Miranda got out of bed and quickly ran her hands through her hair, which she had not exactly bothered to brush or comb recently. Her clothes were none too fresh either, but there wasn’t really anything she could do about that now.
When she opened the door, there was Bea, along with Lauren. At least Courtney wasn’t with them; she didn’t think she could face her now. Then she saw Mrs. Castiglione, hovering by the banister. “I hope you don’t mind that I let your friends in, Miranda,” said her landlady. “But I was worried about you. We all were.”
Miranda took a step back to let them in. Now that they were here, she was just going to have to deal with them. “What about the play?” she said to Bea.
“Monday the theater’s dark, remember? I’m only here for the night; I fly back tomorrow in time for the show.”
“You didn’t have to do this,” Miranda said. But she was grateful that she had.
“Oh, yes, I did.” She eyed her friend. “When was the last time you had a shower? Or ate anything, for that matter? You’re looking thin.”
Miranda looked down. Her pants were loose, and even her T-shirt suddenly seemed baggy.
“Why don’t you take a shower and let me fix you something to eat,” Lauren said, opening the fridge and the cabinets. “Except there’s nothing in here.”
“I haven’t been food shopping,” Miranda said. She was aware of the look that passed between Lauren and Bea.
“I can go now,” said Lauren. “What do you want?”
“I want my baby girl!” Miranda covered her face with her hands, trying to hide from the words.
“I know you do.” Bea moved closer to hug her, and Lauren joined in.
No one said anything for a moment, and Miranda just let herself be embraced.
“Who could have predicted that this would happen?” Bea broke the silence. “It’s just such a strange coincidence—the father turning up like that.”
“I should be happy for her.” Miranda wiped her eyes. “I should be glad that her father found her and wants her. But I’m not. I’m not!” She started to cry again. Bea patted her back, and Lauren smoothed the hair away from her face.
After several minutes, Miranda wiped her eyes and looked at her friends. “I think I’ll take a shower now.” She went into the bathroom, stripped off her clothes, and turned on the faucet. It did feel good to let the warm water sluice over her hair and body. When she emerged, Lauren was back from the store. She’d brought a log of goat cheese and a baguette, a couple of ripe, Jersey tomatoes along with several plums and a box of cookies. Miranda looked down at the food Bea had assembled on the plate. It was good to eat something again, good to be with her friends.
Lauren didn’t mention her kids once, and Bea told them funny stories about the production in Oklahoma: the time she mistook toothpaste for hair gel in the darkened wings and emerged on stage with her head coated in Crest; the stage manager who chewed cinnamon sticks in his effort to quit smoking. Before they left, Bea made her promise to check in the next day. “You can call in the morning,” she said. “I’ll be waiting.” And she told Lauren she’d be in touch with her too. No one said a word about Courtney.
When she was alone again, Miranda contacted her office and then called Eunice to check in on her father; she told Eunice she would visit him over the weekend. At least she would not have to talk about Celeste; he would not even remember her. Her heart still felt like a piece of lunar rock—pocked, cold, dead—but something had shifted inside.
Early that evening, there was yet another knock at her door. She walked right over to open it, sure that Mrs. Castiglione would be there, bearing a plate of meatballs or ziti. Miranda even smiled at the thought. But instead, Courtney was standing there; under her arm was Fluff, her five-pound, high-strung-to-the-point-of-hysteria Pomeranian.
“You came here with your dog?” Miranda liked dogs, but Fluff was an exception; the dog was a quivering mess much of the time and had a bark high-pitched enough to crack a wineglass.
“I didn’t want to leave him at home; he gets on Harris’s nerves.”
Miranda could well understand why but thought better of saying so.
Meanwhile, Courtney was eyeing her appraisingly. “You’ve lost weight.”
“I haven’t been eating,” said Miranda, aware that she was still barring the entrance.
“Well, you look terrific, though it’s a hell of a way to go about it.”
“It’s not like I had a choice.”
“I know,” said Courtney. “That’s why I came. Aren’t you going to let me in?”
Reluctantly, Miranda stepped aside and allowed Courtney to come into the apartment. She set Fluff on the floor, and instantly, the dog began to bark.
“Is there any way to quiet him?” Miranda was worried about Mrs. Castiglione, who was no fan of dogs.
“Sorry.” Courtney scooped the dog up; the barking stopped as quickly as it had started. “He has separation anxiety, but he’s fine if he’s with me.” Sitting down on the couch, Courtney settled the dog on her lap, where it appeared to be calm—at least for the moment. “Aaron told me you’d decided not to pursue the court case.” Aaron was the lawyer Harris had recommended.
“He was very helpful,” Miranda said. “Thank Harris for giving me his name.” She waited. “And thank you too, Courtney.”
Courtney shrugged. “It was the least I could do.” She looked straight at Miranda. “He told me about that piece in Metro, the one that woman, Jennifer, or whatever her name is, wrote—”
“Geneva Bales, and she’s not a woman; she’s a viper! I wish I’d never met her. If only I hadn’t agreed to the first profile, Jared Masters would never have known about Celeste. And the way she turned around and made him seem like some romantic, tragic hero! I can’t even stand to think about it!” Miranda tried taking a slow, deep breath to calm herself; she’d been feeling okay for the last couple of hours, but this conversation was pulverizing her fragile equilibrium to so much dust.
“I know,” Courtney said gently. “When I read it, I felt terrible for you, Miranda. I really did.” Miranda said nothing, so Courtney went on. “I know you think I’ve been evil-bitch-friend for these last few months.”
“You’re the one who said it first. . . .” Miranda crossed her arms over her chest.
“And maybe I am guilty of being an emotional clod. I didn’t realize how much you wanted a baby.”
“I didn’t realize how much I wanted a baby,” Miranda said. “Not until I found her, not until she was mine. And now . . .”
“Maybe it’s not all over yet,” Courtney said. “Wouldn’t her father let you see her sometimes?”
“Maybe he would; he’s asked to meet me. More than once.” Miranda used the front of her shirt to blot her tears.
“So why don’t you do it? It might be better than this. Right now it feels like she’s dead to you. She’s dead and you’re mourning her. But she’s alive. Alive, well, and living uptown with her dad. You know, it’s got to be hard for him too. He wasn’t expecting a kid; now he’s got one he has to raise all by himself, no mom in the picture.”
“He might have a girlfriend. . . .”
“The magazine piece said he was single.”
Maybe Courtney had something there. Miranda had been so adamant about refusing to meet Celeste’s father because she thought it would bring her too much pain. But would it be any more painful than what she was now feeling? It was even possible it could be less. And the thought that she might see Celeste, hold her in her arms—Courtney was right. She was reacting as if Celeste had died. But she hadn’t. She hadn’t! This was the happiest thought she had had in days, if not weeks. And Courtney was the one who’d led her to it.
“I was pretty angry at you,” she said. “I thought you were undermining me.”
“I’m sorry, Miranda. Really and truly sorry.” Courtney said nothing more,
but used one hand to fiddle with her earring, twisting it around and around on her earlobe. The other hand remained on Fluff’s shining, red-brown fur.
Miranda knew how difficult it was for her to say she was sorry—about anything. She’d always been this way. And she realized that Courtney’s silence meant she was nervous—nervous that Miranda might not accept her apology.
“You said a lot of hurtful, callous things,” Miranda began. “But I appreciate your coming here today; what you said about Celeste made me feel better. And you know what else? I’ve missed you.” As soon as the words were out, Miranda knew they were true. Courtney, never a hugger, reached out and took her hand; they sat like that for several minutes. Fluff snorted, a tiny, contented canine snort. And later, after Courtney and the dog had left, Miranda had the best night of sleep she’d had since Celeste’s father had surfaced.
* * *
Evan stood in the front of Miranda’s door with a bunch of lush, apricot-colored roses in his arms. He’d stopped at Zuzu’s Petals on Fifth Avenue to get them; unlike the dozen-roses-for-ten-bucks that were hawked at corner grocers all over the city, these flowers had a real scent and would not wilt the next day. Upset that he’d not been able to get in touch with Miranda, he’d biked over to Park Slope to check on her. But after three rings to her buzzer produced no results, he had to conclude that she was not there. Wait—wasn’t that someone approaching from behind the lace curtain? The door opened, and he saw an elderly woman with thick glasses and a light scarf tied over the neatly coiffed mound of her silver hair.
“Are you looking for Miranda?” she asked.
“Yes, but it doesn’t seem like she’s home.”
“She went back to work,” the woman said. “And I’m glad. I was getting worried. But those friends of hers showed up last night, and I think that made her feel better. She’s been so sad since the baby went away.”
“So she’s at the office?” said Evan. “Thanks for telling me.” He looked at the flowers, which he’d had to balance very carefully on the handlebars of the bike.
“Would you like me to take those?” The woman’s gaze followed his. “I’ll put them in a vase and make sure she gets them as soon as she comes in.”
“That’d be great,” Evan said. “I really appreciate it.” He handed her the flowers, but not before adjusting the bow on the pale green ribbon with which they had been tied. Then he went down the stairs, unlocked his bike, and pedaled back home. Until he heard from her, there was nothing else he could do.
A little after six o’clock, he was just beginning to consider his dinner options—frozen or takeout—when Miranda called. Finally. “You okay?” he said. “I haven’t been able to reach you, and I was worried. Really worried.” And hurt too, though he did not mention that.
“I’m sorry. I just didn’t want to deal with anyone. I went into the office today though; I can’t say I’m okay, exactly. But I’m functioning. You wouldn’t believe how restorative a gift from the cupcake king can be.”
“Cupcake king?” Evan did not follow.
“Alan Richardson. He’s the man of the moment when it comes to novelty cupcakes, and I got him to agree to come up with an exclusive recipe that we’ll feature in print and online too. My boss is over the moon.”
“Must be some cupcake,” he said.
“It will be. But why am I nattering on about this? Have you eaten yet?”
“No, I haven’t, actually.”
“Then why don’t you come over here and I’ll make us dinner? I bought some fresh basil on the way home and was planning on doing a pistachio pesto.”
“I love pistachio pesto,” he said even though he’d never even considered, much less eaten, such a thing.
“Good. See you soon?”
“Soon.”
“Oh, Evan! I almost forgot! Those roses . . . They’re extraordinary. Thank you so much for bringing them.”
Evan knew she couldn’t see him grinning. “Glad you liked them.”
A little while later, Evan was once more locking his bike inside the gate at Miranda’s house. He had not brought wine or anything to eat; she was such a foodie that he was afraid the wrong offering would humiliate him. But he did have another small gift for her; he’d debated about bringing it and then decided yes, it was the right time.
The pistachio pesto—green from the crushed basil leaves and rich from the crushed nuts—was delicious and there was plenty of crusty bread to sop up any that remained in his bowl. She followed that with a light salad and for dessert she poached plums and served them with whipped cream and a drizzle of melted dark chocolate; Evan could have easily licked the plate.
“Do you always eat like this?” he said.
“Pretty much. Though not lately—lately I haven’t been able to eat much of anything.”
“You’ve been taking it hard, haven’t you? Losing Celeste?”
“I have.” She had stopped eating and let her hands drop to her lap.
“I wish you had let me in. I might have helped.”
She looked at him as if she was trying to decide whether this was true. “I appreciate that. But I just couldn’t see anyone for a few days. Talking about it would have made it worse.”
He didn’t totally buy this; maybe she meant talking about it to him, but he didn’t want to push it. “And now?”
“Now it’s a little better. A little. I don’t feel so . . . shell-shocked. I’m functioning again. Sort of.”
He suddenly wanted to kiss her then but thought he should wait for a signal. Maybe she was still too upset over Celeste to be in the mood. Hell, he was upset about Celeste. Instead, he helped her clear the table and load the dishwasher; when that was done, he was unsure about what his next move should be. He was not going to assume anything. Then he remembered the gift.
“I have something for you.” He went to get it from his backpack.
Miranda took the flat package and tore off the dark green paper to reveal a wheat-colored linen album; he’d filled it with eight-by-ten prints he’d taken of her with Celeste, a dozen photographs in all.
She did not say anything as she slowly leafed through the pages. She stopped at one that showed Celeste in her bath, a crown of shampoo covering her head. The next one had been taken in Prospect Park; Celeste was on her back and Miranda was leaning over her, each of their faces mirroring the delight seen in the other. Evan grew anxious. He shouldn’t have given it to her; maybe he’d only made things worse. Finally, she looked up.
“It’s precious,” she said. He could see her trying not to cry. “Precious and beautiful and perfect.” Then she set the album on the counter and opened her arms; Evan was across the room in seconds.
FIFTEEN
It was a slow afternoon in July; Jared and Diego were the only ones left in the office. Jared was ready to head out soon too, but there were a couple of important calls he needed to make first. And while he was here, he could have Diego finish some filing that had been mounting up. Only where was the kid? Smoking weed in the men’s room? Jared walked all through the office and did not see him. Had he left without signing out? He was getting school credit—not much, but still—for his work, and Jared needed to keep track of his hours.
He had just finished the first of the calls when he heard the door open.
“Diego? Can you come in here?”
Diego walked into Jared’s cubicle with that sullen look on his face; he seemed never to be without it. “You need me?”
“That’s the idea,” Jared said. “I’ve got some filing for you to do.”
Diego said nothing but took the stack of applications from Jared’s hands.
Jared resisted the loud, exasperated sigh he was dying to expel and watched him go. Most of the interns had worked out pretty well—a couple had gotten real, paying jobs, and one had gone on to college. Tiffany was a perfect example. Whenever he ran an o
pen house, he had Tiffany sit at the sign-in desk. The girl was pretty, polite, and had a nice way with the prospective buyers. Diego was another story. On the one occasion Jared had positioned him at the desk, he’d spent the whole time glued to his phone. No hello, no eye contact—he’d even forgotten to have some of the people sign in. The kid was a total washout.
“Get rid of him,” Athena had said. “If you want this mentoring thing to work, he’s got to meet you halfway.”
But Jared did not want to give up on Diego. At least not yet. So he kept him in the office, where he could monitor him more closely. Diego did whatever clerical chores he was asked to do but without any sort of enthusiasm or even apparent interest. Still Jared had hopes of reaching the kid.
Diego walked—or more aptly strutted—back into Jared’s cubicle. “Filing’s all done. Can I go now?”
“There’s one more thing.” Jared handed Diego another batch of applications.
“File these too?”
“No. Athena needs to see them first,” Jared said. ”Put them in a folder, write a note for her, and leave them on her desk, okay?”
“Sure,” Diego said. And as he turned away, he added, “Whatever.”
This time Jared did sigh—not that Diego appeared to notice. Maybe Athena was right about this one—he really was going nowhere. He thought about this as he made the second call, which took longer than he’d expected. While he was still on the phone, he got up and went quietly into Athena’s office; he hated to think that he was spying on Diego, but he did want to make sure the applications were where they were supposed to be. Sure enough, they were. It was only Diego who was somewhere he shouldn’t have been; he had opened Athena’s top left-hand drawer, the one where the petty cash was kept. When he saw Jared, he slammed it shut in a hurry.
Jared ended his call. “How much?” he said.
“What are you talking about?” Diego looked nervous, though; in fact, he looked guilty as hell.
“How much did you take from the drawer, Diego?”
“Me? I never took nothing, not a cent.” Indignation had replaced guilt.
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