Mike peeled several bills from his wallet, then handed the cash to the driver. After the cab drove away, she glanced up at Mike.
“I was expecting something more…I don’t know, snarling pit bulls chained at the door, bars over the windows, concertina wire on the roof.” She bit back a laugh.
He grinned. Clutching his briefcase in one hand, he grabbed her suitcase with the other. “Looks can be deceiving.”
Her high heels clicked in step beside him as they strode over the cracked sidewalk toward the white door. Inside, an old-fashioned wrought-iron and brass elevator loomed a few feet from the entrance. With a trust she didn’t feel, she followed Mike into the polished cage.
The metal gates clanged shut, and the car, instead of the clattering, bone-jarring climb that she’d expected, sped smoothly to the top floor.
Mike took her arm as they stepped out of the elevator into a room the size of Yankee Stadium. Bookcases stretched to the ceiling along one wall. Opposite, bare windows overlooked the Manhattan skyline and the rosy sunset beyond.
Natural-leather sofas adorned with oversize russet and teal pillows nestled in cozy groups. A modern painting leaned against an easel. A granite egret wading in a metal lily pond shone with unseen illumination. Glass tables with black urns filled with white moth orchids flanked each side of the sofas.
“I’m very impressed,” she said, feeling a surge of admiration at his obvious success. Mike was self-made, receiving little help from his alcoholic father or the mother who had abandoned them.
He didn’t look at her when he shrugged off his leather jacket and slung it over a chair. His black T-shirt showed off his well-developed chest and biceps to perfection. “You mean it’s a far cry from those tar-paper shacks along Mill Street?”
He was reading her mind and she felt suddenly self-conscious. “I’m very pleased that you’re successful, Mike.” She walked to the windows and gazed at the Brooklyn Bridge. “I’d like the name of your decorator,” she said, half teasing.
He grinned. “What’s important is that the Crib is electronically secure. This is my apartment when I’m in the city, but I don’t think of it as home.”
She paused to study an impressionistic watercolor in the hallway. She recognized the signature of an up-and-coming artist who’d had her first showing in a leading gallery last winter. “Where do you call home?” she asked, then damned herself for the question. On the way over in the taxi, she’d vowed not to ask him any more personal questions. She’d just broken her promise in less than twenty minutes.
“I own a condo at Beaver Creek,” he said, “if that’s what you mean.”
“Colorado?”
When he nodded, she asked, “So you still ski?” She remembered that he had been captain of his high-school ski team, thanks to an anonymous contributor who had recognized Mike’s exceptional athletic talent, even as a teenager. She’d often wondered if Mike’s benefactor had been her uncle, the Judge. But Nora would never confirm nor deny it, regardless of how many times Brianna had asked.
“I bought it because I knew the owner and he wanted to sell. It was a good investment,” he said, “but my work takes up most of my time.”
Some things never change.
They had only been married two weeks when Mike insisted he work full-time tending bar evenings after working a full shift at her father’s paper mill. She’d pleaded with him to reconsider. She had wanted Mike to enroll in college with her that fall. They could have lived comfortably on the more than generous allowance her mother’s inheritance provided them.
But Mike would have none of it. He’d rather work day and night, leaving her alone in their cramped apartment, night after night, than take a penny of her money.
She had begged him to talk with her, but when he was home he was too tired. He would always find time to listen to her, yet when she asked for his thoughts, he’d shut down. She could see that he was exhausted, but Mike believed that a man didn’t ask for help. So what could she have done?
Now she realized that some personalities didn’t suit a long-term relationship. Mike would always put actions before his feelings.
She was amazed at the bitterness the memory brought back, and she quickly pushed it aside. Nothing would come from raking up the past. They’d both made good lives for themselves after the divorce. That was the important thing.
She moved to the bookcase where he stood, clicking numbers into a numeric pad on the wall. “There,” he said when he’d finished. “All doors and elevators are locked. If any movement is detected within twenty feet of the building, the action will activate the video cameras and an alarm will sound.”
“What about a dog running along the sidewalk?”
“That, too.” He picked up something that looked like a television remote control and pressed the device into her right palm. “Click the red button and watch that monitor,” he said, pointing to the walnut cabinet in front of them.
She clicked the button. The cabinet doors opened and a computer monitor swiveled into view.
She pressed the arrow keys. Views of the Crib’s street entrance, outside metal fire escape and various exterior shots of the brick building materialized with each click of her finger.
“Touch the white button,” he said, leaning toward her. He was so close she could feel his warmth and smell the lingering scent of his aftershave. He took her hand inside his large grip, and she felt a tiny quiver when their skin touched.
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