by Karin Tanabe
“Mr. Coldwell,” I said through the noise of the wind. “I’m sure as hell going to try.”
“I knew you were the right person to ask.”
When we reached the road on the Manhattan side, not far from where we’d first met, Coldwell lit a cigarette and blew out the match. He was about to put it in his pocket, but handed it to me instead.
“My version of flowers.”
“Strange,” I said, putting it in my pocket. “But charming.”
“Most people tend to think I’m the former.”
“Not me.”
“Good.”
He tipped his hat to me and puffed on his cigarette. “I’ll contact you if it all goes through, Mrs. Edgeworth.”
I watched him disappear into the crowd and then pushed the boys onto Lafayette Street. I needed to walk a few blocks, to allow myself to feel the high of again being the perfect person for the job—and the low of the job being short Turner Wells.
I pushed the stroller on the crowded sidewalk, accidentally touching the side of a man’s leg. He whipped around, irate.
“Could you watch it!” he screamed, looking at the two sleeping boys like they were two-foot murderers. Then he glared at me. “You might as well just push a wheelbarrow around Manhattan.”
I murmured an apology and tried to right the stroller, which had fallen halfway off the curb. With both boys in it, plus the metal frame, it was extremely difficult to lift. I tried and failed several times, with no one offering to help me. As I tried again, I saw a set of hands on the base of the stroller. An older woman was reaching down to assist.
“Maybe if we do it together. On three,” she said, counting. When she reached three, we were able to lift it, but both boys woke and started crying.
She bent over them and patted their heads.
“Thank you so much,” I said as she straightened back up.
“Of course. Having young children is very difficult.”
I waited for her to say “But it gets better” or “But it’s a blessing.” Instead, she simply nodded firmly and walked away. I wanted to tell her how much I appreciated her candor. The ability to say “This is very difficult” and leave it be.
I looked down at my children. “Come on, darlings,” I said in my brightest voice. “Let’s get this wheelbarrow into a taxi and go home.”
CHAPTER 42
The taxi turned onto Fourth Avenue, by Union Square, sped up to try to catch a yellow light, then braked hard just as it turned red. We all flew forward.
“Just a reminder that only passengers who are alive at the end of their ride can tip their drivers,” I murmured.
I rolled down the window as the driver grumbled an apology.
We moved quickly up Park Avenue, traffic unusually light for the hour. Everyone was leaving town, in the worst of ways. Maybe it should have felt like there was poison in the water, but I still wasn’t ready to jump ship. On my left, the Empire State Building watched over the city, watched over me.
Tom wasn’t home when we arrived, nor by the time I put the boys to sleep. At nine, I went to the bedroom, took out the bronze Dunhill lighter, and stared at the telephone. I wanted to dial Turner’s number, to hear the intonation in his voice rise slightly when he realized it was me. I flicked the lighter open and closed until I found the strength to dial another number instead.
It was only seven p.m. in California.
“Faye Buckley Swan,” she answered with command.
“You really do have a movie star name,” I said, trying not to burst into tears. “I think you went into the wrong business.”
“Keep flattering me and I’ll reverse the charges. How are you, Katharina Edgeworth?”
“You know, frankly, I’ve been better.”
“Now, let me guess, did you pour gin on Elizabeth Taylor?”
“For the last time, it was a mere sprinkle,” I said, grinning.
“Well, if Hollywood’s brightest lights are still safe, to what do I owe the honor of your long-distance call?”
“I wanted to chat, of course. And I also wanted to hear more about a very modern divorce.”
“Why, are you considering one?” she asked, her voice skipping up.
“I might be.”
“Fascinating. Well, first, let’s clear something up. Divorce is nothing new. Women have wanted to divorce for centuries, since marriage was invented. What’s different now is that they can finally do it without getting completely screwed. Isn’t that lovely?”
“Lovely.”
“So that’s the very modern part. The woman not being raked through the coals, thrown out to pasture with a few quarters to her name.”
“The thing is,” I said. “There are many discordant thoughts rattling around in my mind, but one of them is that I’ve been offered employment, at City Hall, where I worked during the war. I’d like to take the job, but my husband will refuse me. I’m sure of it.”
“Have you asked?”
“Not in so many words. It’s a mere ladies’ job at less than thirty hours a week, but that’s twenty or so hours I would not be tending to my boys’ every need. Where I’d require a replacement Rina.”
“How dare you even speak those words.”
“It’s frightening how much you sound like him.”
Faye laughed and I heard a door close. “But that’s not really why you’re considering divorce, is it?” she asked. “Go ahead and give the long answer. I’ve already waived my hourly fee in the name of friendship.”
“Well, no,” I said. “It’s a hundred reasons that have added up over the years without my even noticing until they all fell at my feet and then I noticed. Really noticed. And I suppose the icing on this very expensive cake is that lately I’ve had forces in my life, you included, that helped me realize I’m not quite dead yet. That I may have a lot of life and love left in me and that I want to share all of that with someone who enjoys it. Who enjoys me.”
“This person is not your husband?”
“Presently? No. I don’t think Tom Edgeworth enjoys me. He’s convinced himself that he does, but it’s out of habit.”
“Maybe you should pretend to be a very sick child and wheel yourself into Lenox Hill.”
“You know, that might just do it,” I said, remembering that drawing of a sewed-together girl that had brought Tom back to himself all those years ago.
“Jokes aside, my advice to you is this,” Faye said authoritatively. “Start building a new life for yourself, inside the constraints of your current life. Of your marriage. Maybe it will turn things around for you. If after six months—a year, if you’re feeling very patient—it doesn’t seem to make a difference, then, in my opinion, it’s time for that very modern divorce. Sometimes women simply cannot be their fullest selves inside a marriage. There have been scientific studies, you know. Men become far happier after getting married, women much unhappier.”
“These are not well-publicized studies,” I said, thinking about all the women’s magazines I’d read over the years that told me I’d be walking on rainbows once I was safely married.
“Of course they’re not. All those magazine owners are men. Everyone who runs the world is a man. But you need to start running your own world. The person who runs Katharina Edgeworth is a woman, and a pretty smart one at that. You can’t bring her anywhere, butterfingers and all, but she is wonderful. Try not to forget it.”
CHAPTER 43
If I had not found the courage to call Lee Coldwell in Los Angeles, his number would have disintegrated into a memory I could not hold. What I was reading now, and would reread thousands of times, would never meet such a fate. I took the piece of paper out of my pocket again. A letter from Turner had arrived a week after I’d spoken to Faye, abruptly handed to me in Central Park by a woman who then disappeared into the crowd. There was no return address, no name on the envelope. Only a letter, which wasn’t even signed. But I knew exactly who had written it.
As I stroll down Massachusetts Avenue,
that stretch where we walked together near Union Station, I find myself paralyzed by the tyranny of distance, of circumstance, of obligation. And I very much want to stand outside your window, even if you don’t look down. The views in Washington leave much to be desired.
This is not a city of windows. The people here hide secrets behind marble walls instead of in buildings that brush the sky. How I miss your New York window.
How I miss our city. How I miss you.
As I had with Coldwell’s phone number back in April, every morning I transferred the letter to another dress pocket.
Turner had disappeared, and I had no way of reaching him. But it had to be that way. I leaned back on my window seat and closed my eyes. I felt that New York afternoon on 110th Street. It was part of me, embedded in my skin. I looked out at the sidewalk in front of the park. It was empty. No loud coeds, no girl with a red umbrella, no Turner Wells. I’d have to let the memories carry me instead.
CHAPTER 44
“Over here, Peter!” I called out. “Kick the ball. That’s right, darling. Kick!”
Peter’s tiny foot moved the big red rubber ball just a few feet, through the door to the bathroom in the same Chinatown park where I had first met Coldwell.
“Your turn, Gerrit,” I said, kicking the ball to him. He sent it flying through the door and then rolled through the dust after it. I opened my mouth to yell, then clapped instead.
He came over to me, quite thrilled with himself.
“Aren’t you full of energy,” I said, smiling. The second week of August had brought no relief from the heat, but as happened every year, my body had finally gotten used to it.
“I’m so glad Peter is no longer a cat,” said Tom, watching both boys kicking the ball. “Look at him walking upright.”
“Pauvre petit chat,” I said, smiling at my baby.
“Rina with her little languages,” Tom replied, reaching for my hand.
“Actually, French has one hundred thirty thousand words in current use. I wouldn’t call it little.”
“Rina with her big languages, then,” he said, laughing. Hand in hand, we watched the boys play with the ball. Our children were incredibly dirty, but Tom still smelled like antibacterial soap and responsibility.
Start building a new life for yourself, inside the constraints of your current life, Faye had said. If it’s a bust, then just give me a jingle for a very modern divorce.
I didn’t know what I was doing, but I was doing something. I had not yet told Tom about City Hall, but what I did do was gather the troops. I had flipped the calendar to August and realized that I had not done anything with my family in months. The place where I wanted to start was where the new Rina had begun, Columbus Park.
Tom had not fainted when I told him my idea. He had not said, “For an hour, then I have to go to work.” He had looked grateful that I had asked, that I wanted to spend time with him, then he rushed to the five-and-dime and returned with a large red rubber ball.
I was almost sure Tom was going to say no to me going to City Hall. We had already covered that ground during our conversation in the park. But if it was offered to me, really offered, I’d decided that I’d take it anyway. I would start as I had with Sarah Beach. Make the decision first, change my life, and tell Tom afterward. It had worked with Sarah; maybe it would work with City Hall. And if it did, perhaps I could tell him more about what I was doing. About how of all the people in Manhattan, a very monotone FBI agent had chosen me for a simple conversation that became not so simple after all.
After an hour, we headed toward the iron gate, saying goodbye to way downtown. “Ball!” Gerrit screamed out, running toward it.
“No, darling,” I replied. “Let’s leave it here. Other children might like to play with it.”
* * *
Later that afternoon, when I was in the kitchen with the boys, Tom popped his head in and said that he was just going to stop by the hospital. “Briefly,” he said, smiling. “I’ll try to be home for dinner.”
I watched as he went off to take a shower, and to morph back into Dr. Tom Edgeworth.
While Tom was in the bedroom getting dressed, Gerrit escaped into the living room with a butter knife in hand. I ran after him, wrestled it away, and forced both boys into the playpen, turning on the greatest friend to any mother, the television.
As I passed the foyer, I saw Sam’s silver tray was on the entry table with a telegram on it that I’d missed when we’d come in. I tore it open.
They’re waiting for you and your five languages in the Office of Immigration. You start August 23. It’s also the day Mount Vesuvius started stirring, going on to destroy Pompeii. Good sign, no?
I smiled, thinking of the day I walked arm in arm with Turner toward the Vesuvius Restaurant to reunite with Jacob. The day I again said, “‘All City ‘Let’s Go’” and started running toward a new, exhilarating story.
“Is that for me?” said Tom from the living room. I hadn’t heard him walk down the hall.
“No,” I said brightly. “It’s for me,” I clarified, slipping it in my pocket.
“You’re okay, Katharina?” he asked, looking at me, a flicker of concern on his face.
I pressed the elevator button for him, then put my hands in the pockets of my dress. One hand held Turner’s letter. The other, Coldwell’s note.
“I am,” I said, smiling. “I really am.” I turned away as the elevator chimed and walked down the hallway, to my window seat. I pulled my knees up until they were right under my chin and looked out at Fifth Avenue. I closed my eyes and suddenly I could see so much more. I could see the entire city, from Harlem to Battery Park, the steam and heat, the limestone and concrete, the place where I had been born and reborn. It was waiting for me.
Acknowledgments
I am deeply indebted to the following people:
My editor, Sarah Cantin. Of all the books, this book. Of all the years, 2020. You are brilliant, you are wonderful. I am forever grateful.
The entire team at St. Martin’s Press, especially Katie Bassel, Jessica Zimmerman, Sallie Lotz, Brant Janeway, Alexis Neuville.
Bridget Matzie. What a journey. I’m so thankful for the six books we worked on together, and for your intelligence and grace, wisdom and friendship.
My fantastic agent, Alyssa Reuben. Also Matt Snow, Cassie Graves, and their colleagues at Paradigm. Here’s to the future.
Elizabeth Ward. Your early edits are so needed, and so appreciated.
Kathleen Carter. Thank you for all your work championing this book.
Emeline Foster. A gift in my life. Here’s to the memories—in New York and around the world.
Amy Cenicola. You redefine the meaning of friendship.
Raia Margo. Every conversation, every word. They’re such a part of this book. Thank you.
Those who helped me shape the details: Clarissa Atkinson and Kari-Lynn Rockefeller.
My gorgeous friends who became gorgeous mothers in 2020: Kheira Benkreira and Keisha Nishimura.
The ones who found each other during this difficult time: Rashida Truesdale and Michelle Barsa.
My wonderful family.
And to Mary-Alice Farina, a friend for the ages, and her beautiful baby sunshine.
ALSO BY KARIN TANABE
A Hundred Suns
The Diplomat’s Daughter
The Gilded Years
The Price of Inheritance
The List
About the Author
KARIN TANABE is the author of six novels, including A Hundred Suns and The Gilded Years (soon to be a major motion picture starring Zendaya, who will produce alongside Reese Witherspoon/Hello Sunshine). A former Politico reporter, she has also written for The Washington Post, the Miami Herald, the Chicago Tribune, and Newsday. She has appeared as a celebrity and politics expert on Entertainment Tonight, CNN, and the CBS Early Show. A graduate of Vassar College, Karin lives in Washington, D.C. You can sign up for email updates here.
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Contents
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Epigraph
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Acknowledgments
Also by Karin Tanabe
About the Author
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.