Forging a Desire Line

by Mary P. Burns

The conversation with Emily continued to reverberate in Charley’s thoughts as she left the Y after her aquatics class. Instead of grabbing a cab down to Tricia’s, she walked over to Fifth Avenue and took the bus. The long ride gave her time to think about how she fit into the equation of Tricia’s care. All that came to her was that she was probably going to have to level with Tricia and ask her what her expectations were, because she was clueless. She wasn’t used to that. She’d made a career out of anticipating everyone’s needs. It was part of what made her an exceptional executive assistant. She pulled the cord at Tenth Street. The bus left her right in front of Tricia’s building, and as she approached the massive glass door, the doorman swung it open. “You can go right up to twenty-one, Miss Owens. Miss Sullivan is expecting you.”

  Charley almost glanced behind her to see if the doorman was talking to someone else. He had obviously been told to expect her.

  “Thank you. Twenty-one what?”

  “Twenty-first floor is the penthouse. She’ll be there at the elevator door.”

  Charley didn’t know whether to thank him or throw up. She settled for a nod and walked through the marbled lobby. She thought of the small apartment she and Tricia had first lived in on the Upper West Side, of all their conversations about where they might move when Tricia made partner. But it was a simple two-bedroom apartment they’d settled for a few blocks away because Charley couldn’t bear leaving the neighborhood. Now her own stupidity stared back at her in her reflection in the gold elevator doors. Then the pain of what she’d gone through three years ago as she’d watched twenty-five years of her life go up in smoke between some other woman’s legs hit her again.

  The elevator glided up twenty-one floors, and Charley put the lid on the past as best she could.

  Tricia was there when the elevator door opened, and Charley was stunned to see her in a pair of sweatpants and a T-shirt. Well, at least Reagan was good for one thing if she got Tricia to loosen her regimental dress code. Charley stepped into the tiny hallway and across the threshold into a large foyer. The size of the place overwhelmed her. Beyond the foyer was a spacious living room with wide floor-to-ceiling windows. Hallways disappeared in either direction. Even from where she stood, she could see the lights of lower Manhattan glinting everywhere, Lady Liberty watching over the harbor in the distance. Charley wanted to walk into the room, but she stepped aside and waited for Tricia to throw the deadbolts.

  “Come on, I have something set up for us in the kitchen.”

  Charley followed her down an Oriental-carpeted hall past a large dining room. In the low lighting of a recess behind the head of the table, she recognized a large Modigliani painting on the wall and stopped to stare. When had she acquired that?

  In the kitchen that a professional chef would’ve appreciated, Tricia took a platter of fruit and cheese out of the refrigerator. Charley perched on a chair on the other side of the marbled work island.

  “Wouldn’t you rather sit at the table by the window?” she asked. “I have a nice view of the tip of Manhattan from here. Beats the one we had of New Jersey on West End Avenue.”

  The irony didn’t escape Charley. Taking her typed notes from her canvas bag, she moved to the table.

  “Why do I smell chlorine?”

  “Because you do,” Charley replied. “My bathing suit is in my bag.”

  “Right, you said you were going to the pool tonight. You swim now? I wanted to tell you this morning that you look really good, but I didn’t want you to get mad. How often do you go?”

  “Every day. What do you mean, get mad?”

  “I know I picked on you about your weight after you quit smoking. It wasn’t good for our relationship. And then, anything I said after that seemed to piss you off.”

  Charley cocked her head and stared at Tricia, angered by the remark and at the same time amused by her stupidity in putting it right out there. A second later, Tricia realized her gaffe in bringing up an old issue that had driven a stake between them years ago.

  “That was…I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it the way it sounded. And I shouldn’t have said it.”

  “You think?” Charley stared at Tricia until she folded.

  “So…” Tricia hesitated. “Where do you live? Where do you swim?”

  “I’m in midtown. East Side.”

  “You left the West Side? You were such a West Side girl. Whereabouts on the East Side?”

  “You left, too.”

  “Yes, well…”

  Charley raised an eyebrow. “Suffice it to say I had to go where the apartments were affordable.”

  Tricia took a bottle of wine and a can of Coke out of the refrigerator and set the soda in front of Charley.

  “I don’t drink that anymore.”

  Tricia got her a bottle of water. “I have Johnnie Walker.”

  “Water’s good.”

  “Okay, let’s talk about something safe, then,” Tricia said, settling at the table and picking up a handful of grapes. “I looked up Emily after you mentioned her name. She’s quite the grand poobah over there. How did you come to be her assistant? I thought you were in A&R?”

  “They moved me when she came in. Someone thought we’d be good together.”

  “And are you?”

  “Mmm-hmm.” The arthritis in Charley’s index finger made it impossible to open twist caps, so she picked up the napkin Tricia had dropped on the table, wrapped it around the cap of the water bottle, and wedged it into the soft pad between her thumb and forefinger, turning it. When it didn’t open, Tricia took it from her.

  “How good? Because I know she’s gay.”

  “Oh, Tricia, please. I’d sooner get involved with Satan than with a boss. You know that.” The minute it was out of her mouth she regretted it, although she wasn’t the one who’d been caught out involved with her young associate.

  “Okay, just asking,” Tricia said. “And are you involved? Is there anyone in your life?” Tricia poured herself a generous glass of wine.

  “Not that it would be any of your business, but no.”

  Tricia sighed. “Is there anything about your life that I can know?”

  Charley took a long swig of water, popped a piece of cheese in her mouth, picked up the notes from the morning session with Dr. Gerard, and began paging through them.

  “Okay, I’m treading where I don’t belong, but I’d like to belong there, just a little.”

  The note in Tricia’s voice revealed a step back, a supplication Charley had never heard. She nodded at Tricia’s outfit. “Sweatpants?”

  “Reagan hated suits, wouldn’t allow them at home. Turns out, I really like being comfortable.”

  Charley looked back down at the notes.

  “I’ll trade any piece of information about my life that you want,” Tricia said.

  Charley saw the banked ember of interest in her eyes. “I don’t want any information about your life.”

  Tricia looked down at her hands. “Of course you don’t.”

  Charley was possibly the only person on earth who knew that Tricia had vulnerabilities and insecurities that she shielded like they were the White House nuclear codes, and the defeat in Tricia’s eyes made her take pity on her. “I recently began seeing two women,” Charley said quietly. “But one of them isn’t right for me. She’s too young. She’s a writer, though, and a good one, so I think we’ll be friends.”

  Tricia nodded. “And the other woman?”

  “I don’t know.” Charley concentrated on the pages in front of her again, but she felt the heat of the blush creeping up her neck.

  “You do know. It’s manifesting itself on you right now.”

  Charley hated that in opening the door this tiny bit, Tricia could slip in so easily, even as her arrogance beat her through it.

  “You think she could be your beach, don’t you?”

  “We really need to go over these notes.”

  “I know I was a handful, but I was your beach. You need to find someone whip-smart, Ch
arley, someone who makes you reach, but more importantly, who’s your place of peace, your home.”

  “I know what I need, Tricia, thank you.” Charley tapped her pen on the notes. “Now can we go over what we talked about this morning with your doctors?”

  “I don’t want to. I don’t need to.”

  And just like that, Tricia had crossed back into her reality. The panic that Charley felt blossoming inside her chest was mirrored in Tricia’s troubled eyes.

  “I know what you’re going to say.” Tricia tucked her leg under her.

  “Maybe you don’t.”

  “You’re going to tell me I’m being foolish.”

  “No, I wasn’t.” Charley took a deep breath. “I was going to ask you if you’d made up your mind before we left the meeting this morning. And if that was the case, why did you want me here tonight?”

  “If we were still together, would you support my decision not to do anything?”

  “That’s irrelevant. I will support whatever you decide.” She wasn’t sure if it was true.

  Tricia moved her wine glass in a little circle on the table. “I don’t see a point in fighting this. I researched it. It’s not good.” Tricia looked down at her glass, and Charley could see tears welling in her eyes. She quickly moved to the chair next to her and took Tricia into her arms. The tears wet her neck before Tricia went to pieces. Deciding there was nothing she could say, she kept Tricia in her embrace until her body had gone quiet.

  “If you’re sure,” Charley finally ventured, “if this is what you want, then we still have to talk about what to ask the doctors to expect. I need to know what’s going to happen to you step by step, what signs I need to be looking for, what you might experience, what kind of drugs are available for what, do you need nurses and if so, when. And anything else they think I should know.” Tricia still rested against her shoulder and Charley ran her hand through her hair. “But if you want to trust in Dr. Gerard that stage four can be beaten and you want to fight, then I will be in your corner. Either way,” Charley said, wiping the tears from Tricia’s cheek with her thumb, “we need to inquire about hospice because you might need it if you fight, and you will need it if you don’t.”

  “I looked into that today,” Tricia whispered.

  “You did?”

  Tricia nodded.

  “I should have known. You were always about the end game first.”

  “And you did the leg work up front. It’s why we made such a good team.” Tricia sat up and dried her eyes. “I’m scared, Charley. But I’m not stupid. I know where this is going. Let’s put the questions together. You can be the warrior for me. It’s why I called you.”

  Charley set the notes from the morning meeting aside and reached into her bag for her spiral notebook. This would be the most difficult logbook she would ever keep. But it might be the most valuable thing she could give Tricia now.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Tricia’s call Thursday night had brought Charley right downtown to her apartment. They sat on the couch and watched the NFL game. Charley sensed that if she brought up tomorrow’s meeting to let the doctor know her decision, Tricia would lose it, so she went to the kitchen during halftime and made a pot of hot chocolate. She searched the cabinets for the tiny marshmallows they used to keep on West End Avenue for evenings like this, cold rainy evenings or sad evenings that called for the comfort of a steaming mug of hot chocolate, but found none. Reagan must’ve banned them, too, like Tricia’s suits. She’d hardly seemed the marshmallow type . In a last-ditch effort, Charley checked the refrigerator. Cold, hard marshmallows would be disgusting but they’d warm up and melt. No marshmallows there, either. Instead, she found a can of Reddi-wip, shook it, and blasted each mug with a mountain of white cream. Just what the doctor ordered…

  Tricia smirked and shook her head when Charley came in carrying the tray. “That whipped cream might be left over from last Thanksgiving.”

  “There’s enough sugar in this crap for a nuclear half-life of fifty years. I think we’re safe.”

  After she’d drained her cup, Tricia settled against Charley and yawned. “Not a great game.”

  “It’s the Giants. We’re only watching for the eye-rolling comic moments.” That, she knew, would be the extent of the discussion they’d have pertaining to tomorrow morning’s appointment.

  * * *

  Charley opened the window before she got into the shower and saw a dark, unruly sky that matched the feeling inside the apartment. She hadn’t thought to grab her umbrella. Maybe Reagan had left one behind in a closet. She dressed quickly and found Tricia pacing in the living room, waiting to head down to the street. They’d hardly said anything to each other all morning, and the tension could be cut with a knife.

  At five past eight, after peering intently down the street for five minutes, Tricia swore under her breath and deemed the town car late. Angrily, she pulled out her phone to call her assistant. Charley put her hand on Tricia’s arm to intercept that call, knowing it was less about the car than where they were headed, and her assistant shouldn’t bear the brunt of that. “She’s not going to know where the car is.”

  “No, but she can find out!”

  “So can we. What company does your firm use?” Charley knew all the limo companies in the city; every boss she’d ever had used a different one, making it imperative that she have a tab in her contacts listing them all.

  “Executive.”

  Charley pulled out her phone, scrolled to the contact, and hit the number. Several fat blobs of rain fell on her head as the call connected. She looked up at the threatening sky, and a second later, it was obliterated by the doorman’s umbrella. Thankfully, the car pulled up and Charley slid into the seat, the doorman opening the door for her. Grumbling, Tricia got in beside her. Nothing was said as the car rolled uptown through rush hour traffic. At one point, she looked at Tricia, who was looking out the window at something so far away Charley knew it wasn’t actually there. For her sake, she began to get herself mentally ready for the meeting with Dr. Gerard.

  * * *

  An hour later, Charley walked into the solarium on the ground floor of her office building seconds before the downpour finally hit. After getting a cup of tea from the Beanery kiosk, she sat at a table and watched the rain pelt the window, trying to collect herself before she went up to her desk. Still in shock over Tricia’s decision to refuse much help from the hospital team, Charley shifted her attention to the tea that swirled hypnotically as she stirred it. Dr. Gerard had looked at Charley after Tricia laid out her case, and she had looked at the floor. He had to understand that it was out of her hands. Since she wouldn’t be the one enduring treatment, or sacrificing her quality of life, she couldn’t judge Tricia.

  A clap of thunder brought Charley back to her surroundings. The rain was coming down so hard now that the street was nearly invisible. She knew she should go up to her desk and make sure Emily had everything necessary for her meeting this afternoon with Paul Whitney, but she couldn’t bring herself to move. Maybe the weather was a sign. “Emily Dunn, Rainmaker,” the New York Times had called her when she joined this firm, “the most ambitious and creative young executive in the field.” If ever she makes it rain, it has to be today. Why Wall Street hadn’t sniffed out their financial problems yet was beyond her; someone in the executive offices was hiding it well. If Emily didn’t succeed in bringing Paul’s company into this deal, though, and as a partner instead of a buyer, they’d be in the kind of trouble they couldn’t hide any longer. It would be all over the news, their stock would tank, Hans would throw Emily under the bus to avoid his own disgrace, and Charley could be facing the prospect of a job hunt, something she didn’t relish at her age. Not a pretty picture.

  The storm was full force when she finally made her way to the lobby, matching her mood. Passing through security and heading for the elevator bank, Charley brought her emotions back under control so that by the time she closed Emily’s office door and filled her in on
the meeting with Tricia’s doctors, she was all business. And it was a short task. “Anything I need to know before I get to work?” Charley asked.

  “I have a car at two o’clock?”

  “Yes. And it will wait there for you indefinitely. It didn’t make sense to schedule a pickup since we don’t really know what time you’ll be finished.”

  “Okay.” Emily toyed with a paper clip. “And I’m going to assume that you are doing okay for the moment?”

  “Yes. Are you mentally ready to face their board?”

  “Think so, yes.”

  They were both lying.

  When Emily left for the meeting, Charley sat back in her chair and stared out the window; it was still pouring. Her phone rang. She didn’t recognize the number, but she picked up in case it was the driver looking for Emily, who had a habit of wandering from in front of the building to look for her car if she didn’t see it right away, causing all sorts of communications problems with the limo company.

  “Charley Owens. How can I help you?”

  “Hey, Charley, I’m at a pay phone ’cause my battery died,” Neely shouted over the thunder that was now hitting the city. “I sold a story to The New Yorker!”

  “You’re kidding?” She could hardly believe what she was hearing. And then all that came over the line was Neely’s breathless laughter.

  “Are you kidding?”

  “No!” Neely said. “I’m in shock!”

  Charley started laughing, Neely’s infectious giggles touching her like champagne bubbles.

  “They never publish people like me. I’m a nobody!”

  “Not true,” Charley said. “And we have to celebrate. Let me take you out to dinner tonight.”

  “No. I wanted you to come over tonight. That’s why I’m calling. I’m just walking home from the market. I want to make dinner for you. It was your notes that helped so much.”

  “But I’ve been giving you notes on the novel,” Charley said, confused.

  “I extracted two chapters and molded them into a short story. Please, come over tonight.”