Maybe it’s that it happened so fast.
He and Phoenix bumped into each other—quite literally—on the street, just like in a romantic movie. His mood was bleaker than the blustery fall weather that night as he headed for the train at Grand Central after work, facing a lonely evening in the quiet suburban house. She came around a corner and crashed right into him, spilling coffee all over him.
She was so apologetic and distressed that he instantly felt sorry for her.
Overweight, with plain features, Phoenix wasn’t the kind of woman any man would give a second look. Not on the streets of Manhattan, where every other pedestrian is a sophisticated, glamorous beauty.
Yet there was Phoenix with her hands all over him—blotting the coffee spill, but still . . .
There was something about her from that first moment that struck a chord of familiarity deep inside him.
“It’s because we’re soul mates,” she said when he confessed, weeks later, how he’d felt as though he already knew her the moment they met. “I felt the same way. Our hearts recognized each other.”
It might have sounded clichéd, coming from someone else. But from her, those words were magical.
As they stood there that first night, Ryan splashed with coffee, she insisted that she wanted to pay his dry cleaning bill. Ryan expected that, but he wasn’t sure quite how to handle it.
“Do you have a business card?” she asked when he faltered. “I’ll call you later and you can let me know how much it is.”
“I don’t, I . . . I just started a new job.”
“All right, then just give me your number or your e-mail.”
She was so close he could smell her perfume and the coffee on her breath. “Really, it’s okay . . .”
“Look, this is crazy. Either you let me pay for your dry cleaning or you let me buy you dinner.”
He was so taken aback by that offer that he just stood there gaping at her.
She laughed. “I’ll take that as a yes. Okay?”
“No, I—”
“You don’t want to have dinner with me. Listen, I get it. That’s fine.”
“No! I didn’t mean��”
“Great. Then you do? Are you in a hurry to catch a train? Because we can do this another time . . .”
“No!” he said, yet again. “I’m not in a hurry.”
“Good. I’m not either. My name is Phoenix.”
“What is it?”
“Phoenix. Phoenix Williams. With a last name like that—it’s the third most common one in the United States—my parents wanted an unusual first name.”
“Is that where you’re from, too?” he asked her. “Phoenix?”
“People ask me that all the time. I think they expect me to say no, but the answer is yes. Arizona born and bred.”
“What are you doing in New York?”
“My company transferred me. I’m an accountant. I’ve only been here a few months.”
Ten minutes later, he found himself sitting across a linen tablecloth and flickering candle from her, feeling more comfortable than he ever had with a woman.
Phoenix did most of the talking that first night. It turned out she’d just gotten out of a difficult relationship back in Arizona. Her ex, she said, was a macho, controlling, insensitive jerk.
“Just like everyone else I’ve ever dated,” she told him, sipping her red wine. “I’m so sick of men like that.”
I’m not like that! Ryan wanted to tell her—but of course, he was too tongue-tied.
Anyway, he didn’t have to say it. She just seemed to get him. She made everything so easy for him.
That, he’d always heard, was how it was supposed to be when you met the right person. You would just know.
She told him she was falling in love with him on their third date, and he told her he loved her in return. He barely remembers the details—they were drinking champagne that night, much too much of it, and he was giddy.
The next morning, he woke up feeling like he’d dreamed the whole thing. But Phoenix was there in his arms, and it was real.
Physically, she isn’t the kind of woman he’d ever imagined being attracted to. Her body is lumpy, and she doesn’t bother with makeup. Unlike the other females in Ryan’s life—his mother, his sisters—it’s almost as if Phoenix simply doesn’t want to bother to take care of herself, to make herself as attractive as possible.
But what matters most is how special Phoenix makes him feel. After all, beauty is only skin-deep—and anyway, beautiful women aren’t exactly beating down Ryan’s door.
Down the hall, the water turns off. He hears Phoenix open the door to the linen cupboard.
Oops—did he remember to fold the towels that were in the dryer the other day? Is the linen cupboard empty? If it isn’t, are the towels that are there even presentable?
He never cared about that sort of thing before—that’s Mom’s department, and she’s been wrapped up in decorating her Florida condo these days. But Ryan did go out and buy some nice new towels and sheets for his bed right before Phoenix first came home with him.
She doesn’t stay over often enough for his taste, and when she does, it’s her idea.
He keeps thinking it would be much more convenient for them to go to her place—she lives in the city—but she shares a one-bedroom with a roommate who, by the sounds of it, never goes out.
Worried about the towels, Ryan jumps out of bed and hurries down the hall calling, “Phoenix? I’m sorry, there might not be any—”
The bathroom door opens and there she is, wrapped in a towel. It’s an old one, bottom of the barrel—the edges are a little ragged and so faded that it’s hard to tell what color it once was—white? Beige? Gray?
“Sorry,” he tells her, and pauses to drink in the sight of her damp, naked skin.
“For what?”
Good question. Oh. Right. “All the decent towels are still in the laundry.”
“It’s okay, Ryan. I knew this wouldn’t be the kind of house that has perfect towels . . . all matching.”
It’s such an odd thing to say, Ryan thinks. Almost an insult—or is it?
She smiles at him, and he feels better.
“Growing up, that’s the way my house was,” she goes on, walking past him on her way to his room. “Perfect, perfect, perfect. My mother had to have everything perfect. All the towels had to match.”
“Actually, I do have matching towels.” Taken aback, he follows her down the hall. “They’re just in the laundry, but I—”
“I wasn’t happy there.” She talks over Ryan as though she didn’t even hear him. “I hated that house, in the end.”
“Why?”
She doesn’t answer him, just steps into his bedroom and reaches for the small overnight bag she’d brought with her yesterday.
Seeing the faraway look in her eyes, he wonders—as he often does—about her childhood.
“What happened before we met doesn’t matter,” she tells him, whenever the subject comes up. She doesn’t like to talk about her past any more than he likes to discuss his own, so he doesn’t press her.
She’s told him that she was an only child, and lost both her parents years ago—but years apart. In return, she knows that Ryan’s father died when he was twelve, his mother remarried, and he has two sisters, a brother-in-law, and a stepbrother.
She’s been in no hurry to meet any of them.
“No offense—I’m just not used to being around family,” she said when he suggested that they go to dinner with Lucy and Jeremy. “I’d rather ease into meeting them—maybe at Christmas. You understand, don’t you?”
“Of course I do.”
At the time, he meant it.
But the more he thinks about it, the more it bothers him that she’s not interested in getting to know his family.
/> They really need to discuss that—along with a lot of other things. But this weekday morning isn’t the right time to analyze their relationship; they both have to get to work in the city.
Absently watching Phoenix get dressed, he thinks about his mother and Sam; his sister and Jeremy. Those are successful relationships he respects, and they seem to give each other space.
Ryan is in foreign territory now. He just doesn’t know what’s normal for him to do, to feel—or what isn’t normal.
Normal.
That’s all he’s ever wanted. He had it, once—so long ago you’d think he’d have forgotten what it felt like.
But he remembers it all, a series of vivid moments he replays in his head so that he won’t ever lose them. He remembers mornings waking up in this room and knowing that his parents were right there if he needed them, and his sisters would probably annoy him before the day was out by hogging the bathroom or touching his stuff. He remembers playing sports on sunny days and going to school and riding his bike around the neighborhood. He remembers having friends and knowing how to talk to them, even the girls. He remembers feeling safe, always.
But normal exited Ryan’s world when his father did—and, like Dad, it never returned.
So now, with Phoenix—all he wants is to build a new life.
Yeah? Are you sure about that, pal?
Maybe what he really wants is to rebuild the old life.
Pulling a T-shirt down over her head, Phoenix catches his eye and smiles.
He smiles back, reminding himself that he’s on his way.
Everything is going to be fine. He just has to make sure he doesn’t sabotage his own bright future by getting stuck on the depressing past.
“Is it supposed to snow today?” Phoenix asks, cutting into his thoughts.
“I don’t think so.”
“Are you sure?”
“Not positive. We can catch the weather on the Today Show before we leave.”
“Good,” Phoenix says, surveying her reflection in the mirror above his dresser, “because I don’t like surprises.”
It’s been one hell of a roller-coaster year for Richard Jollston.
A year ago, he was a lonely, ordinary, newly divorced guy with a decidedly unsexy career as a seismologist.
Now look at him: wedding ring back on his finger, riding through Manhattan in a limo, making the morning talk show rounds to publicize his new book.
New best-seller, he corrects himself, having learned just last night that I Told You So will be debuting next week on the venerable New York Times best-seller list. Talk about a perfect Christmas present.
“I think that went really well, don’t you?” he asks Kristina, the publisher’s PR rep accompanying him on this book tour.
“Absolutely.” Tapping away on her iPhone, she doesn’t look up. “Good idea to hand out bookmarks to the production staff. And I like the way you handled that question about whether your prediction about the Bridgebury quake was entirely based on science.”
He laughs. “Do you think they knew I was kidding?”
“When you told them you’d had a biblical vision? Definitely.”
Maybe the interviewers knew he was kidding, but Richard is well aware that there are plenty of religious zealots out there in the world who are convinced the Bridgebury earthquake marked the beginning of the end. Quite a few of them have sent him e-mails or turned up at his book signings, prattling on about the Tribulation and the Rapture and the Second Coming.
Richard doesn’t buy into any of that doomsday hogwash, but he’s perfectly willing to humor those who do—as long as they buy his book.
“Okay, I just tweeted to the world that you’re on your way to your next live interview.” Kristina tucks her phone away. “Oh, and I liked how you mentioned in the interview that you have thousands of Twitter followers. I’ll bet you’ll have a few thousand more before the day is out.” She smiles at him.
Richard admires her straight white teeth.
If he weren’t back together with Sondra, he’d definitely be interested in mixing a little pleasure with business here. But things are going well with his ex-wife—rather, as of last summer, his ex-ex-wife—and he doesn’t want to jeopardize his remarriage for a fling with a pretty twenty-five-year-old who probably wouldn’t have given him the time of day a year ago.
Probably?
Heck, even Sondra wouldn’t give him the time of day back then.
But the Bridgebury quake gave Richard a new lease on life. On the heels of local New England reporters, the national and international press picked up on the fact that he had basically predicted the catastrophe—right down to the severity and the epicenter’s general location.
Never mind that his prediction was based on straightforward seismological statistics. Everyone loves a story about a hardworking average Joe turned superhero just by doing his job, and it had been a while since the last one, so the time was ripe. The next thing Richard knew, he had a book deal, an agent, and a slick new wardrobe, and Sondra was back in his life.
“Just a couple of pointers for the next interview,” Kristina says, and he thinks, Uh-oh—what’d I do wrong this time? He’d remembered to sit on the hem of his suit coat to keep it from riding up at the collar, and he’d been careful to tame his Boston accent and enunciate his A-Rs—are instead of ah; Harvard—his alma mater—instead of Hahvahd.
“Don’t worry—you did great.” Kristina touches his arm as though she’s reading his insecure thoughts. “One thing you might want to do in the next interview, though, is clasp your hands in your lap so that you don’t fidget. Oh, and don’t mention where you’re staying while you’re here in New York.”
“Did I do that?” He thinks back over the interview. It’s a blur. It was live, and he was nervous—fidgety, apparently.
“You just mentioned the hotel in passing, when she asked if you were having a good time in New York.”
That’s right. He had. He couldn’t help it—the whole world knows that actors and rock stars stay at that hotel. The paparazzi are always staking it out, snapping pictures of celebrities coming and going.
“It’s just a good idea to keep things like that private, Rich.” Rich. He loves that she calls him Rich. He loves that she’s helping to make him rich. And famous.
“Why? Are you afraid the lobby might be swarmed by groupies later?” He’s kidding—more or less. Just like he was kidding about the biblical vision.
Yes, and he hopes she knows he’s kidding and that he doesn’t think he’s a big star or something. Although . . .
“Stranger things have happened,” she tells him. “You don’t want to take any chances. There are plenty of nutty people out there.”
“Yeah, and I’m sure they’re all busy stalking real celebrities,” Richard says with a laugh, to show that he’s humble.
“And you, my friend, are on your way. Now, let’s go over the bookseller dinner we’ve set up at Smith & Wollensky later tonight. I hope you like steak . . .”
“Definitely.” Richard leans back against the leather seat, loving life.
Walking along a dreary inner city block lined with row houses, Jeremy is struck, as he is every year during this season, by the holiday decorations.
Wreaths hang on battered front doors, strings of lights are stapled around windows with bars on them, and a plastic manger scene sits on one broad stoop, defying theft.
Meanwhile, he and Lucy have decided this year that they aren’t even going to put up a tree—a break in tradition. In years past they’ve always had one, and decked the apartment with lights and poinsettias, too.
Lucy likes to go all out with the decorations because they host her family for a traditional seafood dinner on Christmas Eve before midnight Mass.
When everyone leaves for church, Jeremy stays back and cleans up the kitchen mess and the c
rumpled wrapping paper, waiting for Lucy’s safe return in the wee hours.
It bothers his wife, he knows, that he won’t go to church, even on Christmas with the family, but she doesn’t push him on it. She’s not the type. Secure in her own faith, she leaves his faith—or lack thereof—up to him.
It isn’t that he doesn’t believe in God. He even talks to God, sometimes, in his head.
“That’s what prayer is,” Lucy told him once, long ago. “You’re praying, Jeremy.”
“Then I’ll just keep doing it in private,” he said, mindful of all that news footage of Garvey Quinn coming and going from church, and shaking hands with religious leaders. Making a big show of his faith while hiding the fact that he’d disobeyed the ultimate commandment.
Thou shalt not kill.
Well, Jeremy isn’t a hypocrite. He knows what he did. He owns what he did. And he doesn’t go to church.
He thinks about all those letters Garvey Quinn sent him from prison. He opened the first one. It was addressed, Dear Son and signed, Your Loving Father. In between were pages and pages of barely coherent rambling about how Garvey was the chosen one, and Jeremy, as his direct descendant, had a responsibility to repent and become a true believer before Judgment Day . . .
Jeremy threw it away.
The letters kept coming—thick letters, pages and pages presumably filled with the same religious rhetoric. He wouldn’t know. He threw them all away, unopened.
He passes an elderly woman pushing a wire cart filled with packages, a drunk sleeping it off in the shadow of a stoop, a group of school-age truants loitering on the corner. They stop talking as he approaches, and he sees them eyeing him.
“Morning, guys,” he says.
They don’t greet him in return, remaining silent as he passes, but then they resume their talk.
He crosses over to the next block, checks the address on the nearest row house, then consults the open appointment book in his hand. The one he’s looking for is just a few doors down.
Reaching it, he finds that the metal-reinforced front door to the place is propped open with a small piece of wood.
Not a good thing. Not safe. Anyone can walk right into the vestibule from the street.
Hell to Pay Page 6