I rolled my eyes and turned to see the woman disappear behind a door. When she returned, I saw that she was carrying a file folder instead of Dexter’s cardboard carrier. “Mr. Dunhill?” she asked, looking at me over the tops of her reading glasses. “I’m Tabitha Katz.”
I heard Gavin cough to cover up his laugh. She heard it, too, and frowned at him. No doubt she’d endured every possible reaction to her name, but I had to wonder why anyone who could be called Tabby Katz would want to work where she was working.
“This is my assistant, Gavin Lewis,” I said. “I’d like to add his name to Dexter’s file, since he’ll often be the one dropping him off or picking him up.”
“But Mr. Dunhill, your name isn’t even in Dexter’s file.” She glanced down at it and said, “Violet Medina. Sheila Meyers. Daniel Stephenson.”
“I’m the one who filled out the paperwork,” I said, starting to get annoyed. “Not to mention the one who pays the bills.”
Before she could answer, Gavin held up a hand and whipped out his cell phone, hitting a preprogrammed number. “Violet. Gavin Lewis. Could you call . . .” He paused to look at the receptionist.
“Darnell.”
“—Darnell at Refined Felines and explain that it’s okay for Blaine to pick up Dexter?”
“Oh, just hand me your phone,” Darnell said, and Gavin gave it to him. “Vi? Sweetie, Mr. Dunhill is not listed in Dexter’s file ... Yes, so he told us, but so many of our little clients come from broken homes, and you wouldn’t believe what irate ex-spouses will do. We can’t be too careful with young Dexter, you know . . . A little under six feet tall. Brown hair, green eyes. Frowning. Turning crimson . . . Okay, I’ll add him to the file. Is it okay for us to add Mr. Lewis, as well? Thank you, dear. Oh, and thank you, also, for that lovely gift basket.”
While Darnell continued to chat with Violet, Ms. Katz motioned us over to her counter. “If you’ll both just show me your drivers’ licenses, I’ll update the file,” she said. She took mine without comment, but Gavin’s Maryland license gave her pause. After another measuring glance at him, she shrugged as if the entire situation was out of her hands.
She used an intercom to ask for a handler to bring Dexter to us, then added our information to the file. Just as Darnell returned Gavin’s phone, the handler came from the back with Dexter in his carrier. She was one of those perky teenagers, but as soon as she saw me, her face fell.
“I was expecting Violet,” she said.
“Violet!” the parrot screamed.
“He says Dexter’s his cat,” Darnell said, nodding toward me.
The handler looked as if she was being forced to give me her grandmother’s wedding ring, and when I passed the carrier to Gavin so Darnell could total my bill and run my debit card, I could have sworn she had tears in her eyes as she turned away.
When we were finally outside Refined Felines, Gavin and I exchanged a disbelieving look, then burst out laughing.
“Is this cat made out of gold?” he asked.
“You’d think so,” I answered, waving my invoice at him. “Good grief.”
“After the last two days,” Gavin said, “the only thing that surprises me is that when we ran into your ex at Whole Foods, he didn’t look at me and wail, ‘Where’s Violet?’ ”
I laughed again and said, “You got lucky. In all the time Violet’s worked for me, she and Daniel never actually met. They only talked on the phone.”
“I’m beginning to be afraid of her,” Gavin said.
“Me, too!”
When we got back to my apartment, Gavin released Dexter, who seemed as suspicious of us as all his protectors had been.
“He just wants his Fancy Feast,” I said. “God knows what kind of gourmet crap they give him at Refined Felines.” I dished it out while Dexter attempted his usual Let’s Make Blaine Fall Down feat. I saw that Gavin was giving him an odd stare. “You do get along with cats, I hope. I specifically told Violet—”
“Oh, yeah, I love cats,” Gavin said, collecting himself. After a pause, he added, “He’s just . . . so . . . Blaine, that cat is ugly!”
“Isn’t he?” I agreed. As far as I was concerned, Gavin had passed his final test. Anyone who thought the mottled Dexter was a handsome cat was certifiable. Or qualified to work at Refined Felines.
Later, Gavin and I got into the car Violet had hired to take us to various apartments. First, we stopped at the office to pick her up. She got into the back of the car next to me, only briefly glancing at Gavin. I couldn’t interpret the expression on her face, but when I introduced the two of them, I noticed that Gavin looked somewhat uncomfortable.
“Is there something I don’t know?” I asked.
Gavin blushed, and after a pause, Violet said, “We actually met several years ago through a mutual friend. That’s how I knew to book Gavin in Baltimore. I didn’t know he’d end up working for you.”
“That’s fine,” I said. “I don’t mind if you two are friends. Did you think I’d feel like this was a conspiracy if I found out?”
“We weren’t actually friends,” Gavin said.
“Now you can be,” I said. “Just don’t start bossing me around like she does.”
Violet flashed me a weak smile then gave the first address to the driver. We went to a building on the Upper East Side, entering a grand lobby that had a high ceiling and was decorated in dark woods with light gold accents. As we walked down a burgundy carpet to the elevator, a group of older women, dressed in obviously expensive clothing, breezed past us speaking in affected voices.
We took the elevator to the tenth floor and exited into a small hallway with four doors, one of which was slightly ajar. The broker, Lanie, was already inside. The apartment was open and airy, with large windows that had a sliver of a Central Park view. It was obvious that the seller was wealthy, as all of the furniture was antique. Lanie gave us a tour of the updated kitchen, large master bedroom, and guest room. It was an exquisite space and the price was not as exorbitant as I imagined it would be. After the tour was over, Violet and Gavin turned to me excitedly. The smiles ran from their faces as they looked at mine.
“What’s wrong?” Violet asked.
“I’d feel like I was living in a nursing home,” I said, remembering the group of women who’d passed us in the lobby.
“But look at this place, Blaine. You can’t beat it, especially for the price.” It was hard for Gavin to hide his excitement at the prospect of living there.
“You know, I’ve never really liked the Upper East Side,” I said.
Not another word was spoken on the subject as we all filed back into our car. Violet looked at her PalmPilot and gave the driver the next address, which was on the Upper West Side, almost directly opposite the last apartment.
The apartment was in a fifteen-story Art Deco building, with a concierge in the marble lobby. The agent, Wendell, was waiting for us there, and whisked us to the elevator with the efficiency of a border collie.
As soon as he opened the door of the apartment, Violet and Gavin were drawn to the oversized, double-paned windows that looked toward the park. Wendell apologetically took a call on his cell phone, and I wandered through the apartment, admiring the high ceilings, the black marble fireplace with its gas logs, and the spacious closets.
As much as I appreciated the two bathrooms, I knew I was going to have to disappoint Violet once again. What I didn’t know how to convey was why I needed three bedrooms. If I tried to explain the third room as office space, she’d look at me like I was crazy, because both apartments we’d viewed were spacious enough to allow me a work area. Both buildings had also installed high-speed Internet access lines. They were beautiful and I could probably swing the payments, but they wouldn’t accommodate a nursery, and I fully intended to have a separate room to allow overnight visits from my child.
“Can you believe these hardwoods?” Violet asked in a low voice. “I know it’s a little pricier, but—”
“I wish I could find something where th
e bedrooms aren’t in such close proximity to each other. I need to feel like I have privacy. You know what would be great is one of those brownstone apartments that has two levels. That way, Gavin could be downstairs, and I’d have more work space upstairs.”
I could tell by her expression that there was nothing like my description in her PalmPilot. “I’m not sure any of the places we’re supposed to see meet that requirement,” she said.
“We may as well keep the appointments. I’m not that hard to please. I’m sure one of them will be suitable.”
When I went by to see Gretchen that night, she laughed until tears streamed down her face as I described my day. She hadn’t fully recovered from the Dexter story when I detailed my rejection of each apartment and Violet’s exasperation with me.
“One had a rude doorman. Another’s entrance was too close to a subway stop. The closets were too small in one. I developed an instant dislike for one of the brokers and insisted that he’d be too difficult to negotiate with. The apartment she was the most in love with had pastel walls. I pretended not to be able to visualize how it would look with some color. But it was the last one that defeated her. I told her it smelled like Old Spice. It was the agent’s aftershave, of course, but I kept walking around sniffing, and she dropped her PalmPilot in her purse and said she’d start over tomorrow.”
“Asshole,” Gretchen squawked, and I glared at her. “Poor Violet. I’d have resigned on the spot.”
“She loves a challenge. Anyway, I figured Gavin was starting to wonder what he’d gotten himself into, so I told them I was having dinner with a friend and let them take the car without me.”
“I’ve probably got a two-year-old Lean Cuisine in the freezer,” Gretchen offered.
“That’s tempting. But I’ll just grab something on my way home. Are you not eating tonight?”
“My stomach’s a little queasy, and I’ve been craving oatmeal.”
“Should we take those as signs?”
“Hopefully not signs of PMS,” she said. “It’s way too early to know if I’m pregnant. Blaine, sooner or later, you’ll have to tell Violet you want three bedrooms.”
“I will, once we’re sure you’re pregnant. Like you said, it’s too early.”
“So other than the fact that you are now allowed to take your own cat out of daycare, did you accomplish anything today?”
“Absolutely. I went by Breslin Evans for my exit interview with Mr. Fox. He wasn’t happy. Which isn’t about losing me; it’s about losing the Lillith Allure account. But he knows I have no control over that. Nobody changes Lillith Parker’s mind once it’s made up.”
“Violet could,” Gretchen disagreed.
“Violet could make Cardinal O’Connor give his blessing to Dykes on Bikes leading the St. Patrick’s Day Parade,” I said.
“You are going to owe her big time for what you’re putting her through.”
“I already owe her for more than I can ever repay,” I said. “I’m an awful boss.”
“You don’t deserve her,” Gretchen concurred.
I left her with her tax codes and a stack of paperwork and ate dinner alone in a small Italian restaurant. When I stepped outside to catch a cab, it struck me that I didn’t particularly want to go home to face a second sleepless night being depressed about Daniel.
What I needed to bolster my spirits was another blue-eyed blonde, but of the female variety. I looked at my watch to reassure myself that it wouldn’t be totally rude to drop in uninvited and without warning.
CHAPTER 7
As I walked along the quiet street, I realized where I’d gotten the idea to ask Violet to find me a brownstone apartment. Although the apartment Sheila and Josh lived in wasn’t on two levels, as I’d described to my assistant, it did have the charm that I envisioned when I thought of Manhattan’s early-twentieth-century residences. It was squeezed into a row of similar buildings, but because the area was midway between Central Park and Riverside Park, the streets were quietly romantic. The trees along the sidewalks would be budding soon, adding to the tranquillity of the neighborhood.
I waited at the door for a bit after Sheila buzzed me into the brownstone’s common foyer. I could hear footsteps racing back and forth inside. Something fell to the floor, and I pictured Sheila and Josh frantically throwing on clothes after untangling themselves. I looked at my watch again and wondered if I’d made a poor decision by arriving unannounced.
The door opened, and I was greeted by Sheila in her robe, her face entirely green with one of Zodiac’s cleansing and moisturizing masks, and her hair held captive by what seemed to be hundreds of pink sponge curlers. Without a word, she grabbed my arm and pulled me into the apartment, slamming the door behind me.
“What are you doing?” I asked with a laugh.
“I was about to leave to go to the bank,” she replied sarcastically. “What does it look like I’m doing?”
“I just thought—”
“If you can believe it,” she cut me off, whirling around and flying down the hall toward the kitchen, looking like Sister Bertrille escaping from a day spa, “we finally decided on a cake from Johann’s Bakery in Eau Claire. I called to place the order, and they told me they don’t make that cake anymore.”
“I’m sure that—”
“Then Patti—my best friend from home, do you remember her?—called and told me that she can’t be at the bridal tea.”
“You can always—”
“I still have to meet with the designer for the dress. And Josh has been no help whatsoever. We discussed other cakes, and when we agreed again, we called Johann’s. They gave us some song and dance about how they couldn’t make the one we wanted with the custard filling that was in the first cake they don’t make anymore. Now I ask you, what difference should it make what the cake looks like? Shouldn’t we be able to get it filled with whatever we want? I should be able to decorate it with chocolate coins wrapped in foil if I want to.” I laughed at this comment, and she glared at me.
“Where’s Josh?” I asked.
“He’s doing a shoot tonight using the Brooklyn Bridge as a backdrop for something or other. He said he’d be late.”
“I’m sure he’d help with anything you wanted.”
“Men have no idea what kind of preparation a wedding requires. It would take me so long to explain anything that by the time I finished, I could have done it myself. When any of this stuff starts to happen, he says, ‘Just tell me what to wear, and when and where to show up.’ ” While she was talking, she’d taken down two wineglasses and opened a bottle. “My mother has definite ideas how she wants this wedding to look, and none of them coincide with what we want. If she had her way, I’d be dressed like Little Bo Peep. She wants to have the reception at the church hall, and I can’t imagine anything less elegant. It would be like a high school dance. We can’t make up our minds where to have it, and the location keeps changing depending on how many people are coming on any given day, but I’m not having it in a church hall.”
“Have you thought about—”
“Neither of us even wanted a big wedding. Now we find that by the time we invite all of the necessary business contacts, between the two of us, we’re up to over five hundred people. And that doesn’t include our friends and family. All we need now is to have the printed napkins come to us announcing, ‘Happy Bat Mitzvah, Eunice,’ two days before the wedding.” She took a sip of her wine, leaving part of the green mask on the rim of the wineglass, and grimaced as she swallowed some of the mask with her first sip of Merlot. “Ugh! I can’t believe you let me do that. I gotta get this stuff off my face. I’ll be right back.”
“I saw Daniel,” I said, finally able to get a word in.
She froze, then turned and looked at me. She measured my face for my reaction to the statement I’d just made. When she saw nothing, she said, “You want to hold that thought for a minute?”
I nodded and went into the living room to wait for her. She returned, her face scrubbed
clean, but still in robe and curlers. She set the bottle of wine on the table close to my glass, then curled up next to me on the overstuffed sofa.
“So,” she said and stared at me. “The forbidden topic, huh? Where’d you see him?”
“At Whole Foods. I was showing Gavin around—”
“Gavin would be?”
“My personal assistant.”
“What happened to Violet?” Sheila asked.
“Violet’s my assistant at work. I don’t expect her to run my personal life.”
“Since when? And who is Gavin, anyway? Where did you meet him? Is this someone you hired?”
I looked at her, exasperated, and asked, “Where is all this suspicion coming from? Are you the same person who invited a total stranger into our apartment a few years ago, just because he proffered flowers from his patio garden?”
“Look how that turned out,” she said.
We considered her words, both of us evidently trying to determine what regrets we might be feeling about Daniel’s effect on our lives. I decided I wasn’t ready to explore that, with or without Sheila’s wisdom on the subject.
I explained how I’d met Gavin and decided to hire him, finishing by saying, “I’m sure you’ll meet him soon. He’s great.”
“He must be if he’s willing to live in that apartment with you,” she said. “I can’t believe you have live-in help in a tiny Hell’s Kitchen apartment. That’s so weird.”
“I’m planning to get a bigger place,” I said. “Without cracks in the ceiling and a deranged opera singer next door.”
“Valencia is a wonderful person,” Sheila said. “I’ll bet she misses my casseroles.”
“I’m sure she does. She hasn’t sounded the same since you left. Anyway, I was taking Gavin to all the places that I go to, you know, for shopping and the cleaners and stuff like that.”
“You don’t go to places like that. Violet does all that for you.”
“More than even I was aware.” I shared the same story with Sheila that I had with Gretchen earlier, half hoping it would divert her from asking more about Daniel, but half counting on the idea that she’d bring us back around to the subject. We both laughed about the reaction of the people at Dexter’s version of Club Med, and at Gavin’s reaction to Dexter.
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