“Pick up the Manhattan Star-Gazette when you get home,” Violet instructed.
“No,” I begged. Violet knew that I only read the New York Times if I wanted news. The Star-Gazette was for entertainment news or, worse yet, when my friends and clients were hit hard in Lola Listeria’s gossip column. “Maybe you should read me the highlights.”
“Okay,” Violet answered, and I heard the rustling of newspaper pages as she found the column. I calmed myself by looking at Manhattan’s skyline as the taxi cab went over the Triboro Bridge. I was almost home.
“Ready?” Violet asked. “There’s a whole section about an actress whose foot had to be cut out of a boot at a department store. I was going shoe shopping today, but now I don’t think I want to.”
“Just skip to whatever’s relevant, please.”
“If you want relevance, read the Times. Okay, here it is. ‘Fashionista’s Flight of Fury.’ ”
“Oh, no,” I said.
Violet read on, “Saturn must have been lodged in Uranus during a flight to Baltimore when a certain model learned her agent turned down a booking for Claude Martrand’s fashion show. Perhaps she was more furious because she hoped the designer would give her a free wedding dress? Or is it because our girl is too busy to get married? Lola’s looking into her crystal ball, readers, and the future seems mighty cloudy. Not only for our star-crossed model, but for Metropole, too.”
“Sheila will have a fit,” I predicted.
“A fit has been had,” Violet said. “Sheila’s moved on to rage. She called me an hour ago.”
“Maybe I should go see her,” I mused.
“Let her cool down first,” Violet advised. “She’s working out her aggression in a kick-boxing class. Do you really want to see her right after that?”
“You’re right, as usual. I don’t. I’ll call her later. We’re pulling up to my building. I’ll see you Sunday night, Ms. Medina.”
“Good day, Mr. Dunhill.”
My apartment was on the fifth floor of an old tenement building in midtown Manhattan. The neighborhood was affectionately named Hell’s Kitchen. Though I’d lived there for three years, I still hadn’t figured out how its name originated. I’d heard several theories from my neighbors, all of them confirming that the name had been around since the late 1800s. A woman who lived downstairs said there used to be a German restaurant named Heil’s Kitchen a few blocks down from where we lived. The man who owned the dry cleaners on the corner said a New York Times article had named a building in the West Thirties “Hell’s Kitchen” because of a multiple murder that had happened inside; the name spread to the area around it. For more than a century, the west side of Manhattan was home to the mob and street gangs. I personally thought my neighborhood got its name because there were so many restaurants in the area.
If Hell’s Kitchen was still fraught with crime, I never knew it. When I first moved into my building, it was because the apartment was affordable. Now I appreciated everything about my neighborhood. I loved stopping into St. Famous Bread to grab a muffin and hear a cheery hello from the owner every morning on my way to work. I loved my deli, where I was always greeted like a cherished friend. I liked seeing familiar faces among the people on the sidewalks, even if I’d never have names or histories to go with them. If I wanted to bring work home with me, I could do it on my own terms. Everyone I knew from the world of advertising lived on the Upper East Side, out of town on Long Island, or in New Jersey, so it was rare to run into someone from the office in my part of the city.
The minute I let myself into my apartment, Dexter was underfoot, howling to be fed. I stepped to the left, trying to avoid trampling him, and knocked over a small table, sending several days’ worth of mail, my keys, and a telephone tumbling to the floor.
“Damn you, Dexter!” I shouted, and he ran through the apartment to the safety of the bathroom. He didn’t fool me. I knew in five minutes he’d forget all about my temper and would come back to let me know he could see the bottom of his food dish.
I was surprised to notice that my answering machine showed no messages, until I saw that Violet had screened them all and transcribed them onto a small notepad, which I found amid the clutter of stuff that I’d knocked to the floor. The majority of the calls were business related. Except for a call from Gretchen. Figuring she was most likely working, and not wanting to go through her office’s convoluted voice-mail system, I dialed her cell phone, intending to leave a message to let her know that I was back in town.
“Hi!” Gretchen exclaimed, surprising me. Before I could say a word, she said, “Hey, I have to take this. Give me a few minutes.”
I could hear voices in the background when she answered my call, then I heard her walk away until the sounds of New York white noise replaced the voices. She must have stepped outside.
“Okay, I can talk now,” she said. “Sorry about that.”
“Are you at work? It sounds like you’re outside. What did you do, step out on a ledge? Don’t do it, Gretchen!”
“Accountant and window ledge jokes are about as tired as postal workers and pistols, Blaine. Besides, the market is quite bullish today. And so am I. But no, I’m not at work.”
“I have a message that you called me. What’s going on?” I asked.
“I saw Lola Listeria’s column in the Star-Gazette. I tried to call Sheila, but she was at the gym or something, according to Josh. He didn’t say anything about the column, and I didn’t ask.”
“Smart move,” I commented, filling Dexter’s bowl with food. He immediately came out of hiding to eat, not bothering to thank me. “I haven’t talked to her yet. I’m not looking forward to it.”
“I don’t want to see her blow a good thing by flipping her lid. That’s all,” Gretchen said. “She’s very lucky to be successful. Especially in a career where everything could end as quickly as it began. So I wanted to see if there’s anything I could do.”
“Sheila’s no fool. She knows she has a good thing. One little argument with her agent won’t send her life falling down like a house of cards.”
Gretchen suddenly became quiet, and I could hear someone speaking to her in the background. Then she said, “I have to go, hon.”
“Hon? You never call me that. Or anyone, for that matter. Gretchen, where are you, anyway?”
“Okay, bye,” she said quickly and disconnected our call.
Still holding my cordless phone, I stood in the middle of my apartment, wondering why Gretchen had acted so oddly. It was almost as if she was keeping our conversation a secret from someone. She’d said she wasn’t at work, where it might make sense to disguise a personal call. But since she wasn’t, why would she take the call outside? Away from whomever—
Suddenly it was all too clear to me. I strode across my apartment to one of the two windows and looked down at Daniel’s patio garden. There, talking with Martin and gesticulating, her cell phone still in her hand, was Gretchen. I turned on my cordless phone and started punching in numbers. When she answered, I said, “Gretchen, hon, when you’re done down there, could you stop by my place for a minute? I’ve been thinking of investing in a new home. The view here sucks.”
I hung up without waiting for an answer. She looked up at my window, as did Martin, who blew me a kiss. I waved, then stepped away from the window. If the only word for my reaction was petulant, the best description of my mood was pissed off. Which I knew was ridiculous. Gretchen and Martin had been friends for a long time. Even if he’d been part of my breakup with Daniel, I couldn’t expect everyone else to be mad at him, too.
I supposed what was really bothering me was how seeing them at Daniel’s made me feel excluded. It reminded me of the time when I’d first noticed him and tormented myself trying to figure out who he was, who his friends were and what they talked about, and what the details of his life were. It was as if Daniel was a stranger again, and I was on the outside.
The phone rang, and I took a deep breath before I answered.
; “You sound strange,” Violet said. “I forgot to tell you something. You received a fax today from Gavin Lewis. The massage therapist I found for you in Baltimore. What should I do with it?”
“We’ll talk about it on Sunday night. Stop working!”
“Not to worry. I’m already checking out a sexy sales associate at Barneys.”
“He’s gay. Or in a committed relationship. Or both.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I don’t need for you to fall in love, get married, and leave me.”
“I’ll keep that in mind. Goodbye again, Mr. Dunhill.”
The phone rang again as soon as I clicked off. I sighed and answered it in a more polite tone.
“Lunch tomorrow at one,” Gretchen said briskly. “The Vinyl Diner.”
“I’ll see you then,” I agreed.
Gretchen was at the restaurant before me the next day. “Hi,” she said, but didn’t stand to hug me. I could tell by her guarded expression that she was trying to gauge my mood.
“I apologize for being rude to you on the phone yesterday,” I said. “I’m still not exactly in the best space when it comes to Daniel.”
“Figuratively, or are we back to discussing apartment locations?”
“Both,” I said, then paused while she considered her ordering options with the waiter. After he left, I said, “Why do I get the feeling this is not one of our regular get-togethers? What’s on your mind?”
The clattering of plates made her wince, and she looked around. “I probably could have chosen a quieter place. I don’t know how I feel about yelling private things about my life for an audience.”
“We could walk back to my apartment after we eat,” I suggested. “I’m sure Dexter would be thrilled by the possibility of another pair of hands to feed him.”
Gretchen laughed, and we talked for a while about Dexter, then Sheila and Josh. I noticed the shadows under her eyes and wondered if she’d been working longer hours now that we were entering tax season, or if something was bothering her. I felt a guilty relief that someone other than me might have problems that led to sleepless nights.
After lunch, we strolled back to my apartment. There was a chill in the air, but Gretchen seemed to be in no hurry. That made me curious. It was obvious she had something she wanted to talk about, but equally apparent that she dreaded it.
While she petted Dexter and caught her breath from the five flights up, I poured glasses of wine for us, hoping that would help relax her. I didn’t mind if it turned into a lazy Saturday afternoon that stretched into the evening. It seemed both of us needed a break from something in our lives.
“Where would you move?” she asked, sipping her wine as she looked around. “The rent here is great. You’ve got two bedrooms. You could convert Sheila’s old room to an office.”
“I like the apartment. I like the rent. I like the neighborhood. But it’s impractical now that Daniel and I broke up. My gym is in Chelsea. My office is even farther. It would make sense to be closer to both.”
“I guess. Except for the whole ordeal of finding another place, moving—”
“I may have that covered,” I said, then told her about Gavin and my idea to hire him as my personal assistant.
“Are you sure?” Gretchen asked skeptically. “He’s a total stranger. There are a lot of unscrupulous people out there.”
“You’re telling me,” I said, thinking of Todd the thieving trick. “But if Gavin’s references check out, why not?”
“For one thing, it sounds like his most important reference is dead,” Gretchen said. “Although I probably have some clients who knew Lowell Davenport. Would you mind if I asked around about this Gavin guy?”
“Gavin Lewis. Not at all,” I said, liking it that Gretchen felt protective of me. “I think moving is a good idea for several reasons. Yesterday, for example. I don’t need to know when you’re with Daniel.”
“He’s not back in town,” Gretchen said quickly. “Martin and I were there to water his plants.”
“He’ll be back eventually. You don’t need to be caught in the middle. We have other friends in the same predicament. Sheila. Josh. Adam.”
Gretchen smiled and said, “Aren’t you forgetting a few names?”
“No,” I said. “You’re the ones I want joint custody of.”
“Maybe I should make you fight for me in court,” she said, running her fingers through her hair. When Sheila made the same gesture, she looked girlish and flirtatious. Gretchen looked tired and exasperated.
“What’s wrong?” I prodded. “What’s this all about?”
“I don’t know how to explain it,” she admitted. “Without sounding really weird and freaking you out.”
“You’re usually blunt,” I said. “That works for you, doesn’t it?”
She narrowed her eyes, inhaled, squared her shoulders, and asked, “Have you had sex with anyone other than Daniel since you broke up?”
I nearly spewed my wine, but managed to merely choke. Gretchen thumped my back a couple of times, and I looked at her warily.
“Why would you ask me that?”
“Maybe I should back up. I’m not asking from a moral standpoint, or as Daniel’s friend. But it’s not idle curiosity, either. See, I want your sperm.”
“Come again?”
“Odd choice of words. Your sperm. Swimmers? Semen?”
“I’m familiar with the word,” I said. “I just don’t understand why the words ‘I want your’ preceded it.”
“Okay, obviously there are some requests that require backstory. I’m sure Daniel’s told you about my miserable years as a lovelorn lesbian.” I shrugged, still trying to recover from I want your sperm. “It was Ken who pointed out to me what the women of my twenties had in common.”
Ken had been Gretchen’s best friend, the one who’d originally introduced her to Daniel. I was glad that I’d had the chance to meet him before he died. He was not only as sane as Gretchen, but had always given Daniel flawless advice. Ken would have never let Daniel move Blythe into the town house and ignore his promise to me. Of course, if Ken were still alive, Daniel wouldn’t own the town house.
I realized my thinking was going in circles and asked, “What was Ken’s wisdom about your girlfriends?”
“They all had children. Even I had to admit that I liked their kids better than I liked them. Ken said it was obvious that I wanted a baby. At first I denied it. I was a lesbian who had liberated herself from her parents’ old-fashioned expectations. I didn’t want it all. I wanted a good woman, a good job, and a good bottom line on my financial statements. But as time went by, I had to admit that Ken was right. Sometimes having a child was all I could think about. Then it would pass, and I’d think it was some kind of hormonal thing. But it always came back.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Ken and I joked about it. He said that if I reached the age when the alarm of my biological clock started clanging too loudly, we’d do the whole turkey baster thing.”
“You always did like to spend Thanksgiving together,” I teased.
“I don’t eat turkey,” she shot back. “It was only partly a joke. I knew if that’s what I wanted, Ken would do it. Of course, the virus caught up with us, and it became a moot point.”
“Because they can’t centrifuge HIV out of sperm samples,” I said.
“Right. All they can do is store the samples for six months to ensure that they’re not HIV-infected. So I could safely go to a sperm bank. But that’s not the way I want to do it. If I’m going to have a child, I want to know the father. Even have a father who’s a part of my child’s life, if he’s willing to be.”
“I’d have thought Daniel would be your first choice.”
Gretchen laughed and said, “Blaine, you know Daniel. He does more processing and analyzing than any lesbian I know. By the time he made a decision, I’d be postmenopausal. Besides, you told me Daniel had reconsidered some of his decisions about the future, including having a famil
y.”
I nodded and said, “It came as a total shock when he said he wasn’t ready. Actually, what he said was that we weren’t ready. He said our careers kept us too busy, and he didn’t intend to raise a child by proxy. When I argued that we could make changes to accommodate a baby, he gave me a list of reasons why I shouldn’t take the plunge into fatherhood, including my inflexibility and my need to control everything.”
“I don’t always agree with Daniel,” Gretchen said slowly, and I could tell she was trying to be honest without sounding disloyal. “I think you’d be a great father. Both of you would be. But I definitely got the message that it isn’t something Daniel wants right now. You do. So do I.”
“Tell me more about your desire to have a baby,” I urged. “Knowing you, you’ve considered it from every angle.”
“I have,” she agreed. “It’s not because I don’t feel complete without a child. This is the best time of my life. I’m not in a relationship, but I’m okay with that. My career is solid, but not all-consuming the way it once was. I’ve learned to relax. I’ve made peace with my family. I have a great life. So great that I’d like to share it. I know I’d be a good mother.”
“Have you considered adoption?”
“Of course. When Ken found out he was positive, that was something he and I talked about. He knew how much raising a child meant to me, and he wanted to be around to see it happen. I’ve been trying to adopt for six years, Blaine. It’s not easy when you’re a single lesbian. I’ve come very close to getting a child three times. But it always fell through. Yet here I am, perfectly capable of conceiving and giving birth. Physically, emotionally, and financially. I’ve got so much to offer.”
“All you’re missing is sperm. And you don’t want an anonymous donor, so you’re turning to your friends.”
“Geez, Blaine, it’s not like I’m going through my address book, and I’m up to the D section. I came to you first.”
I was touched by her words. Even flattered, considering how highly I regarded her ability to make good choices. But I had to be honest with her. “You know that Daniel and I were monogamous.”
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