Two of a Kind

by Yona Zeldis McDonough

  “It’s cool,” he said. “No one cares.” He inhaled deeply and offered it to her. “Want a hit?”

  “No!” she said, backing away. “And I’ll bet the police would care. I’ll bet they would care a lot.”

  “Hey, don’t freak out,” he said. “I’m sorry.” He took another deep drag before dropping it on the ground, where he carefully extinguished the burning tip with his heel, and then picked it up again.

  “Why do you get high?” she said. They were almost across the park now; she would be able to get away from him.

  “Why don’t you?” he asked, his blue gaze level and frank.

  “What are you talking about?” she said. “Why would I?”

  “You’ve never tried it.” It was a statement, not a question.

  “No, and I don’t want to.”

  “You don’t know what you’re missing,” Oliver said, regarding the half-smoked joint as if it could tell him something. “But that’s cool too.” They had come to Fifth Avenue. “So you get the train at Lexington and Sixty-eighth Street?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “That’s right by where I live; I can walk you to the train.” Jordan’s face must have revealed how badly she wanted to get away from him because he added, “Or not. I guess that joint kind of killed it for you.”

  “Drugs just scare me, that’s all,” she said, relieved to be able to tell the truth.

  “Weed is not a drug,” he said. “It’s a plant with a long and proud history.”

  “Whatever. It just weirds me out.”

  “How about if I promise never to do it again around you?” he asked.

  “Deal,” she said. He stuck out his hand. She took it and they shook. She liked him, she decided, weed and all.

  At the entrance to the subway, they said good-bye. “Friends?” Oliver asked.

  “Friends.” She watched as he gave her a wave and then loped off.

  When Jordan let herself into the house, she found Christina out in the garden fussing over a wire mesh cage that contained, of all things, a rabbit. She decided not to mention running into Oliver. “Where did this come from?” She knelt to get a better view of the animal; it looked positively petrified.

  “Mimi Farnsworth.” Christina sighed.

  “I don’t get it,” said Jordan, still watching the rabbit, which was white, with diamond-shaped gray markings.

  “I told you about Mimi’s husband, right?”

  “Oh, yeah. I remember,” Jordan said. The rabbit’s nostrils twitched continually.

  “Well, she hasn’t sold the house yet. But she’s been in a frenzy of purging; if you go into my showroom upstairs, you’ll see all the things I bought from her today. Some of them I even bought back—they were things I had found for the house when I first started the job. It’s all very sad.”

  “And the rabbit? Did you find the rabbit too, Mom?”

  Christina smiled. “No, it belonged to her sons, but now Mimi is moving them all in with her mother, who is horribly allergic to anything with fur. Even the word ‘rabbit’ will make her break out in hives. I said I would try to find a home for it.”

  “Can I pet it?” Her mother nodded and Jordan opened the cage. Instantly, the rabbit retreated to the farthest corner, where it huddled, trembling. “Is it a boy rabbit or a girl rabbit?”

  “It’s a male.”

  Jordan put her hand inside the cage. She did not attempt to touch the rabbit; she just let her hand remain there, and after a minute or two, the rabbit’s eyes seemed a little less wild and its trembling less pronounced. Only then did she actually pet the fur, which was very soft. She slipped her other hand in, so she could coax the creature out of the cage. In her arms, the rabbit felt shockingly animate and alert. The small body vibrated; the nostrils continued to twitch. So did the ears. Under her fingers, Jordan felt the rabbit’s heart, a steady, rhythmic beating. “Can I keep him?” she asked.

  “You want a rabbit?” her mother asked.

  “No,” Jordan said. “I want this rabbit. You said he needs a home.”

  “Are you sure? Because you’re the one who’ll have to take care of him.” Jordan nodded. “Well, Mimi will certainly be relieved. And her boys could come over and visit him from time to time, right?”

  “Sure,” said Jordan. “Whatever.” She didn’t care about Mimi’s boys but only about the rabbit, which she had already decided to call Harlequin—Quin for short—after the character in the ballet Petrouchka; the rabbit’s markings reminded her of the Harlequin’s diamond-patterned costume.

  “All right, then,” her mother said. “I’m going to let Mimi know.” She went inside to start dinner.

  When she had gone, Jordan remained standing in the garden with the rabbit in her arms. She’d never wanted an animal before and she had no idea why she wanted this one now. But she did want him. No, that wasn’t it. She needed him. And when she felt the gentle weight of his warm, furred body pressed against her, she was sure that he needed her too.

  FOURTEEN

  Andy had just finished an examination when he heard the deep, gravelly voice of Sonny, one of the doormen. He told Joanne to have the patient wait in his office while he stepped out to the building lobby to investigate. There was Sonny with one of those god-awful reporter types—he could spot them a mile off. This one wore a short, black skirt, a white blouse, and heels; at first glance, he might mistake her for a waitress. But she had that determined look in her eye and the pit bull set to her mouth. Also a mammoth bag slung over her shoulder, phone welded to her ear, and iPad clutched under her arm. “I don’t see why I can’t wait outside—”

  “Miss, I told you before: you can’t wait in the lobby, by the door, or anywhere in front of this building. If you want to wait somewhere, you’ll have to go across the street.”

  “The street is public property; you can’t tell me I can’t stand here.”

  “I can’t?” Sonny towered over her. “Just try me.”

  Reporter girl glared back at him as she walked away. She didn’t bother to look at the light, which was red; an oncoming car had to stop short to avoid hitting her. As the driver stuck his head out the window to yell at her, Andy turned to Sonny. “Thanks,” he said. “Nice work.”

  “Is that singer coming here today?” Sonny asked. When Andy nodded, he sighed. “That means there’ll be more of them.”

  “Sorry, Sonny. Goes with the territory.” Andy went back inside. There were now three patients waiting, which was not his style at all. But he’d crammed them all in this morning because Xiomara, his celebrity patient, was scheduled for the early afternoon and he’d promised to make sure the waiting room was cleared before she showed up. Even so, the paparazzi sniffed her out. Sonny was right: there would be more of them later. Andy was half expecting someone to try to bribe him for confidential information or, when that did not work, go ahead and steal what could not readily be bought.

  All this was a hassle, and made Andy’s day even more complicated than it might have been. But he’d agreed to take her on—and not because she was famous, rich, talented, or heart-stoppingly beautiful, though she was certainly all these things. No, he agreed because the first time she had come to see him, she told him about the three miscarriages and the ectopic pregnancy she had had—none of which, amazingly, had been leaked to the press—and her terror that she’d lose this baby too. “You’re my last hope, Dr. Stern.” Of course he’d said yes.

  It was nearly seven that evening when he began the walk back toward his apartment. When he arrived, he found a package waiting for him: a padded envelope from Christina that he tore open eagerly. Inside were some fabric samples for Rachel’s office; he was glad to get them, then disappointed that there was nothing personal in her note. But the package galvanized him. “Could you hold this for me?” he asked, handing the package back to the doorman. “I’ll be right back.”

 
; Outside, Andy headed west, toward Lexington Avenue. If he hurried, he might just make it. And look, the lights were still on in the florist’s window, and Gus was still inside, getting ready to close. Opening the door, he felt the familiar burst of cool air, the subdued but still heady scent of the flowers in the shop rising up to greet him.

  “Evening, Dr. Stern. I mean Andy,” said Gus. “You need something tonight?”

  “I do. But it needs to be delivered to Brooklyn. Can you do that?”

  Gus thought it over. “We don’t usually go to Brooklyn,” Gus said. “But if it’s very important . . .”

  “It is,” Andy said. “Very important. Remember what you told me? About giving it another chance?” Gus nodded. “Well, it was good advice. Great advice, in fact.”

  “Oh, so it worked out with your friend?” Gus looked pleased.

  “Well, no. It didn’t. But there’s someone else. . . .” Andy told Gus what he was after: a bouquet of white, and only white, flowers.

  “I’ll use freesia,” Gus said. “Roses, of course. White lilies. And I’d like to put some gardenias in the mix. Also an orchid or even two.”

  “That all sounds great,” he said. “Do you have a card, so I could write a note?” Gus provided a folded sheet of paper and Andy began to write.

  Dear Christina,

  I don’t know if I ever mentioned that Rachel was a big fan of the NYCB and because of her interest, we donated money to the company. After she died, I continued to donate; it was a way of remembering and honoring her. We used to go to the gala performances, and this year is no different. I’ve got two tickets to the upcoming gala on September 20th and I would like it very much if you would be my date.

  Yours in hope,

  Andy

  He’d been thinking about her nonstop, but although he’d asked her out twice since that night at the beach, they had not managed to get together. Once he’d had to cancel and the next time she had. Maybe the third time would be the charm. He slipped the note into the envelope and wrote her name across the front. Then he licked the gummed edge and handed it to Gus.

  “Let me know if she likes them,” Gus said.

  “You bet,” said Andy.

  • • •

  Today was the day that Christina had decided she was going to call Alice McEvoy. Maybe the position was still available. She doubted it, but she had to try. Once she’d made the decision, though, she did everything she could to procrastinate. She invoiced clients, cleaned out her dresser, swept and mopped a floor that didn’t need either, and, in a last desperate attempt to forestall the inevitable, went to Jordan’s room to offer the rabbit, a nervous, shifting creature she’d never entirely grown used to, a handful of shredded lettuce leaves. Only then did she go into her office to look for Alice McEvoy’s telephone number. To her vast relief, Alice wasn’t in, so she left a message and then made another call to Alan, her dealer friend. He said he’d be glad to look at anything she had.

  All month, she’d limped along, moving the pile of bills from one corner of the desk to another, until they had made a full circuit and were right back where they started. So now here she was, en route to selling yet another of her beloved possessions, this time a nineteenth-century bisque doll she had owned—and cherished—since she was twenty. She remembered borrowing the car from her roommate to go to the estate sale near Millbrook, and the musty barn where she had uncovered it, shrouded in straw and disintegrating newspaper, at the bottom of a steamer trunk she’d bought for five dollars.

  Alan’s shop was on Seventy-ninth and Lexington. Many of his well-heeled customers were away in August, but here he was, dressed in a sport coat and tie and seated at his desk—an elaborate eighteenth-century piece that was crowded with papers, a crystal decanter, several crystal ashtrays, and a clock under a bell jar. As always, he seemed glad to see her.

  “Got anything interesting for me today?” he asked. Alan’s roots, like hers, were in Brooklyn; he’d never lost the accent.

  Christina peeled back the layers of tissue and bubble paper and set the doll on the counter. Alan examined her carefully, taking note of her exquisitely sewn white kid body, lace-trimmed, peach satin dress, fraying only the slightest bit at the back. Her wig was made of human hair done in tight ringlets and was topped by a straw hat with a black velvet ribbon. Apart from the minor damage to the dress, she was in excellent, and all-original, condition.

  “She’s very nice,” he said. “French or German?”

  “French. Jumeau.” Christina showed him the identifying mark.

  “Are you sure you want to sell her?”

  Christina did not answer. The doll had survived intact for all these years. Where was the little girl who had played with—so decorously, so tenderly—and loved her? Long dead now. She had been instantly drawn to the doll’s deep blue glass eyes—Emile Jumeau had a patent on their production—the rosy fullness of her painted cheeks, the pearly and vaguely feral little teeth. She had a couple of other bisque dolls she’d acquired, but this one was her favorite, and had been given pride of place on the mantel in her bedroom. She was also the most valuable.

  Alan reached for the wad of cash he kept in his pocket and began peeling off the hundreds—one, two, three, four, five, six. When he finished, there were ten in all. The doll might have fetched more at auction, but Christina did not want to wait—she needed the money now. “Thank you,” she had said, reaching for the bills. She was putting them in her wallet when she realized that Alan had pushed something across the counter in her direction—the doll.

  “I just sold her to you,” she said.

  He shook his head. “No, you didn’t.”

  “The money you just gave me—”

  “Will be for something else. You always bring me good pieces, Christina. I can afford to extend you credit.”

  “That’s so . . . nice of you,” she said. She felt tears rising. He was so kind. Was it because he pitied her? And if so, did it matter? She needed the money; she wanted the doll. He made it possible for her to have both. On the way back to Brooklyn, the doll, nestled in her wrappings, sat in a shopping bag placed securely between Christina’s ankles. She had just finished placing her back in her spot when she heard her phone. Maybe it was Alice.

  “Christina, it’s Phoebe Haverstick. I know we’ve taken forever getting back to you, but Ian insisted that we do our homework before making a decision.”

  “Of course,” Christina said. “It’s a big commitment.” She tried to sound calm. Was this the call she’d been hoping for? The one she stopped believing would come?

  “It sure is! But we’ve decided we want you to do the job,” said Phoebe. “If you’re still available, that is.”

  Was she available? But she checked herself and said coolly, “Let me look in my book,” and then waited a couple of beats before saying, “Yes, I can fit you in.”

  “You can? Terrific! So when do you think you could get up here again?”

  As they were settling on a date, the doorbell rang. Christina went to answer it while still on the phone. Flowers! Who was sending her flowers? She waited until she’d finished her call before opening the card. She read it once, twice, and then a third time. Andy Stern was inviting her to a gala. And he’d written Yours in hope. So he was still thinking about her that way. Well, ever since their crazy stunt at the beach, she had been thinking about him too. She had been moved by his tenderness. Excited by his ardor. But she was confused too. He seemed so wrong for her. His brash manner, for one. His wealth, or more precisely his way of flaunting it, for another. His being, in effect, her boss. She’d agreed to go out with him a couple of times before, but when their plans fell through, her disappointment had been laced with relief. He unsettled her and she’d been glad to let her worries—money (or lack of it), Phoebe—chase him from her mind. Now he was back again, and more insistent than ever.

  Christina pressed her
nose into the bouquet and inhaled deeply. She had not a clue as to how she wanted to reply. But Stephen would help her figure it out. She brought a bottle of wine, a loaf of bread, and a wedge of cheese to the glass-topped table in the garden and waited for him to get home. When he did, she ambushed him.

  “You like him, right?” he asked. He was sitting across from her, carving the bread. Christina nodded and he added, “Then go for it.”

  “Well, it is a little awkward; I’m still working for him.”

  “And doing a fine job too, right? Isn’t he happy? And the pothead son too?”

  “Stephen! He’s not a pothead. Not exactly.” She had confided in him about her suspicions, but right now that was all they were—suspicions.

  “Whatever.” He took a sip of his wine. “But there’s no reason to feel awkward. A gala is a very public event. It doesn’t mean he’s going to make a move on you. “Unless”—he paused to study her—“you do want him to make a move. Or maybe he’s made one already.”

  “He did kiss me,” Christina said, looking down. “Twice.”

  “And you didn’t tell Uncle Stephen? Shame on you, girl!”

  “Well, the first time he was a little bit drunk. And I was too.”

  “And the second?”

  “On the beach. After we let the lobsters go free.”

  “I knew it!” said Stephen. “I told Misha I could almost see the sparks.”

  “Misha probably thinks he’s just awful.”

  “Well, he is,” Stephen said matter-of-factly.

  “What do you mean?” Even though she agreed, she rallied to Andy’s defense.

  “And at the same time, he isn’t,” he went on. “He’s oafish. But endearingly oafish. That thing he said to Misha about the play—his foot was so far in his mouth he could have bitten his ankle. And then he spent the rest of the night making it up to him. Plus he sent a hefty contribution to the theater company responsible for the play; Misha just found out today.”