipse up and down Waverly Place. I climbed the stairs, imagining Ellie doing the same with a stroller in tow.

  She answered the door, belly first. “Oh my god, El, look at you.”

  She hugged me, belly bump pressing against me. “I’ve missed you.”

  “You’ve missed my rice pudding.”

  “That too. You want the tour or you want to cook?” She knew me well enough to know that I wouldn’t relax until the rice pudding was in the oven.

  “Cook.”

  I followed her across a spacious living room into a very long, narrow kitchen space. Appliances on the left, including a six-burner Viking with a grill plate, and counterspace on the right. “Nice.”

  “I know, right? This kitchen’s four times the size of the ones you and I grew up with.”

  “Casserole dish and measuring cups?” She pointed to a white cabinet above the counter. “Small sauce pan?”

  She retrieved one from a lower cabinet and placed it on the stove. I measured a cup of cream and half a cup of sugar and dumped them into the pot with a vanilla bean, then turned on the flame. I tapped at the console to preheat the oven.

  Ellie rubbed her hands together. “You have no idea how bad I’ve wanted this pudding.”

  I laughed. “It’s super easy. I could have given you the recipe.”

  She stared at me like I’d lost my mind. “How many times have you seen me try to cook? Has it ever gone well?”

  “Point taken. Maybe I can make a video and Dominic can follow it.”

  “Maybe. Or you could just move back and do it for me.” She gave me her best Cheshire Cat grin, her brown cheeks glowing.

  “You look so beautiful. More than usual. It’s not fair.”

  “Oh shush. You look damn fine yourself. I’m thinking Vermont treated you well.” Her head tilted, and she stared at me as I busied myself measuring out rice and the remaining milk and cream. “Or is it just Sam treating you well? And how does he feel about you being down here with some major job offer?”

  “Let me get your pudding in the oven, then I’ll try to answer all that.” I swirled the cream in the pot on the stove and stirred until the sugar had all dissolved. “Small, sharp knife?”

  She plucked one from her knife block and handed it to me. I snagged the vanilla bean, carefully split it on her cutting board, and scraped the seeds into the cream.

  “It smells good already.” She rubbed her tummy bulge.

  I poured the speckled cream over the rice and milk mixture in the casserole dish and sprinkled it with nutmeg. After topping
it with a few pats of butter, I eased the pan into the oven. “Okay, I’ve got twenty minutes for the tour, then I have to stir.”

  “The tour can wait. I want an answer about Sam. How’s he feel about you being here? And how do you feel?”

  “Please can I see your place first?”

  “That bad, huh?”

  All I could manage was a nod.

  “Okay.” She put her arm around me and kissed the side of my head.

  The apartment was gorgeous. Prewar building, and the entire floor was theirs. Windows on all four sides, a true rarity in the city. Working fireplace—another rarity. Hardwood floors, open brick. She paused at a bookcase. “Okay, you’re not even going to believe this.”

  A hidden walk-in closet appeared behind the bookshelves.

  “Get the fuck out.”

  “Right? When we were kids we’d have traded our kidneys for a secret room behind a bookshelf. My kid’s gonna have one.” Tears welled in her big, dark eyes.

  “Oh, El. Don’t cry.” I swiped at the tears that started to fall. “It’s perfect. This whole place is perfect, and your kid’s going to be the luckiest kid on the planet, even if you can’t ever cook it a proper meal.”

  That got a big laugh out of her. “You really think I’ll be a good mom?”

  “The best. Just like your mom was.” Her mom had been more of a mother to me than my own had, but she’d passed when we were eighteen. I still missed her and couldn’t even imagine how Ellie must have felt not having her around to even know she was going to be a grandma.

  “Okay, enough about me. I know about me. I know every inch of this apartment. And you have stalled long enough. What the hell is going on with you and Sam?”

  “I think I need to stir the pudding.”

  “Phoebe.” She held my gaze with her no-nonsense face in place.

  “You don’t want me burning the pudding.” I had her there.

  She followed me into the kitchen, and I opened the oven. A gentle bubble of foam had formed above the rice. I poked it down with a wooden spoon and then raked the bottom to make sure the rice and sugar weren’t sticking. “Good. Twenty minutes, and I stir again. You really should be taking notes. Even you can stir.”