“That’s all true,” Miranda said. She was trying to make the macaron last, but knew she would succumb to at least one more. “You can do the piece without my cooperation, you know; it might not be the same, but enough of the facts are out there to make it feasible.”
“I could but I won’t,” said Geneva. “That’s just not who I am. If I don’t earn your trust, then I won’t go ahead with it.” She lowered her eyes and sipped her tea.
Miranda raised her own cup to her lips. She was an odd one, this Geneva Bales. Charming. Intelligent. Low-key when it counted. But Miranda wasn’t ready to commit—not yet anyway. “I appreciate that. And I’ll keep all that in mind. I just need to think it over, that’s all.”
“Of course.” Geneva signaled for the check. If she was disappointed not to have obtained Miranda’s consent, she did not show it. “I’ll be here. Just let me know.”
Miranda was still on the fence about the profile the next day when she collected her mail from the hall table where Mrs. Castiglione had left it. She had stopped in the supermarket on the way home from work, and she put her bags down on her kitchen table while she sorted through the envelopes. There was one from the firm that managed her father’s money; he’d given her power of attorney, so the statements now came to her. One of the bags contained a pint of ice cream, and she put it in the freezer before opening the letter. He’d lost money—again. It was the third time this year. She’d have to talk to his financial adviser to see about making some changes.
Miranda set the letter aside and began to put the rest of her groceries away. The nursing home where her father lived was expensive; he could easily go through his entire nest egg. She had never worried about this before, but now that she was poised on the cusp of adopting a baby, that fact had new and potentially alarming resonance. Maybe she would be wise to accept Geneva’s offer—she might be glad of the help.
The next day, she called the number on Geneva’s card. “I’m going to do it,” she told her. “When do we start?”
“That’s wonderful.” Geneva had a low, controlled voice, but Miranda could still hear the pleasure that ran through it. “You won’t be sorry,” she said. “You have my word.”
* * *
Later that same night, Miranda flopped down on her sofa, exhausted. Celeste just would not settle down, and Miranda had spent a solid hour trying to calm her; she’d fallen into a restless sleep. Silence reigned, but for how long?
She hadn’t been here even a month, but already Miranda felt the enormity of the job she’d—willingly! eagerly!—signed on for. Yes, she wanted her. Yes, she was still in the throes of baby love. But it was hard—harder than anyone had told her it would be. Harder than she’d imagined.
What Miranda had described to Geneva Bales were only the most superficial aspects of how her world had shifted. She felt as if she’d fallen, Alice-like, right down the rabbit hole. Way up there was the life she used to lead; she saw it as if from a vast distance. Down here, in new-mommy-land, everything was different. Taking a shower, eating a meal, making a phone call, all things she had taken for granted, now had to be planned for, negotiated, and, if necessary, postponed. Or even abandoned. She, who had been the most avid of readers, had not even opened one of the new novels that sat in a pile near her bed. She could not even get through a newspaper, let alone the cooking and decorating magazines she subscribed to in order to remain current for her job. Her job. That was another thing. Here she was, struggling when she hadn’t even gone back to work yet. How would she manage when she did?
Celeste had been asleep for about twenty minutes; how long before she was awake again? Miranda got up. She wanted just a brief distraction, a foray into the terrain she used to inhabit so thoughtlessly. She went over to her bookshelf and pulled out a thin, worn paperback. Yes. This was it.
Returning to the sofa, she sat down and propped her feet up on an ottoman she had recently purchased. The ottoman may have been new, but the hand-woven kilim that covered it was something Miranda had owned for years. She’d bought it in Turkey, on a trip she and Courtney had taken right after graduation. What fun they’d had, the two of them so young and clueless; how had they ever been that young? They’d explored the beaches and the temples, the markets and the cafés; they’d eagerly sampled the food, the wine. There had been fresh figs plucked from a tree in the courtyard of one restaurant, goat cheese made in the cellar of another.
The kilim had come from one of those dense, jostling marketplaces where animal carcasses hung from crude hooks, salt was sold from glittering heaps, and mounds of tarnished silver jewelry were piled right on the ground, waiting to be pawed through. Miranda had spied the kilim draped over the back of a donkey, and though it was torn and shredded in places, she had been drawn to its intense colors—vermilion, ochre, cobalt, forest green—and the almost geometric formality of its pattern. Courtney had urged her to buy it.
“What will I do with it?” Miranda had asked.
“Don’t worry about that. You love it; that’s the main thing. You’ll figure out how to use it later.”
Courtney had been right. The kilim was the perfect thing with which to cover an ottoman. But she and Courtney were barely speaking now, and Miranda did not want to think about that trip.
Instead, she opened Cat on a Hot Tin Roof, the same play Bea was starring in and the same copy she’d owned in college, bought for her Modern Dramatic Literature course. That was the course in which she’d met Bea; they had read Ibsen and Chekhov, Strindberg and Ionesco. But Miranda’s favorite playwright that semester had been Tennessee Williams, and she felt a deep and familiar connection as she turned the yellowed pages, several of them stained with what looked to be raspberry jam.
Had she not had Celeste, she would have flown to Oklahoma to see Bea play Maggie; right now, she couldn’t even imagine getting into the city to see a New York production. Not that she wanted to change anything. But still. She smiled as she read the opening dialogue—Williams could be so funny.
Maggie was the Williams heroine she liked best. Unlike Blanche or Laura—fragile, broken creatures—Maggie was scrappy, a fighter and survivor. How interesting that she wanted to be pregnant with Brick’s child when she disliked children so intensely. No-neck monsters was what she called her little nieces and nephews. And yet, how she pined. What did having a child mean to her? Was it proof of Brick’s love? Was it a confirmation of her own womanhood? Or just the only way to secure her place in a family that did not fully accept her?
Miranda looked up. There were sounds—first rustling, then crying—coming from the other room. She put the book down. So much for parsing the meaning of the symbolic child; the real, live infant she had committed herself to needed her.
Celeste was crying, her fists clenched in tiny, tight balls. Her diaper was dry, so Miranda picked her up and began the pacing that often did the trick. When that failed, she tried rocking her. Celeste cried harder and twisted her face away from the bottle Miranda offered. Now what? It was late; she didn’t want to take the baby out for a stroll at this hour. She touched the little cheek. Damp with tears and perspiration. Miranda felt sticky and hot too.
Suddenly, she knew what they both needed. She put Celeste back in the crib while she turned on the tap in the shower and shed her clothes. Then she undressed Celeste and stepped under the steady stream with the baby pressed against her naked skin. She kept her back to the spray and used her own body to shield Celeste. The warm, pulsating water created a fine mist on Celeste’s hands and arms; she was intrigued and brought her hand to her mouth for an experimental lick. The crying stopped, and Miranda exhaled audibly. They remained under the water for a while, and when they stepped out, Miranda wrapped her baby in the large towel hanging on the back of the door. Celeste was calmer now. The crying, the fussiness—all gone. Miranda settled her back in the crib and then returned to her own bed. They both slept peacefully that night.
SEVEN
Jared Masters stood on the corner of 117th Street and Lenox Avenue, lighting one of the elegant, gold-tipped Black Russian Sobranies that he’d recently started smoking. His clients Brandon and Isabel Clarke were late, but that was nothing new. Of the thirteen such appointments he’d had with the Clarkes, they had been late for all but one. Sometimes it was just ten minutes, but once they had kept him waiting more than an hour and had barely apologized when they finally showed up. He would have blown them off entirely—property up here in Harlem was selling briskly; he could have lived without their business—but he had a soft spot for Isabel, one of those fine-boned little blondes he’d had a taste for ever since he’d first encountered them in prep school. In fact, she reminded him of Carrie, the blonde to end all blondes; there was something about the eyes, or was it the mouth—
“Jared!”
He turned, and there Isabel was, actually hurrying down the street. Brandon lagged a few paces behind, gaze trained on the iPhone in his palm.
“Brunch ran late,” she said, huffing adorably as she came up to him. “So sorry!” For a brief second, her hand—pale and splayed like a starfish—touched his chest. This gesture, combined with her uncharacteristic apology, melted any lingering annoyance.
“No sweat,” he said, tossing the cigarette to the sidewalk and stubbing it out. “I really want to show you the place. I think you’re going to like it.”
Brandon caught up to Isabel and greeted Jared with that stupid fist bump white guys always seemed to think was necessary to demonstrate how cool they were, and the three of them walked down the block. “Take a look,” Jared said, waving his hand at the newly restored facade. “Twenty feet wide, built in 1910, totally gutted in 2006. It’s got central air, a washer and dryer in every unit, video intercom, and individual security systems.”
“Nice!” said Isabel. She wore a sweater tied around her slim waist—the day had really warmed up—and some pale blue gauzy thing that made the outline of her small breasts plainly visible. That, plus the way the dress’s thin straps kept slipping off her shoulders, was highly distracting. Forcing himself to look away, Jared lit another cigarette. Isabel turned to Brandon. “It’s wider than the houses we’ve been seeing,” she said. “It won’t have that shoe-boxy feeling.”
“Uh-huh.” Brandon was still mesmerized by whatever was taking place on the screen.
“It gets even better. Let’s go inside.” Jared took one last drag on the barely smoked Sobranie, then led the way. He’d already sold a condo in this building—one of five—for a cool million two. Now he was determined to sell this one, a garden-floor duplex with a fully landscaped yard, to the Clarkes; he thought it had everything they were looking for.
“Great kitchen,” Brandon said, running his hand along the granite counter.
“All the finishes are high end,” Jared said. “Brazilian cherrywood cabinets, Sub-Zero fridge, Miele dishwasher.”
“And look at the garden!” Isabel breathed. “Just think of the parties we could have here—they’d be legendary!” They all walked outside. The yard was looking especially spiffy; Jared had come over himself this morning to make sure that the leaves were all swept and that none of the neighborhood’s legion of stray cats had left any unwanted deposits on the slate paving stones. Harlem was still oscillating between the old and the new, and sometimes bits of the former overlapped with the upscale aspirations of buildings like this one.
“You could plant bulbs out here, babe,” said Brandon as he strolled around. “Tulips, daffodils, all that stuff you’re so crazy about.” His phone trilled and he answered immediately. “No,” he said, frowning. “I told him that already. If I told him once, I told him ten times.” He strode out of the yard and back into the house.
Isabel looked at her husband’s retreating form and sighed. “It’s hard to keep him on track,” she said.
“Come on,” Jared said tactfully. “Let me show you the upstairs. You’ll love the master suite.” There were two other bedrooms up there, and he knew from experience that since each had its flaws he should show them first. Then the master suite would look even better by comparison.
“Wow!” Isabel said. “It’s gorgeous!”
She was right. The large, light room faced the back and the double-wide windows overlooked the yard. There was a mantel—purely ornamental but a nice touch just the same—and admirably restored herringbone wooden floors. The en suite bath was done up in marble and white subway tile; there were his-and-hers sinks and a freestanding tub. Isabel cooed and oohed as she touched this, inspected that. Jared watched as she primped in the large mirror over the sink, fussing with her hair and making a pretty pout at her reflection. For a brief but electrifying moment, their eyes met in the glass. Then he quickly looked away and walked out of the bathroom. Isabel followed a moment later.
Downstairs, Brandon was still on the phone. “The guy’s a jerk,” he was saying. “Total a-hole if you ask me.”
“He’s so busy all the time,” she said apologetically. “But how can I complain when it’s his hard work that’s going to buy us”—she waved her arm to indicate the room—“something like this.”
“Listen, if today’s a bad day, we can schedule another viewing,” Jared said. Damn, but he wanted something substantial out of this visit. Why couldn’t Brandon put down the phone and pay attention?
“It won’t be any different another day,” Isabel said. “He’s like this all the time. I swear, I once caught him looking at that thing when we were making love.” Then she clamped one of those tiny hands of hers—he could see the megawatt diamond glittering on her finger—over her mouth like a small child. “I guess I shouldn’t have said that.”
“It’s okay,” Jared said. “I’m used to it. People are always telling Realtors stuff like that. We’re like therapists. Or priests.”
“I can see why,” she said. “You really listen. And you don’t pass judgment.”
“I try.” He moved toward the door, uneasy with the direction this conversation was heading. Jared liked the ladies and the ladies certainly liked him. But he never mixed business with pleasure. Especially married business.
Isabel was too quick for him. In seconds, she had crossed the room, reached up to pull his face down and close to hers. “Thank you,” she said softly. Then she kissed him, her lips as light as a moth. Jared allowed his fingers to graze the skin of her bare shoulders before he stepped back. “Let’s get Brandon and show him the master suite,” he said. She seemed to recover quickly enough because she only nodded and followed him out.
On the way back to his apartment, Jared smoked yet another cigarette. So much for trying to quit. He didn’t have another showing today, and he was annoyed by the way this one had gone down. He had not closed the deal on 117th Street; the Clarkes had said they needed to think about it some more. And then there was that kiss. Had there been something he’d done—a look, a tone of voice—that had given Isabel the invitation? But even if there had, how could he have helped it? He was attracted to her, and attraction was hard to mask, especially for him. Everyone always be knowing your business, he could hear his mother say. She was forever telling him that he needed to disguise his feelings better; she worried about what might happen to a black boy whose heart was not on his sleeve but plastered all over his face.
He walked first west and then downtown. The trees that lined the streets were having their brief, gaudy moment, and here and there a window box exploded with early spring flowers. The ’hood was looking good, which meant business was good too. Even though Harlem had become his turf, Jared had not actually grown up here, but in Queens, the only son of two solid, hardworking parents. His mother ladled out hot food in a school cafeteria and his father had been a motorman with the MTA. They had died, within eight months of each other, more than a decade ago, but at least they had lived to see him awarded the scholarship to Saint Crispin’s Academy in Maine, and after th
at, the full ride at Haverford.
“I want you to go places,” his mother had said, “but not forget where you came from.” As if. Even all these years later, he could still remember the pressure of her hand placed on his forehead when he felt feverish, the aroma of her baked chicken and dumplings wafting through the hallway even before he got to the apartment, and the collection of hats, each one more wacky and embellished than the next, that she kept on wooden stands, ready for church. She’d been proud of him.
He wondered if she’d be so proud of him now. Yes, he was successful at his work, and he made good money at it too; he was considered up and coming in his world. He’d sweet-talked Athena, his boss at the agency, into offering internships to neighborhood kids who otherwise wouldn’t have known how to even get near such opportunities, and he was personally overseeing two interns, Diego and Tiffany, right now. And he had plenty of friends, a great apartment; life was good. But while his work in real estate was lucrative, it wasn’t what she’d had in mind for him. She would have been the lone black woman in America not made happy by Obama’s election. It could have been you, she would have said. It should have been you. At thirty-three, he was unmarried and unattached; ever since Caroline’s death, there had been no one special in his life. And even when she was alive, Carrie was not the kind of girl you brought home to meet your mother.
An ice-cream truck was parked on the corner of his block, and the kids in the neighborhood, a mix of black and increasingly white, were milling around as the lilting music from the parked truck pealed out into the spring air. Carrie would have insisted on stopping. She had a sweet tooth, that girl did, but she only liked the cheap stuff. The one time he’d bought her some fancy imported chocolates, she’d nibbled on a couple and left the box on the living room radiator in her apartment, where it had quickly turned into a molten, if costly, expanse of brown goo. So he’d taken to keeping his pockets filled with the crap she craved: SweeTarts, Skittles, Almond Joy bars, Hershey’s Kisses. Her candy habit never seemed to catch up with her though; she was as delicate as a girl and had to buy her jeans in the kids’ section of the Gap and have all her dresses—the skimpy little numbers she wore clubbing—taken in.
You Were Meant For Me Page 7