It hurt lying through my teeth. “I did so well they added this as a bonus.”
Jonathan whistled. “Sarah, this is amazing.”
And we’d gotten off the phone with Jonathan saying how proud he was.
A message had come in next, and right on cue, it was Stephen asking for my rent details and tenant information. It took several attempts to get ahold of Mr. Hadid, our landlord, before I had the correct documents emailed to the Birds.
I’d sat back on the bench, taking in what this meant. Rent paid in full for months.
I’d lost track of time. Some kid clattered by on a skateboard and I’d jumped from the bench as if I’d been electrocuted, realizing the hour, then running full speed out of the park to the nearest subway station, bobbing and weaving around people on the street before careening into Hearth’s front doors and stumbling into the kitchen.
Paul sneers at his watch, then at me. “You’re twenty minutes late, Larsen, and you’ve been late every day this week. Don’t get me started on last month too.”
“I’m here. It won’t happen again, I’m sorry.” I grab the closest order pad I can find and flash him my most apologetic smile. But it doesn’t make the cut.
He shoots me an impatient look. “Last time, Larsen,” he warns before turning on his heel.
I stare at my section. Once again, Jonathan has swept the floor, restocked the sugar caddies, and laid out my pieces of silverware, one by one. He gives me a thumbs-up, still grinning and cheesing over the rent announcement. I blow him a kiss.
Jonathan scoots toward me. Quickly—before Paul catches us—he squeezes me in for a hug. He’s giddy with excitement, having let the news sink in for the last hour.
“I still can’t believe it.” His dimple highlights his cheek. “This is jackpot, baby.”
I look into his face and can’t stop grinning either.
“So what magical powers did you harness?” He pokes me playfully in the ribs. “What did you do today with the little girl that impressed them so much?”
I glance away, finding it much harder to lie than when I was on the phone.
“I still didn’t meet her,” I tell him. “It’s how I interacted with Mrs. Bird.”
He tilts his head. “Okay, so with Mrs. Bird. What happened? You must have done something right.”
“Yes.” I nod, although an image of Collette wailing and stepping around broken glass flashes across my mind. The way she’d run her hands through an empty bathtub. “We get along really well.”
“Obviously,” he says, giving me another playful squeeze of the elbow. But he tilts his head again. “So you still haven’t met the girl?”
“No.” And I avert my eyes a second time, feeling my pulse pounding in my neck. To busy myself, I rearrange the salt and pepper shakers even though he’s already placed them in the correct spots.
Jonathan’s smile falls short. He knows me well. “Hey, are you okay?”
I’m faltering. The worries are stacking inside my chest.
Maybe it’s because I’m back in the restaurant. Maybe it’s seeing Jonathan and his kind, eager face and hearing Stephen Bird’s threats echoing in my ears. I have a strong feeling what I witnessed today is only a sign of more things to come and I won’t be able to tell Jonathan about a single moment of it. I’ll have to keep lying to him.
I move one more pair of salt and pepper shakers before pulling away.
He holds his stare. “What’s up?”
“Nothing.” I know I need to get my act together if I’m to keep my side of the contract, if I’m going to be able to barrel through this job and get the perks Jonathan and I so desperately need. I force a smile. “It’s all good. She was still feeling sick so the mom gave her a bath. I stayed out of the way but then Collette and I had a wonderful chat together. It was nice.” Another big smile, knowing I need to convince him that today was nothing out of the ordinary.
Maybe if I can convince him, I have a shot at convincing myself.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
I can’t go in. The alarm on my phone shrieks loudly and mercilessly. I smack my hand at my phone, fumbling around until I hit the stop button. The alarm cuts off.
I burrow deeper under the covers—I can’t do it, can’t make it to West Seventy-eighth. And to think, yesterday I’d been practically skipping my way to the Upper West Side. But now I’m struggling with how I can return; balancing my strong desire to keep this up for Jonathan’s sake while dreading what will face me when I reenter that apartment.
But maybe I don’t have to: Stephen promised sick leave. He owes me that much after everything he dumped on me yesterday. I’ll tell Stephen I need some personal time to clear my head. Or, on second thought, I’ll tell him I really am sick but should be better by tomorrow. I just need to hunker down for a day and take a breather.
I send Stephen Bird a text, leery that if I make a phone call he’ll try to talk me out of it. I claim to be feeling under the weather, almost typing food poisoning but decide against it. The fewer details, the better.
It takes minutes for Stephen to respond and I wait, anxiously.
Eventually, he responds with Ok. Get well soon.
Fortunately, no questions asked. He must know yesterday spooked me but he isn’t going to press.
I roll to the edge of the bed. Soon, Jonathan will be getting up and jumping in the shower, another shift awaits him at Hearth. I stare at our apartment walls: bare because we haven’t had the time or the money to buy artwork or posters for display. I can’t bring myself to go to West Seventy-eighth, but I sure as hell can’t sit in our studio apartment all day. My thoughts alone will be enough to drive me crazy.
I stare out the window at the busy street below, which will only get busier as more people rush to their daily tasks. Oddly, I find myself wishing for the familiarity of Hearth, the servers I know so well, the routine order of things, where each table is laid out just so and the busy pace of serving customers keeps my mind off most everything else. I’m also wishing for Jonathan’s company. I can’t tell him what’s going on but having him nearby will calm me.
I send a group text to the staff: Anyone want to give up a shift?
An immediate response arrives from Seth. He needs to help his girlfriend move into her new place and says the timing is perfect. Thank you, I type back. That settles it.
Jonathan is toweling off and looks surprised to see me pulling on my black pants and shirt, our restaurant attire. “So…you ran out of clothes?” he jokes.
“No,” I tell him, moving to the wardrobe, where I’m almost positive I dropped my belt. “The little girl is still sick, and since it’s been going on for a few days, they’re taking her to a doctor.” My cheeks burn and I bury my face in the closet, hoping he can’t see the red splotches radiating down my neck.
“So you’re going to Hearth?”
“I picked up Seth’s shift.”
At the bottom of the closet, my fingers wrap around a strip of leather, a metal buckle next. I pull out my belt and loop it around my waist.
“Cool. And you’re still getting paid for this day, right? The nannying gig is salaried so…” He scrounges around for his uniform.
“Yes, I still get paid. We need the cash so I thought I’d go into the restaurant too. Extra money, you know?” I give him a faint smile. “Every bit helps.”
He grins. “That’s great. Plus…” He steps over and gives me a kiss. “We’ll get to see each other today.” Clasping my hands, he gives the familiar double squeeze.
* * *
—
She’s sitting at my table—table eight.
Collette Bird. In my section.
At Hearth.
I feel the pitcher of water slipping dangerously in my grasp. Forcing my hand to cup the bottom, I keep the pitcher from falling and exploding across the floor.
I take deep breaths. Don’t freak out. Don’t draw attention. What I need to do right now is steady myself and watch.
But she’s busted me. I called in sick and she didn’t believe me for one second.
She unwraps a silk scarf from her neck, the material so long and luxurious, it takes three full unwinds before she’s successfully peeled it from her skin, her delicate white throat and sharp edge of collarbone revealed when she’s done.
I’m startled.
Why is she here? Couldn’t she have just called me and asked for an explanation instead? I could have made up something about the manager calling me in for the day.
More lies…and to Collette too.
My head whips across the length of the restaurant. Another question looms: How did she get out?
I’m not sure if she could have found her way to this place by herself. Stephen made it clear she was never to leave the apartment. But somehow, like a skilled escape artist, the woman has broken free. She dressed to the nines and snuck out of the penthouse on West Seventy-eighth Street.
But how? How could Pauline or Freddie, or even Malcolm at the front door, not know she left the apartment? Wouldn’t they have seen? There must be a full-blown search going on for her right now.
Sometimes, when it’s urgent, I’ll have the driver…
Did she pay him? Slip the driver hundreds of dollars to bring her here? I think of how furious Stephen will be.
But I don’t see anyone accompanying Collette. If the driver brought her, he’s either parked outside or circling the streets.
Collette looks sorely out of place in the East Village, but there’s no doubt about it: she made it out of the apartment. And for that, I give her credit. I didn’t think she had it in her, especially after I saw how hysterical she was yesterday.
She’s requested my section, which means I won’t be able to avoid her. Maybe she felt the need to apologize some more. Maybe even explain, although the idea of her explaining anything to me seems far-fetched. She’s the one, after all, who insists Patty is real.
I walk toward her, still clutching the pitcher of water.
Her blue eyes—with at least three coats of mascara on their lashes—light up when I approach. A steady gaze peers up at me, accompanied by a coy smile—similar to the look a child gives when they’ve been caught doing something naughty but think they can get away with it by being cute. If I had to guess, I’d say she wants to smooth things over, make everything that happened yesterday seem lighthearted and funny. As if, on a daily basis, it’s perfectly normal for people to lose their minds at the drop of a hat and then sleep off the rest of the day, sedated.
She’s here to make peace.
And wow, does she look better than she did yesterday. Color has returned to her face with rosy peach blush and dewy foundation applied to her cheeks. A sweep of taupe eyeshadow and her signature red lipstick. The familiar heavy spritz of Chanel No. 5. Her hair is freshly washed and pulled into a chignon, her honey-colored highlights blending in with the darker blond strands at her temples.
I suppose a night of medicated sleep and hundreds of dollars in makeup can totally transform a person. Remarkably, she is back to the woman I met on our first day.
And what she’s wearing—a caped ensemble—dramatic and luxe as hell in a rich swirled caramel color and made from the finest wool. I find myself staring, wanting to reach out and touch the lines of her beautiful cape, to feel the fabric. I hold this moment in my mind for a design I want to sketch later.
On either side of her face, a pair of large ruby earrings swing back and forth as she bobs her head to me in greeting.
“Sarah,” she says, her voice a gentle purr.
Once again, I am unnerved in her presence. I don’t know what to say.
“Mrs. Bird,” I say in return, and to my dismay, my voice sounds wobbly. I clear my throat. “Are you—” I look around. Still no sign of a driver or personal escort. No sign of Stephen barreling in to demand she come home.
My eyes drop to the shimmering crystal leopard-patterned pumps on her feet, Christian Louboutins this time, and decide she couldn’t possibly have found her way to the subway and walked.
“Am I with someone?” she asks.
“Yes.”
“No, just me.” And she says this so quickly and with such giddiness, a woman enjoying her freedom, who knows she is getting away with it for now. “I hope you don’t mind,” she starts to say, then looks around the restaurant with slight alarm, as if considering for the first time that I might not want her here.
If she’d wanted this to be a private conversation, picking a restaurant at peak lunch hour in the middle of the East Village wasn’t the brightest choice. If she wanted to be inconspicuous, she’s failing at that too. Nearly everyone in the restaurant has noticed her. As she sits at my table, people are taking the time to stare.
New York City may be a constant spectacle of the rich and the glamorous, the eccentric and fashionably flamboyant, but right now, Collette takes the cake. No one steps into Hearth wearing a caramel-colored cape and crystal shoes and sits alone. Everything about her reeks of money.
I pour a glass of water as she studies the menu. She flips to the back. “What’s good here?”
“Are you planning to eat?”
She lets out a laugh, one hand lifting to the side of her throat. Slender white fingers trace the length of her neck.
“Of course.” She lets her eyes cross the room. But her smile is soon followed by a look that borders on scolding. “This is a restaurant, isn’t it?”
I bite my lip.
Jonathan hovers nearby. I see him at the coffee station. He’s glancing at the woman at my table, then back at me, and I know there’s no reason for him to think this is Collette or to suspect something is amiss. I’ve described her, yes, but he can’t think my new boss would visit Hearth.
“I don’t have the biggest appetite,” Collette says. “But I would like to eat something small, so anything on the light side you could recommend would be just fine.” She gives me an expectant look. “Maybe a soup or salad?”
I shift my weight to one hip and think of what won’t take too long to prepare. “Do you like tomatoes and mozzarella? The caprese salad might be a nice choice.”
She smiles, snapping the menu shut. “Sounds lovely.”
I’m stepping away when I look back. “Anything to drink?” I glance at the wineglass that I desperately prefer remain empty. “Besides water?”
Collette checks the water glass on the table before dismissing the empty goblet. Another classic Stepford wife smile as she beams at me. “I’m fine with water, thank you.”
The occupants of table nine wave their hands. A father and his two daughters, who’ve spent most of their time over plates of ravioli and osso buco bickering about what the daughters deem to be their father’s strict rules. At one point during lunch, one of the girls, about twelve or thirteen and wearing a jean jacket with colorful patches on the sleeves, crossed her arms and refused to eat the rest of her meal, sulking, while the other sister argued with Dad.
When I approach, the father looks to me for help as if he can’t get the check fast enough.
I run his credit card, quickly dropping it on the table and trying my best to give him a sympathy smile that says, Hang in there. I feel the words resonating with me too as I return to Collette.
She’s arranging the silverware, carefully placing her knife, fork, and spoon equal distances from one another. The knife handle is lined up with the base of the spoon.
“Can I help you with something, Mrs. Bird?” I finally ask.
She looks up, rattled by my question, lost in thought. Blinking once, then twice, as if she’s trying to remember who I am or figure out what she’s doing here. Is she on something? But to my relief, her confusion—if that’s what it was—promptly disappe
ars. She’s smiling again, her eyes clearing.
“I asked you to call me Collette,” she says. Then more quietly, “And I want to apologize. For my behavior yesterday, for how I acted.” Her mouth twists at the word acted. “I lost control.” She waves her hands, a little too flippantly. “I do that sometimes. I’ve always been an emotional person. I hope you can forgive me?”
A huge part of me wants to believe her, but another part isn’t so sure. I’m worried that what I saw in that apartment is common—that’s what kept me up so late last night. The fear that Collette is prone to these erratic mood swings and Stephen has been downplaying her condition for my sake.
She fiddles with one of the napkins. “When Stephen told me you weren’t coming in today, I got nervous. He said you were sick”—she gives me a knowing smile—“but I had a feeling that wasn’t the case.” She looks around the restaurant. “You must have wanted a break from me. To come back here where no one’s going to yell.”
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Bird. It’s just—”
“Collette,” she again corrects me.
“Collette, I shouldn’t have bailed on you like this. It’s just, yesterday was intense…” I scrunch my eyes. “And I thought maybe you weren’t feeling well today either so maybe you could use an extra day of rest.”
She cocks her chin. She’s not buying it.
“I’m sorry it got intense,” she says, but sounds frustrated. “I didn’t want it to end up that way.” She drums her fingers on the table. “How can I make it up to you? How can I get you to come back?” The sincerity in her voice is fading. She’s too loud. I look around, aware that Jonathan has returned to his section while other servers are circling their tables and tending to customers. Paul will be coming out to check the front of the restaurant at some point too.
“I’ll be there tomorrow,” I say quietly.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.” I’m hoping she’ll mimic my voice at a near whisper.
But Collette doesn’t want to be quiet anymore. Earlier, when it had been about her, her apology for her own unattractive behavior, she had been careful to lower her voice. But now, when it’s about me and my intentions, her discretion is out the window.
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