Brooklyn Love (Crimson Romance) (19 page)

Harry Green was a truly nice and generous man. But this was wrong. She couldn’t overlook it. Not five million dollars over the course of two weeks, especially when the incoming receipts were for coffee. It was a remarkably high mark-up; Green normally made that amount maybe every quarter or so. Certainly not in ten days. So what should she do?

The incoming tallies seemed out of place, but there was more: millions of dollars donated out as quickly as they came in.

Hindy rubbed her eyes and chewed on her pencil eraser. If it hadn’t been for the holiday, she might have brushed them aside. But seeing the numbers in front of her all at once — something was off.

And why millions of dollars of donations to Kaplinsky’s Monevitcher Yeshiva?

Something wasn’t right. But what to do? Go to the big boss and say, “Harry — something stinks”? If there were something legitimate going on to which she wasn’t privy, she’d look like a fool at best — lose her job at worst.

Denise felt the same way. “Why don’t you talk to Aryeh again? Maybe he has an explanation.”

Hindy agreed. She and Aryeh were supposed to talk business last time when they went out for bagels, but somehow they ended up talking about other things, and Hindy lost track of the time. She took all the sheets with her up the elevator to the thirtieth floor to Aryeh’s office. She found Aryeh sitting in front of his computer, hunched over spreadsheets, nervously chewing on his own pencil. He looked up to see Hindy, and suddenly they both understood.

“Five million in ten days, Aryeh, from Brazilian coffee beans?”

The semester was almost over, and Rachel had pushed herself to finish her latest assignment from art class — this time, a self-portrait. But with her upcoming engagement party, she felt anxious that her work had suffered from lack of more attention.

“Rachel, how could you say it’s disgusting? It is
me
,” Fitz said.

Rachel rolled her eyes. “Did it take you three minutes or five to get it together?” she asked. “It is just awful.”

The class stood at attention during critique, studying and analyzing Fitz’s work: used sanitary napkins, used toilet paper, and dirty used Q-tips glued onto a huge canvas, encrusted with swirls of silver spray paint.

Tricia seemed intrigued. “Interesting technique. Fitzgerald, would you care to elaborate on your work?”

Fitzgerald stood erect, raising his voice for emphasis. “I am saying — no, I am not saying. I am screaming! I am screaming out my essence — that I feel like trash! I am used up, and I am dirty, yet I am proud. I am not ashamed of who I am. Maybe you all just want to dump me like these objects in my painting that get dumped every day by people everywhere. But nobody will dump on me. No. Because it is beautiful to be trash.”

Tricia clasped her hands to her chest, visibly moved by Fitzgerald’s statement. For as she always told her class, art has no bounds, no rules, and Fitzgerald screamed out truth and beauty in his own rather peculiar way.

Rachel grimaced at Fitz. She couldn’t believe Tricia actually fell for his bull. Tricia noticed Rachel’s reaction.

“So, Rachel, care to critique Fitzgerald’s work? How do you feel about it? Do you think the self-portrait could be made stronger?”

Rachel knew that Tricia was baiting her — daring the religious girl to say that used sanitary napkins were not art. Daring her to say in front of the class that even art, even passion, needs some boundaries to be beautifully actualized and realized.

Rachel was not in the mood for a debate. She was already the token observant Jew everywhere she went outside of Brooklyn.

“Fitzgerald, to be quite honest … ”

The class waited for her to say what they were all thinking: that Fitzgerald hadn’t done his assignment on time and had thrown together a piece with the idea of bulling his way through the critique. That used sanitary napkins and toilet paper were disgusting.

Rachel took a deep breath. “I wouldn’t have used silver paint,” she continued. “It gives a brittle, metallic look that detracts from the earthiness of the other elements. It looks more like trash than treasure — like discarded foil. It confuses your message.”

Fitzgerald smiled, knowing Rachel was giving Tricia even more bull than he had. He rubbed his chin as if in deep contemplation.

“What materials would you have used?”

“Muted browns, Fitz, definitely. To meld with the human tones. And gold foil.”

Tricia gave him an A.

Eventually the class critiqued Rachel’s work: a self-portrait in as realistic a style as Rachel could manage. But the whole feel was very blue, and the background of slicing, jagged strokes was jarring … conflicted. Clearly, whatever was going on inside Rachel Shine was affecting her perception of herself, coloring her artwork.

“What’s going on, Rachel?” Fitzgerald asked as they sat near the sink in the paint-smelling classroom, sipping coffee during break. “You’ve literally got the blues.”

“My parents are planning my engagement party.”

“Ah, the happiest time of your life. So why so miserable?”

“Blue hues in my art don’t mean I’m unhappy.”

“Say what you will, but we all know the truth.” Fitz intoned: “The art never lies.”

Rachel sighed. She’d quoted the same maxim a hundred times. “It’s a big commitment, that’s all.”

“Why are you getting married if you aren’t ready?”

“Because I have to.”

Fitzgerald exploded, almost spilling his coffee cup. “That is such shit, Rachel!” He banged his fist on the sink top, nearly scalding his hand with his coffee. “How old are you? Nineteen? Twenty? You’re beautiful and talented, and you have your whole life ahead of you. And you’re ready to sign your life away to some rich guy who may or may not make you happy because your parents like him? Rachel, that is shit!”

“No, Fitz, it’s not like that!” Rachel started to cry.

The other classmates glanced up from their chat groups to see what the commotion was all about.

“What the hell do you know about life, Rachel? Or men? Or marriage? What do you know about yourself, for that matter? You’ve given your life over to your parents, your community, now to your fiancé … It’s your life! Your life should belong to you — ”

Tears slid down Rachel’s cheeks. “Fitz, please.”

“Please what? You don’t go into such a commitment feeling blue! You get married to someone because you want to!”

“Stop!” Rachel shouted at Fitzgerald. “Just stop it. I can’t deal with this now. I can’t, I can’t — ”

The world of other values confused her. What he was saying made sense, but it wasn’t what she saw back in Brooklyn. It was tempting to hear him. If she waited, she might find the person she wanted to marry who wasn’t enveloped in cold blues, but in reds or warm pinks or even gentle yellows. Someone like Jacob, for example.
No! Don’t even think that!
Because if Fitz was wrong — she’d be worse off than dead.

Between Fitz’s ideas and the marker fumes, Rachel started to feel dizzy. The class was now working on a marker-rendering project, and she was trying to capture the look of a perfume bottle on paper.

“Rachel, your perfume looks off,” Christine remarked jokingly. “Any less emotion and you are going to turn into an accountant.”

Christine was right. Rachel’s perfume bottle looked like a blob of gray. Suddenly, the light from her new diamond ring shone in her eye. And then she burst out crying.

“I’ve got to get out of here.” Rachel ran to the bathroom and let herself bawl.

Christine followed her to the ladies’ room. “Rachel, what’s up with you?”

Rachel tried to tell her, but instead she vomited into the bathroom sink.

“I know you’re not pregnant. It’s about your fiancé?”

Rachel nodded, her face white from the exertion.

Christine picked at her lip ring and pushed back her dyed-black hair. “You’ve gotta let him go, Rachel. He ain’t worth it. Nobody’s worth that. He makes you sick, and you’re not even married yet!”

Rachel tried to laugh, but only a tiny sound emerged from her throat. “It’s too late, Chris.”

Christine grabbed her shoulders. “Do you want me to call him for you? I’ll tell him to leave you alone.”

Rachel shook her head. “Thanks, Christine. But I’ve got to marry him, and I will. I’ll be fine, really. All my friends get anxious before their weddings. It’s just part of the whole experience.”

Christine looked dubious. “And after the wedding? What happens then?”

“After?” Rachel hadn’t thought about that. “I’ll deal with it then.”

“Seems like your mind is made up.” Christine shrugged, opening the bathroom door to return to class. “I’m here if you need me, Rachel.”

Rachel nodded. She washed her face and then called Daniel.

His secretary put him through.

“Hi, Daniel.” Rachel bit her lip. “How are you?”

“I’m actually very busy right now. What do you need?”

“I don’t know. I’m just feeling a little nervous.”

“Rachel … this isn’t a good time. I have a big meeting coming up in five minutes. What’s bothering you?”

“Nothing. Well, everything, really.”

“What are you saying? Are you backing out?”

“No. I gave you my word. I’m just feeling scared about it all.”

“Well, what do you want from me?”

“Nothing. I just wanted to share how I was feeling — ”

“Don’t. If you have nothing concrete to tell me, please save it for later. I have a huge meeting coming up, and I can’t be late.”

“Right.”

“I should be finished tonight around eight. Come to my office, and we can talk then.”

Rachel sighed. “I’ll be there.”

She hung up and ran back to the bathroom to throw up again. Eventually her stomach felt empty. She splashed water on her face and then called her mother.

“Rachel! I just got back from the florist with Suri. She picked out the nicest peach-colored roses. Who knows when Leah will get married, so for you she — ”

“Ma.”

“You are going to love them. They look so delicate, just like you.”

“Ma? Could you just listen to me for once?”

“What? What’s wrong? What happened?”

“Nothing happened.”

“So what? Is it about the wedding? It is, isn’t it?”

“No, Ma. I mean yes. I mean, Daniel is great. Really. I’m just feeling nervous.”

“What exactly are you feeling nervous about?”

“I don’t know. It’s just such a big step. I don’t know if I’m ready for this.”

The phone went silent.

“Ma?”

“You got engaged to him and now you don’t know if you feel ready? I just got back from the florist. You’d better
get
ready!”

“Ma.”

“Next thing you’ll say you should live together and try it out like your artsy FIT friends.”

“I’m not saying that,” Rachel cried.

“Maybe he should marry one of your friends instead, who wouldn’t
drei
around!”

“That’s not fair.”

“Who’s not being fair? Are you even thinking about Daniel’s needs?”

“Ma, I’m just feeling nervous.”

“Look how nervous Malky was, crying like that before the
chuppa
. I heard her all the way down the block! And now look at her — ”

“I’m not Malky.”

Ma snorted. “That’s the truth. She’s a smart girl. An obedient girl. Not like you, with your
cockamamie
ideas. Get a hold of yourself, or Daniel will leave you. And none of us would want that to happen.”

Rachel quieted, realizing the truth of her mother’s implications.

“A broken engagement would be very embarrassing,” Ma continued, “for you, for us. It would take so long to recover from it that you would have slim chances of ever getting married. You’d sit, Rachel. You’d sit and no one would ever marry you. None of us would want to see this not work out. None of us.”

“Right, Ma. You’re right.” She hung up and went to the vending machine to buy a cold ice cream bar. She wondered how long it would stay in her stomach.

• • •

Rachel waited for Daniel to finish working. It was almost 10:00
P.M.
, and she’d been waiting at a desk in his nearly deserted office to talk with him since eight. She did her nails, reviewed homework; later, she made Daniel coffee.

“Five more minutes, Rachel.” He barely looked up from his computer as she brought him another cup. She hadn’t eaten supper and felt dizzy.

The clock moved to 10:43. “I’m done,” Daniel finally announced. “Let’s go.”

Rachel got her things together and followed him.

Outside, it was snowing. Rachel tightly buttoned up her red shearling coat — Daniel’s favorite — over her thick sweater. Daniel hailed a cab, and they rode eight blocks to a kosher Chinese restaurant.

They entered a room painted red, with golden dragons stenciled onto each panel. The eatery seemed nearly empty, and when nobody came to seat them, Daniel reached over the host’s counter and rang a bell.

The waiter came to take their order.

Rachel stared at the waiter. “Jacob?”

“How are you?”

“You know my fiancée?” Daniel challenged.

“Sure. I model for her all the time.” Jacob laughed.

Rachel smiled. “Don’t worry, Daniel. He poses and learns Talmud while I paint.”

“I see.”

“Although she sure eats my parents out of all their French fries.”

“Oh, please.” Rachel grinned. “Ilana eats way more than I do.”

Daniel stared at Jacob. “So are you going to seat us, or what?”

Jacob coughed. “It’s closing time, sir,” he said, and then looked at Rachel. “I suppose we could make an exception, though.”

Daniel ran his fingers through his slicked back hair. “Good.” He sat down at the nearest booth. “Bring me a menu.”

Jacob’s eyes widened and he stared at Rachel, who shrugged apologetically.

“The restaurant is almost closed, sir. I can tell you today’s specials that are still available.”

Rachel smiled. “Tell me it’s French fries!”

Daniel pounded his spoon on the table. “How about you take our order, waiter?” Rachel cringed at his rudeness.

“Sure.” Jacob said.

Daniel ordered for both of them, and Jacob disappeared into the kitchen. Daniel waited for his food to arrive before speaking to Rachel.