My One and Only
Page 36
I sighed, bone-weary. It was hard to believe today had begun with Nick and me in bed together, somewhere in the heartland. Yesterday (yesterday!), I’d seen my mother. Less than a week ago, my sister had gotten married. My father was getting divorced, and God only knew what would happen to BeverLee.
I thought of my little house in Menemsha, of sitting on the deck with Kim and a glass of wine, the sound of the water splashing against the hulls of the fishing boats, the wind shushing in the long grass. It seemed like a lifetime since I’d been home.
Apparently, those thoughts were just too much to be wrangled with, because I dozed off. Next thing I knew, Nick was kneeling in front of me. “Hey,” he said with a smile.
“Hi,” I answered, lurching upright. “How’s your dad?”
“Sleeping. He’s doing okay. He was a little dehydrated, but otherwise, fine.” He looked at me, and the clock seemed to stop. “You were great today, Harper,” he said. Then he put his head in my lap and closed his eyes, and a wave of love washed over me so big and strong it took my breath away.
“Well, chasing after pantsless men has always been a hobby of mine,” I whispered. “There’s a website for us. PantslessMenLovers.com.” I stroked Nick’s hair, and as always, the glints of silver in the dark brown gave me a pang. Who took care of Nick? I wondered. He looked after everyone else…Christopher, Willa, his father…and, for this past week, me. Well, for tonight, anyway, I’d take care of him.
“You ready to go home, big guy?” I asked.
Nick looked up, his eyes crinkling. “Yeah. As fun as it’s been, I’m ready for this day to be over.”
We got a cab, and when Nick gave the address, my mouth fell open. “Really?” I asked.
He shrugged. Maybe he blushed, though it was hard to tell in the erratic light as we headed downtown. Coco yawned, then jumped as a horn blasted.
Twenty minutes later, I saw that it was true.
Nick had never moved from the building where we’d lived together.
As I got out of the cab, the screech of the subway split the air, just as it had so many years ago. Coco twitched and shivered in my arms.
Still a little stunned to be back in the neighborhood, I stared at the building as Nick got our bags from the trunk of the cab. Same pillars, same tall, narrow windows. Nick hit the code on the panel and opened the front door, and as I stepped into the foyer, the same cool smell of stone greeted me. And cabbage. “Don’t tell me Ivan still lives here,” I said.
“I’m afraid so,” Nick answered.
We went up the stairs—four flights, same as when we’d lived there. My heart pounded at the memories…a lot of lonely days, a lot of doubt and fear and homesickness.
A lot of missing Nick.
Inside, though, everything was different, and that…well, that was a relief. I put Coco down, and she trotted off to explore and sniff.
Previously, the apartment had occupied a quarter of the fourth floor in a cramped, awkward design, but the co-op builders had made what had been four apartments into one. Gone were the graying plaster walls, the linoleum that peeled up in the corner of the kitchen, the tiny closet where we’d had to stuff our coats.
Instead, the apartment was much more what you’d imagine for a Tribeca co-op—exposed brick walls, distressed hardwood floor. Nick had always suspected that under the cheap carpeting lurked oak, and while he’d planned to find it, he’d never had time. At least, not while I was around. There was a generous galley kitchen with stone counters and stainless-steel light fixtures, a counter with two very modern-looking stools. A small but comfortable office, impressive computer screen and an entire wall of books on architecture. Dark leather couches in the living room punctuated by steel and glass end tables. On one wall hung an old black-and-white subway sign listing the stops of one of the lines.
“Pottery Barn?” I asked.
Nick shot me a look. “Original, thank you very much. So. This is it. What do you think?”
“It’s very nice, Nick. Very…you.”
“Thanks.”
And it was…or I guessed it was. Back when I knew Nick, he’d wanted all this so much—to prove himself to his father, to be successful at the job he loved, to be financially secure, well regarded. But it was freaking me out a little, too, to be in the home where we’d been, forgive the honesty, so miserable.
We looked at each other for a minute. “You hungry?” I asked. “I’m excellent at making peanut butter sandwiches.”
“That’s okay,” Nick said. “I ate at the nursing home.” Drat. I’d kind of been looking forward to cooking for him. So 1950s of me. “Do you want anything?” he added.
“No, I’m good.”
We stood there another beat or two, and it occurred to me that maybe Nick felt a little uncertain, too. Should we cuddle? Shag? I was fairly grimy. “Well, how about a shower?”
“Absolutely. Right this way.” Down the hall—we’d had no hall, it was too small for that—and into a wicked awesome bathroom tiled with speckled brown granite. A glassed-in shower area, a sink that looked more like a piece of modern art than somewhere to spit toothpaste. “Towels are here,” he said, and there they were, plush and inviting. “Anything else you need? I’ll put your suitcase in the, um, in the bedroom.” So he was nervous. For some reason, I found that quite the turn-on. Aw…he was blushing, and his hair was standing almost straight up, so many times had he run a hand through it in frustration and fear this long day. Right now he looked both hopeful and weary.
I turned on the water and stood for a second, watching it gush out of the generous showerhead. “Nick?”
“Yeah?”
I undid the first button of my shirt. “Wanna save water?”
He looked at me for a second, then smiled, that flashing, transforming smile. You see, back when he was a grad student and I was in college, back before so much had gotten in our way, that had been our little joke—save water, wash up and oh, yes, maybe indulge in a little steamy sex, as well. “We are in a drought,” he said, then crossed the small distance between us, wrapped his arms around me and moved so that we were both in the shower, fully clothed and now soaking wet. I smiled against his mouth and then unbuttoned his shirt and did my best to take care of him.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
THE NEXT MORNING AFTER breakfast (bagels, of course… New York did have a few things going for it), Nick called the nursing home to check on his father. While he was on the phone, I booted up my laptop and checked my messages. There was my real life, waiting for me to return. Tommy was still in wedded bliss with his faithless wife and had attached a picture of the two of them standing in front of the Gay Head Light. He was smiling. She was not. I grimaced, wondered if it would be crass to advise him to get checked for herpes, and typed a brief, noncommittal reply. Theo was curious as to when I’d grace the office with my presence (code for get your ass back here). I reminded him that I had nine weeks of time off accrued and would be happy to point out the firm’s policy on vacations in the manual I myself had written a few years back. I also wrote Carol a note with a cc to Theo, telling her that if Theo didn’t relax, she was free to slip him a few horse tranquilizers and we’d just see what that did to his golf game.
There was nothing from Dad—that wasn’t a surprise…I don’t think the man had ever sent me an email or called of his own volition. But nothing from BeverLee, either, which was unusual. And nothing from Willa, which struck me as ominous.
With a glance down the hall at Nick, who was speaking now to a doctor, I logged in to my credit card account. Just for the heck of it. There, dated yesterday, was a $108 charge to Bitter Creek B&B in Rufus, Montana. Huh. Well, good. The kids had left the great outdoors for a shower and a bed. Couldn’t blame them.
In the past when she used my credit card, Willa was always very specific about what exactly she’d be doing…not asking permission, but letting me know she wasn’t going wild, either. This was a first.
My computer beeped; an email from Carol. Horse tranquilizers administered. Miss your grouchy ass. Where the hell are you?
New York City, I typed back. Yankees fans everywhere. Will do my best to cull the population. See you Monday.
Then I dropped a note to Kim, asking her to water the one houseplant I owned (a cactus, go ahead, make the joke) and if she wanted anything from the Big Apple. Another inbox chime. Is Derek Jeter available? she wrote. And why are you in New York? You still with your ex-husband? Are you sleeping together? I’m calling you right now. On cue, my cell phone rang—Ozzy’s “Crazy Train,” Kim’s favorite song. I opted to skip the call and kept typing.
Can’t talk now, long story. Will be back this weekend. Gotta run. Sorry.
“Want to come in to the firm? See where I work?” Nick asked, appearing in the doorway with a cup of coffee in his hand. The man was irresistible, and damn if he just didn’t improve hourly. Dressed in a crisp white shirt and tan pants, he hadn’t shaved today. Sigh!
“Sure, I’d love to.” I snapped down the lid of my laptop, then remained seated. “But Nick, I have to get back to Martha’s Vineyard, too.” I paused a second. “This whole…um, trip wasn’t on the calendar. I need to think about home.”
“Oh, sure. But not today, right? I mean, yesterday didn’t really count. You should stay till Sunday. Actually, traffic sucks on Sundays. So stay till Monday.” He paused and looked into his coffee cup. “Or longer.”
The first warning bell chimed, far off but still audible. “Well, I have court on Tuesday, and I need to prep for that. And you know, my regular stuff back home.”
“Right. Unless…well. Never mind. Let’s go.”
“BOSS! YOU’RE BACK!”
Within seconds of walking into the fifth floor of the Singer Building, Nick was swamped by employees. He greeted everyone by name, shook hands, answered questions about the wedding. I recognized Emily; she offered a tentative smile, and I gave her a little wave back, feeling oddly shy.
“This is Harper,” Nick said. “Willa’s sister.” His hand rested lightly on my back—a message, perhaps, that I was to be treated well. The seven or eight people clustered around the reception desk fell silent. Ah.
“Holy shit,” said someone. “I don’t believe it.”
I found the owner of the voice. “Hi. Peter, right?”
Pete Camden had worked at MacMillan with Nick. They’d been the two anointed rookies, the wunderkinds. Though I had met him only once, his name was burned into my memory…the night of our big fight, Nick had gone to stay with Peter Camden.
“Jesus Humphrey Christ. It really is you.” He gave me a cold look.
“Pete, you remember Harper,” Nick said.
“Oh, I remember, all right,” Peter answered. No one else said anything for a second.
“Want the tour?” Nick asked, then took my hand and started to lead me away from the gaggle.
“Nick,” Peter called, “stop in my office when you have a sec, okay? I’ve got something on Drachen.” He slapped Nick on the shoulder. “Great to have you back, buddy.” He ignored me.
“So my legend precedes me?” I asked Nick as we went down the hall.
He shot me a look and didn’t answer. “Here’s my office,” he said, opening a door. The room was spacious and open, decorated with blond wood furniture and a red leather sofa. An antique drafting table anchored one end of the room, a large desk and ergonomically graceful chair on the other. The windows overlooked Prince Street, and I could see the wrought-iron facade for which the building was rightly famous. In the center of the room was a huge smoked-glass conference table laden with neatly rolled blueprints and a model of a ten- or twelve-story building.
“So this is the Drachen model?” I asked.
“Yeah,” Nick said. “What do you think?”
It was like a really sophisticated dollhouse, charming and detailed. I bent to get a better look, smiling at the little details inside, the models of people outside, the trees and walled gardens that would line the entryway, should Nick get the job. “It’s beautiful, Nick.”
“Thanks,” he said with a smile. “Here are some of the other buildings we’ve done.” He pointed me to the photos hanging on the wall.
They were stunning. I didn’t know too much about architecture other than what I’d absorbed during my time with Nick, but I could tell his stuff was special, modern yet not ridiculous, if you know what I mean. Nothing was shaped like a penis, in other words. Nick’s buildings echoed the surrounding architecture of the neighborhoods, but they were unique, too, in some indefinable way. I looked long and hard at the photos, aware of Nick’s eyes on me. “I like the curves on this one,” I said, pointing to one.
“That’s a little hotel in Beijing,” he said. “I wanted it to feel soft, you know, since it overlooked the botanical garden. The foyer is done in the shape of a gingko leaf…see?”
I nodded, charmed.
“And where’s this one?” I asked, pointing to the next photo.
“That’s a private museum in Budapest. That one was really fun. We used this curved facade out here, and again over here. There’s a solar-powered waterfall in the café, over here…” He moved on, pointing and commenting, like a kid during show-and-tell, his enthusiasm and love of his job lighting up his face. He belonged here, doing this.
“Nick? Gotta sec?” Peter appeared in the doorway. “Sorry to interrupt.” He flicked his gaze toward me, obviously not sorry at all.
I thought of my little house in Menemsha, of sitting on the deck with Kim and a glass of wine, the sound of the water splashing against the hulls of the fishing boats, the wind shushing in the long grass. It seemed like a lifetime since I’d been home.
Apparently, those thoughts were just too much to be wrangled with, because I dozed off. Next thing I knew, Nick was kneeling in front of me. “Hey,” he said with a smile.
“Hi,” I answered, lurching upright. “How’s your dad?”
“Sleeping. He’s doing okay. He was a little dehydrated, but otherwise, fine.” He looked at me, and the clock seemed to stop. “You were great today, Harper,” he said. Then he put his head in my lap and closed his eyes, and a wave of love washed over me so big and strong it took my breath away.
“Well, chasing after pantsless men has always been a hobby of mine,” I whispered. “There’s a website for us. PantslessMenLovers.com.” I stroked Nick’s hair, and as always, the glints of silver in the dark brown gave me a pang. Who took care of Nick? I wondered. He looked after everyone else…Christopher, Willa, his father…and, for this past week, me. Well, for tonight, anyway, I’d take care of him.
“You ready to go home, big guy?” I asked.
Nick looked up, his eyes crinkling. “Yeah. As fun as it’s been, I’m ready for this day to be over.”
We got a cab, and when Nick gave the address, my mouth fell open. “Really?” I asked.
He shrugged. Maybe he blushed, though it was hard to tell in the erratic light as we headed downtown. Coco yawned, then jumped as a horn blasted.
Twenty minutes later, I saw that it was true.
Nick had never moved from the building where we’d lived together.
As I got out of the cab, the screech of the subway split the air, just as it had so many years ago. Coco twitched and shivered in my arms.
Still a little stunned to be back in the neighborhood, I stared at the building as Nick got our bags from the trunk of the cab. Same pillars, same tall, narrow windows. Nick hit the code on the panel and opened the front door, and as I stepped into the foyer, the same cool smell of stone greeted me. And cabbage. “Don’t tell me Ivan still lives here,” I said.
“I’m afraid so,” Nick answered.
We went up the stairs—four flights, same as when we’d lived there. My heart pounded at the memories…a lot of lonely days, a lot of doubt and fear and homesickness.
A lot of missing Nick.
Inside, though, everything was different, and that…well, that was a relief. I put Coco down, and she trotted off to explore and sniff.
Previously, the apartment had occupied a quarter of the fourth floor in a cramped, awkward design, but the co-op builders had made what had been four apartments into one. Gone were the graying plaster walls, the linoleum that peeled up in the corner of the kitchen, the tiny closet where we’d had to stuff our coats.
Instead, the apartment was much more what you’d imagine for a Tribeca co-op—exposed brick walls, distressed hardwood floor. Nick had always suspected that under the cheap carpeting lurked oak, and while he’d planned to find it, he’d never had time. At least, not while I was around. There was a generous galley kitchen with stone counters and stainless-steel light fixtures, a counter with two very modern-looking stools. A small but comfortable office, impressive computer screen and an entire wall of books on architecture. Dark leather couches in the living room punctuated by steel and glass end tables. On one wall hung an old black-and-white subway sign listing the stops of one of the lines.
“Pottery Barn?” I asked.
Nick shot me a look. “Original, thank you very much. So. This is it. What do you think?”
“It’s very nice, Nick. Very…you.”
“Thanks.”
And it was…or I guessed it was. Back when I knew Nick, he’d wanted all this so much—to prove himself to his father, to be successful at the job he loved, to be financially secure, well regarded. But it was freaking me out a little, too, to be in the home where we’d been, forgive the honesty, so miserable.
We looked at each other for a minute. “You hungry?” I asked. “I’m excellent at making peanut butter sandwiches.”
“That’s okay,” Nick said. “I ate at the nursing home.” Drat. I’d kind of been looking forward to cooking for him. So 1950s of me. “Do you want anything?” he added.
“No, I’m good.”
We stood there another beat or two, and it occurred to me that maybe Nick felt a little uncertain, too. Should we cuddle? Shag? I was fairly grimy. “Well, how about a shower?”
“Absolutely. Right this way.” Down the hall—we’d had no hall, it was too small for that—and into a wicked awesome bathroom tiled with speckled brown granite. A glassed-in shower area, a sink that looked more like a piece of modern art than somewhere to spit toothpaste. “Towels are here,” he said, and there they were, plush and inviting. “Anything else you need? I’ll put your suitcase in the, um, in the bedroom.” So he was nervous. For some reason, I found that quite the turn-on. Aw…he was blushing, and his hair was standing almost straight up, so many times had he run a hand through it in frustration and fear this long day. Right now he looked both hopeful and weary.
I turned on the water and stood for a second, watching it gush out of the generous showerhead. “Nick?”
“Yeah?”
I undid the first button of my shirt. “Wanna save water?”
He looked at me for a second, then smiled, that flashing, transforming smile. You see, back when he was a grad student and I was in college, back before so much had gotten in our way, that had been our little joke—save water, wash up and oh, yes, maybe indulge in a little steamy sex, as well. “We are in a drought,” he said, then crossed the small distance between us, wrapped his arms around me and moved so that we were both in the shower, fully clothed and now soaking wet. I smiled against his mouth and then unbuttoned his shirt and did my best to take care of him.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
THE NEXT MORNING AFTER breakfast (bagels, of course… New York did have a few things going for it), Nick called the nursing home to check on his father. While he was on the phone, I booted up my laptop and checked my messages. There was my real life, waiting for me to return. Tommy was still in wedded bliss with his faithless wife and had attached a picture of the two of them standing in front of the Gay Head Light. He was smiling. She was not. I grimaced, wondered if it would be crass to advise him to get checked for herpes, and typed a brief, noncommittal reply. Theo was curious as to when I’d grace the office with my presence (code for get your ass back here). I reminded him that I had nine weeks of time off accrued and would be happy to point out the firm’s policy on vacations in the manual I myself had written a few years back. I also wrote Carol a note with a cc to Theo, telling her that if Theo didn’t relax, she was free to slip him a few horse tranquilizers and we’d just see what that did to his golf game.
There was nothing from Dad—that wasn’t a surprise…I don’t think the man had ever sent me an email or called of his own volition. But nothing from BeverLee, either, which was unusual. And nothing from Willa, which struck me as ominous.
With a glance down the hall at Nick, who was speaking now to a doctor, I logged in to my credit card account. Just for the heck of it. There, dated yesterday, was a $108 charge to Bitter Creek B&B in Rufus, Montana. Huh. Well, good. The kids had left the great outdoors for a shower and a bed. Couldn’t blame them.
In the past when she used my credit card, Willa was always very specific about what exactly she’d be doing…not asking permission, but letting me know she wasn’t going wild, either. This was a first.
My computer beeped; an email from Carol. Horse tranquilizers administered. Miss your grouchy ass. Where the hell are you?
New York City, I typed back. Yankees fans everywhere. Will do my best to cull the population. See you Monday.
Then I dropped a note to Kim, asking her to water the one houseplant I owned (a cactus, go ahead, make the joke) and if she wanted anything from the Big Apple. Another inbox chime. Is Derek Jeter available? she wrote. And why are you in New York? You still with your ex-husband? Are you sleeping together? I’m calling you right now. On cue, my cell phone rang—Ozzy’s “Crazy Train,” Kim’s favorite song. I opted to skip the call and kept typing.
Can’t talk now, long story. Will be back this weekend. Gotta run. Sorry.
“Want to come in to the firm? See where I work?” Nick asked, appearing in the doorway with a cup of coffee in his hand. The man was irresistible, and damn if he just didn’t improve hourly. Dressed in a crisp white shirt and tan pants, he hadn’t shaved today. Sigh!
“Sure, I’d love to.” I snapped down the lid of my laptop, then remained seated. “But Nick, I have to get back to Martha’s Vineyard, too.” I paused a second. “This whole…um, trip wasn’t on the calendar. I need to think about home.”
“Oh, sure. But not today, right? I mean, yesterday didn’t really count. You should stay till Sunday. Actually, traffic sucks on Sundays. So stay till Monday.” He paused and looked into his coffee cup. “Or longer.”
The first warning bell chimed, far off but still audible. “Well, I have court on Tuesday, and I need to prep for that. And you know, my regular stuff back home.”
“Right. Unless…well. Never mind. Let’s go.”
“BOSS! YOU’RE BACK!”
Within seconds of walking into the fifth floor of the Singer Building, Nick was swamped by employees. He greeted everyone by name, shook hands, answered questions about the wedding. I recognized Emily; she offered a tentative smile, and I gave her a little wave back, feeling oddly shy.
“This is Harper,” Nick said. “Willa’s sister.” His hand rested lightly on my back—a message, perhaps, that I was to be treated well. The seven or eight people clustered around the reception desk fell silent. Ah.
“Holy shit,” said someone. “I don’t believe it.”
I found the owner of the voice. “Hi. Peter, right?”
Pete Camden had worked at MacMillan with Nick. They’d been the two anointed rookies, the wunderkinds. Though I had met him only once, his name was burned into my memory…the night of our big fight, Nick had gone to stay with Peter Camden.
“Jesus Humphrey Christ. It really is you.” He gave me a cold look.
“Pete, you remember Harper,” Nick said.
“Oh, I remember, all right,” Peter answered. No one else said anything for a second.
“Want the tour?” Nick asked, then took my hand and started to lead me away from the gaggle.
“Nick,” Peter called, “stop in my office when you have a sec, okay? I’ve got something on Drachen.” He slapped Nick on the shoulder. “Great to have you back, buddy.” He ignored me.
“So my legend precedes me?” I asked Nick as we went down the hall.
He shot me a look and didn’t answer. “Here’s my office,” he said, opening a door. The room was spacious and open, decorated with blond wood furniture and a red leather sofa. An antique drafting table anchored one end of the room, a large desk and ergonomically graceful chair on the other. The windows overlooked Prince Street, and I could see the wrought-iron facade for which the building was rightly famous. In the center of the room was a huge smoked-glass conference table laden with neatly rolled blueprints and a model of a ten- or twelve-story building.
“So this is the Drachen model?” I asked.
“Yeah,” Nick said. “What do you think?”
It was like a really sophisticated dollhouse, charming and detailed. I bent to get a better look, smiling at the little details inside, the models of people outside, the trees and walled gardens that would line the entryway, should Nick get the job. “It’s beautiful, Nick.”
“Thanks,” he said with a smile. “Here are some of the other buildings we’ve done.” He pointed me to the photos hanging on the wall.
They were stunning. I didn’t know too much about architecture other than what I’d absorbed during my time with Nick, but I could tell his stuff was special, modern yet not ridiculous, if you know what I mean. Nothing was shaped like a penis, in other words. Nick’s buildings echoed the surrounding architecture of the neighborhoods, but they were unique, too, in some indefinable way. I looked long and hard at the photos, aware of Nick’s eyes on me. “I like the curves on this one,” I said, pointing to one.
“That’s a little hotel in Beijing,” he said. “I wanted it to feel soft, you know, since it overlooked the botanical garden. The foyer is done in the shape of a gingko leaf…see?”
I nodded, charmed.
“And where’s this one?” I asked, pointing to the next photo.
“That’s a private museum in Budapest. That one was really fun. We used this curved facade out here, and again over here. There’s a solar-powered waterfall in the café, over here…” He moved on, pointing and commenting, like a kid during show-and-tell, his enthusiasm and love of his job lighting up his face. He belonged here, doing this.
“Nick? Gotta sec?” Peter appeared in the doorway. “Sorry to interrupt.” He flicked his gaze toward me, obviously not sorry at all.
