“What don’t we . . .” Nora shakes her head. “Sorry. Cross-country move, red-eye flight. I’m a little slow today.”
“I just meant, is anyone gluten-free? Vegan? Pescatarian? Allergic? Lactose intolerant? We’ve got it all in our household, so I want to make sure we’ve got you covered.”
“Oh! We eat pretty much anything.”
“Well, that’s easy.” Heather’s phone buzzes again, and she looks at it. “Sorry. I should get back. Technically, I’m working.”
“What do you do?”
“I’m in marketing.”
“So is my husband.”
“Where?”
“Cooper-McGovern. It’s a West Coast firm and they’re opening a New York office. That’s why we’re here. How about you?”
“Until a few months ago, I worked at the Met.”
“The opera?”
“No, my wife’s the musician in the family—though not that kind of music, and she rarely performs anymore, but she was pretty amazing back in the day. Anyway, I was in marketing for the Metropolitan Museum of Art for years. God, I loved it. I love art—but who doesn’t, right? Now I’m at a start-up that recruited me away with gobs of money, otherwise I would never have left. Sorry—does that sound crass? I swear I’m not crass, but—you know, I’m sure you’re wondering why anyone would leave the Met. But we’ve got college tuition looming so . . . you get it, right?”
She pauses, expecting a response.
Nora nods—presumably at all of the above.
“Do you work?” Heather asks.
“Not anymore, but I’m—I used to be a horticulturalist before I got married and had kids.”
“You didn’t want to be a working mom, huh?”
She shrugs. “That was the decision my husband and I made. He was doing well enough that I didn’t have to work.”
“And you didn’t want to?”
“I was happy to be at home, especially when the girls were little.”
“I get it. But if you want to get back into it just for something to do and to meet people here, you should volunteer with our urban farm.”
“What is it?”
“A green space where food is grown for people in need. It’s on the roof of an empty warehouse over by the river. Jules will tell you about it Sunday night.”
“Jules?”
“My wife.”
Right, Jules. Musician, newly fifty, fun party.
Heather brandishes two dog leashes. “Okay, so, seven o’clock, and we’re seven doors down. Two-story brick row house, white trim, black iron fence out front. Can’t miss it.” At Nora’s raised eyebrow, she says, “Hey, I’m kidding. Obviously, they all look alike, but the good thing is, we’ll know our way around each other’s houses. No asking directions to the bathroom when we visit—it’s like we’re old friends. See you Sunday!”
She leashes her dogs and walks off at a fast clip, phone to her ear.
Nora looks down at her own phone, wishing Teddy would return her call.
“I already made a friend!” she’ll say. “She lives just a few doors down, with age-appropriate kids!”
What will Teddy say?
“That’s great! I’m so happy for you!”
No.
More likely: “Careful, Nora . . . Careful who you trust . . . You know better than anyone . . .”
Nora puts her phone back into her pocket.
I know, Teddy. I know.
Jacob
He returns to Glover Street under cover of darkness, armed with binoculars.
Anna’s house is lit from basement to eaves, inside and out. The drapes are parted, shades pulled up, windows open with screens in place.
How dare they?
He thinks of Anna, so shy and fiercely private. She wouldn’t have wanted strangers living in her house. They don’t belong here.
Tobacco smoke puffs from his nostrils like dragon fury as he stalks on past and around the corner onto Edgemont.
It’s late, but the boulevard is always busy. Traffic, pedestrians, bodegas, restaurants. At the far end of the block, a police car chirps as it rolls up alongside a group of young men gathered beneath a streetlamp.
Jacob eyes a familiar brownstone. The windows are dark. It had been a private residence in January 1994. Now professional placards are mounted beside the door. He climbs the steps as if he belongs there and scans the lineup. A dentist, an accountant, a financial adviser—all offices now closed.
He glances around. No one in the vicinity is paying any attention to him. Those who aren’t minding their own business are watching the opposite end of the block, where rippling red light bathes the guys being questioned by NYPD.
He quickly climbs over the stoop railing onto the adjacent flat roof of the low shed behind 102 Glover Street and walks to the edge, overlooking 104’s back garden. Twenty-five years ago, it had been barren as a prison yard. Now there’s a wide bramble hedge below the shed roof, running the length and width of 104’s property perimeter, effective as a crocodile moat.
He looks at Anna’s bedroom in the upper left corner. Someone is there.
His pulse quickens.
A female figure throws shadows on the walls as she moves around the room, then begins to bend and stretch in a rhythmic pattern. He trains the binoculars on the windows, spinning the lenses into focus.
She’s brunette.
She’s taking books from the floor and aligning them on the shelves.
Anna’s bookshelves, Anna’s room, Anna’s house . . .
Amid distant sirens and chirping crickets, he hears squealing brakes and the crunch of metal on metal. Somewhere on Edgemont, a car alarm begins to wail.
In Anna’s room, the figure turns toward the window.
He glimpses her face.
The impossible image sears his brain, and his limbs go limp. The binoculars fall from his hand and land with a rustle and thud in the tangle of briars below, lost.
Nora
“Keith? Girls? You’ve got fifteen minutes,” Nora calls up the stairs at a quarter to seven Sunday evening.
She opens the powder room door to check her reflection in the mirror. Channeling her own inner Holly Golightly, she’s wearing a trim black skirt, sleeveless top, and flats. Her makeup is understated, her hair pulled back in a simple headband, and she’s accessorized only by sapphire stud earrings that match her eyes. Their expression reflects jitteriness that wavers between happy anticipation and foreboding.
The weekend, spent settling in and exploring the area with Keith and the girls, has gone well. Almost too well, considering they’ve spent more time together as a family than they have since . . .
Well, they’ve never spent this much time together. Back in LA, even when they’re all home, they’re scattered. Here, the bedrooms are small and lack sitting areas and televisions. And the house may be large by New York standards but it offers no bonus rooms, no home gym, no pool.
Nora assumes they’ll all crave more distance and private space when the novelty wears off, but for this first weekend, togetherness isn’t such a bad thing.
In the kitchen, she cuts a large piece of clear cellophane and centers it around the flowers she’s bringing as a hostess gift for Heather and her family.
“You’re making a mistake, Nora,” Teddy’s voice whispers. “You shouldn’t do this.”