out we have that in common.”
Leo removed his damp shoes and put them close to the hearth to dry a little. He put his feet up on the coffee table. She sat down opposite him. “You always knew how to pick them,” Leo said.
“I had some great picks.”
“Like who?” Leo said, encouraged by what could have been a slightly flirtatious turn in her tone.
“Will Peck.”
“The firefighter?”
“Yes, the firefighter. That guy was great. Easy.”
Leo was genuinely stunned. He’d met the firefighter once, remembered him as being disturbingly good-looking and fit. An ex-marine or something equally stalwart. “Setting aside physical strength, which I will cede to the marine—”
“Don’t be such a snob. Will’s an intellectual, a Renaissance man.”
“A Renaissance man?” Leo couldn’t keep the mockery from his tone.
“Yes. He traveled. He read. He cooked. He made things.”
“What? He whittled? No, no, I forgot, we’re in Brooklyn. He knitted? Did he knit you that sweater?”
“Hardly,” Stephanie said. “This sweater is Italian cashmere.” She pointed to a custom bookcase lining the opposite wall, one Leo had admired earlier for its graceful economy. “He built that.”
“Okay. I give,” he said. “It’s a nice bookcase.”
“It’s a fantastic bookcase.”
“So why isn’t he here if he’s so great?”
“Probably because his wife hasn’t kicked him out of his apartment yet.”
“Right,” Leo said. He deserved that one. He couldn’t stop looking at the bookcase, which was, he had to admit, pretty fantastic.
“And he wanted other things.” Stephanie was quiet for a minute, thinking about what good company Will was and how she hadn’t been able, ultimately, to make him happy. She still ran into him sometimes with his new wife. She didn’t think they had kids, yet. She looked up and thought: Leo!
And then, Careful.
The storm outside was intensifying. The streets were quiet, devoid of pedestrians and traffic. The whole city seemed to be huddling against the weather. The fire cracked and hissed and warmed the room. Leo started to relax for the first time in weeks, for the first time since the accident, really. He missed Stephanie, the ease between them, her solid and comforting presence. Sitting across from him, in the light of the fire, she blazed with health and well-being and good humor.
“I can’t believe you sold your business,” he said.
“I can’t believe what a hypocrite you are.”
“I’m not a hypocrite, I speak from experience. I never should have sold out.”
“You’re just saying that now. I remember those days. You were thrilled by that fat check. Also, I’m not selling out. I was acquired. My life is just going to get a lot easier. I can’t wait.”
“I’m telling you,” Leo said. “That was the start of the end for me.”
Stephanie shrugged and took a clementine from a bowl on the table, started peeling it. “You could have stayed. Nathan wanted you to stay.” Nathan Chowdhury had been Leo’s business partner at SpeakEasyMedia. He’d worked behind the scenes, running the money side of things, and had stayed after the acquisition; now he was CFO for the entire conglomerate. As far as Stephanie was concerned, the beginning of the end for Leo wasn’t selling SpeakEasy, it was acquiring Victoria and all that came after—namely, nothing.
She still remembered the day he’d told her he was planning to sell, the day she’d visited him at work during a period when they were trying—and nearly managing—to be “just friends.” Victoria had walked into his office. “Hey,” she’d said to Leo, lifting her eyebrows a bit, her smile even and smug. Stephanie heard it all in that one word: hey. The intimate monotone of Victoria’s low register. A kind of hey that said they’d woken up in the same bed that morning, probably could still smell each other on their hands. The hey wasn’t inquisitive or demure or apologetic; it was territorial. Stephanie had heard that hey before, coming from her very own foolishly cocksure mouth. After Leo sold SpeakEasy and married Victoria, he’d practically fallen off the face of the earth. The last thing in the world she needed from him was life—or business—advice.
“You should have called me,” Leo said.
“Why would I have called you, Leo? When was the last time we spoke?” Stephanie wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of telling him that she had called. She’d left a message on his cell and someone identifying herself as Leo’s personal assistant had called back. “Assisting what exactly,” Stephanie had asked the girl, who sounded sixteen. “Does Leo have a job?”
“Leo has a number of projects in the works,” the girl had said. She sounded ridiculously tentative and nervous. Stephanie suspected she was using the assistant ruse to discover the identities of all the women on Leo’s incoming call list. Well, good luck to her, she thought. “Can I tell Leo what this is in reference to?” the girl had asked. Stephanie had hung up and never called back.
“I’ve called you,” Leo said.
“Before today? Two years ago.”
“That’s not true.”
“Two years.”
“Christ,” Leo said. “Sorry.” He laughed a little. “If it makes you feel any better, I stopped being interesting about two years ago.”
“I didn’t feel particularly bad about it to begin with, but thanks.”
He frowned and looked at her, still unbelieving and a little pained. “Two years? Really?”
“Really,” she said.
“So come over here and tell me what else you’ve been up to,” he said, patting the place next to him on the sofa.
HOURS LATER, after they’d eaten the lamb and replenished the firewood and she filled him in on the recent publishing news and gossip, after he’d finished clearing the table and loading the dishwasher (poorly) and rinsing some pots (even worse), he opened another bottle of wine and she dished out bowls of ice cream and they moved back into the living room.
“Are you supposed to be drinking that?” she asked him, pointing to the glass of cabernet.
“Technically, I guess not,” he said. “But booze is not my issue. You know that.”
“I don’t know anything, Leo. You could be shooting heroin for all I know. In fact, I think I did hear something about heroin at some point.”
“Completely false,” he said. “Was there excess? Yes. Do I realize I should probably steer clear
