Brooklyn Legacies

by Triss Stein

  Good thing my daughter Chris grabbed a bite after basketball practice and Joe, the man in my life, was on a job and coming home late. I had a few hours of work still ahead of me to update my knowledge. Call me crazy. Or insecure. Or maybe, to tell the truth, just plain curious.

  I guess I fell asleep at the keyboard. Chris found me, woke me, and sent me to bed.

  Chapter Three

  Later I thought about how I’d met Louisa Gibbs. It was a lot like the time I saw a famous rock star riffing with a street musician. Once in a lifetime.

  Could she be persuaded to let me sit at her feet and listen to all her stories? That would be the book chapter I should write.

  And then I didn’t have to persuade her. There she was, on the other end of the telephone, her worn, smoky voice inviting me to tea.

  “Whatever you are writing about Brooklyn Heights, if you want to get it right, you need to talk to me.” Yes, indeed. “Come at three tomorrow.” And then she hung up. I had not said a word.

  I was certainly excited. The student I used to be could not believe her luck. I was also annoyed, as the employed parent I am now had other responsibilities. Part of me wanted to call her back and have a discussion about manners and respect, but that was certainly a fantasy. I knew I would go. I could call it a research afternoon, and no one would actually question that. I hoped. I was still getting used to living in the nine-to-five world. Wasn’t this part of my job?

  Next day, there I was, working the tarnished brass ship door knocker and dressed like a lady, or as close as I could get. My best-looking pants and a fit-for-work blazer would have to be good enough for this occasion. And Chris contributed a real purse I didn’t even know she had, to replace my usual backpack. As usual, there was a comment too. “Keep it. You need to upgrade your look, Dr. Mom.”

  I waited. And waited. The massive door was finally opened by a very young woman with blue streaks in her dark hair and a neck covered with twining blue tattoos. The hands holding the door open were adorned with Indian henna patterns.

  “You Professor Donato? I’m Sierra. Sorry it took so long. I was helping Louisa down the steps.”

  I managed to smother my surprise. At least I hoped I did.

  In a large front room with a big bay window overlooking the street, a low table was set between two chintz-covered armchairs. It held a silver tray with a flowery china teapot, matching delicate china cups, and a tiered stand with tiny sandwiches and cookies. I moved carefully, terrified of breaking something.

  Louisa smiled. “Welcome, Dr. Donato. Sierra, this looks lovely.”

  The table did, but Sierra’s shorts and her sandals, with grubby toes and multicolored nails peeping out, were a startling mismatch on the beautiful, faded rug.

  “Okay to go? I don’t think I forgot anything.”

  “Ah, yes, we are taken care of. You go on.” She turned to me. “I find I need a light snack in the afternoon. Will you pour? My hands have become a bit shaky.”

  I’d watched British dramas on public television. Surely I could fake graciously pouring a cup of tea while I ate a dainty sandwich or three? I did my best.

  Mrs. Gibbs sucked down her tea in a few sips, and her sandwiches disappeared in two bites each. “Kingston tells me you are writing about Brooklyn Heights and that you are a certified historian. Is that correct?’

  “If by certified you mean I have a degree, then yes, I am. I have a PhD in urban history. Actually, my specialty is Brooklyn.”

  “Ah. Then I have some interesting stories to tell you and things to show you. A lot of them, plus this house itself.”

  I could not believe my luck. And I should not have, because this was not a gift.

  “I want something from you. Did you think I talk to everyone out of the goodness of my heart? I have good qualities, but that is not one of them. This is one hand washing the other. You may have heard I am in a dispute with my neighbors, those Bible-thumpers?” Her sly glance told me she was joking. She had not forgotten that I had witnessed her encounter with Kingston.

  “I may be forced into court. Probably I will be. So if I need your help, can I count on you? You could do some research for me, tell my story from an objective point of view, because they don’t accept me as reliable. What nerve!”

  “Do you mean tell them what you want them to hear?”

  “Absolutely! What would be the point of asking you, otherwise?” My face must have shown my horrified reaction. “Dear, dear! You look upset. I am not suggesting you lie. Can’t do that if you are a scholar, right? But I have confidence I am right, so what you find can only help me!

  “We can have a house tour right now.” She used her cane to stand up, and then used it as a pointer. “Built by my great-grandfather after he made a fortune in the China trade. He could see his ships down in the harbor from his front steps in those days, according to family legend anyway. The house has barely been changed since then.”

  She made a sweeping gesture that encompassed the entire first floor. “However, my mother insisted on a Frigidaire, and my father updated the bathrooms. Now, one more cookie for me, and then we walk around. And do tell me more about this article Kingston mentioned? Are you writing one?”

  “Maybe. There’s an editor who wants me to write a few sample chapters for a book proposal. It’s a long shot, in my opinion. Plus I had a chapter in my dissertation about creating the historic district, and I’m thinking it’s time to update it.”

  “You think anything has changed?”

  It took me a minute to catch on that was a joke.

  “Then you certainly need my help. You know you cannot always get it right from the official story.” She gave me a shrewd look. “Did you mention me back then?”

  “I most certainly did.”

  Her smile was satisfied and even smug.

  We toured the parlor floor of her home, with its dark wood paneling, faded silk furniture, and a baby grand piano. I admired the antique wallpaper, a beautiful painted harbor scene with tall ships—was it New York Harbor, right down the hill from where we stood?—and wondered what used to be in my own house. Everything original had been long gone when I moved in.

  “The garden floor is not authentic, so we won’t bother with that. Equipment in the kitchen down there has been replaced as it wore out.” She shook her head. “Rather like bodies. I have two titanium hips myself. Anyway, I cannot get people to work for me without having modern appliances.”

  She waved a dismissive hand. “And who can blame them? My mother would be horrified, but this is not 1920, when there were two live-in maids, a cook, and a driver, all working for pennies, no doubt. They lived in tiny cubicles on the top floor.” She shook her head. “It’s storage now. And my girl thinks we should get something called Wi-Fi! She’s teaching me how to use email.”

  We returned to the chairs in the parlor. “So. My papers are with Kingston in the association archives, but I have stories, too.” She winked. “And gossip. You come again and we can get down to work. A deal?”

  I agreed. I wanted to know more, but I was now almost late for a parent meeting at Chris’s school.

  Twenty minutes later I slipped into a crowded meeting room to find my anxious daughter saving me a seat.

  The speakers for this meeting were introduced, and I started to take notes, then nudged my kid and whispered, ”You should be taking notes too. Your life.”

  She pulled out her phone to tap info into it, while I used my notebook. She often accuses me of living in the past. I do, and I’m proud of it. I am a historian, after all.

  The school’s college counselor spoke first. Three alums spoke about the college admissions process from their own experiences and described how they ended up where they did.

  When an independent college admissions adviser was introduced, I wondered why parents at this costly private school would pay for extra help. And ho
w could they?

  But what did I know, anyway? I went to a giant public high school with overwhelmed counselors and then went to Brooklyn College, practically across the street. I slept in my childhood bedroom and took the same old city bus to classes.

  When Chris was little and I was a widowed mom, back in school myself, I needed the extended childcare a private school offered. My husband’s life insurance made it financially possible, barely. Then they offered us substantial financial aid, and she was flourishing there, so she stayed.

  And now? Now she had big ideas about her future. I wondered, not for the first time, if it had all been a mistake.

  When I tried to talk to her about tuition costs and travel costs and hometown colleges, she wasn’t listening. I could see the thought bubbles over her head. “Blah blah blah.”

  I foresaw a long year ahead. And I wondered if Joe, now a quasi-stepdad, realized what he was in for. When we got home, though, I saw his experience was going to be different from mine.

  “Joe! It was such a great meeting!” Funny she talked to him when she wouldn’t talk to me. Not so funny. “We learned so much. And they had a kid talking about Oberlin.” She added, almost whispering, “It’s my dream. I talked to him after. He gave me lot of good tips.” She turned pink. “Jared is definitely going. Early admission.”

  Joe saw my face and winked at me behind Chris’s back. I should be glad she had an adult she found so easy to talk to, even if it wasn’t me. And I was glad. Usually.

  She went off for a snack, and he put his arms around me.

  “It’ll be fine. You know that.”

  “How do you know? There is the money to worry about. She should be thinking about the state university arts college. And Jared! I mean, he is a nice kid, but he’s a kid. And so is she. What if she follows him and they break up? And…”

  He put a finger to my lips.

  “I know, because I have six nieces and nephews who went through this. Count ’em. Six. And Chris is smart and talented. She’ll get scholarships like always. And by application time next year, maybe Jared will be out of the picture anyway.”

  I stood there, leaning on his comforting shoulder, trying to process this too-full day. I knew I’d have to find a way to say some things to Chris she would not want to hear, but I had no idea how. Not tonight anyway.

  Over a glass of wine, stretched out on the couch, Joe and I caught up on the rest of the day. I told him maybe I really would try to write that sample chapter, that I’d had a story fall into my lap today.

  He started laughing.

  “What?” I was exasperated. He had a great laugh, but it wasn’t so charming at that moment. “What in the world?”

  “I have a cocktail party tomorrow. You, my dear, flatly refused to come with. Remember? Not your people and not your style?”

  “Uh, yes. Maybe that happened.”

  “Maybe? Housewarming at a client’s? I managed a big renovation? Remember where?”

  The light was dawning. Brooklyn Heights.

  “And who? A big shot? With money?”

  “Lucky guess. You maybe have heard of Prince Projects?”

  Oh, yes, I had. I’d seen it on many construction site billboards too.

  “He’s buying and building. He’s deeply involved in some pieces of the Watchtower transfers in the Heights. The party’s a political fund-raiser. They’ll all be there, all the movers and shakers.” He was laughing at me. “Care to change your mind?”

  “Please? Could I please change my mind? I’ll check if my good dress is pressed?”

  “You’d be cute even in blue jeans. And by the way, their name is really Prinzig, not Prince.”

  Interesting. Did Prinzig not sound elegant enough?

  Chapter Four

  A party? Yes, I dimly remembered declining Joe’s original invitation with a faint feeling of horror. All I heard was a weeknight evening—I am too busy, too tired—with people who did not interest me, rich dwellers in the business world.

  And I’d have to dress up. It’s not that I deeply dislike doing that, but years of minimal social life and not enough money to buy clothes anyway, had removed it from my skill set. I hadn’t known how to do it since that long-ago era of off-the-shoulder sweatshirts and fluffy hair.

  But now I could do this. I could. I said that to myself a few times. I had a reason to be there, so I would not merely be Joe’s date, a sort of arm candy. I’d be going to learn something if I could, and I was pretty good at that role.

  And I had a dress. Darcy, my most stylish friend, had dragged me shopping before Chris’s sweet sixteen party. Shimmery silk with a few strategic rhinestones and color-coordinated, glittery high heels. Chris insisted I leave my hair and makeup to her.

  Actually, what she said was, “Don’t even think about your eyeliner. I’m on it. Mel will help.” She giggled. “Cinderella to the ball.”

  I huffed and protested it was a cocktail party, not even close to a ball, but she rudely put her hands over her ears while saying, “You have to leave it to us.”

  So I did. When they turned me to the mirror, I was shocked. I looked glamorous. Or at least polished and glowy, compared to my everyday self. Joe said, “Wow,” and I asked stupidly, “Is this what you’d like me to be all the time? Glammed up instead of everyday scruffy me?” I instantly regretted it.

  “You’re kidding, right? Your real self is the one I want to come home to every night.” He stopped right in the street and put his hands on my shoulders. “You know I can’t resist that scruffy you.”

  Yes, I had the right guy.

  We went in style, taking a car service so we did not have drinking-and-driving issues later. And parking issues. The party was in a former factory building, down the hill from Brooklyn Heights itself. That former factory was converted into million-dollar loft apartments. Joe corrected me. Several-million-dollar loft apartments.

  The elevator opened directly into an apartment foyer on the top floor. It was a lot of space, the true luxury in our land-scarce city. Long open rooms with huge factory-style windows overlooking the harbor. Huge abstract paintings on the towering walls impressed but puzzled me. Soft jazz came from a quartet in a corner. A uniformed team checked our names and took our coats. Servers moved smoothly across the polished floors, offering trays of wine and tiny bites of things I could not identify. Even with the many servers and the large, glittery crowd of guests, the rooms were not crowded.

  What was I doing here? A girl from deepest Brooklyn? In this movie star setting? Why, accepting a flute of champagne, thank you very much, and hoping my lipstick would not smear on the crystal. That’s what.

  I was here to do a job. Meet some people who could talk to me about their world. This world. Joe winked. He could read my mind.

  “Remind me. How do you know these people? You worked here?”

  “For a full year, on and off.” He smiled at me. “In the co-op they bought fully renovated.” Now he was all but laughing. “Oh, yeah. After they moved in, they decided the three bathrooms weren’t grand enough for their needs and I was general contractor for the Italian mosaic retiling, the rainfall showers, and a Jacuzzi. Plus the self-watering for the patio garden and the complete landscaping. They trusted me because—I don’t know. I can read and understand a contract? I speak grammatical English and know the names of furniture designers? That table over there is a genuine Nakashima, by the way.”

  I knew the name, but only because I’d seen Nakashima’s work on Antiques Roadshow. I felt like Eliza Doolittle on her first day at Professor Higgins’s house. A long way from home.

  Joe nudged me toward the French doors at the end of the long living room. A redwood deck outside that seemed to be the square footage of my entire first floor. Three levels and planters with manicured trees now turning autumn gold.

  “I can see you liked working for them a whole lot.”
My turn to tease him.

  “My job is making clients happy. They don’t have to make me happy in any way but paying my bills. Some I like less than others.” He turned me slightly, “And there they are. These clients. Come meet them.” He removed the glass of champagne from my hand and whispered as we walked, “He is buying a chunk of the Watchtower properties. So you need to be alert and analytical, right? Name is Mike Prinzig. Of Prince Projects. That guy. And his wife, Cherie.”

  Mike Prinzig was a not-quite-handsome man with slick, styled black hair and too many shiny teeth, standing with a very blond woman in heels about five inches higher than mine. They smiled as we approached. He shook Joe’s hand and put an arm around his shoulders while still holding a cocktail glass. She kissed Joe—was that a little too friendly?—and said, “We miss seeing you over breakfast!” That was definitely too friendly from this six-foot blond.

  He introduced me, smoothly slipped in my not exactly real experience writing on Brooklyn Heights, and kept a hand on my bare shoulder in a way that said a lot with no words at all.

  Mike Prinzig said, “Well, I know Brooklyn Heights in and out. Come talk to me sometime to get an expert view.”

  Cocktails were pressed into our hands, and the lady of the house was saying, “We’re thinking of updating the kitchen.” She looked around with a dissatisfied expression. “This big party shows me it is not quite up to the entertaining we plan to do. Right, honey?” She leaned on her husband’s arm.

  “You are the party expert. If it needs tweaking, then why not? So, Joe, we’ll talk? Next week sometime? Call my girl.” They turned to greet other guests, and Joe managed to walk me away before I said anything.