Louder Than Love

by Topper, Jessica

  Marissa sighed on her end of the line, and I held my breath on mine. Finally, she responded. “Well, chica. Wednesday is Cinco de Mayo. If our coffee morning is off, I propose a margarita evening so we can hear all about it.”

  Big Apple

  I drove in on the tail end of rush hour. Seeing the large green-and-white highway signs for New York City always produced a herd of butterflies in my gut. Some people lived their whole lives only seeing such signs in movies; I felt lucky experiencing them for real. Excited to be on the road to a place of legend.

  It was strange going to the city without Abbey. More than once I found myself about to talk to her, peeking in the rearview mirror only to glimpse her empty car seat. She had given me her blessing to travel into town today, along with a new Maxwell drawing for Adrian. And she wasn’t the only one dedicating art to him—we had killed a few hours at the library the day before, and Gwen had given me an envelope of thank-you cards and drawings by the kids from the Rainbow School to pass on. Three other branches in the county were interested in booking him for programs, she had informed me. I took the business card she gave me for the director of outreach programming with mixed feelings. I was happy my idea had been such a success, but wasn’t sure I wanted to share Adrian with the rest of the world yet.

  Tuesday had ticked by slowly. I made good use of the time by making sure all the required maintenance was out of the way: mani-pedi, waxing hair that had no business growing in certain places, testing out the best sandals to wear, filling the gas tank for the drive into Manhattan. Trains were simply no longer an option for me. I harbored no illusions that tragedy automatically inoculates anyone, and I wasn’t taking any chances.

  Looping off the Saw Mill Parkway, my butterflies turned into jumping beans. The roofs of houses, row after row, appeared to have been cut from the fabric of the landscape with pinking shears. Soon the houses gave way to buildings. I scooted down the West Side Highway and navigated over to one of my favorite parking lots near 42nd and Eighth. Even with wandering through Duane Reade drugstore for ten minutes, I was still early for our rendezvous. And nervous as hell.

  As I approached Fifth Avenue, I heard Marissa’s voice in my head. What if he didn’t figure out my lame joke? I quickly attempted a few rounds of alternate nostril breathing like we did each week in yoga class. With my right thumb, I closed my right nostril and inhaled deeply through my left. Then with my right ring finger, I closed my left nostril and exhaled through the right side. Within seconds I felt like I was in the basement of Karen’s church, on my mat in my bare feet and yoga pants, instead of the middle of Manhattan in a floral Anthropologie dress and impractical but dead-sexy wedge sandals. Luckily, I was in the middle of Manhattan, where such freaky behavior is barely noticed.

  Calmer and feeling better balanced, despite my tottering shoes, I plunged onward toward the ever-majestic Central Research Building of the New York Public Library. Although the library had employed me early on in my career, I had been stuck in one of the borough branches, which was like being the poor Appalachian cousin. In fact, I had only been in the research library a handful of times for meetings and to covet pretty items in their gift shop. I wondered if Adrian had ever been inside, or even paid notice to the impressive tower of stairs and the regal cats, known as Patience and Fortitude, flanking them.

  I spotted him instantly, despite the crowds already clustered about. He was sitting right in the center of the steps, elbows up on the stair behind him and basking where the eastern sun struck the pavement. He had his sunglasses pushed up on top of his head, displaying those great sideburns and a silver hoop earring I hadn’t noticed the first time. He struck me as boyish, much younger-looking than I remembered. When he saw me, he jumped to his feet and bounded down the steps enthusiastically, like a child. Hopping down the last one and landing right in front of me, he marveled, “I found him. How perfect! They are both magnificent! Which one is Patience?”

  “I’d like to think that this one is.” We jogged up several steps toward the southern lion, pausing so a tourist didn’t catch us in his photo, and then over to the lion’s marble haunches. I reached up and ran my hand along the tip of his tail in greeting. “Did it take you long to figure out my riddle?”

  “Well, once you told me Patience was not a bar, I started thinking about city landmarks and decided I would make you proud by venturing into my local library to school myself.” He grinned. “The librarian there was most helpful.”

  “Librarians aim to please.” I blushed. I had to get used to that smile, the accent, those startling blue eyes all over again. “Oh hey, these are for you. From some of the kids who attended the program. The top one’s from Abbey.” I pulled the envelope from my purse and I studied his face as he read them.

  “These are brilliant. Thank you. I’ve got something, too, for Abbey, actually.” He pulled a jewel case out of the pocket of his cargo shorts and replaced it with the envelope of artwork. “I made her a mix CD. Just some fun songs I thought she would enjoy. We jesters aim to please as well.”

  “That’s so sweet. She will love it.” My eyes caught a glimpse of the playlist. “‘Lust for Life.’ Really?”

  “My own version. Changed a few bits and bobs,” he was quick to supply. “Left out the striptease and lotion.”

  He surveyed my reaction with a wary yet somewhat impish expression, as if he was testing me. “Punk for preschoolers. Iggy Pop would approve.”

  Relief and dimples broke out at the sound of my laughter. “Shall we walk a bit?” We hiked back down the stairs and strolled up Fifth Avenue. He patted the right side pocket of his Western-style shirt, unfastening the pearly snap on it. “Will it bother you terribly if I smoke?” I shook my head. He lit up, inhaling deeply. It occurred to me he might be just as nervous as I had been while alternate nostril breathing on the corner ten minutes ago.

  “So, Gwen, the library director . . . she said a few other branches would love to have you perform.” I added quickly, “If you’re interested, of course. I told her I would tell you.”

  He laughed. “Perhaps you should be my booking agent.”

  “Depends. What’s my cut?” I quipped, causing him to laugh again.

  “Tell her I am flattered. And I will consider it.” I snuck a glance at him, but he was shyly looking at the pavement in front of him. I was able to make out yet another tattoo, thanks to his shirt being short-sleeved; this one a Celtic cross on his right bicep, whose black ink had gone slightly greenish with age. Still, the detail in it was mesmerizing. Cat paws and crosses . . . I began to wonder what other interesting stories his body art told. We fell into a rhythm, bumping arms as we paused at what felt like a red light on every corner.

  “Have you had breakfast yet?” I asked.

  “No. You?”

  “In my world, it’s almost time for lunch.” I grabbed his hand and steered him east on 51st Street. “Come, I am going to treat you to the best bagel in all the five boroughs.”

  ***

  “The Naked Bagel, eh?” Adrian pondered as he held the door open for me. The inside wasn’t half as erotic as the name made it out to be. It was mostly a take-out place, with a long narrow area for seating. The counter line snaked around toward the restrooms, but the seated area at eleven a.m. was sparsely populated. Liz waved from behind the cash register, motioning for us to take a seat. I had warned her in advance that we might stop by.

  “Well . . . ‘naked’ meaning the bagels taste so good, they can be eaten plain,” I explained. “But there are so many amazing things to put on them, why would you?” We both studied the huge chalkboard that lined the wall behind the counter. Each sandwich combination was written out in Liz’s neat handwriting using colorful chalk. She had had great fun creating monikers for her sandwiches, often naming them after friends, family, and regular customers. I pointed this out to Adrian, explaining that Liz and I had grown up together.

  “See the T
ree Hugger bagel? That’s mine—avocado, carrot, provolone, and sprouts on whole grain,” I said with pride. “I always say I’m going to try something different, but I never do. Creature of habit.”

  Adrian squinted at the sign. “Heavy Metal Hangover? What is that?”

  Liz, materializing instantly at our table in her signature Happiness Is a Warm Bagel T-shirt, piped up, “PBBP—peanut butter and bacon on pumpernickel.” She had all the combos memorized by acronym and often joked she could recite them with the speed and skill of an idiot savant.

  “Ugh, my brother Kevin’s surefire hangover cure when we were teens. Liz adopted it,” I supplied.

  “Gotta love a guy who knows bacon cures all,” Liz commented.

  “Liz, Adrian. Adrian, Liz.”

  “A pleasure to meet you.”

  “Likewise.” I could tell she was impressed with the firmness of his handshake. One of her biggest pet peeves was having a guy give her a limp fish to shake. “Tree told me what an awesome job you did at the library. I’m bummed I missed it.” She turned to me. “Let me guess . . . Tree Hugger? How about you, Adrian?”

  He studied the board again, tapping his finger to his lips, definitely overwhelmed. “You put my local bap shop to shame. That’s what we would call a sandwich like this in England . . . though more on a roll than a bagel, really.”

  “You can build your own combination, too, if there isn’t enough variety in my choices,” Liz teased. She glanced down and gave me her wiggly eyebrow of approval. Today, under the warm glow of the pendant lighting, her eyes reminded me of gooey amber. I smiled back, biting my lip and waiting to hear Adrian’s decision.

  “Bacon-brie-cranberry,” Liz parroted back his choice, not bothering to write it down. “BBC, that’s funny. Be right back . . . help yourselves to coffee.” She practically skipped away, back to the bustling counter to personally prepare our order.

  Adrian smiled. “You’ve got some cool friends, Kat.”

  “Well, I think you’ve met all of them. Exciting life I lead, eh?” I joked. “Shall we?” I pointed to the coffee bar. It had mismatched mugs hanging from a mug tree, along with three carafes of different kinds of coffee. It was like hanging out in a friend’s kitchen, where you could help yourself to a refill at any time.

  “Allow me.” Adrian stood. “How do you take yours?”

  “One sugar, two splashes of skim.”

  “One Tree Hugger for you . . . and one BBC bap for you.” Liz presented the sandwiches with a flourish. “On the house, and don’t fight me on that!” she snapped with a mock–tough guy tone, and raced back to the lunch crowd trenches.

  I shook my head, laughing. “Nut job. But I love her.” Adrian practically swooned over his first bite. “See? Maybe people should get naked and do a dance on the tables.”

  “They are that good,” he praised.

  We settled into a second cup of coffee. “Can I ask you something?” He raised his brows, which I took as his assent. “I wasn’t snooping, honest. But the nurses gave me your wallet and wanted me to fill out all those forms, so I looked at your license. Your name is Doug?”

  Adrian regarded me over the rim of his cup, and then slowly lowered it from his lips. “My father’s name is Doug,” he explained. “I never wanted to be called a junior, or ‘Dougie,’ or any variation. So while my Christian name is Douglas Adrian, I choose to go by the latter. You can imagine the delight the lads had in taking the piss out of me in school with a name like Doug Graves,” he continued, smirking. “Go ahead, you can laugh.”

  I shook my head and declined in polite protest, but couldn’t help myself when he admitted he had married a girl named Robyn. “Ah yes, Robyn Graves. It’s true, I’m afraid.” He laughed along with me. “Half the reason she probably divorced me, in the end.” He wiped his eye and gave another chuckle. “Anyway. I’ve gone by Adrian for so long now, I’ve pretty much forgotten Doug. If someone were calling that name down the street, I probably wouldn’t even turn my head, you know?”

  “Everyone’s always called me Tree, despite my average height. Except my dad calls me Treebird. And his mom, my grandma, always called me Kat. Like you do. I love it when you call me that.” He fussed with his mug, eyes averted, and I wished that hadn’t come out sounding quite so eager.

  “Your eyes remind me of a cat’s. Calm . . . calculating. Not crafty, but more . . . cautious. Like you observe first, before acting.” I had never had anyone comment on my eyes before, other than the fact they were green. “Wise and full of mystery,” he added, lowering his voice as he looked up from under his brows at me. I felt like I had drunk ten cups of coffee, rather than a mere two. “Shall we walk some more? Get some fresh air?”

  We waved to Liz, and Adrian left a hefty tip. In unspoken agreement, we began to walk north and then west. Grand Army Plaza loomed ahead of us. We strolled in silence past the stench of the horses, with their garish colored flowers and ever-hopeful coachmen.

  It was a comfortable silence, although my mind was skittering through questions I had no answers to. Have we run out of things to talk about? How long should this date last? Should we have come up with a plan? Is he going to kiss me again? What’s he thinking?

  And then out came a question quite spontaneously, before I realized I was saying it. “Ever thought of jumping in the fountain?” I covered my mouth to stifle my own shocked laugh.

  “Come again?”

  “The Pulitzer Fountain.” I gestured toward the cascading landmark in front of the Plaza Hotel. “Pull an F. Scott and Zelda Fitzgerald. You know, something totally off-the-cuff, out of character?”

  His grin led me to believe he didn’t think me totally insane. “I’ve spent half my life out of character,” he admitted, “trying to be someone I was not. I’ve jumped off things, the proverbial cliff and whatnot. But rarely have I jumped into things.” We crossed over to get a better look, admiring the water spouting from the mouths of carved heads above into the basin below. “Care to take a dip, my little creature of habit?” he egged me on. But I had already turned my gaze up to the green-trimmed windows of the legendary hotel to our right.

  “You know, all these years living here and I have never been inside.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Never. I’ve walked by it a thousand times.”

  “Your mum never took you for tea at the Plaza?”

  “No. She totally deprived me,” I said in mock sadness. “I don’t even know if they serve tea there anymore, do you? Hasn’t it changed hands a bunch of times?”

  Adrian nodded. “I’ve heard talk about it turning into condos. That would be a shame if it were true. I took Natalie here for tea during her first trip to New York. She was three.”

  “Let’s go in.”

  “Really?” He let me take his hand, but he balked at the red carpet leading up to the stained glass and gilt entryway.

  “Just to have a look,” I coaxed.

  “Oh, all right.” We climbed the wide stairs along with a half dozen tourists and a random rich old broad, allowing ourselves to be swept into the opulence. I felt exactly the same way after finally stepping into Radio City Music Hall after years of merely hurrying by: in total awe. I took in the mosaic floor, the Italian marble of the concierge desk, and the chandeliers dripping their light, all with the wonder of a child.

  Adrian, meanwhile, seemed to exude a strangely calm and familiar sort of comfort as he escorted me through. “That’s the Palm Court,” he said as we passed by the large potted palms and marble pillars. “And here is the Oak Bar.”

  Like its name plainly described, the place was floor-to-ceiling wood panels and murky murals. The place was empty, other than a few men in suits seated at the bar, their martinis sweating expensively. The bartender looked up from the glass he was polishing and nodded to Adrian.

  “Drink?” Adrian pulled out a heavy brown leather chair for me
at a table near the windows. Central Park was still in full swing outside, but in the Oak Bar, time was standing still at a more gentile period. I half expected to see vintage cigar smoke still lingering around the sconces and Cary Grant to come gliding in.

  “But we just had breakfast,” I halfheartedly protested. He sidled over to the bar and came back moments later with a screwdriver in one hand and a mimosa in the other.

  “Breakfast drinks,” he explained. “Full of vitamin C.”

  I laughed. “Do you always drink before noon?”

  He stabbed at his drink with his stirrer. “It’s better than shooting smack, right?” He winked at me, but then fixed his attention on his stirrer once again. “Did you know at one point, women weren’t allowed in here? Certainly no unescorted women.” He watched as I sipped my fizzing beverage.

  “Do you come here often?” I had to snicker because it sounded like a bad pickup line. He did, too. “You seem quite at home,” I observed.

  “It was one of the last public places to smoke in Manhattan,” he offered as a way of explanation. Then he leaned across the table toward me. “You look really, really amazing, do you know that?” I blushed and he continued. “Completely beautiful. Every man in here is staring at you.”

  “Probably because I am female and I don’t belong here,” I whispered.

  “You belong just as much as that Pomona statue belongs in the fountain out there,” he argued. “You are like a goddess.” I didn’t know if it was the champagne bubbles or his words making my head giddy. “Thank you for meeting me today.”

  “I was losing hope that you would ever call me,” I admitted.

  Adrian sighed, knuckling his goatee. “I’ve been in the habit of denying myself for a while now. Retribution for my Bacchian days.” I raised an eyebrow at him to see if he would continue, but he only turned his gaze toward the gilded, coffered ceiling. I followed suit.

  “What do you think people are doing up there?” I asked.