by Sally Koslow
“I have no idea, except that you scared the nuts off me.” He stood and extended a hand. “C’mon, we have plans.”
During my nap, Jake had read a borrowed guidebook and made a reservation at a nearby restaurant. Our dinner lived up to its billing—red snapper for him, duck breast for me—as did the brandy we sipped later in front of the inn’s hearth. It was nearly midnight when we tiptoed up the Black Cat’s stairs.
On Sunday, the aroma of sizzling bacon woke us and we stumbled down to breakfast. I was at risk of taking a third helping of waffles, using up the owner’s entire winter store of maple syrup, when he said, “Do you two enjoy auctions?” That was like asking me if I, as a human being, enjoyed oxygen. In twenty minutes, Jake and I were in the back row of a crowded barn, listening to an auctioneer sell off the possessions of a local gent enamored of guns and bugles repurposed into lamps. We were ready to bail when the auctioneer announced the final lot, items from the home of the family for whom the town was named.
“This sounds promising,” I whispered. “Can you stand ten more minutes?”
“Stay as long as you want,” Jake said. “I’ll go outside and make some calls.”
First up was a spinning wheel, too Colonial Williamsburg for my taste. Ditto for a mallard posing as a door knocker. I was ready to join Jake in the parking lot when the auctioneer lifted a small pine cradle. “Looky here, folks,” he said as he turned it from side to side. “This treasure’s from the sixties. That’s eighteen-sixties, handed down in the seller’s family. Every baby started his life in this little bed, and damned if they didn’t all live to be centenarians, legends in these parts.”
As I walked forward, the auctioneer told tales of the cradle’s distinguished occupants: Great-Granny Mabel, the suffragette; Uncle Buster, who ditched the booze and became a circuit court judge; and Grandpa Al, that prankster, who almost incinerated the one-room schoolhouse. I got within a foot of the cradle, which showed only the tenderest wear. It was painted blue.
“We’ll start at forty,” the auctioneer said.
“Forty,” I shouted back.
“I hear forty—do I hear fifty?” He did, and in rapid succession.
“I bid a hundred,” I said, shaking my paddle like a maraca. Across the room, a spirited competitor—or a shill—shook hers, too, and went to $125. From another corner, someone bid $150.
“Do I hear one seventy-five for this hand-crafted heirloom?” the auctioneer asked, pronouncing the h in heirloom. In a sweet tenor, he began to croon. “Hush, little baby, don’t say a word. Papa’s gonna buy you a mockingbird.” He laughed. “Maybe not a mockingbird, but damn if this ain’t special.”
Heck, damn if it ain’ t. Mama Blue went to $175.
The auctioneer sang, “Sleep, baby, sleep. Your father tends the sheep.” The auctioneer heard $200 and switched his tune. From the front of the room he belted out, “Little boy blue, come blow your horn. The sheep’s in the meadow, the cow’s in the corn.”
“Two hundred twenty,” I screeched. “Two hundred twenty.”
“I hear two-twenty,” the auctioneer boomed. “Do I hear two-thirty?” The room fell silent. “Do I hear two-thirty?” He did not. “Going once, going twice. Sold to the tall lady in the straw hat for two hundred and twenty dollars!”
I caught my breath and raced outside to find Jake. “Ready to leave?” he said, snapping shut his BlackBerry.
“As soon as I pick up my purchase.” He gave me a look of feigned surprise.
“Why don’t you go to the car and pop the trunk?” I went inside, counted out my cash, lifted the cradle in my arms, and hauled it to the car.
“What’s this for?” Jake said gently. I couldn’t identify his expression. “Q, what are you trying to say?”
He’d taken the sorrow of the miscarriages every bit as hard as I had, but the tragedies were no longer discussed, filed away like failed exams. My eyes went from the cradle to my husband’s face. Honey, I wish I did have something to tell you, I thought, but all I could offer was a mental telegram of optimism whose source I could attribute only to the good fortune of finding the Central Park West apartment. “No, sweetheart, no news,” I said, and tried to sound, if not breezy, at least neutral. But the mood had shifted as surely as if a thunderstorm were blowing into town. I refused to see the cradle as he must, a receptacle for lost hopes. “I was thinking of it for magazines,” I said, offering up the first thing that came to mind. “You know how they multiply on my side of the bed.”
He lifted the cradle into the trunk and got behind the wheel, the look on his face the one he usually saves for cross-examinations, enigmatic beyond my understanding
“Did you let the firm know you’ll be late tomorrow?” I asked as we drove to the inn.
“About that.” I could hear him thinking. “Turns out I shouldn’t take off. In fact, we’d better leave.”
I knew the finality in his voice, a tone as specific as an exclamation mark. To return to the city we took the parkway instead of back roads. About an hour outside of New York my phone rang. “Is anything wrong?” I said as soon as I heard Horton’s voice.
“Not necessarily, but it’s gotten complicated.” He paused. “There’s a second bidder.”
“So our bid wasn’t accepted,” I added, confused.
“This can happen with a red-hot property. I’m sorry.”
“Is it those people we saw?” Another couple had been waiting to see the apartment with Mrs. Shelbourne after she gave Jake and me our joint tour.
“They found it way too small….” Horton’s voice trailed off.
“What’s going on? What aren’t you saying?”
“Full disclosure—the other bidder’s an insider.”
“Define insider.”
“A resident. In the building.”
“Is there a posting or something that tells which apartments are for sale?” I pictured a memo slid into every mailbox.
Horton snorted. “If that were the system, how would working stiffs like me make a dime? The information brokers have is privileged.” He spoke the word as if it were his bank account’s PIN number. “In fact, as a result of your offer, Fran had decided not to do her usual all-points listing to alert other brokers. She wanted a fast deal, remember? She thought you and your husband were ideal.”
I sensed that Jake wanted to rip the phone out of my hand and talk directly to Horton, but I asked with considerable patience, “What happened, then?”
Horton picked up his pace. “What happened is that some guy who lives in the building harassed the doorman into telling him which apartment with a reservoir view was up for sale. This gentleman buttonholed Fran in the lobby and practically wrestled the poor thing to the ground till she gave him a walk-through.” Horton stopped to breathe. “He was accompanied by a wife or girlfriend—Fran wasn’t sure which, except that they were both too loud for her taste. Fran only let them stay a few minutes, but it was long enough for the pair to agitate Dr. Walter.” Everything that had felt right was going wrong. “The bottom line is that you and Jake need to think fast about whether you want to top the other bid.” He floated the number we’d need to surpass.
I gulped. “Okay,” I said. “We’ll call you tomorrow.”
I waited for Horton’s goodbye, but what he said was, “Quincy, there’s one last thing.” I could hear him breathing. “When you saw the apartment the first time, you mentioned you knew someone in the building.”
“Yes.” My stomach lurched. “My friend’s boyfriend, Arthur somebody.”
“Did you tell him you were bidding on an apartment?” Horton asked. “Because Arthur Weiner is your competition.”
CHAPTER 6
Jules
When Talia invites you to dinner, she’ll shtup you with an enigmatic vegan casserole. Chloe will serve exquisite morsels catered by whatever venue the privileged class has most recently anointed as noteworthy—last time, the entire menu was raw, for that special moment when you crave arctic char marinated in
watermelon juice. Quincy’s cuisine, along with her creativity, fluctuates: depending on the time of the month, your meal could range from shrimp luxuriating in a sublime ricotta fondue to her mother’s hamburger hotdish. Not that I’d refuse, either, but when friends visit my home, nobody leaves hungry or with a prickle of cactus pear stuck between her molars. For tonight I’d whipped up pasta with lemon and pistachios, a Jules de Marco trademark with Marcella Hazan in a supporting role. We’d finish with olive oil cake, which tasted far better than it sounded. I might as well have put up a billboard saying that Rome should be our next destination, because planning a September getaway was the special entrée on the night’s menu.
As I was frizzling artichokes, the phone rang. “Need any wine?” Talia said, calling from Chloe’s car. “Last chance to hit that liquor store in the Village.”
“Thanks, but I’m good.” Decanted Chianti sat on my walnut sideboard, reflecting the setting sun. Two more bottles waited, with prosecco in reserve for toasting should Rome win the bake-off.
“In that case, you’ll see us in ten minutes,” Talia said, adding, “If we don’t wind up in New Haven.” She let loose with her gravelly laugh, a sound that I imagined had, pre-Tom, hijacked many a man-child lost in a fog of lust.
“Not fair—this time I know where to go,” Chloe shouted over a robotic voice politely urging a right turn.
“How late are we?” Talia asked. “Is Quincy there yet?”
“No sign of her,” I said as I hung up.
Quincy had been incommunicado all week, though I’d e-mailed her. Twice. I was hoping she wouldn’t roll in an hour late claiming she’d been shanghaied by that holy state she’d spoken of when authors blast through their writer’s block and compose like hellhounds. Quincy could go wherever her effing flow took her as long as she didn’t forget about our dinner, which would mean postponing our decision about this vacation that had all four of us politely posturing.
Blowsy roses cut from my garden faintly perfumed the screened porch where we’d be eating. I considered playing some opera—nah, overkill—and popped in Sinatra. As I walked back to the kitchen, my phone rang again. “Hi, doll,” Arthur said. “Am I interrupting you and the ladies?”
“No, but I can’t talk.” I ground more pepper into the sauce. “Good real estate karma?”
“Fuck no,” Arthur grumbled.
When I’d mentioned the apartment in his building, within the hour Arthur had conned the doorman into telling him which unit was for sale, then insisted that I rush over to meet him in the lobby. The two of us sat like fools, feigning animated conversation, for almost an hour until the broker glided in, the kind of bitch who’d wait on you at Bloomingdale’s while she broadcast the not-so-subliminal message that you’d best stick to the plus-size department in the store’s bowels. I detested her on sight, and didn’t care if the feeling was mutual. It only juiced my competitive streak and made me salute Arthur’s ingenuity—not that I didn’t want to piss in my pants as I crossed the threshold of a find that Quincy had laid claim to as if it wore a plaque with her name on it. I had to remind myself that there was no way she was going to get that apartment. If anyone deserved it, it was a person from the building. Let’s call that person Arthur.
“No luck? Well, that’s a bitch,” I said to him. The loyal girlfriend-me was galled, the friend part relieved. “What did the hag broker say?”
“She won’t return my calls.”
“Sorry.” I couldn’t cough up a darling or a sweetie, and wanted to ditch this topic. “What else’s going on?”
“Which movie should I rent for Friday?” So we weren’t going to a Broadway show. One thing about Arthur: with respect to being stingy, he was consistent. “I’m thinking that Jesse James flick.”
Pretentious, too. Nonetheless, I was about to wolf-whistle on the leading star’s behalf when the doorbell chimed. “You hear that? I’ll call you when they leave.”
Although my townhouse isn’t large or even detached, my end unit’s leafy backyard gives me the illusion of privacy. And it’s mine, all mine and the bank’s, from its Dutch door overlooking steps bordered with purple petunias to a fieldstone fireplace that climbs to the second floor. Two extra bedrooms are tucked into the eaves. I don’t invite tall guests.
Talia thrust a bouquet of daisies in my arms as we greeted each other with the usual kiss parade. “Love the sundress,” I said as she twirled, her white skirt billowing around long, slim legs I’ve been envying for years. “Very Marilyn.”
“Twenty bucks at a consignment shop.”
Like there would ever be anything for me at such a shop that didn’t look as if it belonged on my aunt Magdalena.
When Talia stopped spinning, her eyes surveyed the room. She missed nothing. “I love those pillows,” she said. “New?”
“If they’re purple, they follow me home.”
“For you.” Chloe stepped forward. She offered a gift that appeared to have been wrapped in origami and tied with a chiffon bow. “Where can I park these?”
“Hand them over, dollface,” I said, and put her present and travel brochures next to a platter of antipasto. “Help yourselves.” I pointed to the wine as I walked back to the kitchen, adding, “Quincy does remember we’re on, right?”
“Definitely,” Talia said. “I spoke to her this morning.”
“I offered her a ride,” Chloe shouted, “but she rented a Zipcar.”
Oh, holy Jesus, everyone had spoken to that woman but me. I walked out with a bowl of olives. “How are the kiddies?” I asked.
“Dash’s taking to Jamyang,” Chloe said, “who I suspect knows more English than she lets on.”
“Yesterday I noticed it was way too quiet. Henry had climbed into the bathroom sink, opened the medicine chest, and was about to try out Tom’s razor. The books don’t tell you to childproof cabinets five feet off the ground.”
When Chloe moved on to advanced potty training, she must have noticed me squirm. “How’s it going with Arthur?” she asked. Chloe, my matchmaker, possessed an owner’s curiosity about the relationship.
“He gives good phone.”
“The hands?” Talia asked. I’d drilled it into all of them that one of Jules’ Rules is that hands are second only to tongue.
“Hands good.” But I didn’t want to discuss Arthur. I was about to ask whether either of them knew what was going on with Quincy’s apartment search when she pushed open the bottom half of the door.
“Anybody home?” she sang out. She met me with chocolates from Manhattan’s latest Willy Wonka. I peeked in the box. Each candy was so delicately designed I wished I could tile my bathroom with them. Quincy almost gave me a kiss, leaving more than the normal amount of air between her pouty lips and my cheek, then greeted Chloe and Talia with the sort of full-tilt enthusiasm I usually receive. I doubted that Talia and Chloe would notice. It was all in the fine print: Quincy Blue, ticked off.
This struck me as an opportune time to bring on the home cooking. “It’s getting late,” I said. “Ladies, the porch.”
“Your meals are worth starving for,” Chloe said. “Which I’ve done, all day.” She meant well but delivered the line in the spirit of a woman who’s never said a Hail Mary before looking at a scale. Chloe had gained fifty pounds when she was pregnant, and for six months she’d looked like a teakettle, but now she was down to her prepregnancy weight plus, she said, a mere seven pounds.
As women do in the privacy of their gender, the four of us wolfed down our food, which did not disappoint. I batted away compliments. Not that I live for the praise—feeding people is how I care, which I admit without a teaspoon of my standard cynicism.
“Time to talk turkey,” I said after I nibbled crumbs from all four cake plates and served cappuccino. “And since it’s my house, I go first. Rome,” I began, “is the city of love.”
“Since when?” Quincy broke in. “Paris is the city of love.”
“Isn’t Paris the city of light?” Talia asked.
“I have to admit it’s sounding pretty sweet,” Chloe said. “The Italian part of Eat, Pray, Love was my favorite!”
“That’s everyone’s favorite,” Talia sniffed. “Strangle me with my prayer beads if I ever agree to stay even one night at an ashram.”
“Didn’t you love that because the author was such a squawk box the monks turned her into the ashram’s hostess?” Quincy asked.
“On point, gang,” I said shrilly, while I considered that if I were to visit an ashram—an event as likely as me moving home to Staten Island—that’s the job the brothers would assign to me. “We’re still talking Rome. You know, the Eternal City.”
“We could be like Audrey Hepburn in Roman Holiday,” Chloe said.
Chloe and I share the belief that romantic movies peaked before we were born. “Or the women in Three Coins in the Fountain,” I added.
“There were three friends in that story,” Quincy said. “Who stays home?” This time no one could miss her blistering tone.
“What’s your problem?” Talia asked, turning.
“Actually, now that you mention it, the euro,” Quincy said, and buttoned up her face. Even in the flattering amber of my living room light, I saw a crease on her forehead that I’d never before noticed.
“You’re right,” Talia said without skipping a beat. “What are we thinking? Italy would be molto costoso.”
“Who said anything about fancy?” I said, failing to suppress my annoyance. “I know any number of reasonably priced hotels and restaurants.”
But Chloe was talking over me. “I got bedbugs once at a four-star hotel in Venice. Red tracks running up my arms like some sort of addict. I was mortified to show them to a doctor.” The other two seemed riveted by her account of dermatological distress. “I doubt we’ll get bedbug bites in Vegas.”