“I’ll look around.”
“Good. I will put the burden on you. Don’t be surprised if you begin getting very demanding emails from my children, though.”
As usual, Tor insisted on paying for dinner. We hugged outside the restaurant, where a Lincoln Town Car was waiting to speed him back to his family. “I can drop you somewhere?” he asked.
“I’ll walk. It was good to see you, Tor. I can’t wait to see Sandra and the kids out in the country in the spring.”
I walked back to my hotel, hands in my pockets, full of a good dinner and excellent Scotch, yet still unsatisfied.
Though the next morning was Saturday, I had been able to set up a heavy round of appointments. I started with an editor at another newsmagazine, where I repeated the message I had given out the day before, only this time in a corner office with wraparound windows and a magnificent view of midtown and lower Manhattan. You could tell the guy had read all those “power” books-- navy suit, silk tie, expensive Italian leather shoes. His desk was enormous and completely empty, except for a small pile of papers next to his right hand, a telephone with intercom and speaker, and a small, silver-framed photo of his wife and children.
My chair was a little too low, so I had to look up to him and struggle to maintain my posture. I passed on the same materials, and emphasized the experts list again. At the end of our meeting he escorted me to the elevator, which was supposed to show what a valued visitor I was.
I had lunch at a private club downtown with a friend who was a reporter on the Wall Street Journal. The dining room was small and once again the views panoramic, this time of New York harbor.
I talked about Eastern for a while, until the food arrived. “I’m surprised you’re out talking to reporters,” my friend said, as he speared a forkful of chicken. “With all the trouble at Eastern.”
“Joe Dagorian’s death is a tragedy,” I said. “But there’s so much else going on—so many good things. That’s what I’m here to talk about.”
“I’m hearing about more than just Dagorian’s death. What about all the security problems?”
“Any college is going to have issues. Even one in a pastoral setting like Eastern’s. You can’t get away from the real world, even in a place like this.” I motioned to the elegant room around us, filled with the demure clink of glasses and the gentle rustle of cloth napkins.
I speared a couple of the baby carrots and zucchini that artfully decorated the plate. “I’ll admit, we have had some problems with dorm break-ins, and the homeless in Leighville get up to the campus sometimes. But we’re working on fixing those problems.”
“And have the police caught whoever killed Dagorian?”
“As far as I know, it’s still an open investigation. But that’s police business.”
He didn’t appear to be completely satisfied, but I did manage to shift the conversation to the need for new science labs to keep up with the constant changes in technology and research, and he admitted he’d been working on an article on that very subject, and might be able to work Eastern into it.
It was late afternoon by then. I could have packed up and driven back to Leighville, but I knew Rochester was fine with Rick, and frankly, I wanted to spend some more time in the city. I love Stewart’s Crossing, and working at Eastern, but I also get energized from spending time in New York.
I took the subway up to Times Square and walked down to the TKTS booth, where I joined the end of a long line. I was shifting from foot to foot, trying to stay warm, as the line snaked around, doubling back on itself, when I spotted her.
It was the hair, first. Masses of reddish-brown hair, tumbling over her shoulders, barely kept under control by a couple of hairpins in the shape of butterflies. But it wasn’t until she turned around and our eyes met that I was sure.
“Dr. Weinstock?” I asked. “I’m Steve Levitan from the alumni office at Eastern.”
“We met at the fund-raiser,” she said. “Please, call me Lili. When I’m away from the college I’m always afraid that if someone hears me called “Dr. Weinstock” I’ll be expected to perform CPR or deliver a baby.”
“What are you seeing?” I asked.
“Depends on what’s available by the time I get up to the booth. Something fun, something musical. I wish more people in daily life would break out into song.”
“I’m hoping to get a ticket for the revival of South Pacific,” I said. “I want to hear Bloody Mary sing Bali Hai and pretend I’m living on a tropical island instead of Bucks County in the winter.”
“I could go for that,” she said.
I lifted up the chain between the two lines. “Why don’t you join me?”
“Sounds like a plan. ” Only then did I notice she was wearing high heels—but she managed to duck beneath the chain with grace.
“What brings you into the city?” I asked.
“Photography exhibit at the Museum of Modern Art.”
“Really? You like photography? So do I. I’ve started taking lots of digital pictures of my dog lately.”
“It’s my specialty,” she said. “I have a few photos in the current exhibition and I gave a presentation this afternoon.”
Oops. She wasn’t some amateur photo buff. “Oh. Wow.”
“You use your cell phone?” she asked as we inched forward.
I pulled it from my pocket. “You need to make a call?”
“No, dummy. Do you use the phone to take pictures of your dog?”
“Oh. Yeah.”
“Well. Show me.”
“Oh, no. They’re just amateur shots.”
She looked down over the rims of her red glasses. I could imagine her looking just that way at her students.
“He is very photogenic,” I admitted. I clicked to the photo app and pulled up the folder of pictures of Rochester.
She took the phone from me and began looking through the shots. “Good composition,” she said. “You have a good eye for movement, too. ” She pointed at a picture of Rochester leaping through the air about to catch a Frisbee Rick had tossed for him. “What’s his name?”
“Him? He’s just an old high school friend. Rick. We’re both divorced, and he just got a dog of his own.”
“Not the guy. The dog.”
Something about Lili Weinstock kept knocking me sideways, so I couldn’t concentrate. “Oh. Rochester.”
“After the city?”
“No, from Jane Eyre. He used to belong to my next-door neighbor, and she gave him his name.”
“I love goldens,” she said, as we rounded the corner, and the ticket window was within sight. “I’ve been thinking of getting a dog, now that I can finally settle down. Maybe next year I can move out of my apartment, buy a house. Then I might actually feel like I belong somewhere.”
“You don’t feel like you belong in Leighville yet?”
She shook her head. “Especially not with all the security issues that have been popping up. My students are often working in the studio very late, and I worry about them getting back to their dorms safely.”
“Have you heard of any issues?” I asked. “Because I haven’t. I think the papers are manufacturing problems just to keep Joe’s death on the front page.”
“It’s my responsibility to look after my students,” she said. “I’m thinking of shutting down the studios at ten. I already tell them to call security for a ride back to the dorms, even the boys. You can’t be too careful.”
It never seemed to stop, I thought, as we inched forward. Joe’s death was a tragedy, for sure, but the fact that it kept reverberating around the college was even worse.
The wrangler called us up to the ticket window. “I’ll get the tickets if you agree to have dinner with me,” I said. “That is, if you don’t have any other plans?”
“I’d be delighted to have dinner with you,” she said.
It was too early to eat by the time we had our tickets. “I need to stop by my hotel,” Lili said. “Suppose we meet at Donatello’s o
n West 45th at six o’clock?”
“Sounds like a plan,” I said.
She took one of my hands in her two gloved ones. “I’m glad I ran into you, Steve. See you at six.”
She smiled, then turned and walked away. “Yes, see you then,” I called.
I resisted the urge to skip down the street. I had a date! With a gorgeous woman! Who liked golden retrievers!
I called Rick when I got back to my room. “How’s Rochester?” I asked.
“You should see him boss Rascal around. It’s amazing. If you can stay in New York an extra couple of days he might have Rascal fully trained.”
“Who knows? I’ve got a hot date tonight.”
“What, you’ve finally figured out there are no decent women in Bucks County? You pick this one up in Times Square?”
“I did. At the TKTS booth. And actually she lives in Leighville, and teaches at Eastern.”
“See, I’d never think to go to New York to pick up local women. Maybe that’s my problem.”
“You’ve got bigger problems than that,” I said. “Take care of Rochester. I’ll call you when I get back to town tomorrow.”
19 – The Taste of Lipstick
I felt as nervous as a teenager as I walked down West 45th Street that evening. The sidewalk bustled with pedestrians in winter coats, prosperous-looking couples, slouching teenagers, and working people heading homeward. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d had a date.
I met Mary at a party in New York, and we’d had the same kind of initial connection I had with Lili. We spent hours talking to each other that night and kept on seeing each other until we moved in together. I didn’t consider that meeting a date—and I couldn’t conjure up a memory of any girl before her.
A stiff wind swept down the street and I shivered. Then I saw Lili approaching, wearing the same oversized wool trench coat she’d been wearing in the TKTS line, and I couldn’t help grinning like an idiot.
We checked our coats just inside the restaurant door. Lili was wearing a tight-waisted red blouse that matched her eyeglasses, and a swirling, knee-length skirt in a floral print. I had ditched my suit, but all I’d brought with me beyond it was a pair of LL Bean jeans and a light blue long-sleeve polo shirt. I felt underdressed.
“You look lovely,” I said, holding the chair for her. “I’m afraid I didn’t bring any date clothes with me.”
“When you’ve traveled as much as I have you tend to be prepared for any eventuality,” she said. “Even a date with a handsome man.”
Something warm bubbled up from the bottom of my stomach. “I’d like a kir,” please,” she told the waiter.
“Make it two,” I said. “I used to work for a boss years ago who insisted that you should order an aperitif before a fine meal rather than dulling your palate with scotch or whiskey.”
“Is this going to be a fine meal?”
“I don’t see how it couldn’t be, with you across the table from me.”
“You’re smooth, Steve,” she said.
The waiter brought our cocktails and we toasted each other, then looked down at the menu. “Tortellini alla panna,” I said, pointing. “My favorite.”
“No!” she said. “I always order tortellini. The first time I ever had it was at this little restaurant along the Brenta river, between Padua and Venice. The people I was with insisted I order the tortellini in brodo, and I just fell in love.”
“My story isn’t so romantic,” I said. “I used to live in the city and my ex-wife and I went to a lot of Italian restaurants. She hated to order the same thing over and over again and she made me try a lot of different dishes.”
“Ex-wife?” she asked.
I nodded. “Married for twelve years. Divorced two years ago. How about you?”
“Married an Italian I met on my junior year abroad,” she said. “I dropped out of college after that term and moved to Milan with him. I got a job as an assistant to a fashion photographer and fell in love with photography. Two years later I was divorced, back in college and finishing my BFA.”
The waiter returned with a platter of focaccia, a bottle of olive oil, and a black pepper grinder. We both ordered the tortellini and dipped crusts of bread into the peppered oil.
“Wow, this is great,” I said.
“I learned a lot about Italian food during those two years,” she said. “The chef here, Donatello Nobatti, is amazing, and whenever I come to New York I eat here.”
“So,” I said. “BFA?”
She nodded. “Then an MFA in photography. Worked as a photographer myself, married an editor for a fashion magazine. He had a great eye for models—unfortunately, more than his eye got involved. Divorced him, then started teaching. Got a couple of one-year visiting artist gigs, then this opportunity opened up and I came to Leighville.”
She dipped another piece of bread in the oil. “How about you?”
“Grew up in Stewart’s Crossing, just down the river from Leighville. Went to Eastern. MA in English from Columbia, met my ex, got married, moved with her to Silicon Valley so she could immerse herself in her career.”
“Hence the divorce,” Lili said.
It would have been easy to agree and move the conversation on. But I had the feeling Lili was the kind of woman who liked cards on the table.
“That was certainly part of it. I was working as a technical writer for a computer company, and I got into hacking. Mary had a miscarriage, and things were tough between us. She went on a shopping spree that put us in the hole for a year. Then she got pregnant again and we were both so happy.”
I paused to sip my kir. “She lost that baby, too, and I was scared she’d run up our credit cards again, so I hacked the credit bureaus and flagged her cards.”
“You can do that?”
“I could. And I did. And I got caught, and I went to prison. While I was serving my time, my father died, and Mary divorced me. When I came out I moved back to Stewart’s Crossing to lick my wounds and start over again.”
I smiled. “And that’s my story. Tell me about the pictures you have in the museum exhibit. What do you photograph?”
We talked about photography, and New York, and a bunch of other things I couldn’t remember even an hour later. She had very kissable lips, highlighted with red lipstick, and in between thinking about how beautiful she was and how intriguing, I wondered what it would be like to kiss her.
Somehow we finished dinner and walked to the theater, where we sat close together and mouthed the words to the songs along with the cast. By the end of the show I was intoxicated with romance and passion and music. We began filing out of the theater and got stuck in a bottleneck a few feet from the single exit door. I could no longer resist—I turned and kissed Lili on the lips, very lightly and quickly.
I’d forgotten what lipstick tasted like. It had been a long time since I’d kissed anyone on the lips, but the feelings came spiraling back.
When I backed away I looked at Lili’s eyes. They sparkled in the theater’s lights. She took my hand in hers and squeezed, and we shuffled forward, holding hands.
“A nightcap?” I asked when we reached the street.
“I wish I could,” she said. “But I have a command performance tomorrow morning at the Brooklyn Museum, and I need to get to bed, and then do some preparation in the morning.”
I nodded. “I’d like to see you again in Leighville.”
“Count on it. ” She leaned forward, and we kissed again, up against the wall of the theater, out of the way of the hurrying crowds. Her lips were cold against mine, but they warmed up. I resisted the urge to pull her too close, just savoring the way the chilly air heightened the floral smell of her perfume, the way strands of her hair brushed against my face.
Then she backed away. “I see a cab,” she said. “Ciao, cara!” She stepped toward the street and flagged down the cab. As she stepped into it, she blew me a kiss, and I mimed catching it in my hand and pressing my fingers to my lips. ” My last vision was of her
laughing as the cab drove away.
20 – 99% Perspiration
I left my suitcase with the valet at the hotel and walked up to H & H Bagels, where I bought a dozen in assorted varieties to take back to Stewart’s Crossing with me. I had a salt bagel with a shmear and a Doctor Brown’s black cherry soda, then retrieved my suitcase and took the train back to Trenton.
Rochester was romping in Rick’s yard with Rascal when I pulled up. As soon as he saw the BMW he lit across the yard, slamming into the fence. “Hold on, hold on,” I said, scrambling out of the car. I reached over the fence to pet his head as Rick came out of the front door.
“You sure you can’t leave him here for a couple of days?” he asked. “Rascal hasn’t chewed anything in the house since Rochester got here.”
“Not a chance. This boy is coming home with me. ” Rochester woofed and shook his head.
Driving back home, with Rochester on the seat next to me, I thought about Liliana Weinstock. Should I call her? Text her? Post something on her Facebook page that said, “Thanks for the great kiss?”
I felt like a teenager again, and I wasn’t sure that was a good thing, at forty-three. I settled for sending her an email, from my college address to hers, saying that it was great to run into her in New York, and I hoped we’d get together again now that we were both back in Bucks County.
I spent some of the afternoon at the kitchen table, writing up my meetings, sending email thank yous and making plans to follow up with the reporters. Rochester sat at his customary post on the stair landing, two paws hanging over the tread, supervising. I couldn’t help checking my email every hour or so, nervous about what kind of response I might get from Lili.
I knew she had that presentation to give at the Brooklyn Museum, and that she might not even return to Bucks County until late in the day. And nothing guaranteed she’d even check her college email until the next day.
I admit to checking her faculty web page, which had a very flattering picture of her that reminded me of our kiss. And I might even have done some Googling, finding records of her past exhibitions and seeing some very beautiful photos she had taken. All in the name of research, of course. But by the time I turned off the computer and took Rochester for his before-bed walk, I had still received no response from her.
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