Stephanie’d had the foresight to buy at the end of Giuliani’s reign as mayor, only weeks after 9/11 during what would turn out to be the tiniest of real-estate dips. When she moved to the block on the wrong side of Flatbush Avenue, the non–Park Slope side, everyone—including Leo—thought she was crazy. One of the houses on the corner was occupied by a thriving drug business. Her house had ugly metal gates on the front and back windows. The door off the kitchen, leading to an unused and rotting deck, had been cemented shut with concrete blocks. But the day she looked at the building, she noticed city workers planting cherry trees along her side of the street, which she knew signaled an active neighborhood association. There was a decent garden floor rental beneath the owner’s triplex. And then there was the sheer size of the place—she could fit three of her Upper West Side studios into the first floor. As she wandered the neighborhood that day, she counted three couples with strollers. Her agency was thriving, and she’d always lived frugally, saving as much as she could. She offered the asking price.
“When did you get such good taste,” Leo asked her. “Where’s all that crap from IKEA I had to help you put together.”
“You aren’t the only one who grew up and started making money, Leo. I haven’t had that IKEA furniture for years.” She walked into the living room from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a dishtowel, happy to admire her house along with him. She loved her house; it was her baby.
“Italianate, right?” Leo said, examining the ornate marble mantelpiece. The center medallion of the mantel was a carving of a young girl. Marble curls of hair fell around her face, her nose was long and straight, her gaze direct, her lips full. He ran his thumb over the mouth, feeling the hard edge of a tiny chip at the center of the lower lip; the imperfection made the young woman’s mouth both damaged and oddly alluring.
“Isn’t she perfect?” Stephanie said. “Most mantels I’ve seen have carved fruit or flowers. I’ve never seen another face. I like to imagine she meant something to the person who built this house. Maybe she was a daughter, a wife.”
“She reminds me of someone.”
“Me, too. I can’t ever think of who.”
“She has nice tits.”
“Don’t be gross.” Stephanie knew Leo was provoking her.
“Sorry.” He moved over to the fire and threw more wood onto the flames, watching it flare as he agitated the embers with an iron poker. “She has a lovely décolletage. Better?”
“Stop staring at defenseless Lillian’s breasts.”
“Please don’t tell me you’ve given her a name,” Leo said, shaking his head. “Please tell me someone else named her Lillian.”
“I named her Lillian. Sometimes we chat. Don’t touch her breasts.”
“Truly, I’m not that hard up.” He sat on one of the sofas flanking the hearth, scanning the room for signs of a male presence. “No more Cravat?”
Stephanie couldn’t help smiling a little. Cravat was Leo’s nickname for one of her post-Leo boyfriends, a guy who’d lived with her once and briefly and had made the unfortunate choice one evening of wearing a velvet jacket and a silk cravat to a book party. “He hasn’t lived here in years.”
“Not enough room for all his smoking jackets?”
She shook her head. “Do I really still have to defend one bad wardrobe choice from years ago?”
“I also recall a summertime straw fedora.”
“You always did have great recall for anything that made you feel superior.”
“What can I say? I’m not a hat and cravat guy.”
“Turns out we have that in common.”
Leo removed his damp shoes and put them close to the hearth to dry a little. He put his feet up on the coffee table. She sat down opposite him. “You always knew how to pick them,” Leo said.
“I had some great picks.”
“Like who?” Leo said, encouraged by what could have been a slightly flirtatious turn in her tone.
“Will Peck.”
“The firefighter?”
“Yes, the firefighter. That guy was great. Easy.”
Leo was genuinely stunned. He’d met the firefighter once, remembered him as being disturbingly good-looking and fit. An ex-marine or something equally stalwart. “Setting aside physical strength, which I will cede to the marine—”
“Don’t be such a snob. Will’s an intellectual, a Renaissance man.”
“A Renaissance man?” Leo couldn’t keep the mockery from his tone.
“Yes. He traveled. He read. He cooked. He made things.”
“What? He whittled? No, no, I forgot, we’re in Brooklyn. He knitted? Did he knit you that sweater?”
“Hardly,” Stephanie said. “This sweater is Italian cashmere.” She pointed to a custom bookcase lining the opposite wall, one Leo had admired earlier for its graceful economy. “He built that.”
“Okay. I give,” he said. “It’s a nice bookcase.”
“It’s a fantastic bookcase.”
“So why isn’t he here if he’s so great?”
“Probably because his wife hasn’t kicked him out of his apartment yet.”
“Right,” Leo said. He deserved that one. He couldn’t stop looking at the bookcase, which was, he had to admit, pretty fantastic.
“And he wanted other things.” Stephanie was quiet for a minute, thinking about what good company Will was and how she hadn’t been able, ultimately, to make him happy. She still ran into him sometimes with his new wife. She didn’t think they had kids, yet. She looked up and thought: Leo!
And then, Careful.
The storm outside was intensifying. The streets were quiet, devoid of pedestrians and traffic. The whole city seemed to be huddling against the weather. The fire cracked and hissed and warmed the room. Leo started to relax for the first time in weeks, for the first time since the accident, really. He missed Stephanie, the ease between them, her solid and comforting presence. Sitting across from him, in the light of the fire, she blazed with health and well-being and good humor.
“I can’t believe you sold your business,” he said.
“I can’t believe what a hypocrite you are.”