Now he looked at Kate, and his deep brown eyes sparkled behind his glasses. “You are breathtaking,” he said, and Kate smiled. The cost of the dress was well worth it.
“We’d better go,” she said. “Brice hates late guests when he’s cooking.” Despite her words, Michael pushed her gently against the doorway and kissed her. He was a good kisser, and Kate let her tongue and mind wander. Then Max, clothed for the gym, came bounding down the stairs. They pulled apart, but Max, of course, had seen them. He raised his eyebrows as he walked past them, Kate’s lip gloss still on his cheek.
“Dinner at Elliot’s?” he asked as he walked by and down the stoop. Kate felt a twinge of guilt. Of course, she was going to dinner at Elliot’s, but by withholding the information that she was going with an escort, she now looked like a liar. Michael, unaware, took her hand and they walked outside and down the steps.
Kate couldn’t help but think of her two years in Catholic school. Sins of omission and sins of commission: She thought she remembered they were equal. She promised herself she would find some way to apologize to Max later.
Now she took Michael’s arm as they walked down the shady street. Chelsea was very pretty west of Eighth Avenue. “Let’s walk through the seminary garden,” Michael suggested. Kate smiled her agreement. At this time of day, the block-size park enclosed by the church and seminary buildings was at its most lovely. They walked arm in arm.
“Kate, stop for a minute,” Michael said. “I have something for you.”
He fumbled around with his briefcase straps for a moment. He had given Kate a gift before—an out-of-print English psychology book by D. W. Winnicott. It had been very thoughtful, and just now she expected another book. But instead he took out a small, oblong box wrapped in silver paper. Unmistakably a jewelry box. “Do you know today is our three-month anniversary?” he asked. Kate actually hadn’t, and she was really moved that he had. “I saw this and thought of you,” he said. He handed her the box, which she unwrapped. Once she opened it, a thin silver bracelet with a tiny K hanging from it was revealed. She looked from it to the expectant expression on Michael’s face. It wasn’t anything she would have chosen for herself, but it was very sweet nonetheless.
“Oh, Michael. Thank you.” They kissed again, and this time there was no interruption.
“Do you like it?” he asked.
For a moment, Kate thought of sins of omission again, but even Sister Vincent couldn’t believe they would extend to this. “Yes. It’s lovely. Would you fasten it for me?”
Michael leaned forward and fiddled with the tiny clasp. It took a moment, but at last he had it around her wrist. She stretched out her arm. “It looks very nice,” she said.
“It looks great!” Michael said, and tucked her arm in his.
Kate felt better than she had all day.
Chapter Six
Brice and Elliot met three years ago but had moved in together only in September. Brice’s stylish retro furniture in orange and lime green had taken precedence over Elliot’s collection of thrift shop purchases and off-the-street finds. Their two-bedroom apartment in a Chelsea brownstone near Kate’s had large windows in the living room overlooking a tiny backyard. An old refectory table was set before the windows, and despite their protests, Michael and Kate were given the chairs that faced the garden view.
“The tulips are just over and the roses haven’t started, so it’s not at its best,” Brice said apologetically as he seated them; then he excused himself to bring dinner in from the kitchen. Kate noticed they were using Brice’s good glassware and Havilland china, and she was touched. Elliot brought in a wine cooler and set it on the oak credenza.
“A coaster! A coaster!” Brice exclaimed, and slipped one under the crystal cooler. Kate suppressed a smile.
In a few moments, dishes were being passed around. Elliot, standing, began to pour wine into the waiting goblets. Michael picked up his glass and almost ostentatiously set it upside down. “None for me, thanks,” he said.
Kate winced. She should have seen this one coming. Michael didn’t drink at all, just said he didn’t like it. Given her father’s bad habits, it seemed a good trait to Kate, but she knew it wouldn’t go down well with Elliot. He prided himself on his wine cellar—even though it was actually in the linen closet—and he must have taken pains selecting this Pinot Grigio.
“Don’t you drink?” Brice asked, his brows slightly raised. Kate could imagine the talk afterward: “Is he an alcoholic, is he in AA. No? Then he’s a control freak or a born-again Christian.” Oh, it would be endless.
“I prefer to keep a clear head,” Michael answered.
“Yeah. You never know when someone might need to see through it,” Elliot muttered beside Kate’s ear as he reached for her glass.
Once all their plates were filled and the drinking crisis was past, they began on Brice’s famous appetizer: a beautiful, multicolored vegetable terrine. There was some cursory conversation, but the tension seemed thick in the air, especially between Elliot and Michael. Of course, Elliot was always very protective of Kate. And he had already registered his dislike of this accomplished and nice-looking new boyfriend. The fact that Michael was a bit priggish and overly fastidious wasn’t lost on Kate, but he did have other, compensatory traits.
“There’s a good chance I’m going to get that Sagerman grant,” Michael said to Kate as they finished the first course. “I saw Professor Hopkins, and he told me that the committee discussions seemed to be very . . . well, promising.” Kate saw Elliot and Brice exchange a look. It was rude of Michael to ignore them, even briefly, but he was a single-minded academic.
Kate held back a sigh. Even when she and Michael were alone, it was sometimes difficult to remember all the cards in his academic deck. Now, to make the conversation general it would be necessary to explain to the others about the Sagerman Foundation, Michael’s interest in a postdoctorate appointment, and his complicated relationship with his mentor, Charles Hopkins. It was the kind of thing that made a difference to a couple but didn’t make for good dinner talk.
“Great,” Kate said.
No one else spoke. Elliot refilled their glasses, and Brice passed around the second course. Kate looked at it and knew that her friends had spared no expense to impress Michael. This was Brice’s risotto with truffles, and she knew what truffles cost. They all took a bite of the steaming rice. As the awkward silence stretched out, Kate turned to Brice in an attempt at light conversation. “Brice, this risotto is really delicious.”
“Very good,” Michael agreed.
Brice beamed at the compliments. He was proud of his cooking, his design sense, and his extensive collection of pristine Beanie Babies arranged meticulously on a series of long floating shelves over the credenza. Kate had watched Michael notice them and avert his eyes. He was not, she had to admit, very playful in his attitude to decor or dining chitchat.
“So, what happened at the salon this afternoon?” Elliot inquired of Kate.
She smiled. She knew him so well: He was taking pity on her and trying to make the dinner less painful. And he also figured she’d spill her guts more readily just to keep the conversation going. Nice try, she thought, but it wouldn’t work.
“Oh, I just had my nails painted,” she said. She showed ten gleaming fingertips and still managed to hold the fork. “Do you think Dr. McKay will feel they’re subversive?” The previous semester, the principal had declared toe rings subversive, and all the kids had to remove their socks and shoes to have contraband foot jewelry confiscated.
“That and cock rings,” Elliot said.
“Elliot, please!” Brice reprimanded. “Not in front of the Havilland.” He flashed a smile at Kate and Michael.
Their conversation continued in fits and starts, but Kate knew Michael was not a hit. Of course, Elliot had really liked Steven and that hadn’t worked out, so . . . perhaps Elliot’s first impression was not as important as she had thought it was.
“Salad or cheese and fruit before dessert?�
� Brice asked. “I have lovely Bosc pears.”
“No thanks, Brice,” said Kate.
“None for me,” Michael agreed. Across the table, Elliot stood up and began to clear away the dishes. “It was very good,” Michael added.
Even to Kate it seemed a bland thank-you. “Wasn’t the terrine terrific?” she prompted. She looked at Michael, who in turn looked at the empty serving plates with an expression of confusion.
“Which was the terrine?” he asked.
Kate’s face flushed pink. She knew how much effort Brice had put into the dish. “The vegetable pâté,” she explained to Michael.
Elliot, still picking up plates, circled around behind Michael. “With your head so clear you probably just call that ‘thick dip,’ huh,” he said.
Kate winced. From behind Michael’s back, Elliot held his nose and gave Kate a thumbs-down sign, almost dumping the plates he had gathered.
“Watch out for the Havilland!” Brice warned again.
“Elliot, you don’t have to do that,” Kate said, referring both to his comments and the clearing.
“Oh, but I do, I do,” Elliot replied, grinning.
She gave him a look. Clearly they needed some private time in the kitchen. “I’ll help you clear,” she offered, noticing Michael didn’t even attempt to help.
Brice began to protest and rise as well, but Elliot shook his head and looked pointedly at Michael. Brice gave him a pleading look, but Elliot leaned close and whispered, “Somebody has to talk to him.”
Brice gave Michael a weak smile. “So, what’s new in anthropology?” he asked Michael in a bright voice. “Is the Sugerman grant a sure thing?”
“Sagerman,” Michael corrected. “From the Sagerman Foundation for the Studies of Primitive Peoples.”
Kate sighed, picked up some glasses, and followed Elliot into the kitchen. It was small but efficient, with black-and-white floor tiles, red walls and cabinets, and the latest stainless-steel appliances. Kate tried to prepare herself. Elliot was silent as he put the dishes in the sink. Then, as she knew he would, he turned to face Kate, his hands on his hips like an accusatory nun. “Where did you dig him up?” he demanded. “This guy’s the worst of the lot.”
“Oh, Elliot! He is not,” Kate protested. “And keep your voice down.”
“Come on, Kate. Wake up and smell the primitive peoples. He’s dull, he lacks humor, and aside from his haircut, I don’t see anything superior about him,” Elliot said.
You would like that haircut, Kate thought. “You come on, Elliot,” she whispered. “You never like any of my boyfriends.”
“Neither do you,” Elliot retorted. “Not since Steven. And this one is not only boring, he’s also self-involved, pompous, and a homophobe.”
“He is not!” Kate exclaimed. “You blame everything on that.”
“Kate, the guy didn’t address a single word to either of us through the whole meal.”
“That doesn’t make him a homophobe. Maybe he’s just shy. Or doesn’t like you personally,” she added. “It could happen.” She put the wine goblets—one of them clean—on the counter.
“Doubtful. And he’s probably an alcoholic. That’s why he doesn’t drink. Anyway, coming here to dinner is like meeting your family,” Elliot explained as he rinsed a plate. “He should at least pretend to like us, since we’re in loco parentis.”
“Well, loco, anyway,” Kate agreed. Elliot made a face. She opened the dishwasher and started to put in the china.
“Oh, no.” Elliot sighed. “Not the Havilland. It’s a hand-wash job. Brice wants gold leaf, Brice washes it.” He rinsed his hands. “We better get back in there. At least the coffee ought to help get things moving. Would you fill the creamer?”
Kate nodded and opened the refrigerator. “Hey, Elliot, I’ve told you before. It isn’t easy to find a good, interesting, educated stable man who doesn’t want to date a supermodel.”
“You may be right,” Elliot agreed. “I certainly don’t think you’ll find him in the Sub-Zero. But you could take out the profiteroles.”
“Very funny.” Kate pulled out a quart of milk and a pint of half-and-half and placed them on the counter. “I admit you didn’t see him at his best. Trust me. Michael is much better one-on-one.”
“I bet.” Elliot smirked.
Kate ignored his innuendo. “No. Honestly. Evidence. He can be funny. And he’s really smart. He got his doctorate at twenty-one, was teaching at Barnard when he was twenty-four, and is considering his postdoc. I think he’s going to get tenure at Columbia.”
“I didn’t ask for his curriculum vitae,” Elliot snapped as he popped the chocolate sauce for the profiteroles into the microwave to heat. “He’s just dull. Your father was an alcoholic and you never knew what to expect when he came home. Your mother died before you hit puberty. I know you want a responsible male, someone you can depend on. But this guy isn’t just stable, he’s inert. Where’s the magic between you? And he’s not nearly good enough for you. Don’t let your snobbishness over academic achievement blind you.”
“I won’t,” she assured him, but a nagging voice at the back of her mind wondered about that. Despite all her professional training and the analysis she herself had been required to undergo, she still sometimes felt that much of what she did was a reaction to the desperate childhood she’d had.
Elliot shrugged, turned around quickly in order to pick up the tray of coffee cups, and knocked over Kate’s purse, which had been sitting on the counter.
“There goes my cell phone,” Kate said.
“Is it the Havilland?” Brice called from the living room.
“No. It’s the Melmac,” Elliot yelled. “He’s obsessed with the damn stuff,” he told her.
Then he knelt to pick up Kate’s handbag and all the objects that had scattered over the floor. “I’m so sorry. I think I broke your makeup mirror.”
“Uh-oh. It was a magnifying one. So do I have fourteen years of bad luck, or just seven years of more intense bad luck?”
“Stop it, Kate. I’m a statistician, a mathematician, not a superstitious bumpkin.”
“But you talk about magic . . .”
“Not Harry Potter magic. Not superstitious nonsense. I’m talking about magic between two people.”
“Need any help?” Brice called. “We’re waiting out here.”
“No, dear,” Elliot responded. He handed Kate her purse. Kate, kneeling beside him, picked up the rest of her items and threw them in. “Hey, what’s this?” Elliot asked. Kate looked up. He was waving an envelope in the air.
“It’s an invite to Bunny’s wedding.” Kate sighed.
“Bunny of the Bitches of Bushwick is getting married?” Elliot asked. “When did this happen? You never tell me anything.”
“Hey, I got it today. And you’re on a need-to-know basis.” Kate stood up. “Can you believe it? She was just dumped by a guy a month ago. I don’t know where this came from.”
“Brooklyn. And on the rebound,” Elliot said. “Can I go? Please, can I go?”
“No,” Kate replied. “See, this is another valid reason why I shouldn’t break up with Michael. With Bina getting engaged and now this, I have to go with someone viable.”
“But Michael is so—”
Elliot didn’t get a chance to finish his critique. Suddenly there was a loud and frantic pounding at the front door of the apartment. “What in the world . . . ?”
The two of them hurried into the living room just as Brice was striding to the door. He turned back to look at Elliot, who shrugged. Brice opened the door. A woman, her hair wild, her face covered by her hands, threw herself into the room, sobbing uncontrollably. Everyone stood in silent amazement, and Brice actually took two steps back. It was only after a moment or two that Kate saw the woman’s fingernails and realized, with a horrible shudder, that she had a French manicure.
“Bina!” she gasped. “Oh, Bina! What’s happened to you?”
Chapter Seven
Bina looked
around her wildly. “Katie! Omigod. Oh, Katie!” Then she threw herself onto the sofa and heaved with sobs. Kate stepped forward and put her hand gently on Bina’s shoulder. Could she have been raped? Had someone mugged her? Her clothes were such a mess and her hair was so disheveled that for a moment, Kate thought only of physical calamities.
Elliot stood looking down at the weeping woman on his couch. “It’s Bina?” he whispered. “This is the famous Bina?”
Kate ignored him. “Bina? Bina dear, what’s happened?”
Bina shook her head violently. Kate sat and put her arms around her sobbing friend. “Shhh,” she crooned, stroking Bina’s hair. All the times Kate had witnessed Bina’s hysterical outbursts over the years, at sleepovers and parties, flashed through her mind. It was a familiar sensation, kneeling with her arms around Bina. Then she looked up and remembered that they had an audience—and that this drama was playing out in Manhattan on a borrowed sofa. She hoped the whole thing wasn’t as bad as it seemed. Then a new thought occurred to her. “Bina, how did you find me here?”
“Max,” Bina said, struggling with her tears. “He heard me crying in the hall and told me where you were.” She took a gulping breath and burst into tears again. Elliot and Brice drew closer to the couch, like rubberneckers, while Michael had withdrawn to a spot behind the dining table. Kate couldn’t help but think that she was watching them all react in predictably typical fashion for men: Michael, the straight male, retreated in the face of emotional turmoil, while Elliot and Brice jumped right in.
She looked back at her friend. “Bina, what’s happened?” she asked again.
“Choked,” Bina wailed as fresh tears streamed from her eyes.
“Are you choking?” Kate asked, confused.
“I can do the Heimlich. Does she need the Heimlich?” Brice asked a bit too hopefully.
Bina, still sobbing, violently shook her head no.
Kate took Bina’s hands in her own and spoke to her firmly but gently. “Who choked? Who’s choking, Bina?” She turned to Elliot. “Would you please get her a glass of water?”
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