by Nicole Bokat
“Hold on,” Jeremy said as she passed him in the narrow space.
The woman with the cropped hair turned with a questioning look.
Jeremy gestured with a tilt of his head. “I was speaking to Natalie.”
The woman glided out the door with the rest of the group.
“Hey, good to see you,” he said to Natalie. “Sorry I bolted so quickly last time at the T.”
She slid on her gloves. “I’ve been curious. What is it you do? We’ve eliminated policeman. And I take it you’re not in your family’s cattle business.”
He smiled. “You asked last time what made me join the workshop. It’s my work.”
“Are you a psychologist?”
Jeremy glanced up the stairs. “How about I walk with you again?”
She shivered as she hit the ruthless night temperature. “Only if you stop with the twenty questions.”
“I’m a Metro editor at the Globe,” Jeremy said, “and a former investigative reporter.”
She hugged her arms around her waist. It was the wind, raw and relentless, that threatened to crack through bones. “Are you investigating Isabel for the paper?”
Not me. Not the Cayman Islands.
“Nope. I’m simply an open-minded observer curious about Dr. Walker’s philosophy.”
“Please. You think what Isabel says is bullshit. Why are you really coming?”
Jeremy yanked a black wool hat from his jacket pocket. “You got me. It’s research for a book I’m writing.”
“What kind of book?”
“An exploration of the happiness movement.”
She sighed, relief forming a puff of cold air. “So, your intention isn’t to try and hurt Isabel?”
“Why? Is there something to hurt? I’m a journalist. This is what we do. We get at the truth.”
Natalie thought about how the editor had rejected the first draft of Isabel’s new manuscript, how the advance was gone. She couldn’t see why he would care about these details, but she’d never disclose them. “You can’t use anything I said in your book, about me, any of the personal stuff.”
“I wouldn’t do that unless you agree to let me interview you on the record.”
“Well, I’m not agreeing. Why would you want to? It’s obvious you’re looking to debunk what Isabel does.”
“Just to get your perspective.”
“No,” she said, firmly. “Nothing about me.”
He held up his hand. “Got it. Not to worry. I’m a professional.”
“How do you know I’m not going to tell Isabel why you’re coming?”
“I don’t. But I think she’d relish publicity, good or bad. It’s media coverage and she’s very confident in what she does. I’m sure she’s comfortable with controversy.” Jeremy’s glasses enlarged his eyes, so they seemed to fill his whole face.
“Why don’t you just ask to interview her then?”
“I wanted to listen without announcing myself.” Jeremy pulled down his hat, so it covered his ears. “If you decide you want to chat more, email me. You can find my address on the Globe’s webpage, staff list.” He smiled in a maybe I have more than work on my mind way and asked, “Can I have yours?”
She stopped walking. “I think what you’re doing is sleazy.”
“Duly noted. I apologize for not being upfront with you. I do. It’s a bad habit of the trade. Hope you won’t hold it against me.”
“Only if you don’t talk about interviewing me.”
When he nodded, she gave her contact information quickly.
Natalie watched him walk in the other direction, away from the Back Bay Station, wondering if he was just another man who would disappoint her.
SHE POKED HER head into Hadley’s room. Her daughter was on her bed, curled over her iPhone, texting rapidly. She’d painted her fingernails a greenish gray, an army fatigue color glammed up and bottled: Armed for Anything.
“Hey honey,” Natalie said. “Texting Soph?”
“Not Sophie.” Head bowed again.
“I’ll give you some privacy.”
“Wait, Mom.” She glanced at Natalie quickly. “It’s Dad.” A coral patch spread over Hadley’s cheeks and throat. “Uh, he and Elizabeth decided to sell her house and move to a condo in Brookline.”
Paid for by Elizabeth’s inheritance no doubt, the one her Kennebunkport grandparents—friends with Poppy and the Silver Fox—had left her. Yet once the divorce was finalized, Natalie would be strapped for money to pay for an ACA plan and, in a few years, her mortgage.
“Dad wants me to spend more time with him, like during the week.”
“Is that what you want?”
“No. I mean, I don’t know. I’m still pissed. I don’t want to be around Elizabeth so much. But he said he’d spend time alone with me.”
Slick Marc. Good work.
“Let’s not worry about this yet. It takes time to sell a house and find a new place,” she improvised. “We’ll deal with this when it happens.”
“All right.”
“I love you, Hads.”
Hadley looked up. “You too.”
It was only nine o’clock. But Natalie was ready for bed. It had been a long day—shooting ice cream for a magazine feature, a time sensitive endeavor that took concentration, followed by the Happiness workshop—and had ended with Jeremy’s admission. She’d thought he was interested in her. But he just wanted to expose Isabel and her work in print. And now this unpleasant surprise from Marc.
She had to wait to go to sleep. Lights out this early would alert her watchful child: something is wrong with Mom. Fodder for paternal custody. She headed for the kitchen. The dimmer switch on the panel was busted again and Natalie had to fiddle for a while to get it back on its track. A new dimmer was on her ever-expanding list of home repairs. Even more costly was repainting and fixing the wood paneling on the floor that had popped out, now held in place with clear industrial tape. All the chores Marc used to take care of were her responsibility now.
She didn’t bother with the kettle. She filled up a mug with water and thrust it into the microwave. While it heated, she washed out that morning’s cereal bowl, stuffing Hadley’s soggy flakes down the drain. She needed to stop cleaning up after her child, stop babying her. Could Marc use that in court to prove she was an unfit mother? Impeding the independence of their teenage daughter.
With the steaming herbal tea in hand, she headed back to her bedroom to wait out the hours.
Natalie rested the computer on her lap and checked her emails. There was the usual junk, nothing from the mysterious stalker. But when she saw the address in bold, her pulse quickened. SDrouin@hotmail wrote: Wonderful to hear you’re coming to the city. Would dinner Saturday night work? Affectionately, Simon.
ten
—
NATALIE EXHALED SLOWLY. SHE HAD SET THIS PLAN IN MOTION and would follow through with it now. She sent Marc a text before bed: Have work out of town next weekend. Need you to take Hadley.
She set two alarms to ensure she was up before Hadley. In the morning, she took an abbreviated shower, dressed in clean clothes—nothing special, but at least presentable for her daughter’s sake—and with her hair wrapped in a towel went to make coffee. She had ten minutes before Beyoncé blasted from Hadley’s iPhone.
Hadley was groggy, in no mood to talk. On the way to the high school, Natalie noted how her daughter’s head was on the headrest, her eyes slightly red from the shock of the early hour. Her neck was long and thin—like her father’s—her complexion bright with a pinkish hue, not yet registering lack of sleep in its color or creases. Her lips were lush, a gift from Natalie’s mother. Soon, Hadley would be dating. How could Natalie shield her from the pain of rejection when she couldn’t even do that for herself?
“What do you think about going skiing with Dad a week from Saturday?” she asked once they were on the road.
“Uh,” Hadley grumbled. “Alex B might have a party. Also, Christina.”
“Who a
re those girls?”
“What’s the difference, Mom?”
“I don’t know them or their parents.” Natalie added in a lighthearted tone, “They could be drug dealers or collect guns for fun.”
“Alex’s mother is a realtor. Christina’s dad owns a bunch of restaurants or something. She’s rich, has a summer home on Nantucket. Want their numbers and you can see if they have AK-15s or a meth lab?”
“You’re in a mood.”
A lion’s cavernous yawn for effect. “It’s cruel and unusual punishment to make me engage in conversation this early.”
“Noted. I just thought … you love to ski.”
“What’s this sudden idea? Big date, Mom?”
“Not at all,” Natalie said, pleased her kid considered this possibility. “I have to be in New York for a project.”
Hadley glimpsed at her skeptically. “Since when do you have ‘projects’ in New York?”
“First time. I don’t even know if it will pan out.”
“Whatever. I mean, good for you. But don’t pretend it’s for my benefit. I would be with Dad and Elizabeth.”
“Probably. But it would still be fun.”
They rode in silence until Natalie pulled up outside the school. “Okay, sweetie. Good luck on your tests!”
“Yep.” Hadley’s jacket hung over her shoulders in slipshod fashion, her book bag straps halfway to her elbows. “Are you going to make me sleep at Dad’s half the week when he and Elizabeth move to town? ‘Cause that’s what happened when Priscilla’s parents got divorced and it sucks, two houses but no real home.”
“No, honey,” Natalie poked her head out of the window. “Is that what you’re upset about?”
“I just don’t want to be roadkill in this arrangement,” Hadley said. “While you and Dad go off and have your fun adventures.”
“Oh, God, Hads. Never.”
Natalie sat for several minutes after her daughter left, listening to the reverberating sound of the slammed door.
How am I going to live alone with Garrick when you go to college, Belle? You’re all I have. Without you, I don’t have a home.
NEW YORK CITY was dark and cold with a bitter gale beating at the people leaving Penn Station, slapping faces and tossing hair, threatening to knock over an elderly man with a cane on Seventh Avenue. Natalie hoisted her weekender satchel over her shoulder and jammed her gloved hands into her coat pocket. She’d booked a room in Mid-town East because it was the best deal for a hotel she could find. It was a long walk up fourteen blocks and cross-town—at least in this weather—but she was hesitant to spend money on a taxi and was not acquainted enough with the subway system to tackle changing trains.
Natalie bustled, her scarf unfurling, among the crowds. She was crammed into a knot of rush-hour escapees determined to zoom and zigzag their way in front of the others. By the time she reached her hotel, she was due back downtown near Gramercy Park in an hour. She would have to go over budget and pay for a cab. Her nerves were dancing sprites. She wasn’t certain what scared her more, that Simon was sexy or that he might be dangerous.
Natalie showered for a second time that day and then changed into her nicest teal sweater, black trousers, and ankle high leather boots she’d bought on sale for the occasion. Hadley would be mortified she wasn’t wearing more of a heel. No, Hadley would be mortified she’d traveled such a distance to meet a man. Or maybe she’d be glad.
Natalie thought about the last time she’d visited the city. It was over two years ago, a long weekend in May, to celebrate Hadley’s thirteenth birthday. When they arrived, she’d felt a giddy release, her spirits boosted. The same cool drizzle had been spouting forth for weeks in New England, as if the weather wasn’t limber enough to leap into spring. But when they’d walked through Central Park, the air sang with warmth. Tulips dotted the gardens, the flowering white and pink dogwoods and cherry trees in bloom. She and Marc had taken their daughter to Chinatown for an early dinner and then to see Wicked on Broadway. They joked and laughed, engaged in familiar banter.
Now she observed her reflection. At least with the help of mascara and blush she looked pretty again, her skin warm, not sallow, her cheek bones sharp. She wondered if her almost-ex would have a reaction to her meeting Simon, an investment banker at Goldman Sachs—and one this attractive. Would he feel a twinge of jealousy, be disgusted? He wouldn’t care.
Get that through your head.
Focus. bbGodfrey. He’s why you’re here.
The restaurant was buzzing, the clinking of ice in cocktails, the chiming of bracelets against the glasses, the jangling of laughter. The walls were painted a rich amber hue and framed with oak wainscoting. The round tables were draped in linen cloths topped with crystal vases, a tall yellow rose in each one. Natalie waited at the bar, chomping on salty peanuts and sipping her seltzer with lime. A woman with a starched expression sat next to her. Natalie noticed her clunky, silver watch and wondered how heavy it was and if the repetitive movements of her wrist would give her carpal tunnel syndrome.
With each passing minute, she felt a little more winded. She’d prepared for this meeting; she’d take it slow, casual. She wouldn’t mention the email until she’d gotten a better sense of Simon. The dinner could be some kind of test, although of what exactly, she couldn’t ascertain.
Simon arrived, gorgeous and shiny as a block of gold. Such a defined jawline and steady gaze, the crinkles on his face, around his mouth, did nothing to weaken his appeal. He was wearing a gray blazer and an Egyptian blue shirt. He brought to mind Robert Redford as Hubble Gardner in that last scene of The Way We Were, when Streisand brushed his bangs away with her gloved hand.
“Hello!” he said when he spotted her. “I hope I haven’t kept you waiting long.”
“No,” she lied, “just got here.”
“Brilliant. Right on time.”
He instructed the hostess to seat them at a table far away from the door, which, when it swung open, let in the icy night. The waitress, a girl with bleached white hair and blond eyelashes, blushed as she spoke to Simon. She inquired about drinks, and he requested a glass of red wine.
“Just Perrier for me,” Natalie said. She noted her companion’s expression. He was smiling quizzically.
“A glass of wine, maybe?” he asked.
Natalie had vowed not to drink that night, to keep her mind clear. But she felt the urge to please him. Her weakness was beauty. She’d had the same reaction to Marc from the beginning.
She ordered a glass of Chardonnay.
They opened their menus with the exorbitant prices. It was a three-course, prix fixe menu, which included the sorts of desserts she would prefer to photograph than eat (prunes and coffee cardamom ice cream).
“You’d rather have a plain yogurt for lunch than duck,” Marc had laughed early on in their relationship. “How come you like to take pictures of all the foods you hate to eat?”
“I don’t hate them,” she’d said. “They’re works of art.”
“But doctored with chemicals and plastic glazes.”
What Marc didn’t know was: before her mother’s death, Natalie had loved to eat, especially homemade desserts—tarts with frangipane filling in a pâte sucrée, topped with pears poached in simple syrup and glazed in a reduction of their juices—her mother’s specialty. After her mother was gone, Natalie read in Seventeen that anger could be linked to the consumption of too much sugar. She figured there was sugar in just about everything. She grew ever vigilant, monitoring what she ate until watchfulness hardened like resin.
Natalie ordered what seemed the simplest dish: the chicken with polenta and the squash and endive salad. Simon got the black sea bass with fennel and olives and the pea soup to start.
“I thought you’d like it here,” he said. “They have chocolate truffles but no mutton, I’m afraid.”
Her skin tingled with electricity. Simon remembered their exchange on the beach. “I’m relieved to hear about the mutton. This is great.”
He bent forward and Natalie’s pulse sped up a notch. He must sleep with models, actresses, ballet dancers.
Simon asked, “So, what brings you to the city, some fabulous food show or something more personal?”
Natalie stared at her butter knife’s rounded head and gave the answer she’d practiced. “I’m meeting an old client of mine who moved here.”
She couldn’t say she had a commercial shoot for a particular magazine. He could catch her in that lie—although the thought of his caring seemed paranoid, self-absorbed. “Egocentric?” she heard Marc’s voice.
“This is a personal favor, pictures of their home for a design magazine. What about you, your work?”
Simon leaned his head into his palm. “It would bore you into a coma.”
“Well, at least you get to travel to the Cayman Islands, that’s a perk.”
“Nothing to do with the job. I was on holiday.”
“Oh,” she said, “I assumed you had a business meeting that morning. You know, when I saw you on the beach.”
“Early riser. I’m at the office by seven. You were up at that time, too. Ah, thank you,” he said to the waitress who brought their wine. He fastened his attention on her for just a second, but it was enough for the girl to turn a darker pink.
Outside, the wind had risen and was pounding on the glass like an angry spouse locked out of the house. The three women at the table to their right gasped. One said, “So annoying! We’re never going to get a cab.”
Simon peered at Natalie. “Bothersome how apocalyptic climate can interfere with public transport.”
“I hear Southern California has been having issues with Uber, what with the devastating wildfires,” Natalie said.
“Such extremes.” There was a purr in his voice. “Too hot and dry, too many destructive hurricanes, the ice melting … It can make you question everything.”
Was he still referring to the weather?
The waitress returned with their first courses. Natalie observed Simon’s bowl of soup, with the white Parmesan foam on top and the accompanying spoon filled with bacon bits. Soup was a pain in the ass to photograph, and pea soup was problematic because of the color and texture. You had to be careful or it could look disgusting, like green vomit. But, if done correctly, it could be tantalizing, elegant and refreshing. The bacon would give the image a needed pop of color, of meat. Red-blooded.