Two of a Kind

by Yona Zeldis McDonough

  “Excuse me?” Christina turned.

  “The decorations. They could have used a little color somewhere in here.” The man who delivered this uninspired assessment was the same man whose phone had buzzed during the service. What bad luck to be stuck at his table.

  “Actually, I find the decorations in exquisite taste,” Christina said coldly. No manners and no taste either. She turned to the woman seated next to her in the hope of discouraging any further conversation.

  “I’m Andy Stern,” he said, extending his hand.

  He had not read what she thought were her very clear signals. “Christina Connelly.” She took his hand reluctantly and let her eyes shift again to the woman sitting on her other side. The woman reached for her glass and Christina pounced. “What a beautiful ring!” she exclaimed. “Is that a fire opal?”

  “Yes,” said the woman, clearly flattered.

  “The color is exceptional.” Christina and the ring’s owner launched into a discussion about opals in general and fire opals in particular. Andy Stern, thankfully, was forced to turn his attention elsewhere. Throughout the elaborate meal that followed, Christina tried to ignore him. But Andy Stern was not easily ignored.

  “How’s your fish?” he asked.

  “Excellent,” she said.

  “Really? I think mine’s been cooked a little too long, but the wine they paired it with—exceptional.”

  Christina did not look up. Unfortunately, Ms. Fire Opal was talking to someone else, so there was no possibility of a rescue from her. Andy Stern kept on as if he believed he were the most fascinating man on earth. Finally, after the lime mousse, petits fours, and sugar cookies had been served, Christina excused herself, saying she wanted to find her daughter.

  “Is she at the teen table?” Andy asked, and when Christina admitted that, yes, she was, he added, “That’s where my son is sitting too; I’ll walk over there with you.” Christina was sorry she had told him; now her escape plan was thwarted. And they could not get through; several silver-tray-carrying waiters had blocked their way. So Christina was forced to endure still more of Andy’s self-absorbed patter. He was an ob-gyn with a high-risk Park Avenue practice; it had been one of his high-risk patients who buzzed him during the service, so maybe it was a forgivable offense; he lived in the Trump Palace on East Sixty-ninth Street, the tallest, and ugliest, building in the neighborhood, and rented a place in the Hamptons—where else?

  “It’s a great house: four bedrooms, five baths, and a stunning pool.” He contemplated the wineglass he held. “My wife would have flipped for that house.” There was something wistful in that last statement. “There’s a view of the water from the second floor that seems to go on forever. She always loved to be near the water.” His tone had changed: no longer boastful, but muted, even sad. She was tempted to ask about his wife—there was no ring on his left hand—but that was not the sort of thing you asked someone you had just met and didn’t like besides. “She died,” he added bluntly. “Ovarian cancer, which was kind of ironic given my profession. It’ll be two years in July.”

  “Oh,” said Christina. She too had lost a spouse, more than a decade ago, and remembered the savage, grief-crazed year following Will’s death. “I’m so sorry.” The sky had darkened and against the jewellike blue, the white tablecloth and napkins seemed to glow. “That must have been hard.”

  “Was and is,” he said. His close-set eyes, she noted, were an intriguing color, light brown, the pupils ringed with gold. He had the eager, attentive look of an Irish setter or a Lab, she decided. Not so bad after all, but definitely in need of being kept on a leash.

  “My husband died too,” she said. “So I know.”

  “How?” he asked.

  “In a fire.”

  “Horrible,” said Andy.

  “Yes,” she said quietly. “It was.” She was not going to tell him how Will, a lawyer turned high school history teacher, had been on an overnight class trip when the small inn where they were staying caught fire. He had sacrificed himself to save a girl who had been overlooked in the frenzy. A thousand people had been at the funeral held in his hometown; everyone from his kindergarten teacher to the girls and boys—now women and men—from his high school swim team had come to say good-bye. As she stood there with Andy Stern, it came flooding back, but then just as quickly receded. It would always hurt, but the worst was over. “It gets better,” she said. “You can’t believe it now, but it does. Children help. You just have the one?”

  “Just the one,” he said, and his mouth turned up in a smile. “Come on; you can meet him.”

  The waiters had dispersed and Christina was able to follow him to the teen table, where Andy introduced his son, a blond, curly-haired boy of about sixteen who had been talking to Jordan. Oliver offered a perfunctory hello before turning his attention back to Jordan, who sat with her hands in her lap, dessert untouched in front of her. Christina was not surprised; Jordan would no more have eaten a petit four than she would one of her pink satin point shoes.

  “How are you doing over here?” she asked.

  “Oh fine, Mom. Just great.” Jordan seemed to eye the petit four with longing.

  “They’ll be cutting the cake in a little while. Do you want to see?” The cutting of the cake was another of those iconic wedding moments and she thought Jordan would enjoy it. Jordan, however, was not interested. She seemed to want her mother to leave, which Christina found interesting. Did she like this boy who sat pulling on his springy blond curls? Or was she just embarrassed by Christina’s presence? Christina turned to go, and when she did, Andy Stern was right there beside her.

  “Pretty girl,” he said.

  “Thank you,” she replied stiffly. She was not sure she liked him offering his judgment—even though it was positive—about her daughter. Was he going to corner her at the table again? She hoped not and was trying to devise some other means of escape when she came face-to-face with Angelica. The veil had been removed, leaving her lustrous black hair uncovered.

  “So how have you two been getting along?” she said, looking from Christina to Andy. “I seated you together because I wanted you to meet.”

  Christina felt her cheeks heating. So this had been a setup? Widow and widower meet and find love at a wedding? How predictable—and how odious. She hated being set up with men as if she were a lone sock or glove, useless without a mate. She’d had a mate. A mate she adored. And in the ten years since he’d died, none of the men she had dated had come even remotely close to him. Being alone was better than settling. Besides, she wasn’t alone—she had Jordan.

  Christina was so uncomfortable she could not even look at Andy Stern, and kept her eyes focused on Angelica, who added, “Andy needs some work done on his apartment.” She seemed unaware of Christina’s discomfort. “And I thought you’d be the perfect person for the job.”

  “You’re a decorator?” Andy asked. He sounded skeptical.

  “Yes, I am,” said Christina. His tone riled her, but it was because he’d touched a nerve. She had no formal training for her job; she’d found her way to it through a serendipitous offer, postcollege, to intern at an interior design firm where a college roommate’s mother held a key position. The roommate had been all set to take the position but at the last minute had decided to go backpacking through the Yucatán and so Christina stepped in. She loved it and saw that, with her own desire to rummage and collect, she could make a life’s work of it.

  “She’s a superlative decorator,” Angelica was saying. “She did my place and I just adore it. You’ve got to see her work, Andy; Christina, you can send Andy pictures, right? And of course he can come to my apartment.”

  “Do you have an office in the city?” asked Andy.

  “No, in Brooklyn,” Christina said. And though she did not say it, until the recent downturn in the economy, it had been a very lively, even thriving business. People in th
e neighborhood knew—and loved—her work; she had been much in demand for a certain kind of warm, idiosyncratic, old-plus-new interior.

  “Brooklyn!” said Andy. It was practically a sneer.

  “Yes, Brooklyn. Park Slope, actually. It’s a beautiful, historic neighborhood and I love it.” Relief that this was not a misguided attempt at matchmaking turned to bristling self-defense.

  “She’s right, Andy,” Angelica said, putting a hand on his wrist. “Park Slope is a beautiful neighborhood and if you saw what Christina has done with her house, you would be totally awed. You just have to get over your Brooklyn phobia, that’s all.”

  “Well, I am looking for someone to do work on my place,” he said. “And Angelica’s recommendation means a lot. Maybe I could show it to you and you could let me know how you might handle the job.”

  “We could set up a time later this month,” said Christina. She hoped her voice masked her complete lack of enthusiasm. Whatever fragile thread of connection she’d felt with him had been snapped; he had reverted to the arrogant, self-satisfied man she’d endured at the dinner table. But a couple of key clients had lost their jobs, another was moving to Chicago, and yet another had been very slow in paying her bills. Work was work.

  “Perfect,” Angelica said. “Do you have a business card or should I just give Andy your coordinates?”

  “I think I have one.” Christina popped the clasp on her black satin clutch and rooted around inside. Yes, here it was; she handed it to Andy.

  “Christina’s World,” he read off the card. “Antiques, Interiors, Gardens.” He looked at her. “Gardens? In the city?”

  “Park Slope has a lot of gardens,” she said. “Lovely gardens, in fact. I’ve designed many of them.” Why did she feel this was another slight?

  “Here’s my card,” he said. She looked down at the fat, block lettering, and the string of degrees that followed the name. She put it in her purse, wishing she did not need, so badly, to use it.

  “Get in touch with her,” Angelica was saying to Andy. Then someone called her name and she turned. Before she moved off in the direction of the voice, she added, “You won’t be sorry.” Fortunately, Andy was waylaid by someone else and Christina was finally able to escape.

  She didn’t want to go back to her table, but it seemed too early to leave; the cake hadn’t even been cut. Maybe she could go back to the rose garden. But her fingers were sticky from the cookies; what she wanted to do first was wash up. There were luxury portable restrooms set up at the far end of the lawn; Jordan had used one and told her it was even air-conditioned. But Christina wanted to find a bathroom indoors—mostly because she wanted a peek inside.

  She went around to the front and slipped in. The foyer was as big as most New York living rooms and it was done in a gargantuan black-and-white marble tile and a ghastly, glittering chandelier. This was exactly the sort of decorating she hated: overdone, overwrought, mindless. Christina tried a couple of doors before finding the right one. Inside, she washed her hands and splashed cool water on her cheeks. The gilt-framed mirror was parked between a pair of ornate brass sconces. So crass, she thought as she smoothed her hair—done in a simple French twist—and dusted her nose with pressed powder. A swipe of lip gloss and a few dabs from the tiny flacon of Diorissimo she kept in her purse and her toilette was complete.

  As she looked in the mirror, she saw her own still-attractive face with its delicate features and gray-blue eyes, but she thought of Andy Stern. Arrogant, self-important, opinionated—was there anything she’d left out? But although she neither liked nor respected him, she was going to go after the job anyway. Business was slow. Private school, even with a generous financial aid package, cost money. And her nineteenth-century row house always demanded something; this time it was the front stoop, whose crumbling steps needed resurfacing. She had inherited the narrow, four-story brick structure with its glass-paneled double doors and Japanese maple out front, and though she loved it dearly, it was certainly a money pit.

  Lately, she’d been feeling so strapped that she actually applied for a full-time job at a design firm based in Greenwich. Giving up her own business to work for someone else would be, in her view, a comedown. But the Greenwich job offered a steady salary and good benefits. Anyway, it was a long shot; she’d sent the résumé in weeks ago, gone up for an interview, and heard nothing since. All the more reason to call Andy Stern.

  By the time Christina made her way back to the table, the cake cutting was in progress. Angelica and Ohad, her Israeli groom, fed the first slices to each other, amid enthusiastic clapping and cheering. Then the servers took over, expertly slicing and distributing pieces to everyone else. Before Christina took her first bite, something caused her to look across the tent. There at the other end stood Andy Stern. On one side stood his son, Oliver, and on the other, Jordan. Oliver had a slice of cake in his fingers and was devouring it without the assistance of fork or plate. Jordan’s hands were empty, and she watched Oliver as though he were crazy, dangerous, or both.

  Why did it trouble her to see the three of them standing there together, like they were posing for a family picture? Something about Andy, that was it. It was his body language—so commanding and assertive—and the way he seemed to take up so much space, to own everything around him.

  As if he were aware of her unflattering assessment, Andy Stern looked straight at her, pinning her with his bright, focused gaze. As his fork impaled a morsel of cake, he grinned. Now, why did that grin unsettle her so much? Christina didn’t wait to find out. Setting down the plate with its untouched cake, she sped off to the rose garden to escape.

  TWO

  Jordan slammed the locker door shut. Finally. School was over and now came the best, the most real part of the day: the ballet class that unfolded at the soaring white studio on West Sixty-fifth Street. She needed to hurry. The subway was a short walk, and even though Jordan was loaded down—backpack with all her school stuff, canvas tote crammed with practice clothes, ballet slippers, a towel, and hair gear—she made good time. But once in the station she had to wait for the train. Anxiously, she paced the platform. She hated being late to class. Finally, the train arrived.

  The ride into Manhattan took more than forty minutes, time Jordan had learned to use well. First, she permitted herself something to eat—she’d had no breakfast and lunch had been only a salad—because her stomach was rumbling too loudly to ignore. After she consumed the protein bar and three almonds she’d found nestled in a Baggie beneath her tights, she was good. She pulled the heavy history textbook out of her backpack and opened it. Her father had been a history teacher, though he’d gone to law school. “He decided he liked kids more than he liked law,” her mother said. Would he have liked her? Dumb question. Parents loved their kids. Though Jordan knew of parents who didn’t think their kids were smart or pretty or driven enough. Jordan found history boring, but then, she found pretty much everything apart from her ballet classes boring; that she excelled in school in no way reflected her interest level. How would her father have reacted to that? He had died when she was only four and what she had, mostly, were sense memories: the scratchy feel of his tweed jacket when he picked her up and pressed her to him, the warmth of his big palm when it enveloped her tiny one.

  When the train emerged from the tunnel and went over the Manhattan Bridge, she looked up from her textbook. That wide view across the water, framed by the surrounding city, filled her with a sense of widening possibility. She loved being at SAB, despite all the rushing. And in September, she’d be moving up to the next level, B2. She’d be taking character, point, variations, adagio, and even a weekly class in piano. If only her mother would let her transfer to the Professional Children’s School on Sixtieth Street, life would be so much easier. But her mother refused on what she called educational grounds. So they had reached a compromise: in September, Jordan would be starting at the Cromley-Blandon School. Her mom liked tha
t they offered Chinese, Arabic, and advanced Latin, but the only thing Jordan cared about was the location—Seventy-fourth and West End Avenue—which was only minutes away from SAB. She’d still have to commute, but at least it would be at the beginning of the day, not when she was on her way to ballet class. At Forty-second Street, Jordan got off the train and caught a local to Sixty-sixth Street and then hurried up to the building, through the reception area, and into the girls’ dressing room.

  “You’re late!”

  She turned, and there was her best friend, Alexis, already dressed for class. She and Alexis had started at SAB together when they were both six; they bonded when they both played candy canes in the annual production of The Nutcracker.

  “Am not.” Jordan dropped down to rummage through her bag. But Alexis was right: she was late. Yanking out the tights, leotard, and shoes, she stripped off her jeans and oversized T-shirt, stuffed them inside, and put on her practice clothes. The black flats she wore were kicked off and abandoned. There was just enough time to redo her bun before the opening strains of the piano music signaled that class was beginning.

  Jordan took a place behind Alexis at the long wooden barre attached to the wall as the strains of Chopin filled the studio. That stuck-up Francesca Karatasos was at the front of the barre—naturally—but Jordan forced herself not to look, and instead focused on melting into a deep, rich plié. Down and down she went, and then as soon as she was at the bottom, the rising began again.

  The pliés were followed by the tendus, the tendus by the degagés, degagés by ronds de jambes, fondus, frappés, developpés, and grands battements. When the barre was over, there was a break. Francesca stood admiring herself in front of the mirror; she was able to lift her long legs higher than anyone in class and sometimes her point work looked so perfect it made Jordan insane. Alexis tapped her on the shoulder and Jordan followed her out to the water fountain.