by Ruby Lang
They mentioned something about coming to visit, and she shut that down quickly, saying she had to renovate and didn’t have anywhere for them to sleep, and then after they hung up, she made a new plan.
It was almost noon. Fay was home in her still unpacked apartment with mounds of work she could do. But she wouldn’t be able to concentrate. The worst he could say was no. She called Oliver.
“I know this is last-minute. There’s this townhouse on Striver’s Row. I was talking to the broker about it. She’s having an open house. I wondered if you’d like to see it. With me. Like, this afternoon at around four? We could walk around the neighborhood afterward. We could even go to Alexander Hamilton’s Grange if there’s time, and it’s still open, and there aren’t hordes of tourists.”
“More real estate. I feel like I’m being wooed.”
“Well, it’s real estate that neither of us can afford. Fantasy real estate. But yes, I want to see you, and uh...”
She stopped. She didn’t want to talk to him about her feelings.
“I can’t stop thinking about you either,” he murmured.
She swallowed.
She wished she could see his face right now—or that he could see hers.
Chapter Four
Oliver was at his mother’s in Forest Hills when Fay called. He and his brother drove over every Sunday morning to Queens. Last year, they and their sister, Macy, had pitched in to buy the place for his mom. Although, for the past few months, Nat had covered his brother’s share of the mortgage. It was a nice enough two-story, still within New York City limits, but in a grassy, house-y section of the borough that may as well have been the suburbs, the kind of genteel place his mom or Macy had probably dreamed about when they were all crammed in that two-bedroom apartment in Elmhurst after their dad had abandoned them. All of Oliver’s objections about how isolated Ma would be from her friends had been overruled. Plenty of Asian-American families here, Macy pointed out, as if it was all the same, but Ma alone wasn’t exactly a young, Asian-American family.
While Nat lounged around inside and was fed the rice porridge and bits and pieces that his mother kept on the family table, Oliver trimmed the hedges and mowed the grass and probably made the neighbors hate him with all the noise from the various yard-keeping machines he’d had to learn to use. Of course, when Fay called and asked him if he’d meet her, he said yes.
Then he went to tell his mother that he’d be leaving.
Nat was holding one of his loafers in one hand and a damp paper towel in another. Ma was scolding him. “Why do you buy expensive things if you don’t know how to take care of them?”
“It’s just a little scuff.”
“You don’t clean shoes with dish soap and a paper towel.”
She darted to the kitchen and came back with a gallon container of vegetable oil. She was still grumbling.
Nat was laughing. “What, are you going to deep fry my Guccis?”
“Won’t taste worse than that expensive restaurant in Midtown you took me to last month,” Ma shot back.
“Maybe better. This is fine leather.”
Oliver cleared his throat. “I’m taking off.”
Ma gave him an accusing glare that traveled from the hairs on his head down to the shoes he’d just put on—sneakers, of course. No buttery cowhides for his feet—he’d had to take care of the yard. Ma gave a huff, no less withering for the fact that she was still hefting a giant-ass bottle of Mazola. “You’re not going to stay to see the girls?”
Macy and her kids would be there, like clockwork, for the family dinner at 1 p.m. They had it every Sunday, seemingly for the sole reason of allowing his whole family to cluster around him to tell him that his lack of ambition was a disappointment. Most days it didn’t bother him. But ever since he’d lost his job, he’d wondered if they all thought he was turning into Dad. Sometimes, when he was feeling low, he feared it, too.
“Next week.”
“What’s so important that you don’t have time to see your family?”
“I’m meeting someone.”
“No work and suddenly you have a fancy meeting on a Sunday.”
Oliver bit his tongue. As if suddenly remembering why she was there, Ma grabbed the paper towel from Nat and carefully poured a spot of oil onto it. She handed it back to Nat. “Use.”
Nat, bent over at his task, said, “You want a ride back to Manhattan?”
Ma scowled.
Oliver said quickly, “Nah, I’ll take my chances with the Sunday subway.”
“Let me at least drive you to the station.”
Ma suddenly looked anxious. “You’re both leaving?”
“No, Ma. I’m just driving Oliver to the subway. It’s too far to walk to it in this heat. Plus, Macy and the kids will be here soon. You won’t be alone.”
His mother said nothing and stalked away. That was all the goodbye he was going to get from her. He’d spoiled her and Nat’s moment by interrupting. Then again, if he stuck around, he’d have an entire afternoon of this. Nat could handle it—he never took their mother’s comments to heart.
“What was that about?” Oliver asked when they got in the car.
“She doesn’t like it when we leave her alone anymore.”
“Could’ve fooled me.”
“I think all the peace and quiet of suburban Queens is getting to her.”
“It’s what she and Macy insisted she wanted.”
Well, he’d laid out his arguments long ago, but his informed opinion about a healthy neighborhood for his non-driving mother to live in hadn’t counted for much. He didn’t feel like rehashing that with Nat.
At the station, Oliver hopped out of the car and onto the E. He tried to read his book. But by the time he had to transfer to an uptown train at Columbus Circle, he’d tucked his phone away and was thinking of Fay.
It took him nearly an hour to get back to Nat’s apartment—another reason why that part of the Forest Hills house was so inconvenient—but he still had enough time to clean the subway off himself and change into the outfit of someone who would want to look at a townhouse on Striver’s Row. He polished his glasses, picked up his keys, and glanced down at his shoes—the sneakers his mom had huffed at.
He kept them on.
* * *
Oliver had agreed to meet Fay at the 137th Street stop. He was already waiting for her when she hurried out to the corner, but there was a pause as she decided how she wanted him to greet her.
Well, when she was back in her apartment and she’d thought of this moment, she’d wanted Imaginary Oliver to grab her by the waist and make out with her quite urgently. But what she wanted from Real Oliver was something different. Not because he wasn’t beautiful in his button-down shirt, and with his dark glasses, another slash of handsome across the sharp angles of his face. Real Oliver was so much more potent than Imaginary Oliver. An urgent kiss would be exciting from Imaginary Oliver. From Real Oliver, it would do damage.
Real Oliver, of course, also saw the slight hesitation she gave before she leaned in to peck him on the cheek. And, of course, she closed her eyes and her fingers slipped down to grasp his shirt, and all she could think of was that she’d masturbated while saying his name over and over last night. The light press of his hand made her shiver.
She cleared her throat. “Oliver,” she said. “Hey, thanks for coming. Nice to see you.”
Nice. Well, it was more than nice to see him. Although maybe he was getting that idea from the fact that she still hadn’t let go of his shirt. It would probably be cool of her to release him, but his hand came up and closed around her wrist—gently. “Thanks for asking me,” he said in her ear.
They were standing very close and holding on to each other.
“I like your jeans,” she said. Because she did. Especially on him.
“I got the memo.” He st
epped back. “We’re wearing our good-but-not-trying-too-hard-to-look-like-a-gazillionaire-who-can-casually-drop-a-few-million-on-a-townhouse clothing.”
In truth, she’d worn her skinny capris because they had zippers at the ankles. Somehow she’d thought that made them sexy, although she wasn’t sure why.
“I like the zippers,” he said.
It was as if he were reading her mind.
“It’s not like they unzip anything fun. You already saw my instep and my calves all those years ago.”
He darted a quick, hot glance at her. “Fun is where you make it.”
It would probably be a good idea to start moving, she thought, lest things get too amusing right at this subway stop.
She cleared her throat and started walking. “So, I should let you know, the broker thinks we’re actually interested in buying.”
“Together.”
“Yes. It’s an open house, but only by appointment.”
“I don’t understand that.”
“I don’t either. I guess she just wants to cut down on gawkers.”
“Like us.”
“Like us.”
They ambled across 138th Street. She was aware of Oliver looking around at her neighborhood. A woman selling coco helado stood at one corner under the umbrella of her cart, fanning herself with a piece of cardboard. Older people sat on lawn chairs on the sidewalk, clustered around stereos or just laughing and talking. The shops near Amsterdam Avenue had gotten more and more expensive—admittedly because of people like her moving into the neighborhood. A fancy panini place that featured complicated coffees had opened on the corner, and there was a gastro-pub going in where a laundromat had stood. Rumor had it that they’d be getting a Citibike stand soon. What was heartening, though, was that some of these businesses were being opened by locals. She’d seen the young men behind the counter coming out to kiss their abuelas and setting them up at low tables, the fancier menus in old standbys.
She could observe it all with her professional eye—she knew Oliver was seeing it, too—and sexual awkwardness aside, she was happy to show the neighborhood to him. She walked down these streets often, of course. But she liked watching how Oliver saw them. The way his head turned curiously just as hers would when they saw the long line for the Dominican bakery, the way he took in the signs for the small hair salons, shuttered now on Sunday afternoon, or how he paused slightly at the entrance of the urban garden bristling with flowers and sun-hatted people. The way his eyes went up and down and everywhere, taking in levels of activity, signs of renewal and growth, the way it all made sense together.
She eyed his jeans again, noting the way his thighs pulled taut, long lines against the material every time he took a step.
“What have you been up to today, then?”
“Helping my mom. Yard work. She lives in Forest Hills.”
“In Forest Hills Gardens—?”
They chorused, “One of the oldest planned communities in the United States.”
It was the first real laugh they’d had together that morning. Oliver had thrown back his head, and he was looking at her with something like affection. Blink and it was gone. “No, not the Gardens area. If she lived there, I’d lead with that. Hi, I’m Oliver Huang-my-mom-lives-in-Forest-Hills-Gardens-which-was-conceived-by-Olmsted-and-Atterbury.”
“They’re right when they say Asian names are difficult.”
“Yeah, I don’t think that’s going to fit on an official form. But if it were true that she lived there, I’d change it in a hot minute, if not just to spite ol’ Freddy Olmsted.”
But speaking of historic communities, they’d hiked across the park and were turning onto 139th Street and before them stood the old townhouses of Striver’s Row. “Oh, wow,” Oliver said, stopping short.
She took a breath.
Beautiful regular rows of redbrick brownstone buildings stood on the south and the shadows of tall trees dappled the yellow-and-white limestone on the north. A delivery man pedaled his bike slowly down the middle of the street, seemingly taking in the buildings the way she and Oliver were.
“I know. I love all sorts of streets in the city, all the weird old mews and the new steel and glass buildings on the far west side, and the half blocks where you can find a cluster of shops all selling the same things—furs or door accessories. But this, this calls to me.” She sighed. “I guess it’s why I moved up here. I wanted to be near it.”
“You live up here?”
“Well not here here. If I did, I’d lead with that. Hi, I’m Fay Liu-I-live-on-Striver’s-Row. But I’m back there, near Amsterdam Avenue.”
Something flashed across his face, too quick for her to read.
She took a deep breath. “It’s not the ritziest address, but maybe you’d like to come up. Afterward.”
Chapter Five
Oliver very much wanted to come up to Fay’s afterward. So much so that he almost. Almost didn’t want to tour this Striver’s Row townhouse. Maybe being in an anticipatory sexual state was the only condition in which one should look at houses. It likely made for quick viewing and practical, unsentimental decisions, which was how people were allegedly supposed to look at real estate—as an investment. Well, that was one way of figuring out where to live.
Not that he was doing that now. He and Fay weren’t buying anything today—they were barely together as a couple. Besides, the only thing Oliver was interested in right now was a bedroom—or maybe a few sturdy walls and a little privacy in which to appreciate Fay’s glorious, preferably naked skin.
But he tried to push that thought aside; they were on a public—renowned, at that—street, and it was afternoon, and he was supposed to play a casual, solvent grown-up who was interested in home ownership.
They walked slowly to the house on the north side of the street and up a set of terracotta stairs flanked by elaborate ironwork railings.
Fay turned to him, took a deep breath, and rang the doorbell.
Footsteps sounded. A young Black woman opened the door. She had a professional smile, a suit, and an iPad. “I’m Magda Ferrer. You must be Darling and Olly—is that right?”
Whoosh! As he turned to Fay—Darling, dammit!—the air went out of his lungs again.
Fay smiled somewhat sheepishly at Oliver. “Is that how it is?” he mouthed.
She shrugged, but her eyes twinkled. Damn her. She was cute.
He edged closer to her. “Darling and Olly? Are we solving mysteries in a quaint English village?”
“No, in Harlem.”
The air-conditioning was cold in the foyer, but Oliver felt hot. He took off his glasses and wiped them so that he’d see better. Magda was checking something off on her tablet and saying something about the weather and the sunlight coming in through the leaded glass of the doors. Fay had moved to examine them and was standing right where the sun glinted on her. She was shiny and beautiful and out of reach, and yet here she was, reaching for him.
“There’s so much light—I didn’t expect that,” she said, taking his hand, just as a Darling Wife really would.
“It’s under renovation. I can show you the plans. You’ll see that the kitchen has already been beautifully updated—a dream to cook in. Viking range with granite countertops and under-cabinet lighting.”
With each feature that the broker listed, Fay squeezed their joined hands, each one pumping blood and excitement to every part of his body. Again, he felt that illicit thrill, the promise that had been in their first—no, second kiss. He was being stupid. They were just there to look at a house—a house that under normal circumstances he wouldn’t come to see. He should concentrate on that, not on the suggestion that there might be sex afterward. Maybe by the end of the tour, Fay would change her mind. Maybe he would.
Still, his mind worked. Even as he nodded and smiled at the real estate broker, specifically, he began to
try to figure out a way that he and Fay could be left alone for, say, fifteen minutes without Agent Eagle-eyes following them—ten minutes, even. Okay, five, if Fay was as keyed up as he was.
Magda showed them the huge entry gallery and rushed them past the coat closet. (It was too small and temporarily lined with paint cans and construction equipment that would hurt if they came tumbling down while he and Fay rocked against the shelves.) The half bathroom had perhaps once been a closet—maybe that would work, but the floor creaked in there. Part of his brain worked out whether he’d be able to get his hands on the original house plans, another part lamented that it would be hard to be quiet. The kitchen was too open, and the deck could be spied upon by a neighbor.
But he wouldn’t give up. Because he wasn’t Oliver Huang right now. He was Olly—urbane, murder-solving, closet seducer, casual provider of luxury townhomes and real estate to Darling, who he probably didn’t appreciate because he was the kind of careless bastard who always expected his cigarettes to be lit by others and who had a valet to press his not-trying-so-hard jeans. As in response, Darling Fay’s fingers were now trailing up his forearm and down his back, and she was now squeezing her curves into his side even as she asked a question about the history of the house.
Magda seemed happy to elaborate, chatting about the architect Stanford White, who had designed the set of homes on this street, pointing to the ceiling, and to the millwork—most of it was new—and when Fay tilted her head and arched her back obligingly, he got a glimpse down her shirt, down into the faint glow of skin, the curve of her cleavage in a shadowed bra. The hand that caressed his butt told him that she knew what she’d done.
He cleared his throat and tried to focus. Could he cause a distraction? Start a small fire that wouldn’t ruin this spacious home? Surely the floor plan hadn’t always been this open. If he recalled correctly—and in his determined state, he couldn’t quite be sure he would—Stanford White had been a horrendous perv. Well, if he had, you’d think he’d have designed a lot of nooks and crannies to get up to funny business—if ol’ Stanford was going to be loathsome, he might have redeemed himself by also being useful.
