Village, my tiny apartment was two doors down from an Italian restaurant. Problem solved. But maybe I’ll cook more now. It could happen.
My kitchen windows overlook the little courtyard. All day, Leo’s had a steady stream of students, ranging in age from four or five to middle-aged. All the adult students seem to be women, and there is not one father in sight. Many women carry foil-wrapped goodies. The sound of easy piano pieces floats up to me, as well as some popular songs; I recognize “Clocks” by Coldplay—see? I wasn’t that far off—as well as a few Disney songs. I also recognize a lot of flirting going on between Leo and the females.
Owen never flirted. He was—is—earnest and kind, which smothered any flirting ability he had.
I take out a weirdly shaped whisk and wonder what it’s for. I’m going to miss Phil’s Wok and Porto Bello, that’s for sure. I had six restaurants on speed dial in the Village. But Cambry has a few cute places and, of course, Rachel will feed me whenever I want. She lives to feed people. I love eating with her and Adam and the girls, in that big sunny kitchen where Rach always seems to have cut flowers in a vase on the table, where the girls say grace before they start eating.
The biggest plus to moving back here—I’ll get to see them whenever I want. Every day, even.
The thought brings a warm rise of happiness. My sister is and always has been my best friend, and I adore her husband, who’s handsome and charming and just dull enough. And my nieces are the lights of my life. Nothing feels better than their little arms around my legs when I come through their door, or their tiny, soft hands in mine, or their heavy heads on my shoulder when they’ve fallen asleep on my lap. When they were first born, I spent two precious weeks living with Rachel and Adam, changing the tiny diapers, swapping girls with Rachel depending on which one was hungry, changing the laundry and folding the little preemie outfits.
Even if I never get to be a mommy, at least I’m a beloved aunt.
I unpack a pretty wooden bowl I got in Australia when I was doing an internship down under. The red-and-orange polka-dot chicken I bought at Target; not exactly an irreplaceable artifact, but so cheerful and happy. Another pair of misplaced panties. A picture of Rachel and me, which I place in the living room in the built-in bookcase.
I really love this place. I can make curtains for the big windows, lace panels that would look perfect and still let in light. A big old Oriental carpet for in front of the gas fireplace. My red velvet couch and leather club chair look as if they were made for this living room. I think I’ll buy a butler’s table and get a few orchid plants. Rach will tell me how to keep them alive.
Some movement on the street catches my eye. Oh, hooray! Speaking of my sister, she’s here, standing in front of her minivan. She looks a little…strange. Her hair is in a messy ponytail, as is mine, but for me, it’s normal.
Also, she’s wearing jeans and a T-shirt. As someone who wears a uniform to work—I own five black pencil skirts, five sleeveless black silk shirts, five long-sleeve black silk shirts and four pairs of black Jimmy Choo pointy-toe heels—the first thing I do every day when I get home is rip off my sleek clothes and get into pajamas or jeans. My days off—Sunday and Monday—are for sloth, I’ve always felt.
But Rachel is always turned out, as Mom says, usually in a dress and cute shoes. I don’t know how she does it, to be honest, raising the girls, keeping that house so beautiful and still looking great.
I knock on the window and wave, but she doesn’t hear me, so I head out onto my stoop. I should get some pansies or something for out here. A planter full of flowers would make it look so cheerful.
“Hey, Rachel!” I call.
She looks up, and I realize she’s been talking to Leo, who is now sitting on his lawn chair, drinking a beer. A multicolored lump of fur lies beside him. I presume it’s a dog, as it is dog-sized. Seems like I wasn’t too far off in my mental image of a super.
I go down the steps to give my sister a hug. “Hi! Thanks for coming!”
“Sorry I’m late.”
I glance at Leo, who’s petting the dog with one hand. His expression is…naughty. “You okay? Did he say something to you?” I ask my sister in a low voice.
“Who?”
“Him. Leo. The super.”
“Oh, no. He’s very nice.”
“Well, come on in. The movers were great, and I’m just putting stuff in drawers. Want some tea?”
“Do you have any wine?”
“Shoot, no. I can run downtown and get some, though.”
“I have wine,” Leo says.
“It’s okay,” I tell him. “But thanks.”
“That would be great,” Rachel says.
“My pleasure.” He unfolds himself from the chair. Six-three, I’d guess. “Loki, stay,” he orders. The dog, who looks rather close to death, doesn’t twitch.
My sister looks a little pale. “Are you okay, Rachel?” I ask.
She doesn’t answer, just goes up the stairs into the little foyer. “This is great,” she says unconvincingly. And the thing about Rachel is, she loves home decorating and all that stuff. It’s her art form. She’s Martha Stewart meets Maria Von Trapp; in fact, she found me this place, and when we came here with the Realtor a month ago, Rachel raced around like a kid at Christmas.
“Thanks,” I say. “Rach, you seem weird, hon.”
Then she takes out her phone and taps a button. “Do you know what this is? Is this a tree? With some kind of disease or blight or something?”
I look, then flinch. “No. It’s… Where did you get this?” Because, shit.
“What is it?”
I swallow. “It’s…um, it’s a va—It’s girl parts. A crotch shot.” Hey. Owen and I watched a little porn from time to time, back in the day. The picture is blurry and super close-up, which is quite icky, so yeah, I guess I could see how Rachel, who is very innocent, could think it was a diseased tree. “Who sent this to you?”
But my sister doesn’t answer, because now her face is the color of chalk, and her legs buckle, and Leo catches her just as he comes in the door.
A DISTANT PART of me is so, so embarrassed that a total stranger has seen me faint. I’ve never fainted before. I mean, I’ve wanted to, a thousand times, usually when I’m at a party, trying to pretend that I’m having fun, and trying to eat when no one else is looking. I’m always worried about how I look when I’m eating. I think people who throw parties should offer private little carrels where guests can go and eat in private. So I generally don’t eat at parties, then the wine goes right to my head, like now, and that makes me feel even more self-conscious, because I’m afraid people will say, “That Rachel got so drunk at our party last night!” so in the end, I neither eat nor drink. I just stand around, hoping to faint, because leaving the party, even by ambulance, would be preferable
