by Lucy Hepburn
10
She was going to have to deal with Henry O’Neill in record time.
9
8
7
Could she leave Toni to hand the tickets over, and rush away now?
6
5
4
No, probably not.
3
2
1
“Christy!”
“Mr. O’Neill!”
A large, avuncular man of sixty seven, Henry O’Neill was still strikingly handsome. Silver-haired with piercing blue eyes and permanently tanned skin that somehow never looked overdone, he was a walking lesson in how to make an entrance. He didn’t take his eyes off Christy for a second as he strode out of the elevator toward her, making Christy’s prepared line about him appreciating getting the tickets early fly right out of her head.
“Henry, Henry. How often have I told you to call me Henry?”
They shook hands. Henry O’Neill was not one for kissing hellos.
“Henry.” She handed him the slim white envelope containing his tickets.
“Wonderful,” he said, tucking them inside his jacket pocket.
Christy stood quietly, waiting for him to speak. Surely he must have some agenda for coming all the way down in person?
“So, Christy, how’s business?”
“Oh, it’s going great, thanks,” Christy smiled, relieved to be on safe territory so far. “I’m going to be working from my new place just across the park soon, so it’s going to be even easier to keep up Doorman dot com’s high standard of service.” She had always had a friendly relationship with Henry O’Neill, yet he was such a business giant that she was careful to stay on her guard and to be as professional as possible at all times.
“Good for you,” he twinkled. “Apartments are really hard to come by over there. Expensive, too. You must be doing well for yourself, Christy. And thoroughly deserved. I couldn’t be happier for you.”
“Well,” she dropped her voice to a lower, confessional tone, “I got a bit lucky. The owner of the block knew my mom from the old days.”
“Aha, nepotism.” Mr. O’Neill’s tone was teasing. “You did a deal. Attagirl.”
“Actually, I tried to do a deal,” Christy laughed, “by offering him three months’ Doorman dot com service for free if he’d sell me one of the apartments, but he didn’t go for it.”
“More fool him,” Mr. O’Neill said kindly. “I, for one, appreciate the value of an offer like that. The man’s an idiot.”
“Thank you. But then he quizzed me about my surname, and it turned out that my mom used to teach his son when we lived around here years ago, and he has a personal rule to always keep a couple of apartments off general release so that he can make sure they get sold to locals. I got kind of lucky!”
“Ah, but people make their own luck. You should know that, Christy.”
“Well, sort of.” She was prattling on, and she knew it. Frantically, she plundered her memory banks to think of something to ask him, out of politeness, before making a bid for freedom. If only she’d had her phone! She’d know a dozen tiny details about him on the spot!
What’s his wife’s name? What’s his wife’s name? What’s his wife’s name?
“How is your wife?” she asked eventually, going for the easy option.
“Hilda?” he replied, his face clouding. “Thank you for remembering to ask, Christy. It takes a special sort of person to recall things like that.”
Christy was floundering. “Oh, well, I…” her voice trailed away. Had she accidentally stumbled upon the right thing to say? She didn’t know. But she wouldn’t have been in this situation if she’d had her phone.
“I’m afraid it’s come back.” His face was etched with pain. “It was the news we’d both been dreading. You know, we’d really hoped she’d beaten it after the last treatment, but just last week her symptoms started up again, and when the clinic broke the news to us, well, I’m afraid Hilda didn’t take it very well. But who can blame her?”
“Oh, no.” Christy put her hand over her mouth. She’d had no recollection whatsoever that Mrs. O’Neill had cancer. Was her iPhone’s memory robbing her of her own? Did she have no compassion? What kind of person forgets such a thing? Maybe her iPhone wasn’t so perfect after all.
Henry O’Neill nodded ruefully. “It’s going to have to come off this time, the whole thing, unfortunately. They thought they’d manage to beat it without such a radical procedure, but…no such luck. I can hardly bear seeing her in so much pain! You know, Christy, I finally understand when people say they wish they could go through something instead of their partners—to spare them the agony.”
Tears welled in Christy’s eyes, and she took hold of Mr. O’Neill’s hands. “I am so dreadfully sorry,” she said, feeling completely inadequate and unable to think of any form of comforting phrase whatsoever.
“Thank you, Christy. Hilda and I appreciate your concern.”
“What can I do to help?” Finally she found the words. She could offer to do what she did best—she could be there for them, whatever they needed, she could help.
He shrugged helplessly. “Just be there for her when she comes out, I guess, like the rest of us. Thank you, Christy. I’ll be sure to call on you. There are bound to be mobility issues with these things.”
Christy nodded sympathetically.
“I mean,” Henry O’Neill went on, “in-growing toenails sure are debilitating. And once the procedure is over, she won’t be able to walk around much. She’ll need someone to help more than ever, I would imagine.”
In-growing toenail? Did Christy hear that right? She nearly passed out with relief. Not only for Mrs. O’Neill’s sake, but also for the fact that she had, by sheer good luck, managed not to put her foot in it. She had been just about to ask whether Mrs. O’Neill would be undergoing chemotherapy. Well, if she had her iPhone, she wouldn’t be in this mess. She would have stored Mr. O’Neill’s operation on it and known what was going on. Her iPhone was perfect, and she would never say one more bad word against it.
“I’ll do whatever she needs, don’t worry,” Christy said, probably a little too brightly. “Just give me a call.” She glanced at her watch and then looked up at him, biting her lip. “Well, if that’s everything, perhaps I should get going. You’re a busy man, and I need to get the deposit check to the apartment block owner very soon, or else the apartment turns into a pumpkin.”
He nodded, but made no sign that she was free to go.
“Mr. O’Neill—Henry? Is there anything else?”
He seemed locked in a kind of trance, miles away, thinking of other things—Hilda, maybe, and her sore toe. But as she leaned in to ask him again, he seemed to snap back to reality, giving Christy a huge, beaming smile.
“Oh, yes! There was a reason why I came down to see you.”
It took all of Christy’s effort to keep a look of sheer panic out of her face.
“Y…yes?”
“I wanted to do things Doorman dot com style—see how it felt.”
“Excuse me?” Christy looked at him closely, but couldn’t see any signs that he may have been drinking, or having some kind of breakdown, or anything of that nature.
“Personal service. I wanted to come down to see you face to face, rather than let Gardenia get all of the fun stuff to do. A chance to say hello, to pass the time of day.”
The time of day! Christy shrieked inwardly to herself. That’s what I don’t have enough of!—come on, Mr. O’Neill, please…
“Yes, indeed, it’s just nice to be able to maintain a little human contact these days; after all, business is so frenetic, it’s all gadgets, computers, electronics—but you don’t operate that way, do you, Christy?”
“No,” Christy beamed, wondering if it was transparently obvious that she would actually be wearing an ‘I heart my phone’ T-shirt now if they made them.
“So,” Mr. O’Neill pronounced, fold
ing his arms, “I just wanted to receive my tickets from my super-efficient Christy, and to apologize to her for keeping her waiting, and to tell her to—in the words of everyone else in America, but as from today, in the words of Henry O’Neill too—have a nice day, Christy Davies, of Doorman dot com.”
“And the same to you, sir. Please pass on my good wishes to your wife!”
She extended her hand, and he shook it warmly.
“Oh, and one last thing…” he smiled at her, holding on to her hand so she couldn’t leave.
“Yes?” she replied, unclenching her teeth in the nick of time.
“Go get that apartment, young lady!”
“Thank you, I will,” she squeaked before she could bear it no longer, and turned and began to walk swiftly toward the exit. Toni, who had been observing the scene from the atrium, pushed open a tall glass door and hurried after her.
Finally they were back on the sidewalk. “I can’t believe it,” she muttered. “He actually kept me waiting so that he could come down and apologize for keeping me waiting! Come on, Toni, we can still just make it.”
There was time to spare. Not much, to be sure, but all she had to do was take a few minutes’ detour across the park, as instructed by the guy on the train, and she’d still make it before the noon deadline.
Striding across Prospect Park with Toni at her side, Christy wanted to break into a run, and not only because they were against the clock. It was so beautiful. The Botanic Gardens off to the right—she’d be able to take picnics here in summer, or all year round if she wanted, when she had her own place just around the corner.
Toni joined in with her enthusiasm. “The city that never sleeps!” he cried, grabbing her by the waist and twirling her around.
“Put me down, we’re in a hurry,” she giggled. “We’ve only got fifteen minutes.” She loved the feel of this part of the city—the sights, the sounds, everything brought back happy memories.
“My big sister fell in that lake when she was about six,” she panted, pointing to the big, glassy sheet of water on their left. “She wanted to steal a duckling!”
She thought about Annette, who’d never understood Christy’s longing to come back here, and who had up and headed off around the world the moment she’d had the opportunity. It was as though the two of them had reacted to the trauma of their father leaving in polarly opposite ways: Christy by yearning to make a home close to her roots, and Annie by striking out, roaming the world, and seeking belonging in far-flung places. Annie was the indecisive little bird, flitting around, migrating, restless. Christy always used to feel that tying Annie down was like harnessing smoke.
Funny, then, how it was Annie who was currently living back at home with their mom. Annie who’d held down a steady job for a while, and, most unbelievable of all, Annie who was getting married and settling down. Not that Christy believed that Annie would stick around for long after her wedding. She’d be off soon after, all hugs and tears and promises of letters. It was as though she had to travel as far as possible to show her and her mother how much she loved them.
But that was Annie. Infuriating and disorganized. And Christy loved her.
For the next ten minutes, though, it was all about her future. Annie and her dramas were going to have to go on hold until she’d completed this—the biggest assignment of her life. Toni, a sheen of sweat on his brow after their power walk across the park, grinned down at her.
“Brooklyn!” he cried. “How sweet it is!”
She giggled. “Too right! How did you know that’s Brooklyn’s official slogan?”
Toni looked confused, as though he had no idea what she was talking about.
“Oh, well, it doesn’t matter. You know, Toni, I almost bought a place here two years ago—with a guy.” She knew that Toni probably wasn’t following what she was saying, but she went on anyway.
“My ex, Duncan.”
Toni looked confused. “Duncan? Doughnuts?”
She giggled. “No. Not like the doughnuts. Come on, walk faster.”
He seemed delighted to have made her laugh and obediently quickened his pace.
“Well, perhaps,” she went on. “He behaved like a doughnut. We’d been saving forever—no, correct that, I’d been saving forever—and we’d found this really cute apartment, and all he had to do was post the contract letter confirming we were going to buy it. But that was too much for him. You know, Toni—letter, mailbox—how hard could it be? It was usually me who did everything like that—I thought I was giving him an opportunity to be the adult for once! But I found the letter weeks later in a pile of other stuff. He’d forgotten. And by then we lost the apartment.”
She smiled ruefully. Not this time, she thought. This time I’m going to get the apartment of my dreams for sure—there is no one to mess it up but me. And Christy Davies never messed up. Toni gave her shoulder a comforting squeeze as they neared the far edge of the park. The sun was winking at them through the trees, rollerbladers and joggers swarmed the footpaths, and the traffic noise was growing louder as they came to the park gate.
“We didn’t really stand a chance after that,” she admitted, more to herself than to Toni. “Annie kept in touch with him—she’s got a Facebook army of far-flung friends, and she says he’s shaped up a lot since then.” She snorted. “She says he got his act together to try and win me back—you know, like Josh Lucas in Sweet Home Alabama?”
Toni’s eyes lit up. “Sweet Home Alabama?” he repeated. Instantly he struck a rock star pose and started thrashing an air guitar and belting out the heavily-accented lyrics.
Now she was definitely talking to herself. “Annie says he’s a new man. Well, he’d have to be, not having me to run his life…” She chewed her lip.
They’d reached the far edge of the park and hurried back onto the bustling pavement. Christy knew exactly where she was. The familiar streets and shops, the church on the corner, the movie theater—she was home. And the apartment block was just over there.
It was barely ten minutes before her noon deadline when she and Toni rounded the corner onto the street that would soon form her very own address. The apartment block was gorgeous: a newly renovated redbrick, converted from an early twentieth century storage house, complete with its own central courtyard and designated parking. It had been beautifully refurbished by Mr. Simpson. He was clearly a man who cared passionately about preserving the character and integrity of a building, as well as had the decency to hold back an apartment or two in order that locals wouldn’t be bought out of the area. She couldn’t wait to move in. Mentally, she had the place fully furnished and decorated already. Fishing the envelope containing the check from her bag, she realized her hands were trembling as she and Toni entered the courtyard.
A tiny, gum-chewing young woman, aged about nineteen, was outside, locking the front door. Christy rushed over.
“Um, excuse me?”
The girl turned and looked Christy up and down inquiringly. She had a defensive, pinched expression on her face. “Yeah?” she drawled.
“Is Mr. Simpson here? I’m Christy Davies, and I’ve brought my dep—”
“Uncle Dan left a few minutes ago. He said he couldn’t wait any longer,” the girl replied casually, not realizing that with those words she had just stuck a finger through the picture of Christy’s perfect life.
“What do you mean?” Christy squeaked. “He has to be here. I need to give him this check…” she held the check up in the air, where it fluttered flimsily in the light breeze.
“That’s just too bad.” The woman put the keys in her bag and walked past Christy down the steps.
“But…he promised!” Christy wailed at the woman’s retreating back. “He said he’d wait till noon!”
The girl didn’t even look around. Toni clutched Christy’s hand.
“He said he’d wait till noon,” she whispered again, fighting tears.
WILL
10:30 a.m.
/> Marooned on his father’s doorstep, Will slipped Christy’s phone back into his pocket and rolled his eyes skyward. Some impression he’d made! He shook his head, recalling his clumsy attempts to add humor toward the end of the call—way too little, way too late. Poor kid sounded like she was having a tough day, and he must have come across as though he had no intention of being any help.
But then, he was having a tough day, too! He knocked again at his father’s door. Harder this time. It had been a long time since he had his own key.
If a door could be reluctant, his father’s front door certainly appeared to be. It was dragged open by a pale female hand. The hand was followed by the emergence of a face—pretty, blonde, doubtful, and familiar.
“You’re still here?” Will asked the question without thinking.
The girl raised her eyebrows.
He plowed on. “I mean, I’m not used to Dad’s assistants lasting longer than five minutes, but you were here last time I came up, months ago. It’s Gina, isn’t it?”
“Nina,” the girl corrected, not seeming at all put out by his error. “Hello, Will. Yup, I’ve been here nine months now.” She grinned. “I love it!”
“You do?” Will’s voice was laden with sarcastic disbelief. “How can anyone assist that man without turning into a full-blown nutcase within twenty minutes?”
Nina shrugged. “Actually, your dad and I get along great; we’re the same type.”
Will wasn’t in the mood to hear his father spoken of with fondness. He glared at the girl. “Really?” Then he checked himself and softened. “Please don’t say there’s two of you.”
“Kinda,” the girl smiled. “Though I’m not a brilliant poet.” She gave him a cheeky look. “I’m sure you took one look and had me down as one.”
“Nope,” Will replied, still rattled by the girl’s obvious affection for his father. “But I am surprised anyone owns up to being like him. Does that mean you’re a misunderstood, tortured soul as well, then?”
She continued to regard him from the half-open door, her pretty, open face registering a flicker of uncertainty. She made no move to let him in.
Will realized that he may have just come across as rude and probably arrogant to two different women in the space of about four minutes. He looked away, trying, and failing, to think of something to say that might ease the situation.