Trevor gives a What-you-gonna-do? shrug. “Well, think about it. And send me an outline before you go too deep into anything.”
The request spurs me from my seat quicker than a cattle prod. Not once in my career has Trevor demanded anything more than a rough idea and a finished draft. Now he needs a chapter-by-chapter breakdown? The suddenness of my movement topples the chair onto Trevor’s floor. I recoil at the spectacle of its four legs sticking in the air like a poisoned cockroach. I promised myself I’d stay calm.
I right the seat and stand behind it, head lowered. My temples throb their early warning alarm for a migraine. “That’s really not how I work. I let the characters dictate the action.” My tone is apologetic. Sorry, Trev. I’m not good enough to write an outline. That’s what he thinks I’m saying.
“Maybe it’s worth a try. New methods can lead to new results.”
“If I could just write through a draft—”
“Liza, come on. You’re a fast writer. An outline’s no big deal for you.”
“A draft barely takes longer. I’ll spend twelve hours a day writing. Fourteen—”
“You’ve got the MWO conference coming up.”
“I’m only staying through my panel.” Nerves add unnecessary vibrato to my voice. “Hey, if you like the story, then we’re both happy. If not, I’ll start over.” I force a laugh. “I’ll even throw in a psychiatrist.”
He runs his hand through his grown-out buzz cut. The longer hairstyle is new, postdivorce. It makes him look younger.
“Please, Trev.” I’m actually begging. “I think this idea could have legs. Let me run with it. Give me one month. Thirty days.”
Trevor reclaims his glasses and places them on his face. The spectacles magnify the teardrop shape of his eyes as he checks in with his computer clock. “All right.” His head shakes in disagreement with his words. “You have until September fifteenth. One month. I can’t give you any more than that.”
He crosses the room, passing his bookcase of edited award winners. The Wall of Fame. I have a novel on there, though it’s long been bumped from the center shelves. The door opens, inviting in the pattering of computer keys and one-sided phone conversations. Trevor smiles as he holds it. I try to mirror his expression, as though he’s being chivalrous rather than kicking me out.
As I pass him, he gives my shoulder a supportive squeeze, reminding me that we’re still friends, regardless of business. “Hey. I meant to ask, how’s the search going?”
His expression is appropriately pained. In the beginning, everyone inquired with overacted enthusiasm, as though it was possible that we’d find Nick unharmed, wandering the streets tripping on acid, too busy admiring the pretty colors of the New York City lights to realize that he’d been staring at them for days. Nick didn’t use hallucinogens to David’s knowledge, but there was always a first time. An offer in a club by someone cute. Younger. Nick wouldn’t have dared seem not “with it.” He prided himself on hanging out with models and misfits, the artsy types that applauded themselves for gentrifying the Brooklyn neighborhoods where even hipsters feared to tread.
“I read that the police are watching the water.” My throat goes dry. “Warm weather speeds decomposition. If he ended up in the East River, his body is likely to float to the surface.”
Trevor winces. Once again, I’ve provided too much information for him. He’s surprised that I would be this clinical. But it’s been a month. We all know Nick is dead at this point. Well, nearly all of us.
“Give my best to David, eh? Tell him I’m sorry about his law partner.”
I have a desire to scratch the bridge of my nose. Thinking too hard about Nick makes me itchy. “I will. It’s been difficult for him. Nick was the best man at our wedding.”
Trevor offers a weak smile. “Sorry for you as well, then.”
“Oh. Thanks.” The words come out flat. Accepting condolences on behalf of Nick Landau is as uncomfortable as constipation on a car ride. Twelve years married to his closest friend, yet I knew him about as well as the public knows A-list celebrities. I could tell police what he looked like, where he’d worked, the general area where he’d lived. But that’s it, really. Truth is, Nick never liked me much.
Chapter 1
Bastard. His nose is buried in her long neck, his vision blurred by a cascade of black hair and the restaurant’s mood lighting. He doesn’t see me. I see him, though, despite the dying light outside and the dimness beyond the picture window. Despite the fact that I’m standing across the street from the Italian eatery where he took me just last week—me with my hair flowing like the woman’s whose lips now part as my husband brings his mouth to her ear.
Bitch. I recognize her. She testified for him four months ago, hiding her beauty behind her butch blue police uniform, her hair yanked into that severe, standard-issue bun. The hairstyle had emphasized her humped nose, making it overwhelm her face. I hadn’t judged her pretty enough to grab my husband’s attention, to compete with me, given my circumstances. I’d failed to consider her chest, covered by a bulky button-down, or the way candlelight might soften her features. I’d failed to consider that my husband might cheat while I carried his child.
A black-clad hostess collects Jake and his date. She leads them from the bar perpendicular to the window to a table pressed beside the glass. My spouse is sat with his back to the street so that his eyes remain on the prettied-up woman in the skintight cocktail dress, white with black piping on the sides to fake an hourglass silhouette.
“Excuse me.”
A hand drops onto my shoulder. Heavy. Warm. I whirl around, clutching the baby carrier buckled to my torso.
“Is everything all right?”
A slight woman stands beside me in a power suit. Her strained smile deepens the marionette lines around her mouth but fails to form any crow’s-feet. She must see my smudged mascara, applied earlier in the hopes of surprising my husband or at least avoiding embarrassment in front of Battery Park’s well-heeled stroller mafia.
I swipe beneath my eyes with my knuckles. “Yes. Everything’s fine. I’m—”
“So hard being a new mom.” She gestures to the tiny hat peeking above the BabyBj?rn.
I look at my child for the first time in God knows how many minutes. She squirms in the carrier, arms and legs flailing like a flipped beetle. Her face is nearly the same color as the deep-pink bonnet atop her head. Her navy eyes are squeezed tight from the force of her howling. How long has she been awake? How long has she been squealing like this, with me zeroed in on her father, everything around me blurring into slow-motion light?
My surroundings sharpen as I picture myself from this stranger’s perspective. I’ve been standing on the edge of the sidewalk beside a busy street, seemingly staring at nothing while my baby screams. This woman fears I suffer from postpartum depression. People are wary of new moms in Manhattan. They know we’re all shut away in small apartments made tinier by ubiquitous baby gear, our walls closing in while our husbands continue working late as though no one waits at home.
I’d been waiting tonight. But the evening was so warm and the sunset, poisoned with air pollution, such a pretty shade of salmon. Why not go for a walk? And then, as my child continued to sleep against my chest, why not head uptown twelve more blocks to Jake’s office? Why not pass that restaurant we went to last Thursday with the delicious grilled octopus and see about grabbing a table in the backyard garden?
Ignorance is bliss. If only I’d stayed home.
I sway side to side, failing to soothe my child or convince this woman that I don’t intend to step into oncoming traffic. “I have two kids, myself,” the stranger volunteers. “Boys. Six and Eight. Such a handful.” She smiles wryly, inviting me to vent, and introduces herself.