Whole Latte Life (15 page)
They sit together on a bench outside The Plaza. The illuminated courtyard is softened by the shadows of Central Park. Michael explains the historical Beaux-Arts exterior of the hotel.
“When we were bowling that first night, I thought it was nerves that made you tell me about the city’s nuts and bolts,” Rachel says.
“Some of it was.”
“No. It was pure you. You’re the real thing, a real New Yorker.”
“We get nervous too.”
“Seriously. How can I ever thank you?” Rachel asks when he turns to watch a couple behind them. “
Hey
. I’m over here.”
He turns back to her. “Thank me for what?” As if he’s done anything. As if Rachel isn’t a ray of sunshine that has broken through his days.
“For getting me through this. It feels like I’ve known you a long time.”
He stands up then, rolling a tense knot from his shoulder. “I should be thanking you. And that friend of yours. Sara Beth.” He glances up at the sky and wonders about the mystery woman, then offers Rachel his arm and they walk around the courtyard. “I had a nice weekend,” he says as they near the entranceway. “Even though it wasn’t easy for you.”
“I’m so afraid for Sara, but if she hadn’t disappeared, we wouldn’t have met. Serendipity, huh?”
He doesn’t mean to startle her; it just happens, the way he has to stop her from leaving. He takes her face in his hands, touches her hair. “I want you to come back. I want to see you again.”
She places her hand on his. “Michael,” she starts. “It
doesn’t
seem right that you’re going back to your life and me to mine as if nothing happened between us. Because something did.”
His hands are still on her face like blinders blocking out the city, the time, even Sara Beth. He tips his head down close to hers. “And we want to know what it is, right? So I’m going to call you in the morning. Would that be all right?”
“Okay,” she answers, pressing a finger to his lips. And her okay says that there is something there, something to pay attention to. They need another time, without the onus of a missing friend.
“I’ll call you tomorrow night, too. When you get home. To find out when you’re coming back. If you’re sure, I mean. I don’t want to push you.”
Rachel doesn’t speak. This weekend has turned completely on its heels for both of them. He figures her life has been turning on its heels since her husband died and she went back to school and began her career and sent her daughter off to college. And now, after years of coping alone, for this mounted police officer to simply say come back, well, he hopes it isn’t one too many turns.
“I’d like that,” she finally answers.
“Okay. That’s good. So I’ll call you?”
“Yes.”
“Will you be all right? Do you have your cell on? Do you want me to come in with you?”
Rachel shakes her head. “I’ll be fine. I’m anxious to talk to the desk. And I need to get upstairs and put her things together. Then I’ll call Tom again.”
“Lock up behind you. And I’ll stop at the station and let you know if I find anything.”
“Either way?”
“Either way.” He tips her chin up. “Order Room Service. Have something to eat. A sandwich at least. You need to eat.”
She’s on the verge of tears with what she is about to face. And maybe with a little bit of something new. Of having someone worry about
her
.
“Come here,” he says, and slips his hand behind her neck and pauses before kissing her one long, tentative kiss. She tastes sweet and feels as soft as he had imagined and it makes him want to hold her all night. “I’ll walk you inside,” he says near her ear.
He takes her arm as she hurries up the stairs past the uniformed doorman. They stop at the Reception Desk where Rachel speaks with the clerk. He shakes his head no. No Sara Beth. No messages.
Tomorrow will be a busy day for Rachel, what with packing to leave, and if Sara doesn’t show, she and Tom will have to make phone calls and arrangements. The day will be difficult, as if there has been a death.
The clerk accesses his computer when she asks to extend her checkout time by a few hours. Just in case. In case Sara Beth returns and needs to pull herself together before catching the train back, or in case she doesn’t return at all. All weekend, Rachel’s given an old friend exactly what she asked for: time, pure and simple. But this is the end of it. As she gathers her purse, the clerk retrieves a brown paper package and has her sign it out.
She reads the handwriting, the return address. “Oh shit,” she says.
“What’s wrong?” Michael stands close beside her, his denim jacket open in the warm lobby.
“I’ve been worried sick all weekend, and now this?” She shows him the package shipped by an auction house. “She’s out shopping? What does she take me for?”
“Open it.”
“What?”
“It might tell us something.” He takes the package from her and tears it open enough to see inside and find antique napkin rings. “Rachel. I don’t know your friend. I don’t know your relationship. What I do know is that you deserve a hell of a lot better than this.”
“I’m so scared for her, and shoot! Now I’m mad, too,” Rachel says, taking the package. “What does she need from me?”
He knows it’s the closest she’s gotten to her since she disappeared, these items Sara Beth touched and bought. “Right now, it doesn’t matter.” Michael slips an arm around her shoulder and walks her to the door. “Come on. You deserve a night in Manhattan that is all yours.”
A vast vaulted ceiling mural of gold constellations set against a deep green sky rises above them in Grand Central Terminal.
“You’re big on wishes, so, Pegasus, Orion, now there are some stars to wish on,” Michael says. “The zodiac constellations are there too. Over two thousand lights of them.”
“This is incredible,” Rachel says as he guides her to a bench where they can take it all in. “I’ll bet a ton of wishes are made here. Oh, it’s so beautiful.”
“Wishes and maybe prayers. You’re seeing the constellations from God’s eye view. They’re all reversed, as though you’re seeing them from His side.”
“Wow. It feels like a church, doesn’t it? What a genius artist.”
“Maybe. Some people say the artisan who installed the mural accidentally reversed the constellations, some that it’s based on a medieval manuscript depicting them that way. Nobody really knows, so believe what you want.”
That’s what so much comes down to: believe what you want. Wish what you want. Whatever gets you through, whatever validates your choices, whatever saves you. She wonders what Sara Beth is believing this weekend.
They stop at their jazz club, she likes that, that it’s
theirs
now, and he orders wine. But she reaches forward and clasps his fidgeting hand. “I’d like a scotch.”
“Make it two,” Michael says. “On the rocks.”
And it works, in a melancholy way. During the first half of her drink, Rachel pulls out some of the sterling silver napkin rings from the puffs of tissue in Sara Beth’s package. They’re animals, each one a surprise: a squirrel, a parakeet, a cat. They cull from the note scribbled on the receipt that Sara Beth purchased them from a lower Manhattan antique shop, said she was staying at The Plaza, and failed to properly complete the Connecticut ship-to address. The shop couriered the package to the hotel.
“She’s in the middle of a crisis and buying antiques?” Michael asks.
Rachel turns the squirrel ring over in her hand. “Antiques are what she does. She’d planned to open a shop but got sidetracked with the new baby.”
Michael pulls the napkin ring from her hand, rewraps each one and fits them in the small box. “Put them away.”
She takes the box, surprised at his order, and slips it into her black shoulder bag.
He glances at the patrons in the room, so much so that she wonders if he’s looking for someone. But then he reaches for her hand and stands. “Listen, if she’s buying napkin rings, she’ll be fine. Come on.”
On her feet, the scotch warms her, its heat welling through her veins. She feels him close, feels his hand through the fabric on her back, his face touch against her hair, feels him lead her through a slow song. The liquor lets her do that, feel.
“I’ll pick you up tomorrow,” he whispers. “Early.”
“Early?”
“I need as much time with you as I can get,” he says, then kisses her once and a little longer again. “Well, if that’s okay with you.”
“How early?” she asks, her cheek pressed to his.
“Say, in a couple of hours?” He pulls her close and slows his step. And so it goes, shoulder to shoulder, her face near his, he looking past her, their few words reaching each other. He holds her with him, not releasing any of her, not one bit, to Sara Beth until the night is done.
“I’ll take you somewhere nice. We’ll be back by noon, for Sara Beth.”
“Okay.” And she closes her eyes as the motion of the dance lulls her like sweet ocean waves. The sea, the sea. She’s on a buoyant tube, the sun on her face, salt water swaying, dipping her toes in the water with a small splash. The beach is always there.
S
ara Beth thought that rubbing shoulders with the world’s premier auction house might bring good karma. She could hear herself already, her pride swelling over a Sotheby’s piece.
“Oh, it’s from Sotheby’s.”
“I’m sorry, it’s not for sale.”
“Thank you. I found it at Sotheby’s.”
Being among all the auction house’s finery inspires her to move ahead with her dream. The Chippendale Carved Mahogany Lolling Chair. A Queen Anne Cherrywood Chest. The Federal Inlaid Cherry Tall Case Clock. A Dutch Oak Renaissance Cabinet. Italian White Marble Figures, a Swiss Gothic Tapestry Panel, the Jewel Set Pendants and Chains, Impressionist and Modern Art, Americana Furniture. Oh if only her mother were here to see this. To help her choose.
The thing is, she decided to do this Sotheby’s thing so late, there’s little time. In a few hours she has to be back at The Plaza. All she needs is one item to bid on, to be her unveiling piece, her signature statement. It should be something more to display than to use. Maybe brass trumpet candlesticks. Or 18
th
century art, floral, beautifully framed. Or a small table on which to set alternating displays. That would be pretty, with an antique lace doily or small lamp.
She checks her watch. At least she’d registered when she arrived, giving her name, ship-to address, email, phone, personal preferences. Sotheby’s even created a Wish List in her name so they could email her if her preferences came in for bid. She liked that service and wanted to emulate it in her own small corner of the antique world.
The piece she really wants, the eighteenth century slant front writing desk to hold her computer and store customer information, is way over the limit, not only of her budget but of her bravery, too. $20,000 to $40,000 are not feasible numbers.
But there’s another piece that catches her eye. She sets her beaded bag down beside her, feeling the weight of her leather journal in it. The old journal’s become her security blanket: As long as she structures her new life in it, one entry at a time, she’s okay. Feeling its presence, she gets the nerve to inspect the rare snake foot candlestand. It would fit perfectly in a small space with a vase of flowers or a framed painting set on it. What a perfect way to start an antique shop, circa 1765. She checks her watch again and decides to bid. She has to move fast to get back to The Plaza, but needs to own this piece. So there’s nothing to do but place her offer at the high end of the range. Her hand actually trembles with the thought of bidding. So first she has to psych herself to become who she wants to be. Before she bids, she closes her eyes, tries to unclench her stomach, touches her new earrings for luck. That’s when she knows it’s time. Her hand raises from her lap to the computer mouse at the Internet Café, and her online bid is placed.
