Emily and Einstein

by Linda Francis Lee

  I was outraged, incensed, and would have told him so, but suddenly his head tilted as if he heard something. “She’s up.” He debated the meal on the counter, seemed to think better of it, and made it disappear. “Time to go to work, Alexander.”

  He was gone before I could question him, and only then did I hear the commotion.

  emily

  My mother didn’t believe in anything you couldn’t see, touch, taste, hear, or smell. She was all about the five quantifiable senses. When I was little she read to me like a good mother, but she read from things like No More Miss America! or The Crime of Housework. She hated fairy tales, refused to believe in magic. I wonder if she ever thought about what kind of daughter she’d end up with when she stubbornly refused to believe in miracles.

  —EXCERPT FROM My Mother’s Daughter

  chapter eleven

  I came out of my stupor surrounded by proof of a husband I hadn’t really known. I staggered up, slipping on glossy photos of Sandy in Paris, Sandy with his parents, Sandy with an assortment of women. Despair and rage ripped through me, and I banged into furniture in an attempt to make it to the door. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t cry. I had to get out of there. I couldn’t think beyond that.

  Einstein stood at the bottom of the stairs, his little eyes bugging out when I tripped down the last two steps, barely catching myself.

  “Agh,” I whispered, fighting back the tears that I still refused to give in to.

  I crashed out the front door, having no idea where I was going, no purse, no coat, no thought beyond the hysterical edge that rode through me.

  At the elevator, I pressed the button with urgency. My breath came in rapid jerks. “Hurry,” I pleaded, pressing the call button again and again. If I could just get outside, I told myself, I’d be okay.

  But when the door finally opened, I froze at the sight of one of the Dakota board members who had always adored Sandy but had been barely civil to me, speaking heatedly to none other than Sandy’s estate lawyer.

  My brain lurched. I couldn’t let them see me, not now, but my feet wouldn’t move. I stood there panicked, despair and the sheer weight of my life falling apart making it impossible to move. Then I saw him.

  “What the h—”

  Max cut himself off and leapt out from the corner of the elevator where he’d been standing, and grabbed my arm. The lawyer and board member continued whatever heated discussion was going on while Max half dragged, half carried me up the narrow stairs that led to the next floor.

  I still couldn’t think. I allowed him to take me wherever he wanted. On the eighth floor, he held my arm, and in some part of my brain I registered that his hand was large, strong, but gentle, and I remembered him putting the Hello Kitty bandage on my palm. In the disjointed fragments of my scattered mind I registered safe, nothing more.

  We didn’t stop until he came to a door of what I knew was one of the small, utilitarian apartments used for servants. He pulled one of those mountain-climbing clips from his pocket that held his keys, then he guided me inside. He didn’t look at me until he shut the door.

  “Are you all right?”

  What to say? No, I’m not all right? No, I’ll never be all right again?

  “What happened back there?” he pressed, his forehead creased with concern.

  My clouded brain tried to clear, my eyes burning with the effort.

  “When the elevator opened,” he explained, “you were standing there like you were … losing it.”

  I must have swayed because he grabbed me.

  “Then when you saw that crazy whack-job board member freaking out on that guy, it was like you were going to crash.”

  “So you took action,” I whispered.

  He shrugged. “I figured I should get you away from them.”

  My throat tightened even more at the mix of kindness and strength, as if he were used to taking charge, making snap decisions, averting disaster.

  “Hey,” he said softly.

  I covered my face with my hands, my hair swinging forward.

  “Whatever it is, you’ll get through it.”

  “You don’t know that,” I managed.

  “Trust me, I know all about bad shit happening and surviving.”

  I glanced at him through the threat of tears. “How old are you?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “No.” But somehow it seemed important.

  “Twenty-seven.”

  Five years younger than me. Someone else might have wondered how bad things could have been for a ruggedly handsome man of twenty-seven who had a relative with three beautiful children and lived in a large apartment in the Dakota. But something in his dark eyes told me he had seen more than he should have or wanted to.

  “I’ll make you some tea,” he said, guiding me to a chair in the tiny kitchen that was so like the one in Sandy’s suite.

  I pulled my knees up, hugging them to my chest, wanting a distraction. “Is this where you live?”

  He glanced back at me with a lopsided grin as he tossed his coat aside. Raking his dark hair back with both hands, he shrugged, his forearms defined but not obscenely muscular. “I’m living here for now.”

  I had noticed that he was tall before, but now I could see he had the broad shoulders of an athlete rather than a bodybuilder, tapering down into a slim waist and hips. Yet again I had the sense that he was in control every second, exceptional in some way that made me feel he could do anything.

  After having read my husband’s journals, I had the distinct thought that this man was everything Sandy had wanted to be.

  The idea startled me and I pushed it away.

  I watched as he worked at the tea, surprised by the old-fashioned kettle and delicate china he pulled out of a small cupboard.

  A smile tipped up, lopsided when he saw that I noticed. “The teacups are my sister’s. This is my sister’s place. Or I should say, the big place next to yours is my sister’s place. She wanted me to stay downstairs with her and her husband and the kids. But,” he shrugged again, “when they convinced me to come to New York for the year I said I couldn’t stay with them like the little brother. When I said I’d get my own place, Melanie pulled the big-sister crap on me saying something to the effect of what was the point of me spending the year with them if I wasn’t going to be close by.”

  “So you compromised by staying up here.”

  He chuckled. “Hell of a compromise. An amazing apartment at the Dakota with views of Central Park.”

  I started to smile, but the effort sputtered out and my stomach clenched at the thought of this guy with his family drawing him close. I knew I was feeling sorry for myself, and I tried to swallow it back, but I hated that I was losing so much. My home. My husband. My belief in our marriage. The belief that I was loved.

  “Hey,” he said, bringing me the cup of tea that looked so delicate in his large hand.

  He didn’t say anything else as he sat down in the chair next to me. I concentrated on the tea, taking the saucer. “You’re a regular knight in shining armor. First you rescued me when I fell in the courtyard. Now again at the elevator.”

  He scoffed. “Yeah, that’s me. A regular knight. Too bad I never learned the secret handshake, or,” he glanced around the messy apartment, “remembered the knight classes about keeping all the knight gear ordered.” He leaned forward, his forearms on his knees, and grinned. “But don’t tell anyone. I’d hate to get my secret knight badge revoked.”

  I felt my lips tremble; something in me wanted to smile, but the effort wouldn’t come together and the trembling turned to something else. My eyes burned and the control I had marshaled since Sandy’s death tried to desert me. I looked away.

  “Hey,” Max said, touching my face with his finger, turning me back to look at him. “That was a joke. Jokes are supposed to make you laugh, not cry. See, I really am going to get my knight badge yanked.”

  His kindness and humor, his caring. I couldn’t take it. The tears I had bee
n holding back for the last two months spilled over and I broke.

  “Ah, hell,” he said.

  I staggered up, intent on leaving. I couldn’t manage a word, not sorry, not thanks, not even I have to go. I set the cup and saucer down and stumbled toward the door. But before I could turn the knob Max caught my hand and pulled me to him.

  His arms were strong though gentle as he tucked me into his chest. The tears came in a torrent then, hard, not pretty, racking my body. I cried for Sandy, I cried for what I thought we’d had. I cried with bitterness and sadness. When I didn’t calm, Max swore again and swept me up in his arms. There was nothing in the little room other than the two hard chairs and the table. He carried me into the next room, laying me down on the bed like I might break as my tears soaked the thick comforter.

  I’m not sure how long I cried before I heard him sigh, then lie down beside me, sliding his arm beneath my shoulders and tucking me close again. “Let it go,” he said, stroking my back. “Get it out.”

  He didn’t cut me off or try to get me to talk. He let me cry.

  My mother had always hated tears, refused to cry herself, and walked away from me the few times I broke down when I was little. Sandy hadn’t liked tears any more than my mother. As I cried in Max’s arms, I felt as if I were crying for a great deal more than my husband.

  “You’re going to be okay,” Max told me softly. “Bad things happen, then you come out the other side. That’s how it works. I promise.”

  Being touched nearly overwhelmed me. How long had it been since another person had held me? I could feel Max’s heartbeat, could feel the controlled strength in his body.

  It seemed forever before I finally calmed and rolled back. Max hoisted himself onto one elbow and looked down at me, his fingers brushing the hair away from my face. “See, you survived. And you do it one step at a time, one day at a time. Hell, sometimes you do it one minute at a time.”

  For the first time I wondered who he really was. What had he been through to be able to promise me that bad things happen then you come out the other side?

  I closed my eyes and searched for calm, and when I looked at him again his smile was gone. He glanced at my lips, and I realized he was aware of me on a level beyond rescue.

  When he saw that I understood what he was thinking, I expected him to move away. He only met my gaze and my heart stopped.

  “You have the bluest eyes I’ve ever seen,” he said.

  My breath caught when he leaned forward. But at the last second he thought better of it.

  “Hell, I’m sorry. This isn’t the time.”

  I felt both confused and grateful. I didn’t want this. I wanted my old life back. But that life had been a lie.

  “I’ve got to go.” I rolled away and leaped up, then raced for the door. At the last second I turned back.

  “Thank you,” I said. “Thanks for the rescue.”

  His smile was bold and warm, confident. “Anytime.”

  einstein

  chapter twelve

  Some amount of time passed before Emily returned from wherever it was she had hied herself off to, sans handbag or even a coat. Had I been more observant I might have noticed the strange, confused expression on her face when she came in through the front door. As it was, given my canine ability to smell, all I noted was a different sort of odor. A human smell, one I couldn’t quite put a name to, though not a scent wrapped up in office-building recirculated air, subway smorgasbord, or even a bar. Not that I cared where she had been. I had bigger things on my mind. As in, how in God’s name was I supposed to help her?

  Did this cliché of an old man expect me to figure out a way to communicate so I could talk some sense into her? Tell her to buck up so I could get on with my life?

  I doubted even I, with my superior mind, could learn how to write or speak given this dog’s body had not evolved beyond marginal vision, limited memory, quadrupedal stature, and an unwieldy tongue. Moreover, I doubted a talking, writing dog was going to help anyone. I’d be turned into a freak. A circus display. While I could use a bit more attention, I had no interest in becoming a sideshow.

  So I narrowed in on what exactly I had to do. Namely, help Emily so that I could live up to my end of this so-called bargain and get my body back, since let’s face it, who wants to fade away to nothing?

  Squinting my eyes, I tried to remember exactly what the old man had said. Fulfill bargain so I wouldn’t fade away, yes? And get my body back, right?

  I didn’t quite remember that part, but surely that’s what he meant.

  Unfortunately, by the next morning when I found Emily slouched in the library window seat wearing a hideous pair of warm-ups, a cup of tea forgotten in her hand, I hadn’t come up with any ideas about how to get this done. Her manic edge from yesterday was gone, but it was clear she wasn’t on the verge of dashing off to Caldecote.

  I managed to get her to take me out, but when I tried to pull her toward Central Park she flatly refused. I had no interest in seeing the ill-mannered poodle, but I wouldn’t have minded a few bracing gulps of fresh park air.

  We returned to the building and were buzzed through the inner gate to the courtyard, my nails clicking on the paving bricks. There wasn’t so much as a weed or dust ball to provide interest. I knew the staff hosed down all outdoor common space, even scrubbing the basement floor until you could practically eat off it. The Dakota reeked of history, but everything was exceedingly well-kept, making it seem like I stood in the 1880s when the building was new.

  The fountains were lined with glass blocks that allowed sunlight into the basement. Once upon a time the basement had housed the stables. When you walked down and found wide open space instead of the maze of hallways and machine rooms as in most buildings, it was easy to imagine the area filled with horses and hay.

  I inhaled deeply, at least for a dog, my low wide chest expanding. I had always loved this place. In a way, the Dakota had felt the same as my beginnings with Emily: both the building and this woman had had the ability to make me feel anything was possible, not just the type of things that I could make happen with the help of my money. With Emily, at the Dakota, I had believed I could be great.

  I sat down on the cool brick paving stones, sitting with as much dignity as this body could manage, and I didn’t budge. Emily looked back and just when she started to tug me, she stopped. She took me in, then glanced up and took in the high, café au lait walls overlooking the courtyard, the multipaned windows in their black casings peering down on us like windows into the past. Her head tipped back and she took in the tall rooftops and the blue sky beyond. Then she glanced back and forth from me to the building, her eyes narrowed.

  “Oh, my God! Yes, yes, it’s me!” I barked, leaping up like a circus performer.

  A smile fluttered on her mouth, but just for a second. “I know. This place is special.”

  She leaned back against the wall and closed her eyes. Then she looked at me.

  “This place is mine,” she said softly, “Sandy promised. No matter what Althea says, I will not lose it.”

  I’m not sure who she was trying to convince. Me or herself.

  According to the prenuptial agreement, if I died the apartment went to the Portman Family Trust. But the pesky little truth was, after we were married I had promised it to Emily. It had been a sentimental gesture, no question, unheard of in me. But it was during our second Christmas together, and after she had spent weeks beforehand decorating and shopping, vowing to bring together what was left of her family with mine, I had gotten swept up in the moment.

  Truth was, I couldn’t imagine that Christmas with our families would be anything but a disaster. While once upon a time I might have wished for an old-fashioned train set circling an old-fashioned Christmas tree, I had come around to my parents’ preference for Christmas in Paris or on the high seas. More than that, from the beginning my mother had sworn Emily was not suitable to be my wife. “She’s not one of us, darling.” By that second Chris
tmas, Althea Portman’s campaign against my wife was in full, if subtle, swing, and Emily’s sister and I got along about as well as partisan commentators on CNN.

  Needless to say, my hopes weren’t high for any sort of truce over a turkey dinner, though I felt pleased with myself for letting Emily have her way. Afterward, I reasoned, when all that mutual dislike spilled over like red wine on the fine linen tablecloth, I wouldn’t gloat. I would take Emily in my arms and tell her how sorry I was that it had been a disaster.

  I wondered now if I hadn’t wanted it to go awry.

  At the thought, my wiry head came back, my buggy little eyes narrowing. Had I wanted Emily’s Christmas to fail?

  I shook the thought away because quite frankly, it was ridiculous.

  Christmas day had arrived, and much to my surprise, overnight Emily had put finishing touches on the apartment. There were partially eaten cookies by the tree, a half-full glass of milk. Boot steps in fake snow coming in from the chimney. And presents. Lots of presents.

  That afternoon with Christmas carols playing on my sound system, my wife managed to circle her mutinous sister Jordan and my condescending parents around the massive dining table with a unity that I still find hard to believe. The meal was amazing, the conversation surprisingly plentiful. By the time my parents left with their presents “from me,” I felt young again, just as I had when I met Emily.

  More than that, I felt badly. The week before Christmas I had been so rushed with a deal I was trying to close that I had gotten my assistant to pick something up at Bergdorf Goodman for Emily.

  The assistant had chosen an outfit from Bergdorf’s trendy fifth floor, one more suited to a nightclub-going twenty-something than the wife of a Wall Street banker. I had been as surprised as everyone else when Emily pulled the skinny jeans and halter top from the tissue paper. I might have cringed when my mother gasped and my wife’s mouth fell open. It felt even worse when Emily recovered and squeezed my hand. “Thank you, I love it.”