Fall Page 4

  I met her when I moved in a few months ago. At the time, she was trying to haul a cart of books up the front stoop. The woman is five feet and probably weighs a hundred pounds soaking wet, but still she wouldn’t give up her struggle until I took the cart from her.

  I’d soon learned that Maddy had been a stockbroker, one of the only women making it in the field during the 1960s and ’70s. I’m fairly certain she could buy the building but she seems content to live in her small one-bedroom.

  I follow her into her kitchen, and she pulls out a big pot to heat up the stew. “What else do you have in that basket, Little Red?”

  “Cute,” I say, setting down my hamper. “I have some salad and a nice baguette.”

  Maddy leans against the counter and pulls an electronic cigarette from a drawer. “Young man, you make it entirely too easy to tease.”

  Shaking my head, I prepare the stew. “And you have a dirty mind, Mrs. Goldman.”

  “It’s Mrs. Goldman now, eh?” She draws on the electronic cigarette and peers at me through ridiculously long false eyelashes.

  “I’m trying to be a gentleman.”

  Maddy takes the bread and starts to cut it. “Honey, I’m seventy-four. I don’t have time for gentlemen.”

  I laugh. “Noted.”

  We eat dinner at the kitchen table that’s tucked in the corner by the window. It’s one of those old ’40s-style Formica-and-chrome sets better suited in a diner. The snow falls in thick, blowing waves.

  “Not that I don’t appreciate the company, kid, but I would have expected you to be far out of town by now,” Maddy says between bites of stew.

  She knows who I am. She recognized me as soon as I’d offered to help her with her bags that long-ago day. Apparently, she’s a Kill John fan.

  “I guess I should be.” I grab a chunk of bread. “Couldn’t really think of anywhere I wanted to go.”

  And that’s the plain truth. Killian and Scottie are both married now. Third-wheeling, it does not appeal. Rye and Whip are off at a health retreat. Not to get healthy, but to score women, which sounds kind of desperate, if you ask me. I could have hung out with Brenna, but we’d just start bickering eventually, given that she thinks I should settle down; I think she should mind her own business. And hanging with people who aren’t close friends is no different for me than being alone.

  Maddy’s stare penetrates my thoughts. “You need to find yourself a woman. Someone to keep you company on cold nights.”

  Not her too. I swear to God, you hit thirty and everyone tries to see you married off. It’s a fucking epidemic.

  “I have a woman to keep me company on cold nights. I’m here with you.” I wink at her.

  She chuckles, shaking her head. “Shameless flirt. And if I were forty years younger, you wouldn’t know what hit you.”

  I believe that. There are photos of Maddy and her late husband Jerry all over the apartment. She was a total Lauren Bacall. She’s beautiful now, frankly.

  “You ever think about finding someone yourself?” I ask her.

  Maddy sets her hands in her lap and looks out the window. In profile, the lines of her life’s experience are stronger, deeper. My world is dominated by youth. Even gray-haired rock legends with artificial hips try to look as though they’re still in their thirties. But old age is something I aspire to. Eventually, I’ll buy a house with a porch and wave my cane at foul-mouthed youths who dare walk too close to my lawn.

  Maddy sighs and it rattles in her chest. When she looks back at me, her expression is composed but her eyes are sad. “When you find your person, and live forty-seven years with them, moving on feels more like biding your time. I have my children, grandchildren, and friends. I suppose I could find a man. Maybe one day I will. But I had the one I wanted for a long time. Whoever comes along would have to be something special.”

  Slowly, I nod in understanding. But it’s a lie. The idea of giving that much power to another person is unfathomable. Life is hard enough as it is without worrying about someone else in the process. Sure, I see Killian and Scottie happy now. But I’ve also seen them sink lower than dirt, sick with heartache. And all because they’d been on the outs with their women. What’s to say that won’t happen again? What happens if someone dies?

  Suppressing a shudder, I shove a heaping spoonful of stew into my mouth.

  Across from me, Maddy laughs. “Dear boy, the face you’re making. Is old age so distasteful to you?”

  It takes me a moment to respond because I’m still chewing. “I wasn’t thinking about age. You know me better than that.”

  Her dark eyes gleam. And I realize I’ve fallen into her trap. Like a sucker.

  “Don’t knock love till you try it, kid. Rejecting something out of fear only paints you a fool.”

  My smile is tilted and pained. “Ah, Maddy darlin’, no one ever accused me of making smart choices in life.”

  Her look is without pity, and I love her better for it. “So start.”

  * * *

  Stella

  By the time I get in a cab, it’s snowing. My new place is close enough to my old one that I could have walked, but I’m hauling two big duffels, one with clothes, the other with my pillow and personal supplies, as well as my groceries. I’d wanted to leave the ice cream behind—I still haven’t been able to bring myself to open the carton—but we’re talking mint chip, and I couldn’t in good conscience leave something so tasty behind.

  If only the ice cream wasn’t indelibly linked with him. I’ve been thinking too much about Mr. Mint Outrage and the soft press of my lips to his, wanting to go back to that small moment when life was simple and unexpected.

  But he’s gone, lost to the flow that is Manhattan. I’ll never see him again. I allow myself a moment to mourn, and then tuck away thoughts of irate green eyes and evil smiles as the cab pulls up in front of my new building. For a long moment, I just stare up, not sure I’m at the right place. But the address is correct.

  “You getting out?” the cabby asks over his shoulder.

  “I’m going.” I pay him and grab my bags.

  Snow falls in heavy, wet flakes that land with icy kisses on my cheeks. I blink rapidly when they cling to my lashes, and keep looking up. Because this building isn’t a regular building at all. It’s a massive old church.

  Made of smooth limestone and rising five stories, it’s been converted to condos. It doesn’t look much like a church midway up. Big grid windows have been cut into the walls. Except for the top, where a huge, round stained-glass window remains with two bell towers on each side.

  I trudge up the wide front steps. The old carved wood church doors are flanked by iron lanterns. Now there is a key pad and a series of door buzzers. Cameras peer down at me as I take out my instruction pack.

  True to his word, Mr. Scott had a package couriered to me within an hour of accepting his offer. And the contents are extensive. I have a set of keys, an alarm code for the front door, an open code for the condo, and a detailed list of instructions for basically everything I can think of, down to Stevens’s and Hawn’s likes and dislikes.

  Inside is a small lobby with marble floors and limestone carvings on the walls. There’s an elevator but no main stairs, which seems odd for a building with only five floors, but I’m not going to dwell on it. I’m already freezing from gaping outside. Punching in the button for the penthouse floor, I soon find myself in another smaller lobby.

  It’s a cute, almost homey hall with a large, brass mirror and slim mahogany console holding a few magazines, although the selection is kind of odd—Rolling Stone and Guitar World. There’s also a stand filled with well-used umbrellas.

  The penthouse floor has two doors: 5A and 5B. I’m in B.

  There’s no reason for my heart to be pounding hard and fast, but I’m shaky and twitchy as I open the front door to what will be my new home for the next few months.

  I have died and gone to apartment heaven. If you live in New York long enough, you come to appreciate the
little things: a place bigger than a closet, a good dose of natural light through a window, an actual closet.

  This place? It is air and light and space and all the things you dream about when crammed in your tiny, dark, efficiency walkup.

  Perhaps it’s fitting that this was once a church. I’m tempted to drop to my knees and give thanks.

  The penthouse design is intricate, a short set of stairs from the front door up to the main living area. Beamed cathedral ceilings with an open floor plan centered around an industrial kitchen. The back wall is all glass, showing a large terrace beyond where snow is already piling up. The décor looks like something pulled straight out of the furniture catalogues I drool over: big, oversized furnishings with a casual industrial flare.

  I walk through the space with slow steps, taking it all in. A few lamps are on, as are the kitchen lights. From my helpful info packet, I know that it’s a lighting system designed to turn on once it gets dark outside. Apparently, there’s an iPad in my bedroom with a program to control the entire apartment’s electronics. Cool.

  I set my grocery bags on the wide kitchen island. Most of it can wait, but my mint chip needs to get in the freezer. A twinge of something … uncomfortable goes through me as I pull my rapidly softening ice cream out of the little insulated bag I packed it in.

  Icy-cold freezer air puffs around me and my mind flashes back to the surprising warmth of firm male lips. The sound of his shocked gasp as I kissed him echoes in my ears. I’m not cold anymore but flushed too hot. Kissing random men is not like me at all. But it had been fun. Hilarious, really.

  I want to do it again. To John.

  Hmm … John. It’s not the name I pictured for him. It is subdued for someone with as much charisma and life radiating from him. And yet John is a solid name. I have the feeling no one gets one over on him very often. Smiling a little at the memory of his outraged expression, I leave the rest of my food to sit for a minute and continue with looking around.

  Toward the front of the building, there are hints of color coming from some far wall. Through a wide doorway that reaches the ceiling, I find a media room with a wall of shelves, a mammoth TV, and various art pieces. On an emerald-green rug sits a black leather sectional facing the bookshelf. The big round stained-glass window of the old church makes up the other wall.

  I almost walk out of the room but stop when I spy a fish tank in the bookcase. Hawn is a plump little goldfish, happily swimming around what looks like Ariel’s grotto.

  “Hey, little Hawn,” I whisper, coming close to the tank. “Look at you all by your lonesome. You need a friend, I think. A Kurt Russell rainbow fish or something.” Something to mention to Mr. Scott.

  Hawn flutters near and blows a few fishy kisses my way. I take a moment to feed her and then move on.

  A glass-and-steel staircase goes up to another floor that rims the open living room. There is a home gym, a locked door, a dark bedroom, and a few more locked doors. My info pack tells me that I can access these rooms if needed but I should leave them alone unless there is an emergency. Fine by me. I have more than enough space. At the end of the open hallway, I find the last bedroom that overlooks the terrace.

  The lights are on, which is kind of creepy but also welcoming. The room is bigger than my last apartment with smooth walnut floors and another jewel-tone carpet, this one ruby red. The bed is ridiculous. It has to be a king with a headboard six feet tall and made of reclaimed, battered oak. It would look monastic, except for the abundance of lush pillows and the plush duvet cover, all in smoke-colored linens. I run a hand over the cover and find it soft as butter.

  “Wow,” I whisper, setting my bags down.

  My whisper turns to a little cry of delight when I spot the gift basket sitting on the iron-and-wood bedside table. It’s filled with shampoo, body lotions, bath gels, and bath bombs. A cashmere robe and slippers complete the set.

  It’s all a little freaky, given that there is a welcome note made out to me from Scott Inc. Since Mr. Scott appears to be the über efficient type, I shouldn’t be surprised. I haven’t spied Stevens yet, but he’s supposed to be shy. Best way to deal with shy pets is to wait them out.

  I tour the bathroom—whirlpool tub for two!—and then toe off my shoes and plop myself on the bed with a sigh. The house is still, and the storm outside the big window blows madly. The massive bed is a cocoon of comfort.

  Inexplicably, my vision blurs, and I take a shuddery breath and let it out slowly.

  They say home is where the heart is. I think whoever came up with that little idiom was trying to make themselves feel better. When you don’t have a permanent home, you feel it. I’ve just lost mine, and while I make good money, more than I’d make at any office job I could find, I can’t afford to buy or even rent a new place in Manhattan. I could move somewhere else but New York has been my home for my entire life. I have friends and connections here.

  And, sadly, this is the city where my dad left me. As pathetic as it is, if I leave, it will feel like a death, like that last small connection between us has been permanently severed.

  A light pat on the bed has me turning my head. “There you are, Stevens.”

  Stevens is a brown tabby with bright yellow eyes and a sweet expression. He gives a little inquisitive meow and then bumps my hip with his head. I hold out my hand, and after a few sniffs, he’s purring and letting me stroke his silky fur. “Such a pretty boy.”

  The ache in my chest both intensifies and releases as Stevens purrs and offers me his warmth. I snuggle him closer. He’s the main reason I took this job. I might not be able to keep a pet, but I can love others for a short time.

  “Come on, Stevens, let’s raid the kitchen.”

  Changing into my warmest jammies and thick socks, I head downstairs. The snow is falling so thickly now that the view from the wall of windows is a blur of white. I turn on the gas fireplace, feed Stevens his dinner, and settle down at the kitchen island with my ice cream.

  The silence is profound, the snowfall blotting out the sounds of the city, which has been forced to rest for once. But the peaceful quiet doesn’t last for long.

  From somewhere in the building comes the sound of an acoustic guitar. It’s hard to tell exactly where because the music echoes and amplifies in the snow-induced silence until the sound seems to surround me. Whoever is playing is good.

  Make that really damn good.

  The guitarist is playing one of Kill John’s older songs, a slow ballad that speaks of bittersweet love and times passed. It adds to my morose mood, and I’m tempted to shout out a request for the unknown guitarist to play Kill John’s “Apathy” so I can dance around the penthouse and feel empowered instead.

  But the mournful song is too lovely to stop. Humming along, I take a heaping spoonful of my beloved mint chip right out of the carton and slowly slide it into my mouth. The act doesn’t give me as much pleasure as it usually does. The mint chip tastes weak, and my mind fills with the image of John instead.

  Such a strange thing is life. All these moments of interaction with others, followed by a return to normalcy. Usually, we don’t give it a second thought. And yet there will be those singular moments that somehow embed themselves in our psyche when we’re least prepared.

  Try as I might, I can’t shake the mint showdown I had with John. I might say that it’s because he was hot. But that isn’t it. Okay, sure, that’s part of it. Sparring with a cute guy certainly gives me a high. But no, it’s something more.

  “It’s like I know the man,” I tell Stevens as I take another spoonful of ice cream. “I know his face. Which is just weird, because I don’t know him at all.”

  Stevens meows and bunts my foot with his head.

  “I know. Right? Maybe it was some sort bizarre déjà vu.”

  The haunting notes of Kill John’s song plays on, distracting me further.

  John’s eyes flash in my mind, that look he gave me from under those dark locks of hair … I’d seen that expression from hi
m before. Realization hits me like a freight train.

  I halt, spoon crammed in my mouth, and promptly start coughing.

  “Holy shit,” I sputter around icy mint chip. “Oh, my god.”

  It can’t be. I’m making things up in my head.

  “No way,” I exclaim to a perplexed Stevens. “It couldn’t have been.”

  My mind races, going over every second of my bizarre encounter with the man I’m beginning to suspect was Jax Blackwood, singer and guitarist for Kill John. Isn’t his real name John? Isn’t Kill John a weird inside joke among the band? A play on John and bandmate, Killian’s, names?

  I shudder. The irony hurts now. Jax Blackwood tried to commit suicide a little over two years ago. It had been very public. Ugly pictures of it splashed all over the media, of Jax on the floor, nearly dead of an overdose. Kill John disbanded for a year in the wake of the near-tragedy.

  Everyone had been talking about it, a juicy scandal they couldn’t get enough of. Jax’s very private life served as fodder for water coolers everywhere. I personally found it sad. The level of pain Jax felt must have been enormous. The public should have left him alone. But the world loved him. They wanted him well. They wanted their fallen star to rise again. And he had. Jax Blackwood had been on tour with Kill John last summer. They sold out the New York City show within five minutes.

  “Jax Blackwood,” I say around another spoonful of ice cream.

  But why would Jax Blackwood, legendary singer and guitarist for the biggest band in the world, be shopping for groceries before a blizzard?

  Because this is Manhattan and anything can happen, even a world-famous rock star shopping for mint chocolate chip ice cream. Right, that’s where he’d be, getting ice cream. Not sunning it up on a beach somewhere with gorgeous women hanging on his arms.