by Dete Meserve
“Good grammar.” He laughed, and then his gaze traveled over my face, making me feel warm. “I’ve missed working with you, Kate.”
His words were soft like a caress. I wanted them to be true, but I was afraid I was reading more into them than he intended. “We’ve only been apart for twenty-four hours.”
From the look in his eyes, I could see that wasn’t the response he was hoping for.
Away from the bustle and buildings of the city, Floyd Bennett Field was bathed in darkness. Hundreds had shown up without invitations and had been corralled off to the side, waiting to see if they might get in after all. After a security guard checked our phones to confirm we had legit invites, we followed a lit path of lanterns that stretched as far as the eye could see.
At the huge corrugated metal door to a former airplane hangar, a dozen or so ushers were handing out square white envelopes.
“Do not open until instructed to do so,” they told each of us. “No exceptions.”
Their serious warnings only made me impatient to open mine. I felt the envelope to see if I could guess what was inside. Surprisingly flat. Maybe paper. Money?
The hangar was filled with at least five thousand people, a guest list that was far bigger than Scott and I had imagined. But what immediately caught our eye was the sumptuous feast laid out along the walls beneath yards and yards of café lights: steaming trays of meats and seafoods, silver chafing dishes containing everything from fried-chicken comfort food to elaborate dishes with exotic names, and tables piled high with decadent sweets. Everything about it felt like a celebration. But of what?
The warehouse had been restored, or at least repaired and upgraded enough to function, and now had all the stage, lighting, and equipment you’d see in a traditional concert space. Steel-riveted beams stretched in a geometric pattern above our heads, but there was no roof. Standing underneath a glittery vault of stars, completely invisible to us in the city, I felt as if we had been transported to someplace far away and magical.
As we snaked our way through the dense crowd, we couldn’t find anyone resembling Marie, and none of the dozen or so people wearing earpieces or headsets knew where to find her. Finally, we found a security guard who seemed to know what was going on. “We’ve all been hoping to spot her, but none of us have,” he said. “Best you can do is talk to Jeff. He’s the producer in charge.” He pointed to a guy wearing a red polo and a headset standing by a set of speakers.
Jeff had the weathered look of a producer who’d seen it all. Deep wrinkles around his eyes. Shaggy hair in desperate need of a stylist’s attention. A death grip of a handshake.
“Can you tell us how this concert with Marie came about?” I asked after Scott and I had introduced ourselves.
“I’ve been doing concerts for, what, twenty years, and I’ve never seen anything like this before. This lady calls me up, tells me she’s the Marie that’s been all over the news, explains exactly what she wants. The next day some courier guys show up with a bunch of file boxes full of cash. I took it straight to the bank to make sure the money was real.”
“What did she want to do?”
“You’ll see in a minute. Standard concert stuff we do all the time. And a ton of secrecy. We aren’t allowed to talk about any elements of the concert in advance, but otherwise, none of us—not even me—know anything about her.”
“Is she here?” I asked.
“Told me she’d come, but I don’t know what she looks like. I mean, she could be anyone here.”
I scanned the packed hangar. If she wasn’t wearing the sunglasses or scarf, I’d never find her.
“Did she give you any clue as to who she is? Why she is doing this?”
“Nothing.” He shook his head. “Short and sweet. Whole thing was very straightforward.”
“Everything?” Scott asked. “Organizing a concert like this would involve a lot of moving parts. Was there anything that stood out? That seemed strange?”
“Not really.” He shrugged and adjusted his headset. “I guess it was a little odd that she insisted that this one construction company had to do the work to get this place ready. I mean, we usually hire local for a job this small, and they were based somewhere down south. But we figured she owned the company or something. Lots of our clients have quirky requests like that.”
“What company was it?” I pressed.
He leaned over to another guy in a red polo, who was adjusting one of the microphones. “Frank, who did the work here? You remember the company name?”
Frank turned to look at us through oversize black frames. “The guys were from Kentucky. Name starts with an H . . . Hagerty Construction.”
I tried to google the company, but the cell reception was poor, and the page wouldn’t load. I scribbled the name in my notebook.
“Gotta run,” Jeff said, then left us standing there as he headed to talk with a lighting team.
As we made our way through the crowd again, I scanned every face. Was goodness obvious? Did generosity like hers make her stand out? Or was it hidden in the woman leaning on the walker? Or the woman with a face leathered by too much time in the sun? I already knew what questions I would ask. Things I wanted to understand. All I needed was five minutes.
And we weren’t the only ones looking for her. As we swept through the crowd, the one word we kept hearing in many conversations—even those in languages we didn’t know—was Marie.
“Someone told me Marie is a Russian spy,” a woman said, her friend nodding in confirmation.
“I heard Marie made her money in Silicon Valley,” a man whispered to two wide-eyed women. “Some highly classified tech start-up.”
We reached the back of the hangar, with no sign of her. And just as I was about to give up, I caught a glimpse of a red scarf in the crush of concertgoers in front of us.
Marie.
I pushed through the crowd, dodging a tall man in cowboy boots, to where I’d seen the scarf.
Instead I was standing in front of a bear of a man with a winged sleeve tattoo. Standing with him was a woman with frizzy black hair and bright-silver shoes, but no scarf. Both of them gave me vacant stares, clearly confused as to why I was looking at them as though I had just made a huge discovery. I felt like an idiot.
Had I imagined it? Was I so consumed with finding her that I’d mistaken a glimpse of something in the dim light for Marie’s red scarf?
Suddenly the lights went out, plunging the packed-to-the-gills hangar in darkness. Then the crowd broke out in applause as a young man with curly hair bounded across the stage into the spotlight.
“Welcome, everyone! I’m Trevor, and you all are the lucky ones invited to this event by Marie. And in case you’ve been under a rock lately, Marie is the person who’s been all over the news because of all the remarkable things happening in our city. Now, you’re probably wondering why you’re here and what we’re supposed to be doing. Let’s find out, shall we? You know you’ve been dying to find out what’s in those white envelopes. So go ahead and tear them open!”
The hangar erupted with the sound of envelopes being torn open. I unfolded the paper inside. It was a letter:
Every one of us is fighting to find peace.
In a world filled with despair.
We’re missing someone.
Losing someone.
Worrying.
Pushing back fear.
Your moment of kindness
To someone you don’t know
To someone who can never repay you
Has the power
To bring hope in the darkness
And to lift
In ways you can never imagine.
Be the light in someone’s darkness.
—A Stranger
It was only when Trevor started singing a melody set to the words that we realized it was a song—part pop, part anthem, a gospel beat with a bit of a reggae rhythm.
“For this first song, you are the singers. That’s right, all of you. And after we’ve
rehearsed and brought out the band and amped up the lights, you can record this special night and share it on social media. Now, I know some of you may not feel like singing. And that’s okay. Do what makes you comfortable. But I promise, every single one of you is going to be blown away by what it feels like to be surrounded by five thousand voices singing the same song.”
Then he proceeded to rehearse us through the song—cajoling us to enunciate, to sing louder and not so raggedly, to try again, to not lose focus in the middle, and to not get ahead of each other—until by take five we sounded seriously good.
And he was right. There was nothing really comparable to singing with five thousand others. I felt carefree, carried away by a sense of belonging. Like singing “Take Me Out to the Ball Game” in the seventh-inning stretch, but more magical. Meaningful.
Once we’d rehearsed the song a sixth time, twenty-five musicians rushed onstage, and Trevor introduced them simply as “Marie’s Band.” Then the lights suddenly switched into arena-style mode, transforming the hangar into a high-energy concert. The crowd buzzed in anticipation.
“Before we sing again, I’m gonna ask every one of you to either link arms or put your arm on the shoulder of the person next to you,” Trevor said.
Instead of either of those options, Scott took my hand and slid his fingers between mine. For an instant, I wondered how it might look for us to be holding hands publicly, but then my thinking mind shut off because something about his fingers interlaced with mine felt intimate. Exciting.
We sang. Surrounded by five thousand others and the band, the simple words on paper turning into something that gave me goose bumps. It felt like a modern-day prayer. Loud, unguarded, joyous. As I looked all around me, everyone linked together arm in arm and swaying in unison, I couldn’t find a single cynic or even anyone who was holding back. Even the thirtysomething guy in the Deafheaven T-shirt next to me.
When the song was over, the crowd erupted in applause. But Trevor wasn’t letting us rest on our laurels. “Let’s do it again. This time, look around. Everyone around you is different. Everyone is a complete stranger. But it doesn’t feel that way, does it? We’re not as divided as it seems. Now get your phones out and record this one, because it’s going to be special.”
It seemed like everyone there recorded the next performance, and this one, buoyed by emotions that had grown stronger with each repetition, was bursting with confidence.
When the song was over, the crowd broke into applause again, and the band began playing an upbeat song. All around us, people were hugging, many with wet eyes, talking to each other as if they weren’t strangers at all.
“I had no idea you had such a beautiful voice,” Scott said, without letting go of my hand.
I smiled. “You are hard of hearing.”
His eyes traveled over my face, his gaze catching mine and holding it a second. Then he leaned in, his lips brushing mine. I felt the tension in his body, his heart thudding in his chest. I breathed in his scent, locking it into my memory. His hands moved through my hair, drawing us closer. I felt like I was falling. His kiss was deliberate. So intense it made me dizzy.
He was the one who broke away first. “We shouldn’t do this.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
“Why?” I asked, even though I knew all the reasons.
“You’re making this tough.” His breathing was labored, as though he’d been running. He laced his fingers through mine. “Looking like you do. Smiling at me. You’re making it hard to do the right thing.”
My pulse was racing, emboldening me. “What is the right thing?”
The band started a dreamy ballad, which only made him more attractive in the soft light.
“Going back to the way things were. Working on a story together. Keeping things uncomplicated.”
“They were getting complicated before.”
He flashed a half smile. “No one’s going to see this for what it is. Or what it might be. The gossip mill will talk about it like it’s some sordid affair.”
“How will they even know?”
“They’ll know. And it’ll be hardest on you. Instead of seeing you as the hugely talented reporter you are, they’ll only see you as ‘Scott Jameson’s girlfriend.’”
“What about you?”
He moved a lock of hair from my face. “They’ll all hate me. Think I’m the luckiest guy in the world.”
I laughed. “Right. You’ll probably get fired for being that lucky.” I leaned against him, both of us trembling. “Does it matter what people think?”
“A lot of journalists in the unemployment line probably ask themselves that question too.”
I squeezed his hand. “Why does anyone have to know?”
“They’ll know. I’m a terrible actor. And everyone can already tell I’m crazy about you.”
Crazy about you.
My heart took a tumble. My gaze drifted over his face, and his eyes caressed mine. I had fallen under his spell.
“And then, there are all my questions about him.”
I wanted to pretend I didn’t know what he meant by him.
“Firefighter. Rescuer. Google you, and you’ll see a lot of photos of him with you. Everywhere. Your father was expecting him at the opera instead of me.”
I drew a deep breath. I should’ve said that Eric and I had broken up. But something held me back. “And there are all my questions about her.”
“Paige.”
“Anyone with eyes can see her feelings for you.”
He let go of my hands. “We both have a lot to figure out.”
Maybe it was a flaw of the human heart. Or just a flaw in me.
Feelings were supposed to happen on a measured path. You waited a long amount of time after your breakup, and then you eventually met someone—who was available—and maybe sparks flew. Or maybe they didn’t at first. And then you liked them, they liked you, and over time, you might fall in love.
That was the way it was supposed to happen.
But what if attraction didn’t come when you thought the timing was right? Maybe it didn’t always wait until you were ready. What if it didn’t follow a series of predictable steps?
I brought my fingers to my lips, remembering his kiss, the way his hands felt in my hair.
I tried to explain the feelings away: It was simply a reaction to being a fish out of water in Manhattan. It was a short-lived office romance, an intensity that would inevitably sizzle.
I was lying to my heart.
As much as I was trying to resist him, our kiss, his words, had cracked open something inside me. Feelings were flooding in. Possibilities floated to the surface.
Maybe it wasn’t entirely a flaw falling for him. Maybe it was out of my control.
I don’t know what woke me up at two thirty that morning. I thought I heard a click, a creak, from the apartment settling. Felt a dip in the temperature.
I pulled the covers close. Listening. Other than the hum of the old refrigerator, the apartment was quiet. But I had the feeling I wasn’t alone.
I listened for a long while, my breathing shallow, and realized I was simply spooking myself on my first night back in my apartment. Would I ever feel safe here again?
I left the bed, my body heavy and cold but my mind on high alert. My former news director, David Dyal, called late-night awakenings like this “pay-attention moments” and urged all his reporters not to fight them because they often brought insight into whatever you were wrestling with in your waking hours.
I headed into the living room to find a notebook. Maybe it was a pay-attention moment, but it felt like panic.
I’d left the shades partially open, letting the blue-white light of the streetlights peek in. When I went to pull on the cord to close them, I saw someone standing at the bottom of the front steps. He was holding something smooth and metallic in his gloved right hand.
I crouched down to peek through the bottom of the window, careful not to move too quickly or risk him noticing me
at the window. In the dim light, I couldn’t see much of his face, but he was wearing a brown sweatshirt, a couple of sizes too large. Whatever he was holding glinted in the light, and when he turned his hand slightly, I could see a can of spray paint.
I crept from the window and found my cell phone. With trembling hands I dialed 911, but the call went to a recording asking me to hold for an operator. My breath high in my throat, I returned to the window and saw him crouched down now, his hand inches from the bottom step, spraying.
The next thing I knew, I was running. Out of my apartment door. Yanking open the heavy front door of the building. Standing on the landing.
The words in red paint glared at me:
STOP KATE.
With adrenaline pumping through my veins, I acted on fearless instinct. “Stop!” I shouted, trying to sound in control, but my voice sounded like a squeak.
His head snapped up, and I saw recognition sweep across his brown eyes, sunken and angry.
His mouth moved, but no words came out. Then suddenly: “You’d better stop looking for Marie.”
Whatever I thought he would sound like, I was wrong. I heard a melancholy tone in his voice. Worry.
My chest heaving, I breathed out a single word: “Why?”
“She doesn’t want to be found.”
“She sent you to warn me?” My body was shaking. Hard. “To threaten me?”
His hands were clenched in tight fists. “I don’t have to tell you nothing. Just stop looking for her. Or you’ll regret it.”
He started to rush away. He was easily 250 pounds and taller than me, so I wasn’t going to chase after him. “You care about her. That’s why you’re doing this.”
He kept walking. “What’s it matter to you?”
“You’re Jordan, aren’t you? Marie’s nephew.” It was a wild hunch, but it got him to stop walking. “I know your name. A description. Won’t take police long to find you.”
With his back to me, I didn’t know if he was going to turn around and assault me or race away. I glanced at the front door, and suddenly it seemed farther away than six feet.