Inching my way through the crowd, I start to get a sense of what’s happening in the water. All of the ferries and water taxis are being held across the river on the Brooklyn side. The Coast Guard has flanked the immediate area. And the pier to my left—the one in between the place where I’m standing and Pier 17—is completely empty. No civilians, no police—just half a dozen men in white, futuristic bomb squad outfits setting up an elaborate system of pulleys and rigs. My heart starts to pound. This is out of control. This is beyond just an artistic statement. It feels like the city is at a standstill. Those men in suits think their lives are in danger.
Does Rory have any idea how big this thing blew up? I almost hope not. I hope that he is far below ground, and stays there until this is just yesterday’s news.
I hear the words “terror threat” as I walk around the crowd. Some optimistic woman said, “prank.” But no one is talking about this as simply an art installation, that’s for damn sure. I think Rory was well-intentioned in trying to say something about the way we deal with our food supply, but the only thing this event seems to be signaling to people is that our ports are vulnerable. And no one seems very happy about it.
The first box bobs into sight. I feel a surge of excitement. I want to get even closer, I want to photograph it as it’s pulled from the water. I get my phone camera ready.
“Miss, you have to clear this area.” A police officer puts his hand on my shoulder. I look behind us. There a dozens of cops moving everyone off this pier back to the street. I’m not going to see the boxes.
But I certainly got to see what they wrought.
*** ***
Damian Damian had come to the conclusion that Inez Elliot was one of the least trustworthy people he had ever encountered. Sitting next to her at the crowded bar at Barbuto, the chic yet rustic Italian place on Washington, he had the urge to share this thought. Instead, he focused on his fabulous glass of bold, spicy red wine, and reminded himself that there was always the remote chance she was telling the truth. Best to hold off on completely alienating her.
She slid the three-day-old copy of the New York Post across the table. He scrutinized the photo of Lulu Sterling and a mystery man leaving a club—the man Inez insisted was, in fact, Brandt Penn.
‘”Why is it that everything you tell me is contrary to the word on the street?” he asked.
“Talk is cheap.”
He nods. She had a point. And she did have Lulu and Brandt together on the morning Troy insisted they were finished. He looked at the photo again. The man holding hands with Lulu could be Brandt. But really, it could be anyone behind those dark glasses, the hooded sweatshirt, and hunter’s cap.
“You’re sure?” he said.
“That’s what I’m telling you—yes.”
“Okay. So the Post got it wrong. What do you want me to do about it?”
“It’s not what I want you to do, it’s what you should want to do: Be the one to identify the ‘unidentified’ man. It’s Brandt. Lulu and Brandt are together. He’s gearing up for a smashing show in the fall, he’s a media magnet, and if there’s any story, it’s that this is the golden couple of the art world, and collectors should be getting ready for a piece of art history in a few months when his show opens.”
But Damian Damian barely heard her. Across the room, a television screen hanging above the bar showed a “breaking news” ticker running at the bottom of the screen. The network had broken through its regular broadcast to replay footage of the spectacle of the bomb squad fishing those oversized boxes out of the East River, something the networks had been showing all day. Damian found the prank mildly amusing, but hadn’t paid it much attention. Until now.
Because now they were broadcasting a color photo of the man who sent the boxes down the river. Despite the clarity of the photograph, the man was unidentifiable in his dark glasses, hooded sweatshirt, and hunter’s cap.
The closed caption read: ANYONE WITH INFORMATION REGARDING THE IDENTITY OF THIS INDIVIDUAL SHOULD CALL THE NUMBER AT THE BOTTOM OF THE SCREEN. THE FBI IS OFFERING A $5,000 REWARD. AGAIN, ANYONE WITH INFORMATION …
He turned to Inez, smiling gleefully.
Inez looked at him, wide-eyed. “No, that’s not … ”
“That’s obviously the same man in this Page Six photo. You can’t have it both ways, Inez. So why don’t you tell me now: is this, or is this not, Brandt Penn?”
Chapter Forty-four
I watch the endless loop of footage on NY1 News. I didn’t get to see it in person. Aside from the news crews hovering in the air, no one did. The police barricades kept people back, herded in like cattle. But that didn’t stop hundreds of people from getting enough of a distant view to record the event on their phones. It’s trending on Twitter, all over Instagram. The YouTube videos are racking up thousands of views: the pulley fishing each box out of the water, the careful swing of the metal contraption to lower the boxes onto the pier. And then the robot that opened each box with methodical movements of its metal limbs only to reveal … absolutely nothing.
Each time the robot revealed an empty box, the crowd omitted a collective gasp. Of relief? Disappointment? It’s hard to say. Watching it on TV, you don’t hear it at all. But standing there in person, it had been one of the more interesting and peculiar parts of the entire experience.
I turn the channel to CNN. How much of this is Rory seeing? I have no idea. I’ve texted him many times, but with no response.
When my intercom buzzes at close to eight, I almost jump out of my seat. I tell myself not to get my hopes up.
“Who is it?”
“Me,” he says. There’s something comforting about the intimacy of that one word. As if it couldn’t be anyone but him.
When he appears in my doorway, I throw my arms around him. He’s not wearing dark glasses, or a hat, or any type of disguise. For a minute, I can pretend we’re just a normal couple. But we’re not.
“I was worried about you,” I say.
“Why?”
“Did you see the news? Do you have any idea how much chaos the boxes caused?”
He smiles. “It really worked.”
“Yeah, it worked. Maybe too well.”
I close the door behind him and he sits on the couch. I flip back to NY1 so he can see the full scope of the news coverage. The footage starts at the beginning, when the first box appears just past Pier 17.
“Have you seen any of this yet?”
He shakes his head. We sit in silence, through the fifteen minutes it takes to get to the end when the last box is carted off by the FBI.
“Once the media gets over the knee-jerk hysteria, they’ll start talking about what it means,” Rory says.
“Are you watching the same thing I’m watching? The only thing this means to anyone is that our ports are not secure. I don’t see them segueing into a discussion of peak oil or sustainable agriculture or anything else.”
“Why are you so upset about this?”
Before I can answer, the footage on the screen changes. It’s a photo—a very clear color photo of Rory launching a box into the river.
Oh my god. That damn woman with the stroller! It’s all my fault for not being on the lookout. I was so busy watching the boxes. If I’d seen her earlier, I could have warned Rory to duck, to hide behind the truck.
“If anyone has any information that can help identify this man, please call the hotline at the bottom of the screen … ”
“Oh my god, this is a disaster,” I say, putting my face in my hands.
“Lulu, chill. This could be anyone. It’s not a big deal. You don’t like me covering my face, but now you see why I do it.”
He pulls me into his arms. It feels so good to be close to him. I breathe in his smell and stroke the back of his neck. Everything else disappears.
“Can you get onto the roof of this building?” he asks.
“What?”
“Is there a stairwell that opens onto the roof?”
“I think so. I�
�ve never been up there.”
“Let’s do it. I want to look out at the city.”
I wish he would sit still for a minute, just let me enjoy him. I’m burning for him to touch me. It’s as if this entire day has been extended foreplay. I’ve never been hotter for anyone.
But Rory is always in motion. And now, so am I.
The stairwell is muggy, but it’s only a flight and a half up to the roof.
“This could lock behind us,” Rory says, looking at the catch on the doorframe. He removes one of his sneakers and uses it as a doorstop.
Rory takes me by the hand, leading me outside. The roof deck has a smooth finish, a slightly rubbery blacktop surface. We walk around a few ventilation units until we get to the edge. The cement perimeter of the roof is roped off, so we stand behind it, looking west at the other rooftops of the Village.
“I’m surprised you can be on a roof and not tag something.”
“Who says I won’t?” He puts his arm around me. Leaning into him, I turn to kiss his neck. Our mouths find one another’s, and my insides flip
He pulls me close, and we stand that way, kissing like there is no one and nothing else in the world. My body is greedy, aching for him to be inside me and make me feel the explosive pleasure that only he has given me. But he is clearly content just the way we are, and I suspect that moments of contentment are few and far between for Rory.
“You never did tell me your last name,” I murmur.
“Abequa.”
“Abequa. I like it. What kind of name is that?”
“A secret one.”
“Your secret is safe with me.”
“Is it?”
“You have to ask that?”
“No,” he says. “I don’t.”
“I quit my mother’s gallery.”
“I figured.”
“How did you know?”
“I would think that snagging that sculpture out of her apartment might make things tense at the office.”
I laugh. “Yeah. But I made the decision before that. Even before the day you first came over here.”
We hold hands and look up at the sky.
“Stay here tonight,” I say. He shakes his head. “Why not?”
“You’re not going to change me, you know.”
“I’m not trying to change you.”
“Well, then, you know where I live. That’s where I’m comfortable.”
“You’re not comfortable being with me?”
“Comfortable? No,” he says. “But I like it a lot.”
“I like it, too.” We kiss again. My body trembles with want for him. “Let’s go back downstairs.”
He takes my hand and we don’t say a word between the roof and my apartment. There’s nothing left to say. The physical tension between us is overwhelming. I can barely get my key in the door. My hand is shaking and he has to help me open it.
I want it to happen in my bedroom this time. But before I can say or do anything I notice the TV. It reads BREAKING NEWS in a big red banner in the upper left corner of the screen. “An arrest has just been made in today’s disturbance along Manhattan’s East Side … ”
The police are leading a handcuffed man out of a house, a house that is shockingly familiar to me. It’s my mother’s East Hampton house.
And the man is Brandt.
Chapter Forty-five
I fumble with the remote, turning up the volume on the television. The NY1 anchor says an anonymous tip led to an arrest in the East River “terror scare,” as footage plays in an endless loop of the giant FreshDirect boxes being pulled from the water by the bomb squad.
“That’s my ex-boyfriend,” I say, standing up and pacing in the middle of the room.
Rory is staring at the screen but doesn’t say a word. His face is unreadable.
“This is totally fucking crazy. Why would they blame this on him?” I say.
“Blame? You mean, why would they give him credit.”
“Believe me, Brandt does not want this kind of ‘credit.’ He can barely deal with the pressure of producing work at this point. I’m sure he’s freaking out. Oh my god, and my mother. As if she doesn’t hate me enough as it is.”
“You’re worried about your ex-boyfriend and your mother?” Rory says.
Is he jealous? “I’m not worried about them, exactly. Look, I’m choosing to be involved with you and this type of stuff. They’re not. I feel responsible.”
“How are you responsible?”
I think for a minute, trying to put the pieces together. “It has to be that photo in Page Six of us leaving the club that night. Someone assumed you were Brandt. And then the photo of you launching the boxes … they put two and two together and got five.”
“This won’t stick,” Rory says. “He didn’t do it, so they can’t prove it. If that’s what you’re worried about.”
He looks at me like I’m betraying him somehow.
“I’m not worried about Brandt. I just want distance from him and my mother, and I keep getting pulled back.”
“Don’t let this suck you in. It’s got nothing to do with you. I’m not even getting upset, and that guy is getting credit for the work we did.”
I’m not sure if the “we” includes me, or if he is referring to himself and Banger. But either way, it reminds me where my priority is now.
He stands up. “I’ll catch you later. Just tell me you won’t talk to anyone about me. That guy will deny it, and this story will be over. I can wait it out.”
“I would never talk about you.”
He nods.
Since the minute I expressed concern about Brandt and my mother, I felt his wall go up. It’s like he’s just waiting for me to let him down.
“Don’t leave.”
He kisses me on the cheek, and I grab his hand so he can’t walk away.
“I mean it. Stay here. Not just tonight, but for good. You can do your art here. I want you to help me with the stencil project of my dad’s sculptures. I’m not freaked out by what happened today. I just want to keep my past and my future separate. So I can move on with my life. With you.”
His expression softens, and he pulls me close for a minute. When he steps back, he says, “You’ve seen my paintings, my fairy tale princesses. There’s no happily ever after with me.”
“I don’t believe that,” I say. I reach up and stroke his hair, then slowly caress the side of his face, my fingers tracing his scar. “I’m already happier because of you. You set me free.”
“You know what they say about freedom,” he says, his lips brushing my neck. Every nerve in my body tingles with desire. “It’s just a word for nothing left to lose.”
“That’s not true,” I breathe. “I can still lose you. And I don’t want that.”
I want him to reassure me that I won’t. He says nothing. But his body, hard and urgent against mine, gives me hope.
I press my mouth against his, and he holds my face, kissing me with frenzied need. We stand like that, kissing until everything else falls away. My gaze lands on my father’s sculpture in the middle of the room. I have an almost superstitious feeling about it—like until I find it the right home in a museum somewhere, the universe will be in disarray. At least, my universe.
“I love you,” I say, heart pounding.
“What does that even mean?”
“Let me show you. Stay here tonight.”
*** ***
Anna Sterling’s bedroom was the epitome of luxury.
It wasn’t just the king-sized, four-poster brass bed dressed in Pratesi sheets, or the custom-designed Mark Evans wall décor, or the Jackson Pollock painting above the antique walnut dresser. It was the sense that this was an unassailable domain. There was no computer, no cell phone, and no television in the room. It was the space of a person who could afford to say no to the world, to be closed off for a few precious hours at the end of the day.
For Inez, it was a huge turn-on.
Anna still hadn’t responded de
finitively to Inez’s suggestion that she move in—but tonight was the eighth consecutive night she’d shared Anna’s bed. She had already put a bottle of her Bumble and Bumble creme de coco shampoo in the marble shower in the master bathroom, and her black canvas Sephora cosmetics case in the bathroom cabinet.
Tonight, it was taking longer than usual for Anna to close the office and come to bed. Inez suspected it had something to do with her disappointment in Brandt, and the fear that her first big career miscalculation would be enough to sink the entire ship.
Inez opened the door to the office to find Anna staring into space.
“Coming to bed soon?” Inez said, lightly tapping her long acrylic nails on the doorframe.
“Why don’t you open a bottle of Riesling. I’ll be upstairs in a few minutes.”
Anna’s phone rang, shrill and startling. Inez sighed impatiently. She wasn’t used to waiting for someone. In the days with Bianca, and all the sycophantic climbers before her, Inez set the pace, called the shots, and had what she wanted when she wanted. It was an adjustment being with a woman who had other things on her mind, other priorities. When she finally did have Anna’s attention at the end of the day, it was all the more satisfying. But she hated moments like this, when she felt that Anna would just as soon curl up with a bottle of wine on her own.
“Anna Sterling.”
Inez was about to tend to the wine when she noticed Anna blinking rapidly, grabbing a sheet of paper and writing furiously.
“What precinct are they taking you to?” she asked, reaching for the remote to turn on the flatscreen TV mounted on the far wall. The screen flickered to life, and Anna turned to the news channel, still writing down notes.
With a feeling of dread, Inez glanced at the television, already knowing what she would see: the oversized boxes drifting down the East River earlier in the day. But then it switched to footage of a beach house that Inez took a few moments to register as Anna’s. And then Brandt emerged, in handcuffs and flanked by FBI agents.
Damian, that motherfucker!
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