Riverside Park. Laura Wormer Van

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      “You’re a little young for hot flashes,” the writer told her when Celia came over to see how they were doing. He had started slurring his words.

      Celia blew the hair off her face. She did look hot. “Say that again?”

      The writer repeated it.

      “I think you’ve hit your limit,” Celia said, smoothly swiping his empty glass from the bar. “So what can I get you? On me. Water, soda or coffee?” She put a dish of pretzels in front of him.

      “Fuck that, I wanna real drink,” he said, swatting the dish of pretzels off the bar. The pretzels went flying and the saucer clattered down on the floor behind the bar.

      Celia looked at Howard. “Tell him I won’t hold it against him tomorrow.” And then she walked down to the other end of the bar.

      “Fuck her,” the writer growled, trying to get off the bar stool. Howard held his arm to steady him and the writer threw his hand off.

      “Okay, okay,” Howard said, backing off.

      Without another word the writer staggered out of the bar.

      “He left his coat,” the woman with lots of makeup on said.

      Celia came to wipe down the bar again and Howard apologized. He thought it had been that last drink that had done it. Celia agreed that had she been out here she probably would not have poured him that last drink. She said the writer got a certain look when he was on the verge of a blackout. “The cold will wake him up, though,” she said with a smile. “How about a turkey sandwich? They’re really good.”

      “Sounds good to me.” Howard switched back to beer and ate his sandwich. It was good. The football game on television got pretty good, too, and he stayed on, having another beer, doing his best to stay in the moment and not think about his problems.

      At eleven Celia said she was going off her shift so Howard closed out his bill and asked if she wanted to share a cab home. She said she would prefer to walk. He said that sounded like a good idea.

      It was freezing out but Celia seemed unaffected by it. She asked him a few questions about what a literary agent did, asked where he had gone to school (Duke) and who some of his writers were. (The only author of his she had heard of was Gertrude Bristol.) He asked her what kind of books she liked to read and she said Anthony Trollope.

      “Which ones?”

      She looked at him. “All of them. He makes me laugh and I like that time period. A lot of cool stuff was made back then. You know, books, paintings, furniture.”

      “Good evening, Miss Cavanaugh, Mr. Stewart,” the night concierge of their building said. They said hello, and while Howard pressed the button for the elevator, Celia took her bandana off and shook out her hair. When they got in Howard pushed 11 and by the time Celia asked him to push 6 they were already past it.

      “Sorry about that,” he said, starting to get that sinking feeling again. He dreaded the ride out to the airport with his mother and dreaded going out to Woodbury to hang out with his in-laws in a house that might well get repossessed if he didn’t think of something. He had to tell Amanda. And soon.

      “It’s okay,” Celia said, leaning back against the wall and covering a yawn with her hand.

      He sniffed the air, unable to identify the smell. “Is that your perfume?”

      She laughed. “Perfume? It’s rose-scented Glade. We use it in the restaurant office.”

      “Believe it or not,” he heard himself saying, “it almost smells good on you.”

      A mysterious smile was playing on Celia’s mouth and Howard felt a small shot of fear. He was afraid he was about to try to kiss Celia. She turned her head slightly toward him, as if she were reading his mind.

      The elevator eased to a stop and he just stood there, looking at her.

      “Your floor,” Celia said, stepping forward to punch her floor into the directory as the doors opened.

      Still, he stood there. They were only about ten inches apart. He knew she would let him kiss her. The doors started to close and Howard slammed them back, then took her in his arms to kiss her. When he tried to open her mouth the elevator doors tried to close again and knocked his mouth off hers. This time he let the doors close and Celia stepped back against the wall, putting her arms back to rest on the railing, as if to invite his eyes to run over her body while the elevator descended. He stepped forward to touch her but she twisted away. “I’m sorry, Howard, but I don’t do married men. I don’t think it’s right.”

      It was as if she had slapped him across the face. At once he was ashamed and embarrassed. “I’m sorry, Celia, I’m sorry,” he said quietly, turning away from her. “I guess I shouldn’t have had that last drink, either.”

      The elevator arrived at her floor and she stepped out. “Howard,” she said, waiting for him to look at her. “Forget about it. Because I already have.” And then the elevator doors closed. He slapped 11 and took off his glasses to rub his eyes. What the hell am I doing?

      8

      Cassy’s Monday Morning

      “HOW GOOD OF you to telephone,” Mrs. Emma Goldblum said to Cassy.

      “I would have called before, Emma, but I only just got back in town and received your message.” Cassy was speaking more or less in the direction of the speakerphone in her dressing room. She was slipping on a skirt, running late for the office. “How was your Thanksgiving?”

      “It was very nice. We went to the Stewarts’, as you know. Amanda cooked a very nice dinner. Her parents were visiting. And Howard’s mother. Rosanne made a pumpkin pie and a mince pie. And you?”

      Cassy had zipped up the skirt and was pulling down a pair of matching blue low heels from the organized shelves. “We had a full house.”

      “Yes, I know, you’ll remember Henry brought over sweet William for me to see last week.”

      “Did you say sweet, Emma?” Cassy said, searching through her vanity for earrings, necklace and a bracelet. She also hastily put on her wedding rings. “I love my grandson dearly, Emma, but please.” The sound of Mrs. Goldblum’s chuckle made Cassy smile as she scanned the upper rack for her new fitted blazer. Why she had waited so many years to get a personal shopper was beyond her. All she had to do was say, “I’d like a blazer that goes with this skirt,” and voilà, in a few days it appeared. (She knew why. Because they cost a fortune and she had not always had a fortune.)

      “That is why animal crackers were invented, dear,” Mrs. Goldblum said. “It makes all children sweet for at least five minutes.”

      Cassy laughed.

      Scarf. She supposed she should wear a scarf. No, she hesitated, looking in the mirror, why start hiding her neck now with so many years to go? The sun did its work and that’s all there was to it.

      Cassy put СКАЧАТЬ