about that?”
Jock chuckles. God, what an annoying little man. “Ah, there is the passion I suspect lies beneath that beautiful skin of yours.” He leans closer and winks. “The passion I feel in your soft lips.”
And then he walks away, rumpled skirt in hand.
Leaving the words “beautiful,” “passion” and “soft lips” hovering in the air in his wake.
Is my life a joke or what?
I take several deep breaths, reassure my poor bedraggled hormones it was just a false alarm, to go back to sleep, and manage to get through the next several hours without anyone trying to either bully or seduce me. Later that afternoon, I’m checking in several bolts of a gorgeous silk/linen blend that just arrived when Nikky—who’s been gone most of the afternoon—pops up beside me.
“Were you able to make that phone call, darling?”
“To Fields’? Yep. All taken care of. I’ve already relabeled everything for UPS. Second Day Air.” When a pained look crosses her face, I add, “It was that or nothing, Nikky.”
She nods. I fully expect her to leave. But as I rip through the plastic wrapping to inspect the next bolt of cloth, she says, “Is everything okay?”
Geez, am I wearing a sign on my forehead or something? I blink up into what passes for Nikky’s worried expression. I mean, I think she really wants to be empathetic. It’s not her fault she’s missing that gene.
“Yes, everything’s fine.”
“Oh. Well, then…Marilyn and I were wondering if you could do us a huge favor.”
Marilyn’s the daughter. Who must’ve come in the back way, unless I can now add blind to befuddled and depressed. While I can tolerate doing favors for Nikky—since she pays my salary and doesn’t treat me like pigeon poop—the idea of doing a favor for her daughter—who doesn’t and does—isn’t sitting well, just at the moment. However, resisting would require more energy than I have. So I abandon the bolts of fabric and follow Nikky back to her office.
And there she is, the dear.
“Hi, Marilyn,” I say brightly. “How’s it going?”
Suspicious, dull blue eyes peer out at me from the safety of an equally dull, lethargic pageboy. A silvery gleam catches my eye—a stethoscope, nestled against a flat, broadcloth-covered chest all but hidden by a blah-colored trenchcoat. “Vintage” Burberry, as Vogue would say. Otherwise known as “old.”
Her chapped, bare lips purse, the word “Fine” squeezing through like a desiccated turd.
This epitome of charm and elegance is a first-year resident at Lenox Hill. I’ve yet to see her when she hasn’t looked like a snarly, starving dog who dares you to take its bone away. However, since I’m a nice person—mostly—I offer her a smile. It is not returned. I do not take this slight personally, since I’ve never seen Marilyn be nice to anybody. Somehow, I doubt she’s in medicine due to an overwhelming desire to ease the suffering of her fellow man.
I catch the expression on Nikky’s face when she glances at her daughter, though, and I can’t help but ache for her, a little. It’s that did-I-do-this-to-you? look. It’s a look I hope to God nobody ever sees in my eyes. A look I’m petrified somebody will, someday.
Do all mothers live in mortal fear of screwing up? I think of Tina, her terror at the thought of being a parent; of Frances, the worry lines permanently etched between her eyebrows, bracketing her mouth, lines that deepen to gullies whenever her kids pull a number on her. Whenever Jason enters her line of sight.
My heart begins to race as all the 4:00 a.m. ghoulies make a rare daytime appearance, that Starr will be irrevocably damaged because I work / am single / leave her with her grandfather / leave her with Jason / leave her with Frances / won’t get her a dog / let her eat junk food / eat too much junk food myself / wear my father’s clothes / give her too much freedom / don’t give her enough freedom.
And that’s just in the first thirty seconds. You want the full list, leave a number and I’ll get back to you.
“Ellie, angel,” Nikky says, draping an arm around my shoulder and shaking me out of my brooding. Is it my imagination, or does the glower intensify from across the room? “We just bought Marilyn the most adorable one-bedroom in the West Village—”
Hey. When Nikky Katz atones for her guilt, she doesn’t mess around.
“—and I actually found a decorator who says she can get it in shape—you wouldn’t believe the wallpaper in the bedroom—before Mar’s roommate gets married at the end of the month. Anyway, the poor baby’s just swamped, has to go straight back to the hospital, and God knows I can’t get away, so…”
A manila folder, clippings crammed inside like refugees in a fishing boat, appears in front of me. “I was wondering if you’d mind whizzing down there and giving these to the decorator? They’re ideas I pulled from magazines to give her an idea of what we’re looking for.”
Mildly curious, I glance over at Marilyn to see if there’s any reaction, but she’s gone into zombie mode, staring out at the ice floes meandering down the Hudson. I’m tempted to toss something at her, just to make sure she’s still alive.
“The decorator’s supposed to be there around four or so, taking measurements and such.” This is said while I’m being led toward the door. “Oh! Before I forget—would you tell her to send her bills here? And to invoice the company, not me personally?”
Every bookkeeper since I’ve been here has had a cow about Nikky’s taking her daughter’s personal expenses as business deductions. And God knows how she pulls it off. But then, it’s not my problem, is it?
Nikky rattles off the address to me, then asks me twice if I’ve got it—yes, Nikky, I can remember a two-digit house number and apartment 2-B—but just before I step out of the office, some perverse impulse makes me turn back and say to Marilyn, “I bet you’re excited, huh, getting your own place?”
The question seems to startle her. “I guess,” she says, the words dragging from her lips. “Not that I’ve seen the apartment. But I imagine it’s perfect. After all—” Like twin lizards, her eyes dart to Nikky. “It must be, if Mom picked it out.”
Okay, I’ll just leave now, shall I?
I mull over that little scene during the subway ride. Can you imagine what holidays must be like for the Katzes? There’s an older brother, I hear, but I’ve never seen him. He escaped years ago. To Chicago, I think. Smart man.
Twenty minutes later, I find the building, a charming four-story redbrick on West 10th. A very pretty block, even in the dead of winter, the kind filmmakers use for romantic comedies set in New York. Oh, yeah, this place has Meg Ryan written all over it. I ring the bell for 2-B; a lively, slightly breathless female voice answers and buzzes me in. The apartment is on the second floor, the door slightly ajar. I hear children’s voices, wonder if I’ve made a mistake.
I step inside, only to stumble backwards as egg yolk-yellow walls jump out and yell SURPRISE!
God, the place is—or at least, will be—gorgeous. Honeyed wooden floors blurrily reflect the brick-and-marble fireplace at one end; through
