Henry and Mudge in the Family Trees
Author: Cynthia Rylant
Date: 1998-09-01 00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Childrens
Description: Henry and his dog Mudge are going to their first family reunion in this fifteenth Ready-to-Read book of their adventures. Henry and Henry’s parents and Henry’s big dog Mudge are going to a family reunion at Cousin Annie’s house. What will Henry’s relatives be like? What will they say? Will they love Mudge? Will they understand dog drool?
Publisher: Simon Spotlight

Contents

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty-One

Twenty-Two

Twenty-Three

Twenty-Four

Twenty-Five

Twenty-Six

Twenty-Seven

Twenty-Eight

Twenty-Nine

Thirty

Thirty-One

Thirty-Two

Thirty-Three

Thirty-Four

Thirty-Five

Thirty-Six

Thirty-Seven

Thirty-Eight

Thirty-Nine

Forty

Forty-One

Forty-Two

Forty-Three

Forty-Four

Golden State

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Other books by Cynthia Hamilton

Alligators
in the

Trees

A Novel

Cynthia Hamilton

This book is a work of fiction. All characters, names, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used facetiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, businesses, events or locales is coincidental.

Copyright © 2005 by Cynthia Hamilton

All rights reserved. This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without the author’s permission.

First Published 2012

Woodstock Press

ISBN: 978-0-9776278-2-0

Library of Congress Control Number: 206900631

Editing by Gail Prather

Formatting by Six Penny Graphics

Cover design by Landini Design

For Guy and Melanie

One

Tobias Jordan pushed through the glass door of the small corner coffee shop, its cheap, tinny bell briefly heralding his arrival. A few fellow patrons looked up from their meals as he made his way to the nearest red-vinyl booth. It was his third visit to this unremarkable establishment, and it was the ordinariness of it that appealed to him. It was as anonymous as a dozen other such places in Manhattan, and he had gravitated to this particular spot because it seemed more seedy and unpopular than most.

A waitress appeared, handed him a menu and flipped his coffee cup right-side up, pausing only long enough to receive his consent before filling it with the curiously stale, vaguely burnt-tasting brew.

“Today’s specials are corned beef hash, eggs to order—although poached are a little risky—and a Belgian waffle with strawberries,” she said, moving on to the next table while Tobias pondered his options. She set the pot of coffee on the table and took out her pad and pen.

“Where’s the kid today, Phil?” she asked as she marked the date, table number and number of guests on the ticket.

“Caitlin’s on a field trip in Boston for the rest of the week,” Philip Glessner replied, as he gazed at her with dreamy admiration. “Priscilla, this is my attorney, Martin Fink,” he said, making an introduction that neither party had been expecting. Priscilla nodded warily while the man sized her up.

“How come he called you Priscilla when your nametag says ‘Bobbi’?” the uptown attorney asked, his tone suggesting he was in the mood for a little sport with the common folk.

Priscilla emitted a distracted sigh before replying. “My nametag says Bobbi because Frank, the mastermind behind this enterprise, balked at the expense of creating a new nametag, so he decided to take the more economical approach of recycling my predecessor’s nametag. Et voila, I’m now Bobbi,” she said with tepid sarcasm, pen and pad poised to move on to the business at hand.

“That must be rather disconcerting to be called by someone else’s name,” Martin said, clearly enjoying the novelty of such small-minded thinking.

“Not at all,” Priscilla replied. “If you heard what Frank does to my real name, you’d understand why it’s a relief to be called Bobbi by him. Besides, I’ve come to think of it as my stage name, a persona I can shed as soon as my shift is over. It’s actually quite liberating. I can put this mundane side of my existence completely out of my mind when I walk out of here, and it’s as if I’ve only had an exceptionally weird, recurring out-of-body experience,” she said indifferently, her eyes straying briefly as she spoke. “Ready to order?”

“I’ll have the Belgian waffle and a glass of milk,” Philip said, gently handing the menu back to her.

“Two poached eggs on dry wheat toast, toasted well, and half a grapefruit,” Martin said, sliding the menu across the table without looking at her. The charm of hobnobbing with the hoi polloi had worn thin. Nevertheless, he watched along with Philip as Priscilla made her way to the window and hung their order.

“Isn’t she something?” Philip asked, his face radiant with adoration. Martin swung back around to face his friend and client.

“So that’s why you dragged me to this hole?” he said sourly. “Look, Phil, I know you’re in the doldrums right now, but you can find pick-me-ups more suitable than coffee shop bimbos.” He poured the contents of another non-dairy creamer into the already diluted coffee, in hopes of further disguising the taste.

“Priscilla’s hardly a bimbo,” Philip replied. “And your accusation is way off base.” His tone was not defensive, despite his obvious feelings for the maligned waitress. He could hardly expect someone like Martin to appreciate the special qualities a girl like Priscilla possessed, no matter how unpolished or uncultured her background.

With a deftness of a caricature artist, Philip added a small, tasteful turret to the elaborate Italianate villa he had sketched on his paper placemat. Martin cocked his head to examine the drawing, marveling once again at the man’s relentless talent.

“Have you been doing any of that professionally lately, or are you still intent on a pauper’s lifestyle?” he asked.

It was not purely concern for his client’s well-being that prompted him to ask. He had requested payment on a rather large outstanding invoice and had been told by Philip’s accountant there were not enough funds on hand to cover it. Annoyingly, Philip seemed unfazed by his financial crisis, but then again, he had so many crises on his plate, he probably could only concentrate on so many at once.

Still, Martin hated when clients fell in arrears on their accounts, especially when the clients happened to be friends. There was nothing worse, in his opinion, than dead-beat friends. Philip hastily added a few strokes of landscaping, and without losing a beat switched the placemat with the clean one next to him.

Not having received an answer to his query, Martin tried a different approach. “Has Marianne given any sign that she will agree to the latest settlement offer? That son-of-a-bitch Michelson won’t even bother to return my calls anymore. I would’ve never figured Marianne could stomach a sleaze-bag like him.”

“Greed and resentment make for strange bedfellows,” Philip replied lightly, as he drew the outline of a woman’s face. “And to answer your question, I haven’t heard a peep out of her either, which probably means she‘s still trying to determine if I have any secret Bahamian bank accounts.”

This remark made Martin think. “Do you have any off-shore accounts?”

Philip snorted. “As if I’d ever been in possession of my own money long enough to stash some away. You seem to be forgetting Marianne’s extravagant tastes.”

Martin hadn’t forgotten; Marianne Glessner was one of those women who grew more gorgeous and sexy with every dollar she spent. He didn’t know how she did it, but she had mastered the art of making every buck spent on herself count. All you had to do was look at her to know she was the crème de la crème, the epitome of a New York socialite. It gave Martin a delicious shiver to think of carrying her bags down Madison Avenue after an afternoon shopping expedition.

Priscilla broke Martin’s naughty reverie as she planted a grapefruit half unceremoniously in front of him. She was on to the next unfortunate customer before Martin could even react.

“What’ll it be,” she asked Tobias, flipping through her book to the ticket she had already started for him. He looked up from his scribbling as if he had momentarily forgotten where he was.

“A question,” he said, once he regained focus. Priscilla regarded him with the checked impatience that comes with too many years of dealing with the public. Everyone wanted to be cute this morning. It pained her to discover she had another doodler on her hands.

“What do your friends call you?” He had obviously overheard her explaining her alias to Philip’s Brooks Brothers-clad attorney.

“Sam,” she said, hand on hip, her expression deadpan.

Tobias waited for further elaboration. As none seemed forthcoming, he merely smiled weakly. “Okay, well…I’ll have a short stack, two eggs over-medium and sausage. Tell the cook to make sure the whites are thoroughly cooked. I hate runny egg whites,” he said, handing the menu back to her without looking, his thoughts already straying back to his scribble.

“Patty or links?”

“Links.”

“Want anything else to drink?”

“Is the orange juice freshly squeezed?”

Priscilla nearly laughed.

“Just some water then.” Priscilla nodded as she finished her shorthand.

“Egg get cold!” Frank yelled out from the kitchen window, attracting the bland attention of everyone in his eatery. He snatched the ticket from under the plate to identify which of his recalcitrant waitresses he should shout at. “Bobbi—pick up. Customer no pay for food no like eat,” he called out in his own peculiar brand of rapid-fire English.

“Keep your pants on, Frank. You know your devoted clientele will wait a lifetime for your extraordinary cooking,” Priscilla said nonchalantly as she hung her new ticket and picked up the plates for Philip’s table. Frank glowered at her from his side of the window, his height barely affording him a view of his feisty waitresses and the dining area beyond. He knew Priscilla had said something to make him look foolish, he just couldn’t figure out what exactly.

“No lip I take from you, Bobbi!” he threatened with raised spatula.

“Hey, no fair giving her all the attention,” June quipped as she traded places with Priscilla. The two waitresses exchanged looks of solidarity as June took her turn at needling their cantankerous boss. “Where’s my order, Frankie? Two eggs over-easy, bacon and grits. The ticket’s right here—you passed over it.” Frank looked at the wheel, alarmed.

“You’re slipping, Frankie. We can’t have service like this and expect to keep the customers coming back for more,” June taunted him as she discreetly helped herself to a fried potato from one of her customer’s plates.

“Okay, here’re the poached eggs on extra-toasted whole wheat, and the strawberry waffle for Phil. I’ll be right back with your milk. Anything else right now?” Priscilla asked as she unburdened herself of the hot plates.

Martin eyed his breakfast with disdain, though it was exactly as he had ordered it. Food just didn’t look right when served in a crummy joint like this. Phil rewarded her with a smile of utter contentment, though he didn’t seem even remotely interested in the plate of food before him.

“Everything’s perfect,” he beamed, receiving a look of mild disbelief in return.

“Okay, then. Bon appétit,” she said with appropriate cheekiness for the attorney’s benefit.

“Man, you’ve got it bad,” Martin said, as he watched Philip moon over the sight of the departing waitress. “How long have you been coming here?” he asked, suddenly suspicious that Philip’s downfall had been precipitated by this rather pitiful mid-life crush.

Philip readjusted his gaze and regarded his attorney. “I don’t know—six, seven, eight months.” He picked up fork and knife and began the process of removing the previously frozen strawberries and canned whipped cream from his waffle.

“Jesus, that looks disgusting,” Martin commented, quickly losing his taste for food altogether. “Was it before or after the collapse?” he asked as he pushed his plate away.

It took Philip a moment to figure out what he was referring to. “After, I think,” he replied. “Yes, definitely after,” he confirmed, his mind taking him back to the first morning he had stumbled into Frank’s Coffee Shop. He had ducked into the first available door after ditching his hardhat in a nearby trashcan. He had managed to beat the gang of bloodthirsty reporters by a few seconds, having escaped the building that had him making the news again, though for a vastly different reason than he was accustomed to.

The collapse of The Phoenix, a daring concept bearing his bold design, had propelled him from being the darling of New York revitalization to one of the city’s most vilified citizens. The brouhaha generated over the dramatic settling of this condominium project had harmed him more than anyone.

Because he had been the sole investor on this project, as well as the architect, he had made what was in retrospect a cavalier move, slightly modifying the dimensions for the caissons as specified by the engineer, in an effort to control costs. True, he would not have done such a thing on a client’s project, but since he was solo in this venture, he had made a decision based on his own best interests.

Now he alone shouldered the guilt and the blame for the structural insufficiency that had began as a slow deterioration of the sub-structure. It was miraculous no one had been injured or killed. But still, what did it matter? He was still haunted by his unwise attempt at thrift.

While Philip reflected on his current difficulties, Martin had been lost in his observation of those around him. He noted with snobbish distaste the difference in lifestyles between him and Philip and their fellow diners. It was the kind of slice of life that had him craving a massage, a sauna and lunch at his club.

He turned his attention back to Philip and observed him as he reflected privately over some unknown quandary. He had ambivalent feelings about representing Philip and was toying with the idea of referring him to another law firm, one greedier for the spotlight. The attention this case was generating was enough to cause some egomaniacal attorneys to overlook the fact that Philip Glessner was now a bottomless pit of debt.

The truth of the matter was Martin wasn’t sure how long he could keep the other partners at bay. This case was destined to stretch out for a minimum of four years, and that was only if all owners and tenants agreed to settle out of court, which was highly unlikely, with the tort sharks generating interest in a class action suit. No, the only chance Philip had was to make a comeback. But now that he was a pariah in his field, this hope seemed too far-fetched to be viable.

“Say, Phil,” he said, “I’ve been wondering if it might be a wiser move for you to engage a firm like Simon, Spiegel and Hays, one of the more cutthroat outfits better equipped to bully old ladies and pensioners. They specialize in these larger liability cases.”

Philip looked up from his waffle and stared blankly at him for a moment. “No,” he shook his head. “I wouldn’t think of using anyone but you, Martin. You’re a good attorney, and you know me. I need someone like you in my corner, even if you’re not personally handling the lawsuits. You’re a partner—you can make sure I’m in good hands. You’re my friend, and I need a friend right now. Besides, who else can I trust?” Philip said, as if this settled the matter.

Martin’s jaw worked absently, a telling habit that signified impatience. He shifted in his seat and tried again. “No, seriously—for your sake, I think you should consider it.” Philip looked at him warily.

“I’m not suggesting you switch divorce attorneys—I’m with you all the way on that. I wouldn’t think of abandoning you to that savage Michelson, but really, he’s the kind of guy you want on your side during settlement negotiations, and the trials, if the settlement route fails. We’ve got some good guys in liability litigation, but frankly, you’re going to need a veritable army to handle a case of this magnitude. We’ve only seen the tip of the iceberg, and we already have half the rainforest stacked up on nearly every available desk. We just don’t have the manpower to do the job the way it needs to be done,” Martin said, palms held up, shoulders shrugged.

Philip took one last bite of the waffle and washed it down with milk. “I’ll have money soon,” he said, correctly assessing the real reason Martin was trying to give him the shake. “You know practically everything I own is in the process of liquidation. Even after Marianne and her attorney take the lion’s share, there’ll still be ample left over to pay my legal expenses.”

Martin didn’t feel as optimistic as his client. As was typical with Philip, he had his head in the clouds and was out of touch with exactly how costly a divorce in his wage bracket could get. Plus, he was certain Philip’s various assets would not fetch as much as he figured. There were plenty of jackals out there poised to snap up his real estate at fire-sale prices. All they had to do was be patient and wait for Philip to get desperate, which shouldn’t be too much longer.

But Martin didn’t see any point in belaboring the issue at this juncture. He had planted the seed and would continue to nudge Philip toward the idea of engaging another firm for the long haul. Martin didn’t need this size headache for the next several years of his life. He had already paid his dues; all he wanted out of his career at this point was the money and enough time to work on his golf swing. Besides, he had other plans for his immediate future.

“Was something wrong with the eggs?” Priscilla asked Martin, as she picked up Philip’s plate.

“No, just wasn’t hungry after all,” Martin said, as he reached into his jacket pocket for his wallet.

“Let me get this, Martin,” Philip said, as he reached for his own.

“No,” Martin replied, arm outstretched to ward him off. “This one’s on me. You can leave the tip.” He laid down a ten and a five, and stood up to slip his jacket on. “I’ve got to run, so I’ll speak with you later. Hopefully that Cro-Magnon Michelson will return my calls and we can start getting this behind us.”

“Thanks, Martin.”

“No problem.” In his haste to leave the depressing confines of the coffee shop, Martin nearly collided head-on with Priscilla. The two backed away like wary adversaries, all pretense of politeness dropped now that they were out of Philip’s line of sight. They executed a half-circle around each other, and with one last contemptuous sneer, both turned and proceeded on their separate ways.

“How’s everything?” Priscilla asked, as she poured a splash of hot coffee into Tobias’ nearly full cup. Absorbed in his writing, Tobias only nodded as she flitted off.

“Like a fresh cup, Phil?” she asked, as she laid down the check.

“No, thank you.” He turned the bill over and laid Martin’s money on it.

“Sorry your friend didn’t like his breakfast,” she said as she counted out fifty-seven cents in change and placed in on the table along with the check stub.

“Don’t worry, he’s just a finicky guy,” Philip said, his eyes smiling with inordinate pleasure.

Priscilla smiled back uncertainly and turned to heed Frank’s insistent commands.

“Why I tell you over an’ over—we running restaurant, no time chit-chat with customer,” he admonished her as she approached the window.

“You need to relax, Frank. Don’t you know that stress is the greatest contributor to premature deaths in men your age?” she said, leaving him to ponder his own mortality as she placed eggs, bacon, sausage, buttered grits, cottage fries and cinnamon rolls in front of two corpulent regulars.

“Enjoy it, boys—the cardiologist is on his way,” Priscilla said, as she swooped back by their table with ketchup and hot sauce. She was searching through her pad for Tobias’ ticket, edging up on the backside of his booth as she leafed through her pad. She stopped just behind him, in a spot that afforded her a view of the writing on his placemat. She cocked her head as she worked out the words Tobias had labored over the better part of an hour. In his oddly large and shaky hand, he had written:

I walk the streets

Sunlight pouring over me

I seek the shadows,
but the sun won’t let me be

It mocks my callous features

So everyone can see

My life is just a mockery

Mean ol’ sunlight washing over me

Stalking, chasing, hounding me

Cruel and sadistic, it follows me

Illuminating images all too clearly

Pointless to deny what they mean to me

Mean ol’ sunlight washing over me

Priscilla read the words silently, then read them aloud. “Mean ol’ sunlight washing over me,” she sang softly as she came along side Tobias and set the check on his table. Stunned by her intrusion, he reflexively wadded the paper to hide his work.

“Don’t worry, I’m not going to plagiarize you,” she said archly. “I’ve got enough of that stuff to last me a lifetime.”

She pivoted around and bused the remaining dishes off Phil’s table, collecting as she did his latest artistic offerings. As she reached for the placemat he had folded in half and addressed with the words ‘For Priscilla,’ a twenty-dollar bill slid out and floated gracefully to the table.

She studied the authoritative penmanship, wondering for the umpteenth time how a man as meek and mild mannered as Philip could wield such a powerful pen. Reading her name the way he had written it actually gave her shivers, for it seemed to carry both an intimacy and a forwardness she wasn’t entirely comfortable with.

She seized the tip with one hand as she flipped open the paper placemat with the other. There she found a remarkably accurate and flattering portrait of herself. She sighed and refolded it and took both drawings back to where her purse was stashed. Folding them into quarters, she stuffed them in the side pocket. Two more love letters to add to her already abundant collection. As pathetic, unrealistic and unsettling as she found Philip’s attentions toward her, she couldn’t bring herself to toss his daily mementos away.

Tobias, still in a state of high agitation, tossed the crumbled placemat under the booth, grabbed his wallet, and without even looking at the total, laid down a twenty-dollar bill on top of the check and departed quickly. Priscilla watched him go as she absently wiped down Philip’s table.

After he had vanished from sight, she moved to his table and collected his coffee cup, wiping down the table and the seat with her rag. She was handing menus to a new table of four when Tobias slunk back in a few minutes later and, as discreetly as possible, extracted his lyrics from the dark, grungy recess underneath the booth.

Two

Tobias left the seedy coffee shop for the second time in a hurry, as if he were mindful of being spotted in such a neighborhood. He zigzagged his way to Washington Square then on to Chelsea. It would have made more sense to hail a cab, but he was far too irritated to sit still. For the first fifteen minutes, he silently cursed the nosy waitress for breaking his first productive writing stint in years.

He berated himself once again for agreeing to this wildly optimistic notion of mounting a comeback. So far, the five or six studio sessions with his former partner had amounted to little more than a stroll down memory lane, accompanied by the sad realization that the time away from the business had dulled their abilities. Only in their last two attempts did they earnestly try to revive the odd snippets of songs they had once dismissed as lacking real potential.

It had gotten to the point Tobias couldn’t even bring himself to these scheduled sessions anymore. He couldn’t face the fact that the old Absent Among Us, which had produced four gold and two platinum albums, really was dead, and should not be resuscitated.

By the time he reached Midtown, he had calmed down enough to pull the wadded placemat out of his pocket and analyze the words he had written. To his relief, the lyrics weren’t as dreadful as he had feared. They were far from good, but they weren’t horrible. He found a bench and sat down to study them closer.

When he had written the first line, he had heard a melody. He closed his eyes and put his head back, trying to summon the faint beginnings of a song. After several attempts, he recalled the notes that inspired the lyrics. Quickly, he read the words, applying the soft, lilting tune to line after line. Gradually, a smile began to spread across his face. He read through the lines again. Before he could finish, he was on his feet, headed for home, breaking into a run as he crossed the larger intersections on changing lights.

The buoyancy of his mood carried him all the way to his Central Park West apartment, past the doorman, up the elevator, down his corridor and through his front door, where it died the instant he caught sight of his wife and a minor entourage of three playmates du jour.

“Tobias, how ya doing, man? Fantastic news! Monique was just telling us you’ve got a new album coming out. That’s outstanding, man,” Clarence enthused, as he gripped Tobias’ hand heartily. Tobias nodded and murmured something unintelligible, all that was really required of a celebrity of his stature.

Jackson Smythie stood and offered his salutations. “Tobias, so good,” he said, smiling in a way that made Tobias’ skin crawl.

“Smythie, it’s not that I don’t enjoy seeing you,” Tobias said, as he eyed the stacks of fabric swatches piled up on the sofa, “but it seems like we just dispensed with your services a few months ago.”

“It’s been almost a year,” Monique corrected him, as she handed her designer a martini glass filled to the rim. “You can consider yourself lucky. You’re getting off with just the dining room, this room and the entry this time.” She took another glass from Lila and handed it to Clarence. “And maybe the powder room.”

Tobias looked around at his spacious entertaining room, with its dramatic floor-to-ceiling windows and their killer views of the city skyline and Central Park. “I like this room the way it is,” he said to his wife.

“You’ve never liked this room. You’ve always said it was sterile and cold.”

“It took me awhile to get used to it, but I like it now.” For some reason, this made everyone laugh.

“See what I told you,” Monique said to the others. “It’s like this every time. If I didn’t initiate every change, we’d still be living with the atrocious décor of the previous owners—hunting scenes and decoy ducks.”

Monique’s friends tittered again, this time a little self-consciously. Tobias didn’t bother to tell them he actually liked the way the apartment looked when they bought it. At least then it felt like a home, not a transient party house.

“We’re having citron martinis. Want one?” Lila asked as she passed one to their hostess.

Tobias shook his head.

“We’re going to Picardi’s for lunch,” Monique told her husband. “Why don’t you join us? We’re meeting up with Jimmy and Lulu and some of their friends from Cannes,” she added, as if this would be some sort of enticement.

It actually gave Tobias a pain in the pit of his stomach to imagine such a scene. “No thanks. I’ve got to get into the studio while I’ve still got things fresh in my head,” he said, already making his departure.

“Oh sure, man—we understand,” Clarence said, as if he personally knew the burdens of the artistic mind.

“Just a minute, Tobias—I have to tell you something,” Monique said, as her Christian Louboutin’s clacked noisily across the polished slate floor. Tobias slowed down reluctantly and Monique caught up with him in the hallway.

Once out of earshot, he stopped and faced her.

“So, you had a productive day at the studio, then?”

“Yeah, I think we’re finally making some headway,” Tobias confirmed.

“Brody called around eleven, said you were a no-show for the third day this week,” she confronted him. Tobias smirked at her cool demeanor, her arms folded across her chest, her eyes narrowed to slits. “He’s this close to calling the whole thing off,” she said, holding thumb and forefinger in front of his face for emphasis. Tobias started to walk away, but Monique trailed him.

“You may think it’s all a lark, but you need the adoring fans even more than you need the money. Your pool of groupies will dry up at the rate you’re going. Time to attract a younger audience, like the third grade set. Don’t let one little chippie sabotage your big chance, Tobias,” she said, as she hooked him by the elbow and swung him around to face her. “We both need this,” she whispered hoarsely.

Tobias peeled her fingers off his leather bomber jacket, staring mutely at her all the while. He smiled cryptically and continued down the hall to his wing of the apartment. He passed through his office and his exercise room and entered his soundproof studio, locking the door behind him. He shed his jacket, sunglasses and Yankee’s cap, tossing them on the worn leather sofa as he passed. He plopped down at his keyboard and stared at it for a moment before slouching over it in defeat.

Several minutes passed before he raised his head and cautiously tapped on a key. He played the note repeatedly, then ventured to another, then both in combination, then added a third. He stopped, replayed a sequence that had formed from the random notes, then repeated it, singing along with it experimentally.

He shook his head. It just wasn’t right. Too much static in his brain, that’s what the problem was. First the waitress and then his wife. He took a deep breath and tried to clear his mind.

As he sat there, his gaze wandered over the gold and platinum albums that adorned his walls. Music used to be absolutely effortless for him. For almost two decades he had written songs as easily as he slept; now both were a monumental challenge to him.

During all those years of uncomplicated success, it never occurred to him that some day he would call on his talent and find it wasn’t there. It made him feel hollow and frightened down to the soles of his feet. He wondered if Brody was experiencing the same doubts, but then again, his role was entirely different than Tobias’. Brody could take the simple bare bones of a tune and build it into the most complex and moving melody, with uncanny instrumentation and haunting phrasing.

When Tobias had made his brief attempt of going it alone, it was evident his songs lacked Brody’s wizardry. But then again, Brody would have nothing to finesse without Tobias; every song they had ever recorded started with his lyrics and basic melody, all one hundred and sixteen of them.

Tobias looked down at his keyboard. He played the same notes as earlier, but he changed them up. “Sunlight pouring over me,” he sang half-heartedly. Nothing: no spark, no hit song potential, zilch. Damn.

Anger now replaced his feelings of insecurity. If that stupid waitress hadn’t broken his mood, he’d have this thing in the bag by now. He was so furious, he actually growled as he recalled her voice as she shattered his one concrete hope of pulling this off. “Mean ol’ sunlight washing over me.”

He sat stock still, not even daring to breathe. “Mean ol’ sunlight wash-ing o-ver me”, he sang tentatively, pausing in the same places as Priscilla had. That was it! He sampled a few keys until he found the one she had sung in, and with that same slow, easy drawl, he mimicked her singing. It was perfect. He let out a peal of laughter and tried it again.

“Mean ol’ sunlight wash-ing ov-er me,” then, taking it back to the beginning,

“I walk the streets

Sunlight pouring over me

I seek the shadow

But the sun won’t let me be

It mocks my callous features

For everyone to see…”

Tobias sat back, his fist to his mouth to keep his elation in check. He had it now, and it was no longer in danger of slipping away again. Finally he had something to take to Brody, something that had all the cryptic, moody flavor of their earlier work.

Though he was beside himself with relief, the irony did not escape him that he may have never hit on the exact tone if it hadn’t been for the waitress. It was the only time he had ever received any help or inspiration with his writing, and it struck him as preposterously funny that it had come from such an unlikely source. A coffee shop waitress, of all people!

A trace of gratitude crept through his mind, and he thought for a fleeting moment of honoring her in some way: a veiled footnote of thanks on the CD cover, or using her name in a song. But which one—Bobbi, Priscilla, Sammy? The likelihood of her knowing she had helped him, even if he tried to acknowledge it, was remote. She was but one obscure waitress in one dingy eatery out of hundreds like it.

But oddly enough, the more he thought of her, the more fired up his imagination became. Bobbi, a waitress slinging hash, dispensing worn bits of wisdom in a caustic tone, and inadvertently breaking his creative block with her accidental phrasing. His mind starting spinning with renewed fervor.

Somehow, the thought of her and her lowly circumstances kicked his mind into high gear, as if encountering her had given him a fresh pair of eyes from which he could observe the world. It was what all his meager efforts of the past few years had lacked: an entirely fresh perspective.

Tobias glanced at his watch. He was itching to call Brody over for a true work session, but he had made a commitment to Simone that some twisted sense of loyalty propelled him to keep. But perhaps he could swing both; take Simone out for some speed shopping, a bite to eat and a quick but satisfying show of her appreciation, then call Brody as he was leaving her place and arrange for him to meet him back here when he got home. It wasn’t yet two-thirty; surely he had plenty of time.

As soon as Simone let him into the fancy apartment in Chelsea, Tobias sensed he’d have trouble keeping to his plan. The reek of marijuana was his first hint; catching sight of the languidly stoned bodies of her two brothers, Josh and Winston, was his second. He had experienced enough situations with this group to know that any outings with these supernaturally good-looking siblings were like babysitting a bunch of five-year-olds, especially when they were stoned. His only chance was to nip this potentially aggravating scenario in the bud.

“Hey, babe,” he said as he causally bussed Simone’s proffered cheek. “Ready to hit it?” He looked at his watch to indicate his lack of spare time, but Simone failed to assign any real importance to his gesture.

She giggled as she rejoined the others, taking pleasure in the antics of her long and lanky, pretty-faced brothers.

Reluctantly, Tobias followed her. If he didn’t stay on her, he’d never get her out of there. Simone picked up the half-smoked joint from the table and took a hit, offering it to Tobias as she choked back her laughter. Tobias waved it away and sighed resignedly at the vision before him. Winston had slid to the floor and was mimicking the actions of the singer on the muted TV. Josh, lost in his own world, played a phantom guitar along with the blaring stereo. Neither seemed aware of Tobias’ presence.

If he could move fast, this fact might work in his favor, Tobias thought as he snuggled up next to Simone and whispered the names of her favorite shoe designers in her ear. Like a potent aphrodisiac, his words had an instant effect. For a minute there, Tobias thought he could possibly get out of there without spending a cent, but Simone’s rapturous groans caught the attention of Winston, who bumped against Josh’s legs as he scrambled to his feet.

“Dude!” Winston sang out cheerfully as his long legs carried him over the coffee table to embrace Tobias. All hopes of making a stealthy retreat anywhere vanished as Tobias accepted an affectionate bear hug from Winston, then Josh. If Simone was his irresistible foible of the moment, it was partly due to the broader package of having not one gorgeous face but three to stare at to his heart’s content. For Tobias it was as if he had stumbled on a parallel universe where all creatures were young, ridiculously good-looking, happy and sweet.

“Far out,” Josh exclaimed, apropos of nothing in particular, as he let Tobias out of his crushing embrace.

“Want some reefer, dude? This stuff is killer, man,” Winston squeaked, as he puffed energetically on the joint to keep it burning.

“No, thanks. Not today. I just stopped by to get Simone and take her for a quick bit of shopping and a bite to eat. I’ve got to get moving, though. I’ve got work to do later on,” Tobias said, trying to impress upon them his sense of urgency.

“Food first,” Simone said, as she lassoed him playfully with her long, feathery scarf. “I’m so ravenous, I could eat a bear.”

“Pizza,” Josh murmured, his eyes glazing over at the thought. Winston, still toking on the joint, nodded his agreement.

“With everything on it,” he sputtered, as he tried to speak without letting the smoke escape. Tobias directed a look of disapproval Simone’s way, beseeching her to break the news to them that they weren’t invited.

“I can’t eat pizza—I’m already fat as a pig. I need a salad or something boring like that,” she said as she patted her flat stomach, misinterpreting Tobias’ telepathic message altogether.

“We can go some place where we can get both, like Val D’Asti or Dario’s,” Josh suggested as he wriggled his feet into his vibrant orange Vans.

“Brilliant idea. I’ll go change,” Simone said, conveniently leaving Tobias out of the loop. She disappeared around the corner, then reappeared a moment later. “You’ve got a car, right?” she asked him.

“No,” Tobias answered, “I thought we’d take a cab.” Simone gave him a look of exaggerated impatience.

“We have to have a car. Where are we going to stash all the bags, silly? Call for one. I’ll only be a few minutes,” she directed him.

Tobias did as he was told, his annoyance with this whole prospect growing rapidly. Maybe there was a way he could ditch the lot of them, like sneaking out the back door of the restaurant or something. Going to the chichi spots they were settled on meant there’d be no hope of studio time later on.

He could see it now: after a couple of bottles of Prosecco, they’d order a bottle or two of red wine, then they’d pile into the limo, only to stop somewhere after a few minutes for an iced double espresso and a tiramisu, which would end up taking another hour or so. Then they would have to make a mad dash to hit all their favorite boutiques before they closed. Then they’d be so wound up they’d need a cocktail or two in order to regain their previously mellow state.

Tobias shook his head. Well, what did he expect? It was his own fault for having an affair with a woman not in his own age bracket. This was the price he had to pay for hanging with models. It wasn’t such a bad scene when he was twenty years younger.

But it seemed time had played a cruel trick on him, allowing him to age, while every year the models got younger and younger. He supposed he should thank his lucky stars Simone was now at least old enough to drink legally. The other two were so tall and mature-looking for their age, they never got carded, even though Winston was only twenty, and Josh barely nineteen.

Simone and Winston reappeared, arm in arm, Simone wearing a skirt so low and short it could pass as an oversize cummerbund, a denim jacket and gladiator stilettos, and Winston in his drawstring khakis, Sex Pistols T-shirt and flip-flops.

Tobias removed the dark glasses from his pocket and pulled his cap down tightly on his head. He’d have to stay incognito for the rest of the day, for cameras were sure to be flashing. It was possible to avoid the paparazzi when out with just Simone, if he kept a low profile. But it was unavoidable when he had all three Stapletons in tow. Tobias let out a sigh. If that was the way his day was going to play out, he might as well enjoy it. After all, he would be paying through the nose for it, regardless.

Three

Philip rode the elevator to the top floor of 4848 Park Avenue, to what had once been a buzzing hive of creative activity. At its peak, Glessner & Associates had a staff of twenty-nine, including seven other architects.

Now, all that remained was a loosely supervised group of part time agency staffers, who did little more than deflect inquires and complaints and redirect the mail. Fortunately for Philip, it was possible for him to enter his private office undetected, where he could work around the clock if he chose, and never even hear the comings and goings of the strangers in his employ, a fact he took great comfort in.

There wasn’t much for Philip to do in his office these days; the projects that hadn’t been in the final phases at the time of the collapse had been pulled from his firm as soon as the crisis broke. It had only compounded his agony that many of these clients were now refusing to pay for the services thus far rendered, the general attitude being Glessner & Associates would have to come after the money if they wanted it.

There had been a brief period in which the calamity had a unifying affect among his employees, as they all banded together to defend the integrity of the firm. But that esprit de corps evaporated once they figured out the bad publicity would tarnish their reputations as well. Soon Philip had a huge, rambling office and hardly anyone to fill it.

It became too painful for him to put up an optimistic front for the few diehard loyalists who had for one reason or another vowed to stay on, so Philip finally decided to cut them loose and replace them with temps who neither knew nor cared about his illustrious past. This made it easier for him to face his office, where he continued to show up daily, out of habit and a lack of having anywhere else to go. He was loath to spend any more time than absolutely necessary in the posh but sterile apartment his friends had loaned him while he sorted out the hash his life had become.

Fortunately, Frank’s Coffee Shop had become an anonymous refuge for him, a place where he could pass the better part of his mornings, a safety zone so utterly foreign to his world, it served as a secret port where he could hide out and evade his troubles for a while. At least now his entire day did not consist of melancholy musings in his grand corner office.

When he could get up the energy, Philip would while away the time by admiring his scale models or reviewing the plans he and his staff had designed back in their glory days. Or, if he had enough good spirits left in him from his brief visits with Priscilla, he would spend a few hours sketching elaborate edifices that were doomed never to be constructed. During those pleasant diversions, he could successfully lose sight of the fact his life had imploded.

Today he made an effort to hold tight to the warm, peaceful sensation that watching his favorite waitress gave him. He got so much out of being in her presence, he had assigned almost magical powers to her. To Martin, Priscilla may be simply a lowbred peon, but that was because he was still too caught up in the superficialities of life to appreciate the wisdom that comes with years of settling for less.

Philip realized that had he not been dealt the triple blow of public disgrace, dissolution of his company, and divorce, he too would’ve been fixated on his professional image and success, and all the baggage that comes with such obsessions. As it was, Philip had developed a near Zen-like attitude toward material goods, which was probably a wise thing, as he was about to lose virtually everything he had accumulated over his illustrious and productive career.

Despite the positive effects from his morning at Frank’s, a certain wistfulness settled on Philip as he entered his office. It was an uncommonly clear and beautiful day, the forest of skyscrapers that made up Manhattan glowing in the midmorning sun. It was one of those sights that made it difficult to imagine all was not right in the world. Philip gravitated slowly to the corner window, where he stood mesmerized by the view, until harsh reality once again hit him: he was no longer a driving force in the world he now surveyed.

He pulled away from the window, feeling like a fraud. He doubted there was anyone who didn’t think differently of him now. His own mother seemed resigned to the notion that his life had taken a tragic and irreversible turn. No one had faith in him anymore. Even his seven-year-old daughter seemed to think of him as a pitiful dope, incapable of handling the simplest tasks without her assistance.

Philip slid listlessly into his leather chair, running his hand down his face as his future passed before his eyes. It was a grim one, filled with an endless parade of days equal in meaninglessness to this one, though eventually he wouldn’t even have this office to hole up in. His attorney had been pressing him to sublease the floor in order to generate some much-needed cash flow. Naturally, Martin’s reasons were purely self-serving.

Philip straightened in his chair and assessed his surroundings. The walls of his vast office were covered with awards and citations, photos of him with notables—several mayors and governors, celebrities and other distinguished folks, at awards banquets, building dedications and society galas. He had been lauded at regular intervals throughout his career, practically every year since he ventured out on his own. He had enjoyed all the hype and prestige. His long string of professional achievements had opened doors, which in turn led to greater acclaim.

As Philip wandered about taking in the archived progress of his career, he began to assess the changes that had taken place in Marianne over the sixteen years of their marriage. In the earliest photo, she appeared shy and demure next to him and former Mayor Koch. It was almost touching to see Marianne and him standing side by side in those earlier, more innocent times. How sweet she had been in the beginning, how proud she was at having such a clever and inspired husband. What a stunning couple they had been; what sad, embittered rivals they had become.

If Marianne had relished the status of being married to him, the same would have to be said for Philip. He could remember watching her as the limo ferried them home after a gala at the Met, her eyes fixed on an inner replay of the success the evening had been. She had been introduced to every mover and shaker, every society matron, every Wall Street wizard. There wasn’t a soul there who didn’t come away thinking what a fetching young bride Philip Glessner had found.

He snorted a bitter laugh at the realization that he had unintentionally nurtured in Marianne a lust for heightened social standing. How naïve he’d been not to guess all the glamour and prestige would take root and become the driving force of Marianne’s existence. As if Philip needed proof of exactly where they now stood as husband and wife, his eyes guided him to one of the last pictures taken of them, ironically enough, at the dedication ceremony for the Phoenix Tower.

There had been several functions of this sort since that event, but it was the last one Marianne could bother herself to attend. Even in that last photo, one could see her detachment from the proceedings and from Philip in general. It struck him that the collapse of the Phoenix had given Marianne the convenient out she had been looking for. Her detachment from her husband was obvious in the way she gazed at the photographer’s lens with a mixture of disdain and boredom.

If the caissons for the Phoenix hadn’t given way, how then would their marriage have played out? Philip wondered if he would have his nose in a set of blueprints at that very moment, blissfully ignorant of the state of his marriage. He imagined it would’ve suited Marianne fine, just as long as she continued to have unfettered spending privileges.

But when he studied the photo again, he knew she wouldn’t have endured her apathy without exacting some sort of compensation. By the cut of her suit and the price of the designer clutch tucked casually in the crook of her arm, Philip realized that a woman who spends as much time and money on looking ‘just so’ would not waste the results on her workaholic husband, too absorbed in his work to fully appreciate the effect.

Now that he had sorted out the past enough to know it wasn’t as he once imagined, his thoughts turned cautiously to the future. He knew he still possessed a limitless talent for design, though he found it hard to believe there was anyone in the city who was willing to take him on as a draftsman, let alone executive architect.

If he wanted to continue working—and he’d have to in order to eat and make his outrageous child support and alimony payments—he’d probably have to relocate somewhere far from New York. But where would he go? Alabama? New Mexico? Wyoming?

He seriously doubted his scale of design could be supported in non-metropolitan areas. Blueprints for grocery stores and strip malls stretched out in his mind’s eye, giving him a vaguely queasy feeling. No, he could never imagine leaving the city. Besides, he needed to be there for Caitlin. So what were his alternatives?

As he pondered the dilemma, he was assailed by a fresh new horror. He had become accustomed to these ragged bolts of anxiety which struck him regularly since his downfall, but this fear was all the more frightening as it had not yet occurred to him.

He had been so preoccupied with the lawsuits and his pending divorce, he had overlooked the very real possibility that—despite Marianne’s claims to the contrary—he could lose Caitlin. If he failed to find decent employment and couldn’t supply a suitable environment for her weekly visitations, Marianne would undoubtedly haul him into court and have his rights revoked.

Or what if Marianne decided to pack up and move to Italy? Or worse yet, what if she, out of pure spitefulness, sent Caitlin off to boarding school in Switzerland or France? Philip grew pale as he imagined the worst.

Of all the misfortunes that had befallen him, the prospect of not seeing Caitlin every day was by far his most serious fear. She had been the joy of his life since the day she was born, and though he’d like to believe she depended on him for love and support, in truth he was far more dependent on her than he could bear to admit. Even more so now that he was no longer the self-assured, highly respected architect he had once been.

Yet another frightening thought now shook him to his foundation: what if Caitlin lost interest in seeing him because he was not her famous daddy anymore? What if she lost all respect for him, like the rest of the world had? How horrible it had to be for her now that his name conjured up only visions of a sinking building and dozens of displaced and irate residents.

Philip shook his head, feeling more ashamed of his fate than ever before. There was only one way to overcome his plight, and that was to ride out this nightmare and rise to even greater heights.

His rollercoaster of emotional rises and dips plunged him to subterranean depths when he was forced to admit the unlikelihood of being given another break professionally. It was a good idea in theory, for he had not lost confidence in his talent. But the fact remained his ability to rebound rested more with others than with himself. An architect could design till his heart’s content, but he would only be paid when someone would be brave enough to engage him.

His shameful lack of prospects kept Philip staring into space for a full half-hour before he snapped out of his trance. He glanced at his watch; only quarter to one and he was already bored out of his mind. Reflexively, he took a pen out of his desk drawer and began doodling on his blotter, creating wispy, fairytale-like castles on one half, then switching to bold, modern structures of epic proportions on the other.

Somewhere in his mindless doodling, thoughts of Priscilla crept into his head. A big, loopy smile spread over his features as he ripped the top sheet off his blotter and set to work covering another. Priscilla, Priscilla; even the sound of her name made him happy. His smile stretched into a grin as he thought of her sailing through her mundane job, seemingly unaffected by the tediousness of it, immune to the social pressures to aspire to some more rewarding profession.

The fact was, Philip knew little about the waitress he had become so attached to, but he believed there was a lot more to her than she was willing to reveal. She had found a way to detach herself, and it was her aloofness that most appealed to him. Priscilla didn’t need anyone; her attitude made that loud and clear. She was a survivor, someone who could take whatever life felt like dishing out. She had an air about her that made Philip believe she had already experienced far worse than he could ever imagine, yet she was still standing, still taking life’s crude insults without ever breaking her stride.

As Philip ripped the third sheet from his blotter, a wildly optimistic idea occurred to him. It was crazy, but the more he thought of it, the more he became convinced it was the right thing to do. But how should he approach it? Should he come right out and ask, “Priscilla, would you like to go out with me sometime?”

Just hearing those words in his mind made him grimace. He would have to be subtler than that, and he would have to find a way to do it that wouldn’t put her on the spot. But coming up with the right tactic would require thought. As his best inspirations often came to him while wandering around the city, Philip grabbed his jacket and locked his door, leaving his worries behind for a few tranquil hours.

Four

Priscilla pushed through the door of her third-floor walk-up on the lower Eastside, more sweaty and aggravated than usual. The day had become far too warm to warrant the heavy wool coat that weighted her down as she trudged up all twenty-eight steps to her dark, poorly ventilated quarters.

She had initially taken her rent-controlled apartment with the understanding that the elevator was only temporarily out of order, only to find out after she moved in it hadn’t been operational since Eisenhower was in office. The ancient relic was now too outmoded to be repaired and the landlord was too much of a skinflint to spring for a new one. The tenants grumbled over this fact every time they hauled bags and parcels up the dilapidated stairs, especially those unfortunate enough to live on the fourth floor.

Priscilla kicked the door closed behind her, plopping her bags and newspapers on the closest chair while she struggled to free herself from the oppressive heat of her pea coat. She was sick of the necessity of wearing winter clothes and she was relieved that spring was finally starting to show itself.

She wadded up the badly worn garment and threw it on the floor of her cramped coat closet, certain in her over-heated condition she wouldn’t need it for a long time to come, preferably never. She was sick to death of freezing four months out of the year. As far as she was concerned, this “global warming” environmentalists warned of couldn’t come soon enough.

She kicked off her shoes and opened her only two windows, the small one over her kitchen sink and the somewhat larger one in her bedroom, conjuring up a cross-breeze that set her various piles of notebooks fluttering.

She unbuttoned her shirt as she walked to her fridge and stood there with her top open, luxuriating in the refreshing wafts of cold air as she hunted for something to drink. All she had was a can of V-8, opened too long ago to still be any good, and a couple cans of grapefruit juice, leftovers from some crackpot diet. Her mouth puckered just looking at it. She settled instead for a half-empty bottle of flat seltzer water and poured it into a glass filled with ice.

As she cooled down, her mood improved, and after a few minutes of sprawling across her tattered futon, she got up and began to put her groceries away. Her cooking expertise didn’t go much further than spaghetti or grilled cheese sandwiches, so her grocery shopping didn’t require much time or imagination. If she was feeling especially flush, she might pick up a T-bone steak or a couple pork chops, though they never tasted all that great when she cooked them.

Occasionally she went out, but the places she could afford were all too reminiscent of places where she’d worked, and not very appealing. Once in a while she would get nostalgic for the boyfriends she’d had over the years who were fond of cooking, but as soon as the images of their tempting specialties popped into her head, so did the memories of why exactly those various chefs weren’t in her kitchen anymore.

She had just put the last box of macaroni and cheese in her cupboard when she heard a knock at her door. Wishfully thinking she’d find old Mildred Saunders, Priscilla opened the door without bothering to look through her peephole. Instead of finding her diminutive neighbor bearing freshly baked goodies—one of the few perks of living in that building—she found the not so welcome sight of Brawny, her second-to-last boyfriend.

Appropriately nicknamed, Brawny was six-foot-something, depending on how he was slouched, weighing in at two hundred forty pounds, all of it solid muscle, including what rested between his ears. Curled against his forearm and bicep was a brown paper bag, undoubtedly containing a six-pack of whatever beer happened to be on sale at the gas-station-slash-mini-mart where he was employed as a tow-truck operator.

“How ya doin’, Sammy?” he asked. Priscilla, hands on her hips, said nothing. “Just got off work an’ thought I’d stop by,” he offered amiably, again with no reply from Priscilla. He regarded her rather petulantly for a moment before she relented and let him in.

“I’m not exactly in your neighborhood anymore, Brawn,” Priscilla said as she closed the door behind him, “so how did I get so lucky?”

“C’mon, Sammy. Can’t a guy stop by and see his ex without having a reason?” Brawny replied, feigning injured feelings.

“I’m not just your ex—I’m your ex twice removed. I would’ve thought I’d fallen off the roster by now.”

She sat down on her futon and did nothing to make her guest feel at home. After an awkward moment, Brawny pantomimed with a backward wave of his thumb his desire to stash his beer in her fridge. Priscilla acknowledged his request with the merest nod of her head, which he took as a yes. He returned a minute later with a beer in each hand, extending one to his hostess before taking a seat on Priscilla’s only semi-comfortable chair.

She took the can and eyed it skeptically, as if she wasn’t sure what to do with it. She noticed that Brawny had made the uncommonly gallant gesture of opening it for her. Instead of taking a sip, she lifted her hair and held it to her neck. She caught Brawny smiling at her in a shy, almost coy way that really irritated her. She gave him a hard look and he wisely lowered his gaze to his beer.

“So, what is it?” she asked, knowing Brawny too well to believe he had made this social call on a whim. He started to protest, but thought better of it.

“Aw, it was just one of those days at work,” he said dismissively.

Priscilla’s breathy snort indicated she knew where this was headed. “Don’t tell me—was it an especially gory pile up on the GW Bridge, or maybe a motorist driving the wrong direction through the Holland Tunnel?” she asked. The acid sting of Priscilla’s question left Brawny unfazed. Either he had become inured to Priscilla’s sarcasm, or he was too preoccupied by his own thoughts to notice it. In any event, he sat hunched over his beer, staring into space.

“It was one of the worst ones I seen yet, Sammy,” he said, his eyes glazing over. He plowed on, oblivious to Priscilla’s growing discomfort. “It was out on the Jersey Pike. I had just gotten back in the cab when I got the call. It turns out I’m within a mile of the accident. It was just my luck I got there before the ambulance or the State Troopers.

“As soon as I come up on it, I get this sinking feeling. For one thing, the car looks like half a car, like it had been cut in half right down the middle. But it ain’t. The other half is smashed clear inside, like someone was tryin’ to turn it inside out. As I pull up to it, I see a semi up ahead with its hazards flashing, which explained what happened to the car. But then the other thing I notice right away is that it had been a brand-spankin’ new vehicle—doesn’t even have plates yet, just the paper tags from the dealer—Wendell Imports.”

As Brawny spoke, Priscilla could see him fall into the same predictable pattern that had finally driven her over the edge. She cocked her beer and drank it a third of the way down in one swallow.

“And then I see an arm dangling out the smashed-in side in a way that weren’t natural.”

“Brawny—”

“I pull up in front of the white Jetta, and I see in the rearview what was left of the windshield—”

“Brawny, stop.”

“—dark stuff running down behind the deflated airbags, the whole thing is sprayed with blood—red everywhere.” Priscilla stood, her agitation making her heart pound. Brawny was visibly shaking now, his mouth quivering with emotion. “I’m not going to make a move till EMS gets there, but I can’t take my eyes off the mirror.”

“Okay, I get the picture. Now the best thing to do is put it out of your mind,” Priscilla said, her voice suddenly calm and instructive.

“But Sammy, I can’t. It took for-fuckin’-ever for the paramedics to show up, and I’m sittin’ there and I see something movin’. I get out—I had to—and I go to the not smashed-in side, and pressed up against the cracked window was this girl’s face. ‘Help me,’ she says. I can’t really hear her, ’cause now the sirens are wailing, but I can read her lips. I yank on the door as hard as I can, but the damn thing is sealed shut. I want to break away the glass and try to open it from the inside, but I was afraid of hurting her more. Hold on, I tell her—the ambulance is right here.”

“Brawny, don’t do this to yourself.”

“But then her eyes closed. I could feel in the pit of my stomach she was gone. I hung around praying to myself as they pried open the good side with the Jaws of Life. They peeled her out and, shit, the other one—what was left of him. It was a boy, the one who’d been driving. They were kids, Sammy—couldn’t be more than eighteen, the pair of them. Probably high school sweethearts out for a spin in his graduation present.” Brawny’s features crumbled with the onslaught of tears.

Priscilla sank resignedly down on the arm of the chair and let her hand rest tentatively on his back. Brawny covered his face and gave himself up to a full-fledged breakdown. Priscilla bit her lip, angry that she had allowed Brawny to suck her into his recurring melodramas, but still feeling too much compassion to tell him to hit the road.

If there was another woman in his life—and she had never known of a time when there wasn’t—then it should be his current babe’s responsibility to pick up the pieces of this shattered giant and put him back together. It was no longer her job. She’d been relieved of that duty when she gave up the relative pleasures of having him as the steady man in her life. She realized how ironic it was that she should think of the word ‘steady’ in association with this overly-susceptible hulk, a man who had the outwardly appearance of immense strength, yet was so vulnerable on the inside, he often felt other’s troubles more painfully than his own.

If Brawny hadn’t been in such a state, she would have laughed out loud. What was it about her that made her a magnet for the downtrodden, the morose and the cursed? Why had her life been filled with a non-stop parade of unfortunate souls who were doomed to a life of continual disappointments and calamities?

This was the same question she had posed to herself countless times, and she had long ago figured out the answer. It was her fate to have her life populated with habitual losers. And when she was up to admitting it, she acknowledged that being surrounded by Darwinian failures qualified her as a loser herself.

Priscilla patted Brawny on the back and got up to fetch some tissues. He blubbered away unselfconsciously until she tapped him on the shoulder and thrust the box of tissues at him. She sat down on the old trunk that served as her coffee table and waited while Brawny mopped his face and blew his nose, a great honking noise that she hadn’t missed in the least.

“Feel better?” she asked when he was finished. Brawny sniffed twice and nodded. He picked up his beer and drained it.

“Would you mind getting me another one, Sammy?” he asked in a hoarse whisper. Priscilla held her tongue and took the outstretched can from him while he made a great show of regaining his composure.

One more and then he’s out of here, Priscilla told herself as she grabbed a fresh beer for both of them. She set the can on the trunk in front of him and reseated herself on the futon, placing the new beer behind the unfinished one. She didn’t know why she had gotten a second beer for herself, when it was unlikely she’d finish the first. She saw Brawny had also noticed this detail, undoubtedly calculating how long he could string out his visit.

Should have brought a twelve-pack, he thought regrettably, as he carefully rationed his intake.

Priscilla sighed heavily and leaned back against her flattened pillows. She stared up at the ceiling for a couple of minutes, biding her time until she could be alone with her thoughts. She had long ago lost the energy for trying to urge Brawny into finding a less problematic line of work. The big knucklehead wasn’t cut out for much more than driving a tow truck. She had often suggested he get into construction—there was always a need for brute strength on building sites, regardless of mental aptitude.

But as much as Brawny suffered from his occasional encounters with highway casualties, he seemed to see himself inextricably linked to his profession, as if it were his calling or something. She knew firsthand how completely he assumed his role of roadside hero, because that was how they met.

She and a friend were quarrelling over missing a concert at Madison Square Garden thanks to the friend’s ancient Fiat, when Brawny’s massive truck pulled up in front of them and swiftly backed into position. Their grievances died on their tongues as Brawny purposefully jumped from the cab, and squatting down to their level, smiled confidently at them. Priscilla forgot all about the concert as they rode to the garage in Brawny’s cab, a cozy fit for the three of them. So cozy in fact, Priscilla didn’t hesitate when Brawny asked for her number.

But that was ancient history, and some time before Priscilla figured out Brawny was yet another emotional defective. She realized now that she was a beacon for misfits, a safe refuge for those unqualified to navigate life’s twists and turns. Brawny had finally taught her to be wary of possible suitors, and Ryan—her last boyfriend—had underscored the lesson.

Now, whenever anyone made advances, no matter how subtle, an alarm sounded in her brain warning her to run the other way. Phil, her lonely-hearted heavy tipper, was her latest example. The way he gawked at her gave her the willies. She didn’t know how a man who dressed as well as he did could have such bad luck. Nor did she have any idea what particular fate he was suffering. But she could tell by the intensity of his gaze it had to be terrible.

Lost in contemplation, Priscilla forgot about her visitor until he reseated himself after grabbing another beer. Far from being perturbed, Brawny took Priscilla’s extended silence as a comforting sign. Priscilla, on the other hand, found herself annoyed all over again by the unwelcome sight of Brawny the Bawler perched companionably on her chair. She straightened up, took a quick swig of her warmish beer, and stood.

“Well, thanks for stopping by, Brawn,” she said as a prelude to goodbye. Brawny, surprised by this sudden change of plans, stood up hesitantly.

“I don’t need to leave yet, Sammy,” he said.

“Yeah, you do. I need you to leave now,” she said, turning toward the door.

“But Sammy…I was kind of hopin’ that me and you could, you know, kinda get reacquainted, so to speak,” Brawny said, taking Priscilla by the arm and turning her around to face him.

“Take your hand off me, Brawny. Now,” she said, the glint in her eyes so hard, it startled even Brawny, who was no stranger to such looks.

“C’mon, Sammy. There ain’t no harm in two old flames getting together for some brand new fireworks,” Brawny said boldly, though he had been prudent enough to let go of Priscilla’s arm first.

“Take that theory to one of your other ex-girlfriends. Seeing you reduced to tears is hardly what I’d call an aphrodisiac,” Priscilla said, turning her back on him again, this time leaving him to stammer as she deposited his last beer in the brown paper bag and thrust it at him.

“It ain’t fair to criticize me ’cause I happen to be in a dangerous line of work,” Brawny said defensively.

Priscilla rolled her eyes. “We’ve been over this a thousand times, and frankly Brawny, you’re not my problem anymore. Let whoever’s sharing your bed now debate the compulsion/revulsion you have toward your job. I got tired of beating my head against that wall a long time ago.”

“But I love my work—”

“Go.”

“You don’t—”

“Get out. I don’t want to hear another word.”

Brawny closed his mouth and opened the door. He walked out and stopped on the other side of the threshold. “You need me, Sammy, just as much as I need you. But you’re just afraid to admit it,” he said.

Priscilla barked at his erroneous assumption. “If I ever need you, Brawny, I’ll be sure to let you know. But between now and when hell freezes over, you can rest assured I don’t really need anyone. And if I can manage to steer clear of men for the rest of my days, I’ll consider myself lucky,” she said.

“I think you’ve got the wrong attitude,” Brawny said, sounding suddenly superior.

“Oh, spare me,” Priscilla said as she closed the door in his face, locking all three bolts for emphasis.

She was alone now, but the negative effects of Brawny’s visit lingered. It irritated her that he could barge in on her and drive her totally batty in under thirty minutes. It had to be God’s little reminder that she should never allow herself to be persuaded by sweet-talking men, however good looking. No matter what they promised, their own needs were their true agenda.

Again, she was reminded of Phil, which increased her irritation. She didn’t want to think of Phil that way. Phil was too nice a guy to have to put up a barrier against. That made it a double affront to her. Why should she be put in the position of having to be the hard-ass in order to keep herself out of harm’s way?

There ought to be some sort of mechanism to send signals from one person to another, advising which avenue to take before approaching. She would like to have a sign flashing on her forehead that said, “Sure, I like you, but keep your distance.” Then it would be possible to interact with someone like Phil without having to balance his doting admiration with her hard-won skepticism.

As it was, she had to face him every day knowing he was unaccountably gaga over her, a condition she was sure would change as soon as his luck did. That was another thing that irked her; she was a certain Phil’s dire straits were only temporary, so it wasn’t fair that he should think he was smitten with her, when that role was reserved for those who are truly jinxed.

Priscilla sighed and went in search of her purse. She had been interrupted so soon after getting home, she hadn’t had the chance to perform her daily ritual of caching the day’s loot. She sat down on the chair recently vacated by Brawny and took out her green zippered pouch.

She withdrew the wad of bills and counted, segregating Phil’s twenty from the rest. A whopping sixty-three dollars, plus the eighteen that she had spent at the market, was all she had to show for her eight-hour shift.

She tucked the twenty-dollar bill into her pocket in order to stash it with the rest of Phil’s offerings. She then removed the two new drawings he had left for her and got up to put them with the others.

She pulled down a box from the top of her closet that had once contained the only nice present Ryan had ever bought for her, a strapless cocktail dress from Macy’s, which she later learned he got off the final markdown rack. The zipper had long been broken, but the box had come in handy as a place to stash all the paper placemats Phil was fond of decorating for her.

She opened the box hastily and stowed the new drawings inside, without hazarding a glance at the ever-growing collection. She didn’t understand why he felt compelled to make these daily drawings or why he purposefully left them as mementos for her, nor did she want to.

It was obvious enough that Phil was going through a difficult time, her best guess being a divorce. The presence of his daughter at half of his breakfast pilgrimages had been hint number one. Had he not been on the outs with his wife, Priscilla seriously doubted she would allow their daughter, clad in a private school uniform, to frequent such a seedy dive.

Having a breakfast meeting there with his attorney seemed to underscore her suspicion. If Phil was so distraught by the breakup of his marriage that Frank’s Heartburn-O-Rama had taken a meaningful place in his life, there was no doubt his infatuation with her was merely a symptom of rebounditis, a condition that cured itself with the inevitable tiring of the first available substitute to happen along.

Still, she found it impossible to discard all of his tributes at this stage of the game. There was just something so innocent and endearing about them, despite the growing sense of foreboding they gave her.

Priscilla returned the dress box to the shelf and pulled down the smaller box next to it. In this one went the tips of the day, minus Phil’s, to be used for all practical expenses, like food, utilities and rent. She made a quick count of the funds accumulated so far, figuring she was about on par with her monthly debts.

Relieved of any guilt about secreting Phil’s money away, she replaced the box and went to her dresser where she fished out the orphan sock she kept hidden in the bottom of her drawer, stuffed to bursting with currency. She sat down on the bed and counted the stack of twenties—one hundred and sixty four in all—a total of thirty-two hundred and eighty dollars, including the most recent donation—given to her by her mixed-up admirer over the last eight months.

She slapped the weight of her impressive stack against her hand. This was starting to add up to something; what exactly, she didn’t know. In the beginning, after she had collected a week’s worth of tips because of the sheer novelty of it, she used to daydream about what she would do with this nice little bonus.

But time passed and the wad grew, and now she didn’t like to think of spending it at all. It was her nest egg, something she’d never had before. She had decided not to consider what possibilities it represented to her until the day when Phil came to his senses and went back to frequenting his Upper East haunts. When that time came, she would count her winnings and then determine just what her brief association with Phil had done for her.

Now that she had effectively dealt with the Phil dilemma for the time being, she threw herself across the bed, enjoying the sensation of pain shuddering down her legs and feet as it escaped her body. After lying there for a few minutes, luxuriating in doing nothing at all, she reached for the closest notebook and flipped through it until she found a blank page. Without getting up, she rummaged around her bedside table for a pen. She propped herself up on her side, and thinking back, recalled the words she had read over Tobias Jordan’s shoulder.

When she had reproduced the lyrics to the best of her recollection, she lay flat on the bed, notebook held above her head as she assessed the fledgling song. She was so familiar with the music of Absent Among Us, she had no trouble conjuring up guitar riffs, moody organ chords and female backup vocals to go along with this meager beginning. She was satisfied there was an acorn of hope for this humble start.

She smiled at their shared talent. But unlike Tobias, she didn’t possess the musical know-how necessary to turn her words into songs, and without that, her endless piles of lyric-filled notebooks were of no value. Of course, it didn’t surprise her she’d been given half a talent. It was just another cosmic joke to keep the fates amused.

As she studied the fledgling song, she began to crave more of the band’s handiwork. She rolled across the bed until she was able to see her CD collection and ran her fingers down the spines, pulling out every CD in their impressive collection. She picked up Seven Days till Heaven and sighed as she stared at Tobias Jordan’s defiant young face, his lanky frame clothed in jeans and black T-shirt bearing the phrase never happened across his chest.

He was looking at the camera with an expression that suggested he knew exactly where his career would take him, and he was not the least bit impressed. She tried to reconcile the contemptuous self-confidence with the man hiding behind baseball cap and dark glasses, lurking in Frank’s Coffee Shop, of all places. What had happened to him? Had he gone soft living the good life, turning himself into the butt-end of one of his own jokes? She laughed, appreciating the irony of the scornful becoming the scorned. But that only proved he was a mere mortal, after all.

Still, it was more than a tad disappointing to find that such an idealistic young man, one who had once scoffed at everything society held sacred, now seemed so skittish. But aside from the lost panache, she truly admired the man, not only for his capacity to write both words and music with extraordinary style and uncanny clarity, but also for the way his songs had touched her core.

Priscilla let the notebook fall to her side and smiled up at the ceiling. It was a pleasant yet novel sensation to be acquainted with a success story, however briefly. But the inevitable doubt crossed her mind: didn’t the fact that Tobias had passed into her realm of misfortune bode poorly for him? How could he possibly expect to wage a successful comeback after being tainted by her world?

This hypothesis left her in a quandary, for she naturally hoped to see him again, and maybe even get to know him a little. But at the same time, she would surely only get acquainted with a man on his descent from greatness.

Her eyes traced out shapes in the irregular texture of the plaster on the ceiling as she wondered if Tobias Jordan would ever show up in Frank’s Coffee Shop again. She picked up the notebook and rolled onto her left side, pen to paper.

Even as he watched her lips move

He could see she was slipping free

And all his words of comfort

Would not change her destiny

And while he tried to soothe her

In that brief, tragic reverie

He saw the girl she had been

And the woman she’d never be

They were just two strangers

Not a single thing in common

Yet this roadside hero would be

The last man she’d ever lay eyes on

Goodbye, sweet girl

Fly from me

Don’t think of what should’ve been

God has set you free

Goodbye, sweet girl

Do not cry

We all reach the same place

By and by.

Five

Priscilla was engaged in a particularly onerous debate with Frank regarding the proper length of time a waitress should spend conversing with a customer, when Philip walked in, as if on cue. Frank narrowed his eyes pointedly, as though Philip’s entrance underscored his argument. Priscilla glared at him as she snatched her ticket and arranged the hot plates along her arms.

“Sit anywhere you like, sir. I’ll be right with you,” she said for Frank’s benefit, as she passed Philip on her way to deliver two plates of corned beef hash, two sides of biscuits and gravy, one Denver omelet and a short stack with a side of sausage. Philip looked at her askance, puzzled by the sudden formality of her tone. The mystery became clearer as he caught sight of the little face peering over the pick-up window, flashing an unsettling smile his direction.

Philip’s brow wrinkled as he hesitantly returned Frank’s welcome. He seated himself and anticipation replaced his uncertainty. He was rearranging silverware and placemats, gearing up for his customary draw-a-thon, when Priscilla appeared at his side, wielding a pot of what passed for coffee. Philip placed his hand over the cup just as Priscilla was poised to fill it with the vile potion.

“I think I’ll have a cup of tea today, if it’s not too much trouble,” he said, smiling apologetically up at her.

“Wise choice, but I’m afraid there’s nothing more exciting to offer you than generic black tea,” Priscilla said, setting the coffee pot on the table and removing the pen from behind her right ear. She made the standard notations then returned her attention to Phil.

“That’ll be fine—the tea, I mean.” Priscilla nodded, expecting to hear more instructions. When it became apparent that none were forthcoming, she tucked her pad and pen in their carrying places and went to fetch Philip’s tea, leaving him to make a careful study of the menu.

The only drawback to Philip’s infatuation with Priscilla so far was the food he forced himself to eat. By now, he had exhausted every hope of finding something in Frank’s repertoire worth ordering a second time. When Priscilla returned with his tea, he was ready to skip the pretense of breakfast altogether, though he was afraid one pot of tea wouldn’t allow him sufficient time with Priscilla.

“What will it be today, Phil?” she asked as she arranged the metal teapot with its paper-wrapped teabag alongside the cup and saucer, with a lemon wedge tucked neatly on the side.

“Umm…” Philip stalled. “You know, I don’t know what I’m in the mood for today,” he hedged, a perplexed look on his face as he searched the list for the least risky option.

“How hungry are you?”

Philip waffled his hand in a so-so gesture. “I could eat, but…”

“Yeah, I know—the menu’s less than scintillating. I happen to know one or two things Frank can pull off without too much distortion. How ’bout I have him whip up one of my personal favorites for you? I guarantee it’ll be better than what you can find on here,” she said, as she relieved Philip of his menu. There was a look of such gratitude on his face, it was all Priscilla could do to keep from laughing.

“Thank you, Priscilla, thank you.”

“Hey, don’t thank me yet. Just because it’s better than the usual fare, doesn’t mean it’s any good,” she said with a sly smile, leaving Philip to stare after her with unrestrained admiration. What a marvel she is, he thought as he watched her go about the business of feeding the hungry.

Priscilla scribbled out her special order and hung it on the wheel, turning it toward Frank so she could point out this irregularity before he had a chance to make a scene about it.

“Wasshis?” he squawked.

“This customer wants a two egg omelet with cream cheese and green onions, a side of sliced tomatoes and whole wheat toast—just like it says.”

“Two egg same as three,” Frank protested.

“Yes, Frank. The customer is aware of that fact and is willing to foot the expense.”

“No substitution—it say so on menu,” Frank pointed out vigorously. Priscilla smiled patiently as he rambled, refusing to let him carry this thing too far.

“True, Frank, but this man has paid you the great compliment of dining at your establishment every day for the last eight months. Surely such a devoted customer deserves a little special treatment, don’t you think?” she said calmly.

Frank softened visibly at this flattery. “Wish won?” he asked, standing on tiptoes to see over the counter.

“The man sitting in the third booth from the door.”

“Why he have booth if only one order?” he asked hotly.

“That’s his favorite table. He always sits there, usually with his daughter, but she’s on a fieldtrip to Boston with her private school classmates,” Priscilla said, in a tone of voice that made it sound as if she were letting him in a hot bit of gossip.

“Ah,” Frank said, still mystified but unwilling to show it. “Okay, one time,” he relented.

“If he likes it, Frank, he’ll probably order it again, seeing as he does come here every day.” Frank started to complain, but she headed him off. “It’s the price you pay in service to the public, Frank. You’ve got to remember that,” she said blithely as she collected assorted condiments to take to a table. Frank began to stammer, but June preempted him with an offensive of her own.

“Frank—look alive. I’ve got a seven-top here. It gets a little complicated ’cause some are ordering sides and some are sharing sides and three are starting with grapefruit and two with Danishes—you following me?” June said, turning to give Priscilla a wink. “See, I need the grapefruit and the Danish at the same time because the Danishes have to leave for a meeting, got it?”

Priscilla was just rounding the counter when she caught sight of Tobias out of the corner of her eye as he entered the door. She was a little surprised to see him, and still more surprised that he actually looked straight at her—or at least she thought he did, though she couldn’t be sure what exactly was going on behind those dark glasses.

She delivered her order and gave Tobias a moment to settle himself—in her section again, she noticed. She hadn’t mentioned to June that a rock ‘n roll icon was becoming a regular. She suspect June had never heard of Absent Among Us, being a Georgia-born, diehard country music fan.

Besides, if June knew Tobias’s identity, she might make a stink about sharing the privilege of waiting on him, on principle alone. As it was, Tobias Jordan was just another guy with a penchant for dark clothing, as far as June was concerned, which was hardly made him a standout in New York.

Priscilla grabbed a fresh pot of coffee and headed for his table. Tobias saw her as she approached and flipped his cup right side up. For the first time in a long time, Priscilla suddenly found herself at a loss for words. An awkward silence hovered between them as she poured the coffee and pulled out her pen and pad.

She felt she should say something, but she was afraid of sounding too familiar. In her mind she had traveled across the barrier of introduction, but of course, Tobias wasn’t aware of that. Judging by the Yankees cap and glasses, he believed he was disguised, and that she didn’t know him from the next guy. Far be it from her to disabuse him of this comforting notion.

“Are you ready to order?” she asked, only hazarding the briefest glance at him. Oddly, Tobias seemed relaxed, almost friendly. She almost thought he seemed happy to see her.

“Yeah. Bring me two eggs scrambled, rye toast and… are the hash browns those frozen things?”

“Afraid so.”

“How about the ‘home-style’ potatoes?”

“Frank makes those himself. They’re a much safer bet,” she said, as she collected Tobias’s menu.

“Okay, I’ll have those instead. And a glass of tomato juice.”

“You got it,” she said, making eye contact for the second time. His smile threw her. She was expecting an icy reception after their last meeting.

Much to her annoyance, she felt flustered, and she could feel Tobias’s eyes watching every move she made. It was one thing to have Phil gazing after her like a lovesick teenager—that she could handle. But she much preferred it when the famous rock star was intent on anonymity, vaguely resentful that she had to speak to him it all. Funny how that had changed, and it was now she who felt like hiding behind something.

Fortunately, her job was so fast-paced she didn’t have time to dwell on personal feelings for very long. By the time Tobias’s order was ready, she had regained her usual composure.

“Can I get you anything else right now?” she asked, her old aloofness and sense of control securely reestablished. Tobias barely acknowledged her this time. He was once again preoccupied with the slippery beginnings of a new song. Now that she was mentally prepared for his newfound familiarity, his disinterest irked her slightly. She grabbed pots of hot water and coffee and refilled the cups in her station. It was a pleasant contrast to have absurdly loyal and cheerful Phil eagerly awaiting her visit.

“How did you like the omelet?” she asked as she poured more hot water into his teapot.

“It was just perfect,” he said, leaning back to let Priscilla remove his plate. He must have liked it, because it was the first time he had eaten every scrap of his breakfast. “Thank you very much for ordering it for me.”

“Not a problem,” she replied, craning her head to make out all the doodles on Philip’s placemat.

“No peeking yet,” he said, covering the drawings with his arms. Priscilla laughed, shaking her head. It amused her that this distinguished man was really just a child at heart.

“Can I get you anything else?” she asked, automatically totaling his ticket. Philip never wanted anything else; most people didn’t. Only a few who were hell-bent on heart disease were indulgent enough to order a slice of pie after the standard carb and fat overload.

“No, maybe just another smile” he said coyly. She grunted good-naturedly and moved on.

Priscilla realized there was some strange current running through her day when she rounded the corner of the kitchen with Philip’s empty plates, only to be ambushed by her wiry boss.

“Jesus, Frank—you shouldn’t lurk in the doorway like that. June and I come through here like our tails are on fire,” she said peevishly. She deposited the dirty dishes in a bus tray, and was startled to find her employer was still stuck to her like chewing gum. “What’s on your mind, Frank?” she said, as she took the opportunity to sort through her tickets.

“How he like?”

“Who? What?”

“Special egg—how he like?’

“Oh…he loved it. Said to give his compliments to the chef,” she said, executing a fancy roll of the hand as she backed away. She resumed sorting through her tickets, assuming their conversation was finished.

“I say hi to him—he tell me hisself,” Frank suggested brightly.

“Yeah, you go do that, Frank,” Priscilla said, shaking her head in mild bafflement. She busied herself with side work, doing her best to ignore him. In a minute, though, she caught sight of her boss, resplendent in his filthy cook’s uniform, cruising through the tables. She was standing there, mouth agape, when June appeared by her side.

“Who in hell-fire let him loose?” she asked, as the two of them watched in amazement as he greeted his surprised customers.

“He took himself out for a walk,” Priscilla answered. “Hey, don’t ask me. This whole day feels extra weird to me,” she said.

“We got to get him back in here,” June said, alarmed by the strange looks on her customers’ faces as he departed their tables. “It’s bad enough to eat his cooking without the compounded agony of having to hear him speak.”

June’s words sunk in, and in a heartbeat, both waitresses were out of the kitchen like a shot. To Priscilla’s horror, Frank had passed on from a mildly confused Phil to an unwelcoming Tobias. Priscilla grabbed a pot of coffee and prepared to run interference.

“How you like egg?” Frank was demanding of the attention-shy celebrity when she came to his rescue.

“Well, he managed to eat it, Frank, so I guess we need to give him credit for that,” she said, as she wedged herself between the two men on the pretext of filling Tobias’s nearly full cup.

“Wa credit? No take credit,” Frank protested in his usual semi-hysterical fashion.

“That’s not what I meant. He ate it, so obviously it was fine. You know, I just saw June hang a couple orders. No time to rest on your laurels, Frank. Can’t keep your customers waiting,” Priscilla patiently instructed her employer. She narrowed her eyes to convey the significance of her meaning, but as usual, Frank missed the point.

“I go to kitchen—make more good food,” he said uncertainly.

“That’s right, Frank. Your customers need you in the kitchen more than they do out here.”

“Customers need more good food,” he said nodding. Priscilla nodded along with him. “Oh yes,” he squealed with delight, “must make more good food.” Priscilla let out a sigh of relief as she watched Frank make his way back to his post, only briefly accosting two other diners along the way.

“I assume you’re done with these,” she said to Tobias as she cleared his plates. She caught sight of his lyric-covered placemat, but she carefully averted her eyes this time.

“What was that all about?”

“I don’t know. His leash must’ve snapped. We’ll do our best to see it doesn’t happen again,” she said with exaggerated regret. Tobias chuckled softly.

“He didn’t really bother me. I just couldn’t understand what the hell he was trying to say.”

“Yeah, well, that is a hazard.”

“How do you manage it?” he asked. “I honestly could only make out every fourth or fifth word.”

“That’s not bad for a beginner. Understanding Frank is an acquired skill. In fact, my namesake never quite got the hang of it. Frank tried to tell her one day he liked her hair, and she thought he was firing her. She changed out of her uniform, told him off and marched out the door never to be seen again. I consider her to be one of the lucky ones. Can I get you anything else…Bromoseltzer?…Barf bag…?” Tobias laughed, a sound that was enormously pleasant to Priscilla’s ears.

“No, that’ll do it,” he said. Priscilla was walking away when he stopped her. “One question though, if you don’t mind.”

“I suppose one question a day is permissible,” she said, dishes suspended in one hand while the other rested on her hip.

“Why do you work here?”

Priscilla exhaled deeply. “How can I answer that? I can only assume I have some deep-seated psychological disorder. I mean, who else but a crazy person would prefer working at Frank’s to actually making a living?” Never mind, I shouldn’t have said that. Let’s just say the customers keep me here,” she said facetiously, anxious to escape the spotlight.

The wry smile on Tobias’s face made her acutely self-conscious. She turned her back on him abruptly, intent on the nearest bus tray. She passed Philip’s table, pausing only long enough to inquire if he needed any change. Philip shook his head agreeably, as if her question was one of the nicest things anyone had ever asked him. Priscilla blinked then resumed her charge.

She had been so sidetracked by distractions the last few minutes, she had failed to notice the booth of hungry men who had seated themselves in her section. All five were glaring at her from a distance, their dispositions souring as their impatience grew.

She dropped the plates hastily and grabbed a pot of coffee, an act in itself that was a type of retaliation. “Good morning, gentlemen. I see you’ve had ample time to make your decisions, so what will it be?” she said, filling coffee cups all around. The men rattled off their orders, none willing to let her off the hook yet. She calmly took down their orders and set off to deal with their numerous requests.

Tobias watched this exchange and became inspired by what he witnessed. He flipped over his placemat and continued to watch Priscilla as she flitted around, dishing out abuse to Frank, and his mediocre cooking to her customers. She dealt with everyone quickly, despite her somewhat tardy start with the party of five, and it was hard to imagine someone who lacked Priscilla’s detachment doing her job as well.

Splash of coffee

Clank of change

Keep your fork

It’s not Le Grange

Arms full of plates

Pocket full of tickets

Corn beef hash and

Gravy for your biscuits…

He paused and watched her as she made her way from the cash register to a recently vacated table and back to the pick-up window to collect more hot plates.

Counting quarters, marking time

Scooping tips, stacking dimes

Lousy tips

Should be a crime

Here’s some advice

Don’t be a schmuck

If the check says five

Better leave a buck…

Girls like these

Aren’t hard to please

Skip the small talk

And forget the tease

Save the smiles

And the mild flirtation

They’re not working for

Adoration…

Just leave a big tip, baby

Just give till it hurts

Just empty your wallet, honey

I’ll be your favorite flirt

But show some appreciation

And I don’t mean with words…

Reach deep down in your pocket

Fifteen percent is absurd…

Counting quarters, stacking dimes

Counting quarters, stacking dimes

Lots of taking

Lots of giving

Oh, what the hell

It’s a living…

Tobias smiled to himself, the whole song now alive in his head. He heard the backup singers, the key, the intro, the repeating rhythm, the orchestration, the whole works. It was the first song he had summoned up in its entirety in probably a decade. Sure, it had an openly light-hearted tone, but it still had a core of cynicism.

More importantly, when they were finished with it, it would have the unmistakable sound of a top ten hit—not that that sort of thing had ever mattered to him before, but he supposed that’s what a comeback was all about. It was always the songs he personally liked the least that turned into their big money makers.

He was sure this one would make Brody happy. It was just the kind of ditty he liked to sink his teeth into: lyrics and a basic melody of benign fluff that he could spin with sophisticated guitar licks and fancy arrangements, transforming it from mindless verse to a piece of classic rock.

He glanced down at his watch: quarter to eleven. He never got around to booking some studio time with Brody, despite his promising breakthrough the previous day. No worries, though. Brody was sure to jump at the chance to work on fresh material.

Tobias fished his cell phone out of the pocket of his leather jacket and, as discretely as possible, called Brody’s mobile number.

“Brody,” his erstwhile partner announced after the third ring.

“It’s Tobias.”

“Yeah…?”

The freeze-out, Tobias thought. His punishment for being a bad boy. “I’ve got a bona fide, honest-to-God, guaranteed Billboard climber. Thought you might like to hear it. Your studio or mine?” A rather lengthy pause ensued, in which Tobias wondered if Brody had hung up on him out of spite.

“I’m two minutes from mine,” Brody said at last.

“I’ll meet you there in five.”

He turned the phone back off, just in case his wife or girlfriend tried to track him down. He carefully folded his new lyrics and stowed them in the other pocket. He then located the wad of bills in his pants pocket and peeled off a ten for the check and another ten for a tip. Extravagant, yes, but he owed his waitress a lot more than that. He took one last look at Priscilla as she haggled with Frank over an order, then slipped out the front door.

By the time Priscilla turned around, both Philip and Tobias had vanished like a pair of ghosts. All that was left of either one of them were oversize gratuities. She lingered over Tobias Jordan’s table longer than was necessary to wipe it down and rearrange the salt and pepper shakers, replaying their brief conversations in her head. She had to admit that coming in such close contact with her girlhood idol was an unexpected perk of working for Frank.

She picked up the check with the ten-dollar bill on it, and after pocketing the other ten, took the check to the register to ring it up. His check had barely exceeded seven dollars, so she had almost another three bucks to add to her kitty. Not a bad take. Too bad all her customers weren’t so generous. It sure would make her job more bearable if they were.

She grabbed a clean rag and headed for Phil’s table. Breaking his custom, Phil had placed his daily tip not in the folded placemat, but under the water glass. The placemat was folded in half as usual, with the predictable inscription on the outside. Puzzled by his breach of protocol, Priscilla cautiously opened the placemat, leaving it on the table as she examined it.

What she found inside was a caricature easily identified as Philip, proposing various possible outings for the two of them. All around the centrally placed figure, he had sketched out his suggestions: the zoo, complete with monkeys swinging in trees; a movie theater; a pizza parlor; a walk in the park; and a visit to the Statue of Liberty. Across the top, he had written:

The purpose of this is not to ask you out on a date, but rather to extend an invitation to you to accompany me—strictly as a friend—to any venue depicted here, or any other place you might have in mind. And since I’m not asking you on a date, you are under no pressure to give me an answer. Just keep my offer—and my number—in the back of your mind, and should you ever have need of a little non-threatening company, give me a call. Yours sincerely, Philip

Priscilla closed the placemat and looked up to see if anyone had been watching her. She knew this turn of events had been inevitable, so why had it come as such an unwelcome surprise? She snatched the twenty from under the water glass and shoved it into her apron pocket. Well, she knew it would come to an end sooner or later, and she really had had an amazing run with Phil—thirty-three hundred bucks worth, to be exact. So why did she feel so let down?

Priscilla finished out her day in a daze. She didn’t know how the totally uncomplicated job of being a waitress in a coffee shop could become so confusing. Why, for example, did Philip—she didn’t even know his last name—suddenly materialize eight months ago, only to spoil her with outrageous gratuities and undeserved admiration? What made him think she’d have any interest in dating one of her patrons, or more to the point, what made him remotely interested in someone like her?

As if all that wasn’t perplexing enough, she now had the sneaking suspicion that something was up with Tobias Jordan, reclusive rock star extraordinaire. One day he looks as if he wants to rip her head off, the very next day he’s back, all smiles. It didn’t make sense.

Priscilla shivered all the way home, for the warm, beautiful spring-like weather had retreated, along with all semblance of sanity. Nothing made sense anymore, not even the stuff that was too banal to matter.

Six

Tobias paced in front of Brody’s building for fifteen minutes before his partner showed up. He could have waited in the lobby, but he was too keyed up to just sit there. He should have known that Brody would dawdle, if for no other reason than to pay him back for failing to show up for several studio sessions. It was just like Brody to seek retribution rather than make the most of their opportunity. He always was the petty one.

Tobias was about ready to walk away from the whole idea of reviving their band when he spotted Brody’s lumbering frame on the opposite side of the street. During their hiatus, Brody had transformed his blubbery hulk into that of a muscle-bound fitness freak. And with the old physique went the sloppy, baggy clothes, the wire-rim glasses and the lank, greasy hair. If you didn’t know him, you’d never guess in a hundred years what his vocation was. Even Tobias hadn’t recognized him until he noticed Brody’s distinctive lurch.

But as Tobias decided to swallow his irritation at having to wait so long in favor of starting out on the right note, he realized Brody was not alone. Stepping double time to keep pace with him was a petite blonde in her early thirties. It galled him anew that Brody would bring his chippie along, especially since Tobias had been quite specific about the potential of the piece he had to offer.

“Hey, man—hope you haven’t been waiting long,” Brody said as he slowed to a halt in front of his apartment building.

“Only fifteen minutes,” Tobias replied coldly.

“This is Roberta. You don’t mind if she hangs out, do you?” Brody asked, oblivious to Tobias’s growing agitation.

“Actually—”

“I’ll be as quiet as a ghost,” Roberta said pleasantly, swishing playfully beneath her fur-trimmed coat. Tobias caught a glimpse of her silk slip of a dress and the knee-high suede boots, as she smiled admiringly up at her giant beau. With her long, straight locks and her rather colorful eye makeup, she was a flawless flashback to the late seventies groupies who had flocked around them like fame-seeking moths back in the band’s early days.

Tobias automatically downgraded Brody’s progress; apparently, all the changes had been to his exterior. At least Tobias had kept up with the times; these days no self-respecting rocker of any importance dated less notable girls than supermodels or actresses.

As if the question of Roberta’s presence had been settled, Brody ushered them past the concierge and into the elevator, where Tobias brooded over his mounting grievances. But once they entered Brody’s state-of-the-art studio, the inspiration that had caused Tobias to initiate this meeting began to flare again.

Good to her word, Roberta made herself invisible, blending in with the furniture and freeing Tobias’s mind from external static. In no time he had conjured up the tune that had come to him only an hour earlier—fresh, crisp, but still full of their characteristically moody sound. After Tobias had worked out the basic melody, Brody joined in on the bass, adding the driving pulse to Tobias’s bright organ chords.

Tobias listened as Brody played with an intro, then switched to the Kurzweil for added instrumentation. He set the drums to a steady background beat and added a little slide guitar to the end of each of Brody’s passages. Laughing, they started from the beginning, this time with Tobias singing the lyrics he had written. He could tell by the expression on Brody’s face that he got a kick out of them. His improvised riffs between stanzas proved it. If Brody was already enthusiastic at this stage, Tobias was certain it was going to be a winner.

They worked from noon till half past six without stopping except to wet their whistles. By the time they finished, both men were as tired as if they had just given ten back-to-back performances. They each slumped over their instruments, exhausted.

“I’m beginning to remember why we gave this up,” Tobias said as Brody handed him a beer from the mini fridge. “We’re not exactly kids anymore.”

Brody laughed and drank his beer in one long, noisy gulp. He waited for the inevitable belch before commenting. “You’re just a little out of practice, man. Me, I’m not even at my peak yet,” Brody said, flexing his new and improved biceps. Tobias decided the only thing worse than a slob was a reformed slob, for they never tired of bragging about their virtuous new selves. He winced as Brody patted his washboard stomach with one hand and gave Roberta a squeeze with the other.

“Man, I gotta tell you, I was beginning to have my doubts about you. But I must admit I was wrong. You haven’t lost your touch. This song’s still rough, but I think we can finesse it into something quite nice.”

Tobias took another drink of his beer, too tired to challenge Brody on the state of their latest effort. They had made remarkable progress, considering this tune didn’t even exist until a few hours ago. A couple more days of studio spit and polish and they’d have it down. And not to be petty, but Brody’s contribution had been minimal, as usual.

Tobias laughed bitterly at himself, for even though a decade had passed since Brody and he had called it quits, they had managed to pick up exactly where they had left off. Sure, the publicized version of the breakup cited their individual desires to pursue different avenues of their art, but in reality, the reason they disbanded was due to a growing resentment between the two men. Tobias had resented the fact that he contributed far more creatively than his partner, and Brody resented the insinuation that he was hanging on to Tobias’s coattails.

Plus, there were other factors that added to the over-all disharmony—lifestyle preferences, mostly. Before the split, Brody was becoming increasingly content to lock himself in the studio, growing fatter and more slovenly with each passing day, whereas Tobias was hell-bent on cramming the antics of seven playboys into one lifetime.

Brody felt alienated by Tobias’s divided attention; the bond of creating music had been all that supported Brody’s existence up to that point. After all, a career in music had been his life’s objective. It was he who had attended the Eastman School of Music for three years, gaining the musical background and ability to turn Tobias’s crudely executed numbers into rock masterpieces. Underneath everything, it still rankled him that Tobias had been given such extraordinary talents, without ever being enslaved by gnawing ambition.

Even though Absent Among Us was Brody’s lifeline, it was he who had initiated the breakup. He had used the tactic as a threat, a way to reel in Tobias and force him to see he was neglecting the very thing that had brought him the fame and money and all those babes in the first place.

Ironically, it was when his ploy backfired that Brody underwent the positive change that led to a more satisfying life. True, he didn’t have much in the way of a musical outlet anymore, aside from producing the odd garage band and the occasional studio work that came his way. Tobias, on the other hand, had been so cocky and sure of his abilities that he marched off into a solo career, only to fall flat on his face.

Granted, Tobias supplied ninety percent to Brody’s ten, but it was the ten percent that tied the works together. Brody liked to compare their collaboration to an automobile, with his contribution representing the tires. Sure, Tobias was the body, the chassis, the engine, the fancy upholstery and the horn, but without Brody’s tires, the vehicle wasn’t going anywhere.

It took only a few seconds for these separate revelations to pass through both men’s minds. But as they regarded each other, they simultaneously decided the promise of another crack at immortality was better than what either of them had going on now.

Cranking out a few more memorable songs did have limited rewards, but those seemed a lot more appealing than sinking into oblivion so early in their lives, especially after such stunning successes. Plus, Brody needed that sense of purpose.

Tobias, though he spent virtually all his time hidden in hats and glasses, missed the adoration and fame, but it was unlikely he’d ever admit that to himself or anyone else. So, both men had something to prove and something to gain. Having acknowledged this fact to themselves, they wordlessly agreed to rise above trivial conflicts and concentrate on recapturing their old magic.

“I don’t know about you, but I’m starving. Problem is, I’m not sure I’ve got anything in the fridge that’s edible,” Brody said as he hugged Roberta close to him.

“I think there’s a frozen pizza, and maybe some eggs,” she said.

“Well, that’s not going to cut it after a workout like this,” Brody said, removing his hand from around Roberta’s waist. “What do you say we go get a proper meal, Tob? I haven’t had anything but a power shake for breakfast. I know the way you eat—you’ve got to be ravenous by now. Want to go out and do it right, kind of a celebration for our first song? Why don’t you call Monique, see if she wants to join us,” Brody offered magnanimously. It was no secret he and Monique were hardly bosom buddies.

Tobias had used every bit of his concentration working up his new song, and had been completely oblivious to his corporal needs. He suddenly realized he too was in the need of food, but that need was secondary to his desire to be alone for a while. He consulted his watch as he considered his response.

“That sounds like a great idea, man, but I’ll have to take a rain check. Monique already has some sort of plans for this evening. In fact, I’m going to catch hell from her if I don’t get a move on,” he said, standing.

Brody was disappointed, but he tried not to show it. “Oh sure, man—we’ll do it some other time. I just want you to know this was awesome, man. I really mean it. It’s like we turned back the clock,” he said, suddenly feeling emotional.

Tobias held out his hand, which Brody took, shaking it vigorously. Then he pulled Tobias to him for a manly hug. Tobias endured the crushing without comment, wishing for the moment to pass as quickly as possible.

Tobias patted Brody roughly on the back to speed things up a bit. “All right, man. I’ll call you,” Tobias said, releasing himself from his partner’s embrace as gently as possible.

“Okay, man,” Brody said, visibly affected by their renewed closeness. Roberta moved in to provide a replacement for Tobias, one that Brody gratefully accepted.

Once outside, Tobias’s mood soared. As soon as the session was over, he started yearning for fresh air and time by himself. What had just transpired required time to digest. Without theatrics or mind-wrenching contortions, Tobias had managed to recapture control over the indefinable source of his talent. Somehow, he had broken through the invisible barrier that had prevented him from writing new music.

And yet, it had happened so effortlessly. Why had he not initiated a reunion before now? Why had he put Brody off for so long? Because he doubted himself. Until a few short hours ago, he had only a slim hope of rending anything even remotely promising from what remained of his soul. And now—now he had crossed the line, slipped back to the other side of the looking glass, done the impossible.

Tobias shivered. He broke out in a cold sweat as he realized what he had accomplished. He felt high, without the aid of drugs. He was so giddy, he laughed like a schoolgirl, generating suspicious looks from passersby. Somehow, he had broken the spell. This song was a bit of a lark, nothing serious and certainly not substantial enough to solidify a successful comeback. But writing it made him feel he was on the right track, with nothing but green lights ahead of him.

No doubt, it was far too early to feel smug. He had a good start, and more importantly, he could feel the change in himself. It was for real, but there were no guarantees it would last. He had to guard this valuable reconnection with his talent, guard it from all the elements that had caused him to lose it in the first place.

Tobias sighed. He already knew this was going to be unpleasant. The people and habits that had weakened his hold on his creative pulse were the very ones he craved the most. He liked hanging out with pretty young things, wasting time and money on their compulsive pursuits of fleeting satisfaction. He liked drinking, carousing, staying out late, philandering, spending extravagant sums on a whim. He even liked the stalemate his marriage to Monique had become, preferring it to the alternative, which was too ugly to think about.

His command of his virtuosity had been reinstated less than a day, and already it was making unreasonable demands of him. Yet, he knew he had no choice. Now that it was within reach, every fiber in his body yearned for his old way of life, the life of the post-beatnik poet swinging the world by the tail.

He walked toward Union Square for no particular reason. Once there, he kept walking, more aimlessly now, walking merely to keep moving, to keep his thoughts flowing. After about an hour, he was forced to entertain more practical thoughts, such as what to do about his voracious hunger and his growing fatigue.

He was loath to go home; nothing could stymie his momentum faster than an inopportune encounter with Monique. There was a good chance she’d be out, but then again, he didn’t want to take that risk. He couldn’t fathom spending time with Simone and her brothers, benign as they were.

Yet he couldn’t feel completely free knowing they could both be leaving an endless barrage of voicemails for him, impatiently trying to run him to ground. He ducked into the nearest phone booth and took the decisive step of deflecting their assaults. He avoided using his cell phone, as he didn’t really want to know how many voicemails he had. He called his house first, got a recording, and called Monique’s cell phone.

“Hey, it’s me. Where are you?” he asked, taking the offensive before his wife could get her wits about her.

“I’m downtown with Lila. We’ve just done a little shopping and we’re on our way to meet Per and Anatole at their hotel for a drink, then take it from there. Did you get my voicemails? I called you at least three times today,” she said snapping back into her usual mode.

“No, that’s why I called you. I lost my phone somewhere.”

“Oh shit. Better call to cancel service. I’ll get you a new one tomorrow, if I can find the time. Where are you?”

“Brody’s. We’ve had an unbelievable session today—”

“Really?” she asked icily.

“Really,” Tobias countered.

“Great—that’s awesome. Hey, why don’t you join us?” she asked with unaccustomed enthusiasm. “We’ll probably go to L’Etoile or Jasmine later on. It would be fun. It wouldn’t hurt to put in an appearance with the ol’ wifey every now and then,” she said, growing snide again. Tobias could tell she already had a few cocktails in her.

“Sorry, can’t. I just called to let you know Brody and I are making major headway—we’re really on fire right now, and we don’t want to break the flow. Don’t expect me any time soon. What’s your day like tomorrow?” he asked.

“Tomorrow is going to be a real bitch for me. I’ve got an ungodly early Pilates class, then appointments all day. Why do you ask?”

“Just wanted to let you know there’s a chance we might head up to Brody’s country place for some intensive brainstorming,” he lied.

“When will you be back?” Monique asked somewhat skeptically.

“Don’t know—don’t know for sure if we’re even going. I’ll let you know. Okay, got to get back to work. Love you,” he said.

“You too, babe. Call me,” she said rather urgently. Tobias hung up and dialed Simone’s apartment. She didn’t answer, so he left a message, a gentler rehash of the story he had just told Monique. He made it short and sweet, just long enough to establish an alibi for at least a couple of days. He exited the phone booth, feeling freer than he had in years. To secure his liberation, he discreetly tossed his cell phone in the first trashcan he came across, a step that lightened his load even more.

Tobias never so much as glanced at his watch all night. He wandered from one drinking establishment to the next, stopping at an all-night diner at some point, prowling through parts of the city he had never been to before, moving through the night like an unseen alien. He felt almost invisible. The less conspicuous he became, the more at ease he became. There was no one around him who knew who he was, no one who wanted a piece of him or his time. He was absolutely anonymous.

The pace of his evening energized him, washing away his fatigue. It was as if he drew strength from feeding off the conversations of those around him, like an undetectable human leach. He emptied his mind of his own thoughts so he could absorb his impressions of the strangers he encountered, sizing them up as he read the clues they displayed about themselves.

Gradually, the bars and pubs closed, leaving him to wander after-hours clubs and extra-sleazy flesh joints. Those places quickly lost their appeal, and Tobias was left with cruising down the deserted streets, the blocks slipping by as he automatically plodded along. He walked all the way uptown and made a loop, by dawn arriving where he had started out.

He laughed weakly as he discovered he was across the street from Frank’s Coffee Shop. This was where it had all started almost twenty-four hours earlier. It amazed him that one day had forever altered his life.

It was only quarter to seven, and already there was a light but steady stream of customers coming and going. Tobias leaned against a lamppost and watched the activity for a while. He was so desperate for something to eat and a cup of coffee, even Frank’s coffee would be welcome. Yet he couldn’t bring himself to go inside.

As he watched Priscilla and her coworker from a distance, he recognized in them the type of life he had gravitated to once he had sabotaged his father’s hopes for him becoming a Wall Street guru. His expulsion from Harvard Business School for smoking pot took care of that. Horrified as everyone was, they never learned of his real offenses—dealing, gambling, selling term papers—nor did they give him credit for his newly acquired principles of capitalism.

His parents were certain he was trying to drive them into early graves when he took a job as a delivery truck driver for a meat distributor. Even though it had only lasted nine months, it had a profound effect on him. It had changed his whole outlook, giving him a taste of life on the lower rungs of the class structure, forever cementing his phobia of being one of the bourgeoisie.

Of course, looking back, he appreciated how lowbrow and crass that episode of his life really was. Beer cans stuffed full of cigarette butts, gas-guzzling muscle cars and easy camaraderie flashed across his mind’s eye, but he could still recall how exciting and stimulating it seemed back then.

Life on the top hadn’t been so bad either, on the surface, but it had a numbing effect on his soul. He had become so insulated, so protected, he had lost touch with his empathy, and with it his ability to tap into the raw truths about people and life. All he needed was to reacquaint himself with the nitty-gritty, and boom, his mind began to fire on all cylinders. Oh, it was good to feel alive again, half dead from exhaustion, but still more alive than he’d been in years.

His hunger and fatigue finally reached the level that required action. He was on the verge of hallucinating. He was just about to lurch across the street for another unappetizing meal at Frank’s, when a fresh refrain floated through his head.

“Don’t you remember how it feels…Don’t you remember how it feels…Don’t you remember how it feels?” Tobias stood there, frozen, as if experiencing a stroke. The rest of the lyrics came to him not as words, but as a fully formed idea that had been torn into fragments; it was all there, it just needed to be sorted through and assembled.

He reached for his cell phone, forgetting for a moment he had disposed of it. No problem—Brody was an early riser. Without another thought to his physical needs, he headed off in that direction, the new song fairly splitting his head as he sprinted down the avenue.

Seven

Philip sat next to his attorney as they faced off against Marianne and her hired gun, Lou Michelson, the man who surely had inspired every nasty joke ever told about attorneys. His loathsomeness was his calling card; sometimes all it took was the mention of his name to prod the other side into settlement negotiations. He was so repellent, his own clients seldom referred to him by name. Most attorneys dreaded going head to head against him, and very few managed to walk away with their dignity intact.

It took every speck of willpower on Martin’s part to keep from squirming as Lou glared at him and his client with blatant contempt. Martin maintained his appearance of nonchalance by repeatedly reminding himself of all the attributes and privileges he had that his adversary lacked: Ivy League degree, various prestigious country club memberships, and a well-respected name in New York society.

As the two attorneys squared off with a preliminary of bad vibes, Philip stole the occasional glance at his soon-to-be ex-wife. From what he could tell, Marianne was as composed and unflustered as if she were ensconced in her box at the Metropolitan Opera. Her complexion was flawless, her attire was discreetly expensive, and her expression gave no clues as to what lie behind the perfect façade. She would not look at him, though she didn’t give the impression she was intentionally avoiding him, but rather, as far as she was concerned, he didn’t exist.

Her slight of him inflamed Philip at first, but then he began to find the whole charade amusing. If they hadn’t all been assembled for the express purpose of dividing the proceeds of his life’s work, he might have laughed out loud. This was all a farce, anyway. He knew how it would all come down: the lion’s share would go to Marianne, while both lawyers would pocket smaller fortunes, with precious little left for him. He didn’t know why he had to suffer through the pretense of negotiations.

Eventually, the game got underway, with each attorney trying to trump the other by producing documentation supporting their respective client’s position. For every property appraisal Martin offered, Lou flashed another of greater valuation, thereby pumping up Philip’s net worth in order to make a claim for a higher dollar amount. As only three of Philip’s many holdings were already in the process of being sold, there was a lot of room for speculation.

The more the lawyers quibbled over the value, the less interested Philip became in the outcome. One way or another, the three of them were going to bleed him dry. The tediousness of watching them chisel it all up was enough to put him to sleep. That changed, however, when Martin made an objection that prompted Marianne to break her silence.

“You seem to be forgetting I have my young daughter’s future to look out for,” she said, with all the piousness of a devoted, self-sacrificing mother.

“Caitlin will be amply provided for,” Martin said calmly.

Marianne regarded him coldly through thickly lashed eyes. “Not if your client has his way.”

Instantly, Philip’s anger flared. “What are you talking about?” he barked indignantly. “I’ve already agreed to the outrageous sum of six thousand a month for child support.”

“That’s not going to be enough,” she said, still refusing to look his direction.

“What do you mean, that’s not enough? This is one child we’re talking about, one that will be spending half her time with me, don’t forget.”

The haughty way Marianne raised her eyebrow made Philip flinch. There was an implied threat there that he couldn’t read. What imaginary grievance was she working up now, he wondered apprehensively.

“We’ve already established the child support payments, Marianne,” Martin said with exaggerated courtesy.

“We’ve rerun the numbers, and that figure ain’t going to fly,” Lou said. “You’re going to have to make it eight thousand, or we’ll have to let the court set the amount. You’re going to have to come up with a better alimony figure, while you’re at it,” he said menacingly.

“You’ve got to be joking,” Philip said, shooting up from his chair like a Jack-in-the-box. “You demanded twenty-thousand a month, and that’s what we reluctantly agreed to. And not a penny more.”

“Sit down, Philip,” Martin cautioned him.

“Tell your client that based on his income and the expenses of my client, not to mention the length of the marriage, he will have to pay her alimony in the amount of twenty-five thousand a month,” Stan said, his menacing grimace making his features more repugnant. Philip turned to Martin in disbelief.

“I’m afraid that’s out of the question—” Martin began to protest.

“What income?” Philip exclaimed. “Are you forgetting that my firm is no longer solvent? Just exactly how do you expect me to come up with that kind money if you’re forcing me to liquidate all my assets?” For the first time since they sat down, Marianne turned to face him.

“We were married for nearly sixteen years, Philip—that has to count for something. After all, you did take the best years of my life,” she said with such trite predictability, Philip laughed.

Marianne colored under her makeup. “I wouldn’t be laughing if I were you,” she warned, her lovely features hardening.

“Oh, really? And precisely what would you do if you were in my position?”

“This is not the place for histrionics, Mr. Glessner,” Lou said condescendingly.

Philip snorted at his remark, but he never took his eyes off his wife. “You know, Marianne, if those were the best years of your life, maybe you should be paying me. You seem to be overlooking the fact I made those ‘best years’ possible. And frankly, if that was the best you had to give, I think I deserve a refund,” Philip said, exposing a side of himself his attorney didn’t know he possessed. Martin had little time to marvel over this show of backbone, however; the opposition had commenced with a righteous indignation fest on the other side of the conference table.

“I do not have to sit here and take this kind of abuse,” Marianne said, as she rose angrily from her chair. Lou made a big show of collecting his paperwork pile of weaponry, while Martin tried to get them to retake their seats.

“Look, this kind of squabbling will get us nowhere. You might as well sit down and get this over with, Marianne. Don’t forget—the sooner we get the details ironed out, the sooner you can get on with your life. And the less you have to pay Mr. Michelson out of your settlement.”

Philip wasn’t sure he cared for the sound of that last sentence. Marianne shot one final look of scorn at her husband and sat back down. Lou, acting as though it was against his better judgment, slowly sat down and laid out his ammo. “Good. Now, let’s take one issue at a time here. We were discussing the value of the Trenton apartment complex…”

The settlement conference droned on until half past six. All parties looked worse for wear, even unflappable Marianne, whose stress showed itself in the fine creases on her forehead. Philip hoped she was having one of her reported “migraines,” though he doubted now that she had ever experienced anything harsher than menstrual cramps.

Lou escorted her out while Martin seemed to take an inordinate amount of time to collect his things. Philip sat there, dazed by the uselessness that came out of so much expended energy. He had worked fourteen-hour days on a regular basis and never felt this wiped out before.

“Well, Michelson didn’t totally clean us out. And at least we got them to agree to staggered installments on the settlement. That should make things a lot easier on you,” Martin said over his shoulder. All Philip could manage was a small huff.

Martin looked at him and decided a drink was in order. “What can I get you?” he asked, as he opened a cupboard and took stock of the options. “Scotch is your drink, isn’t it? We’ve got a good single-malt here, or whiskey, gin, vodka—whatever you prefer.” Philip ran a hand down his face from forehead to chin and huffed again, this time more dejectedly.

“I could use a drink, but frankly, I’d just as soon get out of here. How ’bout we go somewhere else?” he asked, as he hoisted himself out of the chair.

“Sorry, it’s late. I’ve got to get home. Laura’s planned some dinner party tonight, and she’ll skin me alive if I’m not there by seven.” Philip rechecked his watched.

“Then you better get a move on,” he said.

“Come on, I’ll walk you out,” Martin said as he held open the door for his dispirited client. “Don’t worry, this will all be over in a month or two.”

“Yeah, then I’ll just have another three or four years of lawsuits to contend with,” Philip replied sarcastically, as they headed down the hall to the elevator.

Philip sat in the low-slung Barcelona chair and stared out at the city at night. The chair was especially appropriate to his mood, low-slung as it was, putting him within easy reach of his glass and the bottle of Scotch he had picked up on his way back to his loaner apartment. Because of the way the chair forced him to sit, any impetus remaining in him to do anything else was easily overcome by the sheer force of gravity. It would have taken more energy than he could muster to get out of the thing, so he decided he’d just have to sit there all night.

As he sat there reliving the last horrendous hours of his day, it struck him as almost surreal that he had ever married someone who was as cold-hearted and money-grubbing as Marianne. She certainly hadn’t seemed that way in the beginning. He remembered her as being very sweet and amenable, fresh and pretty, and happy to be by his side.

Perhaps he had been blind to her faults. He knew he wasn’t the best judge of character, in large part due to his aloofness. It was true he didn’t pay much attention to others, absorbed in his own world as he was. This fault aside, he still found it hard to believe that Marianne had always been so shallow and hard. It baffled him to think the woman whose life had been transformed by her connection to him would harbor such resentment toward him.

No matter what case she made against him, how could she possibly deny that being married to him had been anything but a positive experience? Even if she didn’t love him, she couldn’t say he hadn’t been good to her. So why all the animosity? What did she use as her justification? Maybe she had it in her mind that the collapse of The Phoenix had been an unpardonable act against her, turning her well-ordered world upside-down. Who knew? He sure didn’t.

As he took another swig of Scotch, the truth finally dawned on him: this whole debacle had marred Marianne’s reputation. It wouldn’t do to have that kind of gossip floating around—all those other society matrons whispering behind their manicured hands as she entered the room. Philip saw now that in order to keep her place in the social hierarchy, she had no choice but to rid herself of him.

In time, the fact that she had divorced him immediately after the scandal—while wringing every cent she could out of him—would restore her position. It was only natural, Philip supposed, that Marianne should be looking out for herself. It was just his hard luck he didn’t marry the type of girl who believed in sticking by her man when times got tough. Maybe that type of loyalty didn’t really exist anymore.

No matter how ugly things got between them, he had gained something from her that would comfort him the rest of his life, namely Caitlin. They could take his last dime, his reputation and his career, and he’d still feel like the luckiest guy in the world having her as his daughter. When he looked into her face, he saw the best part of both he and his wife, melded together in a hopeful new package. If they hadn’t lived up to their own expectations, perhaps this newer, better version of themselves could.

More important was the love that was reciprocated between father and daughter. There were times when he’d look down at her as he was driving her somewhere, and she would be wrapped up in her own games—singing to herself or playing with her dolls, or reading out loud. No matter what she was involved in, if Philip said, “I love you, sweetheart,” she would reply without skipping a beat, “I love you, too, Daddy,” because it was one of the things in life she was certain of. Even with all the chaos in their lives, Caitlin believed her mommy and daddy loved her, no matter what.

This happy reflection was cut short by the memory of the menacing look he had received from Marianne at Martin’s office. The implication suddenly hit him and it was enough to propel him bolt upright in his chair. Marianne had given him a chilling look when he reminded her that Caitlin would be spending half her time with him. How low could a person stoop? Using her child as a way to extort more money out of him. But her look said it all: she was planning something treacherous, he could feel it.

Philip jumped out of the chair—not an easy move considering the chair and his size—and grabbed his sports jacket. He couldn’t sit there another minute or he’d lose his mind. Without even thinking his plan through, he fairly sprinted the two blocks to the garage where he kept his car. He drove up FDR Drive, crossed the George Washington Bridge and took I95 all the way to Boston. He could not rest until he had Caitlin by his side again.

Eight

“Who is it?” Priscilla called out. Her recent experience with Brawny made her more cautious about opening her door.

“Cameron Diaz and Angelina Jolie,” a voice replied, followed by muffled giggles. Priscilla rolled her eyes and undid the three bolts to admit her uninvited guests.

“Hey, Sammy,” Darlene said as she crossed the threshold, followed closely by Rochelle. Priscilla noted with dread that both girls were decked to the teeth, which did not bode well for her evening. As soon as she was inside, Darlene shed her white rabbit fur jacket, revealing a strappy, python printed camisole atop her skintight white denim skirt. Rochelle was similarly attired in a faux fur cropped jacket in baby blue, under which she wore a low-cut black top—heavy on the spandex—over a dark blue leatherette skirt, shorter than should be allowed by law, and threatening to burst at the seams.

“By the looks of you two, I’d say you’re about to hop the next Dirty Dog bound for Vegas,” Priscilla said, as she evaluated their costumes.

“I wish,” said Rochelle, the insult sailing right past her. Darlene, the sharper of the two, threw an arch look Priscilla’s way, but chose in the end not to be offended. Rochelle produced an improbably large bottle of rum from her bag, waving it about as if she had just made their evening.

“I hope you’ve got some cokes, preferably diet,” Darlene said as unburdened herself of her gear. Priscilla looked at her with mild exasperation. She hadn’t heard a peep out of these two in at least six weeks, which was fine with her, after how their last encounter had turned out. Figures they’d arrange an ambush of this nature.

“Sorry, fresh out of both varieties,” she said, arms akimbo, wondering what exactly they had up their collective sleeve this time.

“What’ve you got, then?”

“I think there’s some grapefruit juice in the fridge,” Priscilla said, intentionally neglecting her hostess duties as she tossed Darlene’s things out of the comfortable chair and flopped down in it.

“Damn, I knew we should’ve picked some mixers. You never have anything, Sammy,” Darlene complained, as she took down three glasses and searched for ice. “Okay, so what do we dilute this with? If I start drinking straight rum, I won’t know my ass from my elbow an hour from now. I can’t believe you can’t even be bothered to fill your ice trays,” she said, extracting six measly cubes from the aluminum tray.

“If I’d known you were coming, I would’ve had Mai Tai’s and canapés waiting for you,” Priscilla said, staring up at her ceiling, wondering why she had opened the door. Rochelle laid her bag and fur on the futon next to Darlene’s and minced her way to the kitchen area. It took a good bit of doing, but she managed to bend over far enough to reach the small cans of grapefruit juice from the back of the refrigerator.

“Are we really going to have to drink rum and grapefruit juice?” Darlene asked, her mouth puckering at the thought.

“It doesn’t sound that bad,” Rochelle said, as she popped a can and poured it into a glass, topping it with a generous dose of dark rum. She pushed the two ice cubes down with her fingers in a crude attempt at mixing. “Hmm…it’s actually kinda refreshing,” she said, as she tasted the odd concoction. Darlene looked at her skeptically out of the corner of her eye.

“No wonder you think it tastes good—you’ve got about three inches of rum floating on the top. Wait till that’s all gone and you hit the grapefruit,” she said. To make her point, Darlene took a spoon and gave Rochelle’s drink a proper stir. “Now see if you still find it refreshing,” she challenged.

Rochelle bravely took a large sip, wincing visibly as the two flavors collided in her mouth. “It’s okay,” she croaked out optimistically. “Actually,” she amended as she smacked her lips thoughtfully, “the taste kinda grows on you. Hey Sammy, try this—tell me what you think.”

“No thanks. It sounds revolting.”

“Oh, c’mon. You gotta try it. It ain’t so bad, I swear.”

Priscilla took a cautious sip and thrust the glass back at Rochelle. “Ugh, that’s disgusting,” she said, glancing around futilely for something to take the taste out of her mouth. She went to the sink and filled a glass with water and drank a couple quick gulps. Unfortunately, her tap water was almost as bad as Rochelle’s drink.

“Pour a little rum in here, would you,” she said to Darlene, who instead gave her a glass with two cubes of ice. “Just to there,” Priscilla directed her. She swirled the cubes a moment before taking a drink. The warmish rum burned all the way down, but at least it managed to cut through the awful aftertaste on her tongue. She and Darlene, who had already made the sensible decision to drink hers straight, rejoined Rochelle.

“So, besides drinking rum like a couple of pirates, what are you two girls up to tonight? You have hot dates or something?” Priscilla asked, after she had made herself comfortable. It had been years since she’d had rum, and she soon remembered why. She’d only had a couple of sips, but she could feel the effects of the alcohol almost immediately. She couldn’t say with certainty where her legs stopped and the chair began.

“Yeah, as a matter of fact we do,” Rochelle said. She had sucked down half of her exotic cocktail and was appropriately giddy.

“Oh really? With who?” Priscilla asked distractedly.

“With you!” Rochelle sang out merrily. “We’re going to this great new place we found called NYCE, over on Fifty-Eighth, between Park and Lexington.”

“Nice?” Priscilla asked dubiously.

“N,Y,C,E. It stands for New York Cotton Exchange, or something. It’s a really fancy place, the kind that serves their drinks in those great big martini glasses—”

“Rochelle likes it because they have free yuppie hors d’oeuvres, plus she thinks one of the bartenders has a crush on her,” Darlene said with a snort.

“Well, you gotta admit he did spend a lot of time talking to us.”

“That couldn’t have anything to do with the fact you kept calling him over every two minutes to answer some stupid question.”

Rochelle, who rarely got her feathers ruffled, took this criticism in stride. “I have an inquiring mind. Men appreciate a woman with an active mind, believe it or not,” she responded, sitting up straighter, as if good posture naturally corresponded with curiosity. “Anyway, a lot of very good-looking men go there—professional types, high class stuff. You’ll love it,” she assured Priscilla, who groaned and took another sip of her rum.

“If that’s an invitation to join you guys, I think I’ll pass. I had a lousy day and I don’t feel like doing anything tonight.”

“No wonder you had a lousy day. You still work at Frank’s—how could you not?” Darlene growled. “When you gonna quit that dump and come work with me? I could get you on days right away. I think that cow Erica’s gonna leave soon. She keeps talkin’ about this ‘in’ she says she’s got over at The Astoria, working banquets or some bull. Anyhow, I think her days are numbered. She keeps mouthing off to the cooks—burning her bridges, if you ask me. Why don’t you stop by on Monday after your shift and talk to Pascal? He’s kind of a lech, but he ain’t too bad to work for.”

It was hardly a ringing endorsement, and Priscilla didn’t exactly relish the idea of working alongside Darlene again. Working at Frank’s was a drag, for obvious reasons, but at least she didn’t end up spending half her tips on after-work cocktails. Besides, the years were slogging by, and Priscilla found it disheartening that the passing of time had done little to alter their lives. Prowling around bars and pubs with these two when they were all in their mid-twenties was one thing; doing it at their current ages bordered on pathetic.

“No. Pascal’s a perv. You should apply at Pinkerton Station. That place is so huge, they’re always hiring. I’ve trained three new girls this month already. The tips ain’t the greatest ’cause the average check is so low, but you make it up in volume. Still, the money’s got to be better than what you make at Frank’s,” Rochelle said.

“Yeah, maybe,” Priscilla said noncommittally, as she thought about her sudden drop in income. Just as she had predicted, Phil had failed to make his usual appearance. His illustrated invitation to accompany him to various “harmless” venues had been the kiss of death as far as her financial picture was concerned. The slumming rock star hadn’t shown up, either. She supposed whatever weird mood had deposited him at Frank’s had passed. The tidy stash of hers, courtesy of love-struck Phil, was going to have to last her a long time.

“Look, you have to come out with us. There’s no way we’re going to let you sit around moping all by yourself on a Friday night,” Darlene said decisively.

“I don’t mind being alone. In fact, I enjoy it,” Priscilla said, picking up a pillow and hugging it to her chest, trying to give the impression she was happily entrenched for the evening.

“It’s not natural to spend so much time by yourself. It’s not healthy, if you ask me,” Darlene said.

“Oh, and you think sitting around bars polluting your lungs and liver is?” Priscilla challenged her.

“Hanging around other people, laughing and having a good time is a hell of a lot healthier than holing up in this crummy apartment, acting all depressed,” she countered.

“I’m not depressed,” Priscilla said flatly. Darlene gave her one of those looks that said there was no fooling her. “Just because I prefer to spend a little time by myself rather than getting all tarted up and hanging out in some noisy bar with a bunch of weekend warriors, doesn’t mean I’m depressed.”

“Yeah, but when was the last time you were with a guy?” Rochelle asked. Priscilla grunted but refused to answer her. “See what I mean? Being without a guy for too long can mess up your hormones, and that can change the chemistry of your brain, which makes you get depressed,” Rochelle informed her. Pleased at having delivered this intelligence, Rochelle squirmed off the sofa and went to replenish her drink.

“C’mon, Sam. Put on some sexy duds and we’ll go uptown. One night away from solitary confinement won’t kill you,” Darlene insisted.

Priscilla balked. “I’m sure they don’t give those oversize drinks away, and I don’t have enough for the rent as it is,” she said, hoping that would settle it once and for all. She certainly wasn’t going to tap into her savings for a night on the town with the bimbo twins.

Besides being undignified, a night out with those two was as predictable as finding cockroaches under her kitchen sink. Both would get themselves stewed to the gills, inevitably going home with whomever they determined to be the evening’s best catch, leaving her to fend for herself. And there was always the strong possibility Darlene would take offense to an insulting remark—real or imaginary—and get the lot of them thrown out.

“But see, that’s the reason we got all dolled up,” Rochelle countered, undeterred. “The three of us will look so fabulous, one drink is all we’ll need to buy—the rest will come from our flock of admirers.” Priscilla arched an eyebrow and turned a questioning eye to Darlene, who merely shook her head.

“Oh c’mon, Darlene—you know we only had to buy two drinks each all night, and that was only because we weren’t so dressed up and the place wasn’t very crowded. It’s Friday night, the place will be packed with rich, hunky men, and we look like a million bucks,” Rochelle said defensively. Darlene shrugged.

“I haven’t got any better ideas,” she said to Priscilla. “Besides, Rochelle’s right—there’ll be men galore, all of them on the make. Let’s just go, have a few drinks, check out the prospects. We’ll spot your drinks until we tap into Rochelle’s goldmine of men. What have you got to lose? It sure beats the hell out of sitting around this place all night.”

“No, I really can’t. I’ve got a ton of laundry I need to do—”

“Do it on the weekend. The only good thing about working at that dive is having weekends off, so why waste a Friday night on something you can do on Saturday?” Darlene argued. “We’re not leaving you, so if you won’t go, we’ll sit here drinking rum till we pass out on your sofa.” Priscilla got the distinct impression this was no idle threat.

“Yeah, Sammy—let’s find something wild and sexy for you to wear and then we’ll blow this joint,” Rochelle said.

Priscilla hadn’t yet agreed to going, but at this point there seemed little reason to fight them any longer. She took another swallow of rum for bravery, and then hopped out of her chair in an effort to head Rochelle off at her closet. She was crazy to hit the streets with Darlene and Rochelle, but she wasn’t stupid enough to let them dress her.

“You mind if I put on some music while you get dressed? It’ll help to put us in the right mood,” Rochelle asked, her inner rhythm machine already making her body jiggle and sway.

“Sure, put on anything you want,” Priscilla said, thankful for the diversion. She was poking through her closet when she glanced over her shoulder just as Rochelle picked out an Absent Among Us CD.

“Wow, I haven’t listened to these guys in ages,” she said, showing the jewel case to Darlene, who had relocated herself to Priscilla’s bed.

“On second thought, anything but that. I’m a little burned out on them at the moment,” Priscilla said, relieving Rochelle of the disc and stashing it at the end of the row.

“Oh, for sure. Those dudes are so late-eighties,” Darlene said dismissively, as she checked her makeup in her compact mirror. She added more taupe and white eye shadow, then thickened up her eyeliner for good measure. Rochelle found the only CD left behind by Brawny, by a band so passé, the few first chords set Priscilla’s teeth on edge.

“Darlene, could you please assist Rochelle with the music selection?” Priscilla asked, barely resisting the urge to stick her fingers in her ears.

“Gladly. Girl, you got lousy taste when it comes to tunes,” Darlene said, as she moved a gyrating Rochelle out of the way.

“What do you mean—this is good stuff,” Rochelle said, insulted that her choice of music had been preempted twice.

“I’m glad you think so—you can have it,” Priscilla said, shedding her jeans in exchange for her all-purpose black pants.

“Really? Cool.”

“I’m surprised you’d even have something like that,” Darlene said, popping in a disc that finally won Priscilla’s approval.

“It was Brawny’s, not mine,” Priscilla said, pulling her T-shirt off and slipping a gray V-neck sweater over her head.

“We saw Brawny last weekend,” Rochelle said from the bathroom, where she was fussing with her bleached-blond mop.

“Yeah, he was with that Beverly chick. I don’t like her. I don’t think Brawny really does, either,” Darlene added. “Soon as she went to the restroom, he told us how much he missed you and how he’d take you back in a heartbeat.”

“How magnanimous of him,” Priscilla said dryly. “When did you say you saw him?”

“Last Thursday or Friday, at Symanski’s Pool Emporium.”

Priscilla eyed herself in the mirror. Well, that explains his surprise visit the other day, she reckoned as she removed the clip from her dark brown hair, letting it fall around her shoulders. She ran a brush through it quickly before twisting it up in a messy topknot, which she then held in place with a chopstick.

“He’s not so bad,” Darlene said, as she leafed through one of Priscilla’s magazines. “I think it was a mistake to give him the heave-ho. Good men like him are hard to find.”

There was a peculiar tone in her voice that Priscilla found amusing. “Oh, please. The guy drove me nuts. You’re welcome to him if you think he’s so great.” Priscilla watched Darlene’s reflection in the mirror, noting her sly smile as she received Priscilla’s blessing to move in on her ex. To women like Darlene, a good body and a decent face were all that mattered. Priscilla applied a thin coat of lip-gloss and grabbed her denim jacket. “Okay, let’s get this over with,” she said.

The looks her bland attire generated told her she had a tough battle ahead of her. Darlene searched her closet until she located a black miniskirt, while Rochelle unearthed a black lace top from the depths of her dresser.

In the end, the only thing that survived the revamp was the denim jacket. Both fashion experts agreed it looked “stylishly funky” with the dressier black things. Even her comfortable platforms were vetoed, replaced by black pointy-toe pumps she hadn’t worn in years. Her patience wore out completely when they came at her with their battery of cosmetics. Wisely, her well-meaning but taste-impaired friends backed off. With one yank of the chopstick, they declared the look complete.

The cocktail waitress set down their drinks with ill-concealed disdain. A tiff nearly ensued when she insisted on being paid rather than running a tab, but Rochelle was quick to fork over the cash, giving her a conspicuously large tip for her trouble.

“To girls’ night out,” she said, raising her Cosmopolitan to Darlene’s Long Island Ice Tea and Priscilla’s Margarita. Rochelle took a curious sip, having never ordered that drink before. She didn’t particularly care for the taste, but it had a very sophisticated sound to it and it was a lovely shade of pink. It made her feel quite ‘cosmopolitan’ herself to be holding such a cocktail in a high-class watering hole.

Darlene was unusually quiet; Priscilla figured the run-in with the waitress had probably stuck in her craw. For her part, Priscilla was relieved to find the place they’d chosen to be far more evolved than the hootenanny joint they had dragged her to last time, though she felt just as out of place here. Whereas they had stood out as ridiculously over-dressed at Abner’s, here they were regarded as wayward ‘bridge and tunnel’ slags—impossibly low-class, but doable in a pinch.

They had already received many cursory glances from men who automatically relegated them to the ‘last call’ emergency list. Apparently Priscilla was the only one of the three who picked up on the vibes their entrance had generated. Vexed that she had not managed to circumvent this degrading situation, she decided to hang tight and cut out once the others found some new playmates for the evening.

Though Rochelle’s Cosmopolitan was not exactly to her taste, she did manage to dispense with it in short order. As the glass became lighter, she began to cast about for possible benefactors. She had been disappointed that there had been no room at the bar; she caught sight of Matthew, the bartender she was sweet on, but she had been unable to catch his eye.

After a few minutes of casting hopeful but unreturned glances, Rochelle took her almost empty glass to stand near the bar, where she received the sought-after offer in practically no time.

Darlene’s mood began to improve as she sipped her heady concoction, while Priscilla virtually disappeared into the upholstery, absorbed in her own thoughts. Just as Rochelle was being led out to the dance floor by a tall, chino-clad Yuppie, Darlene received a tap on the shoulder by a guy who exemplified her ideal man: tallish, broad across the chest, longish hair, minimal I.Q., and as much out of his element as she was. With a wink to Priscilla and one last slurp of her cocktail for confidence, Darlene was gone.

Priscilla sat on the high-backed banquette like an orphaned child amidst the crush of bodies and a pulsating din, wondering idly how long to wait before she bolted, and whether it was really necessary to let her friends know. They would only talk her into staying and she was loath to be in that environment a minute longer.

She was on the verge of escaping, when the sight of a man she mistook for Phil froze her to the banquette. She was greatly relieved when the man turned and looked right through her. But soon the feeling of relief was replaced with a vague sense of disappointment. Damn, she cursed herself, how did I let a guy like Phil get under my skin?

Losing Phil’s patronage was a blow to her. Without his foolhardy generosity, she wouldn’t have the financial cushion, the first she’d had in a long time. But there was more to it than the loss of roughly four hundred dollars a month. As curious and slightly embarrassing as she found his prolific placemat art, it was going to feel strange not to find these little offerings in her purse at the end of the day.

And what was she supposed to do with her massive collection now? It was one thing to save personal mementos from the dustbin when the one who’d given them to her was still very much in her life. But what would it mean to hold onto the relics of an acquaintanceship that never really got off the ground? It would be pitiful, that’s what it would be; a sad show of sentimentality.

Priscilla sighed and took a sip of her watery Margarita. If she was going to come clean with her feelings, she’d have to confess she’d become fond of Phil’s oddball ways. There was something endearing about the way he doodled on placemats like an overgrown child in a tailor-made suit.

To be fair, there really wasn’t anything wrong with the guy, except that he was nowhere near her type. He was a nice man, with a nice kid, and nice clothes, and nice manners, and probably a nice house, too. So, what business did he have asking someone like her out on a non-date? It didn’t make her feel any better to realize he was the only person in her life who beamed at her whenever she came near. It was hard to dismiss that kind of flattery, especially when there was such a dearth of it.

Well, no reason to waste time rehashing the way things turned out; Phil wouldn’t be back to Frank’s again, she felt it in her bones. It was just as well, she thought morosely, for now it would only be awkward for them both. Though his overture of the day before had truly irritated her, she couldn’t help feeling a little sorry for him now. The idea of Phil sitting in some vacant theater or wandering the zoo by himself made her unjustifiably sad.

Maybe Frank’s Coffee shop had grown too confining, she reasoned as she took stock of her current circumstances. She had only signed on there on a whim, rightly or wrongly interpreting her predecessor’s departure as a doorway to a new beginning. It had seemed a benign enough choice, with only a few motley regulars and the odd drooling loony.

She had to laugh at herself; it was her distinct lack of courage and her phobia of actually charting her own course that allowed her to end up in these unsatisfying circumstances. Not once in her whole life had she made up her mind to achieve a particular goal, or for that matter, never had she hoped for more than she had. She knew she wasn’t mentally vacant, merely impaired when it came to imagining a happier existence.

As if to illustrate her failure to act on impulse, Tobias Jordan suddenly came to mind, stirring a completely different form of self-incrimination. It was irksome to realize she had let this chance encounter with the famous musician seep into her psyche.

Yet it wasn’t his faded celebrity that attracted her to him; somewhere in their limited interaction, Priscilla had found something quite compelling about him, as if the notion of having a soul mate on the airwaves had not been farfetched after all. But Tobias Jordan had merely passed through her life, not she through his.

Though deflated by this knowledge, it made her smile to think he’d been driven to her realm of the truly misfortunate, circled four times, and freed himself of failure. That thirteen-dollar tip told her he had broken his downward cycle and was once again headed for greatness. They would never cross paths again.

You don’t see me

I am the mountain in your vista

Behind a foggy veil

I am the pathway lined with roses

That leads to no avail

I am the truth you are avoiding

The life you are eroding

I am a name without a face

I am gone without a trace

You don’t see me

I don’t see you

Even if I recognized you

As the hope I dare not have

Even if your words could penetrate

And heal me like a salve

Even if I walked right through your heart

Tore your life apart

Even if you laid down right beside me

Did your best to hide me

I don’t see you

“There are probably quieter places to meditate.”

It took Priscilla several seconds to realize the remark had been directed at her. The man who had made the droll observation waved his hand in front of her face, as though trying to break through her trance. Had she not caught herself in time, she would have taken a bite out of that hand.

“Oh, good. We haven’t lost you.”

Priscilla glared at the man who had planted himself so casually at their table. Well, if it isn’t Mr. Suave himself. His suit, which seemed overkill for the hour and the place, hung from his frame as if it were paid to make him look good. A quick estimate told her it cost more than her rent and utilities for six months.

His hair was perfectly groomed and his skin was so clean, it looked as though it had been polished. She had detected his scent even before he spoke, though it had not been distracting enough to break her concentration. It was an overly clean smell, the smell of someone who had just taken great care to remove all traces of the human condition. Even with all the extraneous sights, sounds and smells, his cleanliness stood out sharply, a badge of his mental, physical and financial superiority. If she hadn’t such a keen nose, his smirk alone could’ve conveyed the same message.

Priscilla supposed she and her friends were of such low standing, any regular swell who saw fit could move in on them or their territory at whim. After all, weren’t they there expressly for the pleasure of these uptown folks? Wasn’t the main objective to meet, drink with and bed one of these fortunate few?

If her own willpower hadn’t been so low, she would’ve never let herself be dragged into a place like this. Well, that was the risk she took when she threw her life at the fates, allowing herself to go with the flow, waiting for the next wind to choose her path. Open as she was to change, she realized a new life was not going to begin in this bar or with this man or anyone else in that den of snobbery. Therefore, she had no reason to stay.

She grabbed her bag and began to scoot out of the booth. She didn’t get more than a foot away from the interloper when he grabbed hold of her forearm. The look she shot him would’ve given most people pause, but the cocky stranger merely smiled. Slowly he loosened his grip and let Priscilla’s arm drop.

Once again in possession of all her limbs, Priscilla stood up abruptly, silently debating whether it would be more satisfying to strike him with her purse, pour her largely untouched drink in his lap, berate him with any number of insulting observations, or simply turn and walk away. She had no time to act on any of these options, as she was suddenly surrounded by Darlene, Rochelle and company.

“Hi! How’s it going?” Rochelle asked with a meaningful look at the man who had invaded their table. Priscilla didn’t bother to answer. She pushed straight through them, her patience thoroughly spent. “Hey, where ya goin’?” Rochelle tried again, as she endeavored to keep pace with her friend. “Sammy, wait!” Priscilla spun around, startling Rochelle with her intensity.

“What’s wrong? Who’s that gorgeous guy at our table?” Rochelle asked conspiratorially.

“He’s a prick, that’s who he is.”

“Why, what’d he do? Do you know him?” Rochelle asked, confused.

“I’ve never seen him in my life, but I can tell you he’s the kind of guy you want to steer clear of,” Priscilla said, resuming her exit.

“Wait, Sammy—where ya goin?”

“I’m getting the hell out of this place.” Priscilla worked her way through the crowd, unaware that Rochelle was right behind her, until they finally emerged from the writhing throng out into the refreshingly cool night air. They threaded their way past the crowd that was now waiting to get in. Priscilla stopped in the nearest alleyway to say goodbye to her abductor.

“I’m sorry you didn’t have a good time,” Rochelle said, shivering in her exposed skin. “We thought getting out somewhere nice like…NYCE would do you good.” Priscilla’s expression challenged this remark. “Well, you haven’t dated anyone since Ryan…have you?”

“No, but I’m not really in any hurry to, either.”

“You can’t avoid men forever, Sammy. Just ’cause none of your relationships worked out the way you wanted them to doesn’t mean they’ll all be that way,” Rochelle said earnestly.

Priscilla marveled at Rochelle’s wealth of hope. To hear her talk, one would think Rochelle had cracked the love conundrum and was happily married to the man of her dreams.

Priscilla didn’t have the heart to remind her that her track record wasn’t anything to gloat over. She couldn’t understand how Rochelle could work up the nerve to face her fruitless pursuit of love, or even any reasonable facsimile thereof, night after disappointing night. The main difference between the two of them was Rochelle believed a man could solve all her problems, while Priscilla knew that men could only add to hers.

She was trying to think of a nice way to say this, when a door in the alley opened with a burst of music and garbled voices. A figure emerged, walking toward them.

“Matthew!” Rochelle exclaimed, catching the man off guard. He slowed and eyed both women cautiously.

“Do I know you?” he asked, eyeing them both.

“We met the other night…me and my friend Darlene came in last Tuesday for cocktails…you waited on us,” she said, attempting to jog his memory. Matthew shook his head regretfully.

“We get so many people in here,” he said apologetically.

“Remember, you told us where the cocktail was invented, and that a man named Harold Ramos—or was it Henry Ramos—created the Gin Fizz…?” Rochelle’s longing to be remembered was becoming acutely embarrassing to Priscilla. Fortunately, the bartender came to her rescue.

“Oh yeah… I remember now. Sure. Didn’t recognize you without your drink,” he said with a feeble laugh. Rochelle laughed inordinately, as if it were the wittiest thing she’d ever heard. “You ladies been having a good time this evening?” he asked, turning his attention to Priscilla.

“Yeah, we’ve only been here for a little while. We couldn’t find a seat at the bar, so we had to sit a table,” Rochelle explained. “This is my friend, Sammy…Priscilla. This is Matthew, the nicest bartender in Manhattan,” she crooned sweetly enough to make Priscilla wince.

“You have two names?” Matthew asked, ignoring Rochelle’s compliment entirely.

“At least.”

“Which one do you prefer—Sammy or Priscilla?”

“I guess it doesn’t matter,” Priscilla said noncommittally, uncomfortable with the vibe he was giving her.

“Are you on your break now?” Rochelle asked, trying to get the conversation back in her court.

“Uh…no. I’m off now.”

“So early? That’s great.”

“I work the happy hour shift on Fridays, which is why I get off at ten-thirty.”

“Well, now that you’re off duty, why don’t you join us for a drink?” Rochelle asked hopefully. Matthew turned to Priscilla for encouragement.

“I’m going home,” she said, taking herself out of the equation.

“Thanks, but I need to head home, too. I’m working a double shift tomorrow at my other job,” Matthew conveniently remembered.

“Aw, that’s too bad,” Rochelle said, her pout so pronounced, Priscilla feared she might actually shed a tear.

“Anyway, it was nice to see you again. Stop by sometime soon and I’ll buy you ladies a drink,” he said gallantly enough to raise Rochelle’s hopes. After giving Priscilla a look she couldn’t quite interpret, he continued on his way.

“Isn’t he a doll?” Rochelle squealed, as soon as the bartender had vanished from sight.

“You better get inside. You’re not wearing much,” Priscilla warned her.

“You’re right, Sammy,” Rochelle answered distractedly, her mind clearly on other matters.

“Okay, see you later.” Priscilla was halfway down the block before she heard Rochelle call out to her.

“’Night, Sammy. It was fun. We’ll do it again real soon.”

“Like hell we will,” Priscilla muttered under her breath, as she waved back, smiling. She was contemplating hailing a cab instead of riding the subway with all the late night cretins, when a man came out of nowhere, making her raise her bag defensively.

“Hey—friendly fire!” Matthew called out.

“Jesus Christ! You scared the crap out of me,” Priscilla said, hand to her chest to slow her heartbeat.

“I’d hate to be the mugger dumb enough to take you on,” he said, coming away from the wall, obviously as startled as she was.

“I didn’t expect to find anyone lurking in the shadows,” Priscilla said, his actions giving her pause.

“Actually, I wasn’t lurking, as you put it. It occurred to me you’d be out here on the streets by yourself, and it seemed only decent to escort you to wherever you’re going,” Matthew replied.

Priscilla gave him a sidelong glance, as if she found it hard to believe there was such a chivalrous man left in the city, aside from Phil. Still wary, she fell into step with him, her mind calculating the probability of his intentions being as altruistic as he claimed.

“So…where’re you headed?” he asked, as they approached the corner.

“Home. Hester, between Essex and Ludlow. South of Delancey.” She watched as he processed this information. Priscilla couldn’t help but smile.

“You’ve got a ways to go,” he said, slowing, as if he hadn’t counted on that kind of distance. “You’re not planning to walk the whole way, are you?”

“I hadn’t decided yet.” They walked on in silence, past a few nightspots in full swing. “Where do you live?” she asked.

“The Village, off Christopher.”

“Not as far, but still pretty far,” she said, figuring her apartment was twice as far as his. “You planning on walking the whole way?”

“Haven’t decided yet.” When he smiled, Priscilla got a glimpse of what had made Rochelle so gaga over him. His grin was undoubtedly his secret weapon, likely used to disarm females on a regular basis.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you in NYCE before,” he said.

“No—not my kind of place.”

“Yeah, mine neither. It’s an okay place to work. Good tips.” Priscilla checked the street sign as they crossed the intersection. They’d only walked four blocks and her feet were already plotting a mutiny. As if sensing her discomfort, Matthew took stock of her footwear.

“I don’t think you’re going to make it all the way to Delancey Street in those,” he said. “We could share a cab…or…we could stop somewhere for drink…or a cup of coffee…give your feet time to rest,” he suggested.

“Sure, and if we stop to rest every five or six blocks, we might reach my place by Monday,” she quipped.

Only slightly deterred, Matthew considered other options. “Well, we could do a combination of measures. We could stop at this quiet bar up the street, have a cocktail, then, if you still feel like torturing your feet, we could walk some more, maybe stop for a coffee, then catch a cab… you see the idea?”

Priscilla tried to constrict her smile, but couldn’t. “I thought you had to work a double tomorrow,” she reminded him.

“Tomorrow’s…?”

“Saturday,” Priscilla supplied.

“Oh, so today’s Friday.”

“You’re getting the idea.”

“I work a double on Fridays, and I have Saturdays off. That’s right—I worked a double today,” he said, as if surprised by this revelation.

“You told my friend you worked a double at your other job tomorrow,” Priscilla pointed out.

“Oh, I must’ve misspoken. I worked at my other job today.”

“I see,” Priscilla said knowingly. “I’m getting the impression misspeaking might be a chronic condition with you.”

Matthew feigned offense. “It was a slip of the tongue, I swear. I lose track of time when I work too much.”

His earnestness made Priscilla laugh. “Yeah, I bet.”

“Look,” Matthew said, trying a different approach, “I’m sorry if it offends you, but your friend Rachel—”

“Rochelle.”

“Whatever her name is, she’s not my type. I try to be nice to everyone at the club, but I’m sure you know how it is to be hit on all the time. Some people you just have to blow off. Hey, I try to be nice about it.”

“Don’t worry, you’re not hurting my feelings. Rochelle would be crushed, but I can’t say she’s my type, either.”

“Does that mean you two aren’t bosom-buddies?”

“Hardly. I used to work with her and another girl years ago. But I can’t say that we’ve stayed very close.”

“Ah…so, there wouldn’t be any conflict in me asking you out for a drink. Is that right?” Matthew asked.

“It wouldn’t be the reason I turned you down,” Priscilla answered evasively.

“What’s that supposed to mean? Are you saying that you don’t want to have a drink with me?” Priscilla hemmed and hawed, enjoying his moment of insecurity, surely a novelty for a guy like him. Priscilla stopped and studied his face in the glow of the streetlight.

“All right, one drink,” she relented, knowing as well as he did what she was agreeing to. Matthew grinned and motioned to a nightclub just up the street.

Oh, what the hell, Priscilla thought fatalistically, as they entered the club. Rochelle had been right about one thing: she had gone a long time between men.

Nine

“So this is your master plan

Funny, I don’t recognize it

I recall a grander vision

Yet somehow it never fit

Gone are those grand ideals

Cherished emblems of conceit

Were they too heavy to shoulder?

Or just too hollow to repeat?

What is your life now but static illusions?

Where’s the challenge now you’ve reached your conclusions?

How can you honestly tell me you’re living a life

All you’ve really achieved is the absence of strife

Don’t you remember how it feels?

Don’t you remember how it feels?

Don’t you remember when you had blood coursing through your veins?

When possibility stirred your heart and doubts triggered your brain

Now you’re satisfied with complacency and proud to say you’re sane

Though your luxury is your shackle and your privilege is your chain

Don’t you remember how it feels?”

Tobias leaned away from the mike and switched from playing the keyboard to backing Brody’s bass guitar with synthesized drums. They just about had this song in the bag now, after spending a total of thirty hours on writing, revising and fine-tuning. They would have enough preserved on tape to arrange and rehearse from. It would serve as their blueprint, the structure and essence of the song, from which they could choose other musicians and singers to accompany them.

It was not their style to go into the recording session with every note and nuance set in stone. For them, the only way to keep the work fresh was to add something new to it after letting it gel. Brody executed a long, writhing riff, embellishing the melody as only a guitarist of his standing could, taking the number to an entirely different level. Tobias added in a few bars of piano as Brody trailed off, and another signature song was born.

Both men paid close attention as they played back the culmination of three days of intense labor. They were mentally and physically spent, but they were pleased with the results. It wasn’t the easiest piece they’d ever written, but it wasn’t the hardest one, either. Brody was happy to work round the clock on anything that had Tobias so fired up. After a decade of estrangement, this song was proof they had not lost their unique collaborative gift for songwriting.

Tobias fiddled with Brody’s gadgetry and mixed in two previously recorded tracks. They listened again, hearing the piece with all the instrumentation for the first time. They played it through once, then Tobias restarted it and ran through it again. He stopped the recording in several places while he scribbled notes to himself.

Brody freed himself of his bass and stretched mightily, the long hours of bending over his instruments having taken its toll. He twisted his torso to one side then the other, eliciting a series of loud pops and crackles. He watched Tobias for another minute or two, then left the studio to check on the ladies. He found them out on the deck chairs, flipping through magazines while they gossiped and sipped champagne. For Brody, it was one of the sights that made life worth living.

When Tobias had appeared at his door three days earlier, Brody worried he had fallen into his old self-destructive habits. He had been wearing the same clothes, and it was obvious he hadn’t been to sleep yet. But to Brody’s his relief, Tobias didn’t seem strung out, merely preoccupied. He had the makings of another song in his head, and he was chomping at the bit to get into the studio before he lost his grip on it. Brody was only too happy to oblige, skipping his morning trip to the gym in order to accommodate him.

He was also highly encouraged when Tobias suggested a spur of the moment shift of venues, asking if they could head out to Brody’s place in the Berkshires for a more intensive collaboration. After Tobias’s earlier reticence at having Roberta around, Brody was happy when he made no objections to having her come along with them.

Unlike Tobias, Brody worked better when he had feminine encouragements and comforts close at hand. He was more than little surprised when Tobias came to him on the second day and asked if he could have “his girl” out to join them. Since Simone’s arrival, the four of them had fallen into the same domestic routine the guys had shared for the better part of two decades—concentrated doses of creative brainstorming mixed with the stirring vibes of female nearness, what Tobias referred to as “cosmic purring.”

By the time Tobias staggered out onto the deck, the late afternoon sun had disappeared behind a screen of clouds, promising a spectacular sunset. With witnessing that in mind, Brody had stationed himself near the kitchen window where he had begun to assemble a barbeque feast.

Music was playing at party level and the merriment barometer had risen to an almost annoying height. Roberta and Simone were dancing together as if they were born to entertain their men like Scheherazade. When Brody caught sight of Tobias, he came out to greet him with an ice-cold beer and a joint. Tobias waved the latter away.

“You look like a train derailment, man,” Brody commented as he squinted through the smoke. Tobias pressed the back of his hands against his eyes, feeling as though he had aged five years in the last few days.

“Go have a shower—it helped me.”

Tobias took a long swig of beer, and with all the effort he could summon, raised himself off the chaise. “Hey, before you go, would you mind bringing the demo out here? I promised Robbie she could hear it when we were done.”

The request didn’t sit well with Tobias, who never liked to share works in progress. In his mind, that meant no one—outside of the musicians, producers and studio arrangers—could hear anything until it hit the airwaves.

Not only did it rankle him that Brody wanted to share their unfinished work with his girlfriend, but if she was going to hear it, there was no way to keep Simone from hearing. Tobias shot his partner a penetrating look, angry enough to dampen the festivities a notch. After all their history together, Brody knew better than to ask a thing like that.

“C’mon, man—you don’t have to be like that. They just want to hear what we’ve been bashing our brains out over for the last three days. We at least owe them that. It’s not like they’re spies or anything.” Tobias drained the rest of his beer and handed the bottle to Brody, his expression hard and unrelenting. “What am I supposed to tell them?” Brody asked with exasperation.

Tobias shrugged. “I don’t care what you tell them. If we’re going to have the same level of collaboration we’ve had in the past, then we’re going to have to show respect for each other’s creative taboos. No one listens to our work until it’s finished—completely finished,” he said in a voice just above a whisper. He looked back at the girls, performing for each other in blissful ignorance. He glared at Brody before skulking off to bathe his tired bones.

Later that evening, after the feast and several bottles of wine, after the mind-numbing effects of listening to Roberta and Simone prattle on with stoned abandon, Tobias had reached a moment of clarity where he had the sudden and overwhelming desire to be free of that scene.

The amount of effort it took to wrench a song out of his mind and soul surely warranted a different form of reward, like solitude, or at least reverential silence. His psyche had reached the saturation point and what had seemed like a good idea now made him feel completely claustrophobic.

Having Simone around for a couple of days had relieved some of his physical needs, but the benefits no longer seemed more vital than they were distracting. Stretched out there on the massive sofas with the other three had him craving a night like the one when he had wandered the streets until after dawn, off everyone’s radar, free to do anything or go anywhere. It had been one of the most liberating experiences he’d had in years, and all he could think about was getting back there, back to a state of consciousness free of all distraction.

His talent almost demanded he get back in the frame of mind that had spawned the best song he had written in over a decade. If he stayed in this hedonistic den of quasi-domesticity, he’d stifle his creativity for certain. He was definitely making inroads, but he wasn’t where he wanted to be yet.

With his plan for the preservation of his sanity sorted out, Tobias begged off early, catching a few hours of much-needed sleep, getting up after the others had finally slunk off to bed. Stealthily, he packed the few belongings he had brought along, arranged for a car to come and collect him at six a.m., and repaired to the studio for a few hours of solitary work before leaving.

When the car arrived, Tobias scribbled a quick note to Brody, telling him he had some business to attend to, and left car fare for Simone, should she wish to leave before her host and hostess did. He knew what their reaction to his hasty retreat would be, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. He knew better than to try to explain his need for privacy and solitude. It would only generate persuasive arguments, injured feelings, or grudging disapproval. The single most important consideration was safeguarding his newly recovered talent. If that meant alternately dodging his partner, his wife and his girlfriend, so be it.

Leaving Brody’s hideout came off without a hitch, but sneaking back into his own home was a different story. As luck would have it, Monique did not have an early class that morning, as he had hoped. He ran almost headlong into his wife and her interior designer as he rounded the corner to his wing of the apartment.

“Tobias! You’re finally home. I was afraid I’d be receiving a ransom note,” Monique said glibly, as she offered her cheek to her wayward husband. “Well, how did it go? You look like something the cat dragged in.” Tobias dutifully, if reluctantly, kissed her cheek and offered a curt hello to the man who managed to sustain his career by redecorating his home, over and over.

“Good to see you, Tobias,” Jackson Smythie said, as he extended his free hand.

“We’ve been sorting through fabrics all morning,” Monique said, her voice full of the weariness of such a chore, “but I think we’ve got a good place to start, don’t you, Jackson?”

“Oh absolutely. What we’ve settled on is going to look fantastic, I’m sure.”

Monique favored her designer with a grateful smile, and turned back to Tobias, as if she had lost track of his presence. “So, darling…you’ve been gone for days. I trust you made good progress?”

“Yeah, we did. But it takes a lot of effort to put an album together. I’d almost forgotten how demanding this gig is,” Tobias said, stretching and yawning for affect.

“Well, you must be knackered. Why don’t you have a nice, hot shower and rest a bit,” Monique suggested, her mind already on to more pressing matters, like paint chips and floor treatments. “Jackson, the one you have in your right hand… I think that shade would be perfect in the powder room—that deep red with onyx plumbing fixtures. Don’t you think?”

“Actually, I was going to suggest this pale lavender with alabaster fixtures…”

“Oooh…I wonder what a combination of those colors would look like—you know, lavender on one wall, this red on the other.”

“Hmm…” Jackson said meditatively. Tobias winced at the thought of what those two would do to his home. He took advantage of their preoccupation to make a surreptitious exit, only catching Monique’s eye as he turned the corner to the hallway.

“Oh, Tobias—” she called out.

He popped his head back around, making it known that he didn’t wish to be waylaid. “I picked up another phone for you and canceled service on your other number. It’s on your bathroom counter. Try to hang on to this one—it’s the only way I have of keeping tabs on you.” Tobias nodded solemnly, knowing how true that was.

Tobias took his wife’s advice, as showering had already been on his agenda. He let the scorching hot water blast down upon him for as long as he could stand it, then he thrust the dial as far right as it would go, dousing himself with frigid water for a full minute, in an effort to revive his senses.

When he was thoroughly clean and alert, he wandered tentatively out into the corridor, listening for voices, as he towel dried his thinning hair. He cautiously ventured into Monique’s wing of the apartment and found no trace of her. Hurriedly, he dressed, traded the clothes in his overnight bag with fresh ones, and did an online search for hotels.

After locating a once grand establishment no longer in vogue, offbeat enough to assure him obscurity, but still sufficiently posh to maintain a presidential suite with a grand piano, Tobias called for a taxi. He rechecked his bag to make sure he had packed his notations and a copy of the recordings made so far, and with a casual but defiant glance at his new cell phone, he took his leave of Monique’s domain.

Ten

It was with a sense of relief that Priscilla pushed through the door of her dodgy place of employment on Monday morning. As surreal as working at Frank’s was, it did have the one advantage of being fairly predictable. Predictable in the safe sense, with just enough aberrations in the form of patrons to keep it from becoming mind-shatteringly dull.

Of course, her latest distractions had apparently bailed, leaving only the mildly quirky regulars. But if there was a God out there somewhere, surely he would send replacements. They didn’t have to be as generous as Phil, or famous like Tobias Jordan, as long as they had more dimension than the usual clientele that frequented Frank’s Coffee Shop.

What had her viewing Frank’s as a refuge on that particular morning was the unsettling events over the weekend. Not that anything so terrible had happened, but Friday night made her realize she was starting to work against herself again, allowing herself to do things she normally wouldn’t dream of doing.

She didn’t trust her judgment at the moment, especially after letting herself be dragged around town by Darlene and Rochelle. It made her cringe to envision herself traipsing around town with the likes of them, dressed like three hookers on an uptown holiday. Maybe her odd attire had affected her, she speculated, thinking of her rash act after leaving the nightclub. Drinking outside her social bounds had been one thing; going home with a stranger was quite another.

Priscilla attended her setup chores with uncommon zeal, as she tried to evade thoughts of Matthew the bartender. When that proved to be impossible, she countered the inevitable reproaches with the argument that getting laid every six months or so had to be the bare minimum for one’s mental and physical well-being. She was sure there was medical proof to back up this theory, or at least anecdotal evidence. Even Rochelle the Ding-A-Ling knew that indefinite abstinence was no good, though she certainly couldn’t know it from personal experience.

It wasn’t as though Priscilla felt compromised by her actions; she had gotten what she had bargained for and so had he. They indulged in sex with abandon, the kind inspired by knowing theirs was a one-time encounter. In the aftermath, their one-night-stand played out more amenable and dignified than most, culminating with Matthew making her breakfast and insisting on paying her cab fare home in the morning.

The thing that bothered her was the way she was living her life like a flea, hopping from one misdirected host to another, without any apparent regard to the repercussions or her future. This was no news flash, simply the story of her life.

So why was she so disappointed with herself? Because she could tell by her actions—including the lack of self-recrimination for sleeping with Rochelle’s heartthrob—that she no longer possessed a will of her own. Whereas it used to bother her when her life took twists and turns she didn’t like, she had more or less become fatalistic, as if it were only natural for chance encounters to dictate her future.

It was in this preoccupied state that Priscilla belatedly became aware of Phil’s presence at his usual table. So convinced she’d never see him there again, it took a moment to register that he and his daughter were not the product of an overwrought mind. They were sitting there side-by-side, both doodling with such seriousness it was as if it were their sole purpose for being there.

Confused by his presence, Priscilla approached their booth cautiously, hoping to make sense of things by the time she came face to face with him. To prolong the process further, she made a detour to the setup station for backup placemats.

“Daddy, draw a turret right here for me,” Caitlin said. She passed her placemat to her father and waited with anticipation.

“Well, there are all different types of turrets. What kind of do you want? A fairytale castle turret, or an Italian turret, or a Moorish turret…”

“A Russian turret,” Caitlin decided emphatically.

“Okay,” Philip agreed, as he began to improvise a Russian turret.

“Here are a few backups, in case you need to draw different styles,” Priscilla said, laying the extras on the displaced silverware opposite them.

“There you are!” Philip exclaimed, looking up at Priscilla ecstatically, as if the incident from the previous week had been entirely forgotten.

“Hi Priscilla,” Caitlin said, glancing away from her father’s progress for barely a second. “Make another one right…here,” she directed him. “My daddy’s making me Russian turrets,” she said for Priscilla’s benefit.

“They’re very fine turrets,” Priscilla said, feeling a vague admiration for the girl’s devotion to her father. “Are you two hungry?” she asked, as she flipped to a new ticket.

“Famished,” Caitlin said, looking straight up into Priscilla’s eyes for the first time; Caitlin’s precociousness made her smile.

“Well, in that case, we’d better hurry up and get your order in. What’ll it be?”

“Pigs in a blanket,” Caitlin replied crisply, her attention already back to her father’s handiwork. Priscilla’s pencil paused above her order pad.

“If you can bring an order of pancakes and a side of sausage, I’ll roll them up for her. She had them up in Boston last week, now it’s her favorite meal. I think she’d eat them three times a day if she could.” Caitlin shot Philip a sly smile that confirmed his theory.

“Tall stack?” Priscilla asked. Philip nodded. “Pigs in a blanket, coming right up. And for the turret drawer?”

“Would it be too much trouble to get that special omelet of yours?” Philip asked.

“No problem at all,” Priscilla assured him, though the chef had been in a particularly irascible mood all morning, and his cooperation on anything was not guaranteed. But if there was one customer who could take bad news regarding his food, it was Phil. The look of sheer gratitude on his face entirely negated the conclusions she had drawn just a few short days ago. It stirred some remote part of her heart to think Phil might be a constant in her life after all.

“Did you want coffee or tea?” she asked as she turned to go.

“Tea, please.”

“Milk for your friend?”

“Thank you,” Philip replied serenely.

He watched Priscilla as she navigated her way the kitchen, then turned his focus back to Caitlin. He cherished these moments with her even more after the panic of last week, when fears of losing custody had sent him driving to Boston in the middle of the night.

Philip looked down at the top of Caitlin’s head while she busily drew an edifice to support his two turrets. He wondered idly if his rash actions would come back to haunt him. It took a bit of persuading to make the teachers in charge relinquish her to his custody. He realized he had put them in an awkward position, in light of the impending divorce. Times being what they were, he had to sign a make-shift release form to take the monkey off the school’s back. All he hoped at this point was that Marianne wasn’t seriously plotting to limit his visitation rights.

“How do you like my Russian castle, Daddy?” Caitlin asked, holding up her creation for his opinion.

“It’s absolutely delightful,” Philip said, picking up the placemat to better admire it. “Very nice, indeed. I like the entrance and all this around the outside.”

Caitlin beamed with pleasure. “That’s a moat and that’s the drawbridge,” she pointed out.

“I see. Good security,” he said approvingly. “Can I keep this one?” Philip asked. Caitlin nodded. “You better sign it first.” He returned the drawing to Caitlin and watched as she wrote her name, using a different colored marker for each letter.

“Time to move the masterpieces,” Priscilla said, hot plates hovering in her outstretched hands. The diners quickly obliged, putting their works aside for safekeeping. Philip set a clean placemat in front of each of them and Priscilla set down their respective plates.

“Pigs in a blanket for Miss Caitlin and Phil’s special omelet.”

“Thanks for rolling them up,” Philip said.

“No problem. Just be sure to take those toothpicks out before you eat them—they’re made with real pig bones,” Priscilla said jokingly.

“Are they really, Daddy?” Caitlin asked.

“If Priscilla says so.” He looked up at their waitress, gratitude fairly oozing out of him.

“Enjoy,” Priscilla said before briskly moving on to her next table.

“I have four pigs in four blankets,” Caitlin said, gingerly removing one of the toothpicks.

“That’s a lot of food for one little girl,” Philip said as he took a bite of his omelet.

“You can have one, Daddy,” she said, airlifting one off her plate and setting it on his. “What should we do with the pig bones?” she asked, holding one aloft, examining it carefully. “They look a lot like toothpicks, don’t they, Daddy?”

“Yes, but they don’t have sharp points like toothpicks.” What an angel Priscilla is, Philip thought to himself, as he realized she had broken off the points so Caitlin couldn’t hurt herself.

“Oh, you’re right—I see the difference,” she said. She tore off a piece of her paper napkin and wrapped the toothpicks in it. “I’m going to save these,” she said. She stashed her new treasures in a zipper pocket of her backpack, then poured a copious amount of syrup over her breakfast. As any child would—rich or poor—she played with the drips off the dispenser, quite ignoring the pool of sweet goo on her plate.

“Come on, sweetheart. Eat your breakfast. I’ve got to get you to school.” Caitlin consulted her watch for verification. Finding that her father was not trying to rush her out of habit, she dug into her pancakes and sausage with gusto.

Philip watched his daughter devour her breakfast, his heart swelling with love for her. She was absolutely the kindest, dearest sole on the planet; an affectionate, darling companion to him. He was startled when he picked her up in Boston, for it seemed to him that she had grown over their brief separation.

As they sat in the restaurant of the Ritz-Carlton Hotel, he marveled at the change in her features. She was looking more and more like Marianne—the shape of her face, the way her hair was darkening, even some of her expressions reminded him of Marianne—everything expect the eyes. Caitlin’s eyes were the only feature that hadn’t come from her mother.

Caitlin’s eyes—blue-gray and full of frank wonder—were almost exact copies of his. Not only did it touch him to see this attribute in her, it was also a relief that Caitlin did not possess the cool, distant, inaccessible eyes of her mother. One enigmatic stare in the family was quite enough for him. He liked to be able to look into someone’s eyes and know he had made a connection.

With Marianne, he couldn’t even be certain she heard what he said half the time. But not with his daughter; she treated everyone to solid confirmation of her comprehension. No mind games or power trips with her. Philip leaned over and kissed the top of her head.

“Daddy, eat your food. My school starts in twenty minutes, and you haven’t hardly eaten anything,” Caitlin gently reprimanded him.

“I ate my pig and its blanket.”

“Pig in a blanket,” she corrected him.

“My pig in a blanket,” he said, cutting off another bit of his omelet, which he got down with difficulty. He reached for his wallet, and took out two twenties and tucked them discreetly under his placemat. “C’mon, kiddo—we’ve got to scoot.”

“We haven’t paid yet,” Caitlin protested.

“I left Priscilla some money,” he said, standing up, waiting for Caitlin to collect her drawing materials.

“Don’t forget your drawing, Daddy,” she reminded him, handing him her Russian castle with the moat.

“Nope, can’t forget that.”

Caitlin slowly scooted out of the booth, looking around for their waitress. “Bye, Priscilla,” she called out, waving.

Priscilla looked up from her other customers and waved. “See you next time, kid.”

“Goodbye, Priscilla,” Philip said as they moved down the aisle.

“Bye, Phil.” Priscilla realized she hadn’t given him his check yet, and she reflexively reached into her pocket for it. But it was too late, Philip and Caitlin were already out the door.

“What were the specials again?” a customer was asking as she came back to the task at hand.

“Corned beef hash and Belgian waffle with strawberries,” Priscilla said distractedly.

“Those were the specials yesterday.”

“Yeah, I’m afraid that’s about the extent of Frank’s creativity,” Priscilla replied.

“I’ll try the hash, then, with eggs over-easy.”

Priscilla gathered the menus, hung their order, and dealt with her other patrons. The morning passed quickly, seeing as they were actually fairly busy for a change. The crowd thinned out as eleven o’clock rolled around, giving her and June a chance to set up for lunch.

“See that guy going out the door?” June asked Priscilla as the two waitresses refilled salt and pepper shakers behind the counter. Priscilla nodded.

“He just left me an eight dollar tip on coffee and a Danish. Eight and change. I think he’s sweet on me,” June confided. Priscilla raised her eyebrows in appreciation of this stroke of good fortune. She decided, for several reasons, not to mention she had received a twenty-five dollar tip off a two-top. In his haste to get Caitlin to school on time, Phil had over-compensated her, even more so than usual.

At that very moment, Philip walked through the door, as if merely thinking of him had conjured him up. He glanced around until he spotted Priscilla, smiling brightly once he had located her. He motioned at his customary table and Priscilla nodded. He took a seat and waited.

“Wasn’t that guy just in here a couple of hours ago?” June asked.

“He was,” Priscilla confirmed as she walked around the counter to find out what had prompted this encore visit.

“You’re going to destroy your digestive system completely coming here twice in one day,” she said. She had brought the lunch menu with her, but as he had only eaten a fraction of his breakfast, she seriously doubted he’d want to order something else.

“Oh,” Philip laughed nervously, “I’m actually not very hungry,” he confessed.

“I didn’t think you would be,” she said, letting the menu drop down to her side. “So, what brings you back here so soon?” Something told her she wasn’t going to like the answer. Philip didn’t have an opportunity to respond; there was a loud commotion at the door as a busload of Asian tourists poured in. Immediately, June glanced around for backup.

“Jeeze,” Priscilla said under her breath. “Looks like we’ve got our work cut out for us now. Can I get you something? Cup of coffee?” she asked, then remembered Philip’s understandable aversion to their house brew. “How ‘bout a coke?”

“Sure, that’d be great,” Philip said.

June had sent the first wave of diners Priscilla’s way. She quickly got them seated and handed out menus. She made a point of getting Philip’s coke before she forgot about it. He was hoping to speak with her, that being his sole purpose for returning. But Priscilla was too fast for him. She set his coke down, gave him a tense, fleeting smile, and rushed off to grab a pot of coffee.

Philip watched as Priscilla, June, Frank and Hector the dishwasher worked at a frantic pace trying to feed the sixty-odd foreigners in short-order fashion. Finally, about forty-five minutes later, the crew got the situation under control. The coffee shop’s decibel level had decreased by half as the majority of the tourists tackled their lunches. The wait hadn’t really upset Philip, as it gave him time to silently rehearse for the hundredth time what he wanted to say.

“Jesus, Phil—I’m sorry I abandoned you like that,” Priscilla said, as she flipped through her tickets. After trying to sort the handful of checks, she gave up and sat down across from him and laid out her tickets. “I hope you don’t mind,” she said, looking up only briefly as she tried to account for everything ordered by every table.

“No, not at all,” Philip replied pleasantly, enjoying her proximity. It was perhaps the first time they had looked at each other at eye level. Priscilla glanced over in the direction of the kitchen as she became aware of a heated exchange building between Frank and June.

“Don’t you pull any of that crap on me, Frankie,” she heard June threaten. “It says right here in blue and white—“Past. on rye. Pastrami on rye—plain as day. Nobody ever orders pastrami on wheat bread.”

“Priscilla, um…this probably isn’t the best time to being bringing this up…” Philip began sheepishly.

“What’s on your mind, Phil?” she asked. Might as well get this over with, she told herself stoically.

“I had to go out of town unexpectedly last week, and…well, we really didn’t have a chance to talk after that…invitation I left for you.” Priscilla sighed. It was just as she had suspected.

“Phil—”

Philip raised his hand to stop her. “I realized later how wrong it was for me to put you on the spot, and I just want you to know I regret having done it.”

Priscilla regarded him for a moment. “It’s okay, Phil—really.”

“It’s just that I enjoy your company so much. I mean, if I get such a lift from our limited interactions during breakfast, I figured doing something fun with you would have to be ten times nicer,” Philip said. Priscilla smiled wanly at his sincerity.

“But I was thinking only of myself. It never even occurred to me that your boss probably has strict rules about dating—or non-dating—the customers.” If Philip hadn’t looked so serious, Priscilla would have laughed at him. “I mean, I certainly don’t want to get you into any trouble with your employer.”

Priscilla couldn’t help but snort at that. “You don’t need to worry about jeopardizing my job. That’s not the issue.”

“So, it did bother you, me asking you out—on a non-date.”

Priscilla shook her head wearily. “It’s not that it bothered me, so much…it’s just…I don’t know, Phil. I guess it did put me in an awkward position, seeing how you come in every day. I mean, what if we went out on a non-date, as you put it, and it turned out badly, for whatever reason. See how it would be for me—you coming in, or not coming in…you know what I mean? This is where I work,” she stated simply, as if that should be reason enough to end his persistence. She saw no need to address the obvious fact that they were as different as a can of beer and a bottle of champagne, or mention that she wasn’t the least bit attracted to him.

“You’d better get over to the window—Frank’s having a conniption fit,” June advised as she passed by, arms fully loaded with plates.

“What’s eating him now?” she asked. June shrugged as best she could under the weight of the food.

“I better find out what’s bugging our commander in chief,” Priscilla said, as she slid out of the booth.

“Bobbi! Where she?” Frank hollered.

“I’ll be right there,” she answered, turning her attention briefly back to Philip.

“I’ve got an idea,” he said excitedly, hit by a sudden inspiration. “If I wasn’t a customer, going out with me wouldn’t put you in that position. So, all I need to do is stop patronizing this place and you would no longer have that dilemma.”

Boy, this guy’s got it bad, Priscilla thought uneasily. He was going to be harder to shake than she had assumed. She supposed pussyfooting around the real issue was only going to prolong her agony. Well, if he was going to be so persistent, he’d just have to deal with a flat-out rejection.

“BOBBI!” Frank yelled out, so loudly this time, a considerable hush fell over the noisy crowd.

“Jesus Christ, Frank—simmer down. I’ll be there in a second.”

“You no say ME simmer down. You get here NOW,” he shouted back. With the whole coffee shop now swiveling back and forth between volleys, and without missing a beat, Priscilla undid her apron strings and pulled the garment over her head, letting it fall where she stood. She then marched to the cramped closet that served as their changing room and stripped out of her ugly pink uniform for the last time. She grabbed her bag on her way out and glided down the aisle, head held high, not saying a word to anyone.

“Bobbi—you fire now!” Frank called out in a hysterical singsong voice. Priscilla stopped at the door and swung around to face him.

“You’re such an idiot, Frank. You never get anything right, do you?”

The bell on the door nearly shook free of its post as Priscilla banged the door closed. For three or four seconds, no one moved. Then, with the realization of what this meant for her, June was the first to break the silence.

“Well, fuck me,” she said, taking in all the faces still seated in Priscilla’s section. “What the hell did you say to her Frank? Now, look at all the extra tables I’m left to sort out. If I had any brains, I’d follow her out of here.” June let this threat sink into Frank’s head for one long, cruel moment before casually crossing the floor to pick up Priscilla’s apron and shuffle through her tickets.

In the heat of her anger, Priscilla had forgotten to take her tips out of her apron pocket. Well, that was at least one compensating factor, June told herself. Furtively, she removed Priscilla’s loot and commingled it with hers. With the tips still to be collected from the remaining customers, June would have the best haul she’d ever gotten in that dump.

“Damn you, Frank,” she said, not willing to let him out of the hot seat so easily. Her tyrannical boss remained mute as a stone, which was the only smart move open to him.

Philip sat there speechless, processing what had just transpired. As soon as he had eliminated the last obstacle to a date with Priscilla, she slipped out of his life without a word. Belatedly it hit him his only hope of ever seeing her again lie in catching up with her that very second, or she’d be gone forever.

He jumped out of the booth, crazed with anxiety, only to pause automatically to dig in his pocket for some cash. He tossed a twenty on the table and dashed off, coming to an abrupt halt as some part of his brain reminded him that Priscilla would not receive the tip.

He ran the few steps back to the booth and snatched the bill just as June’s radar had picked up on its existence. The two eyed each other suspiciously for a second, then he was gone, out the door, head pivoting wildly as he desperately searched for Priscilla. He caught a fleeting glimpse of her just as she vanished around a corner.

Without hesitation, he lit out after her, running the length of the block, dodging traffic as he crossed to the other side of the street. As soon as he rounded the corner, he called out to her. She was half a block ahead of him by now and apparently hadn’t heard him. Winded by his sprint, he called out again, more weakly this time. She still didn’t turn around.

Philip summoned his reserves and picked up his paced. When he got within shouting distance, he called out again, right as Priscilla was attempting to cross the street. She heard him this time, turning around in the street to face him.

Philip froze. He had gotten her attention, but at the worst possible moment. He had taken her mind off the business of weaving through traffic, and now she was standing in the middle of the traffic lanes as vehicles raced by dangerously close.

“Goddammit! Get outta the road, you stupid broad!” a cabbie shouted after coming to a screeching halt just inches away from her. Once Philip recovered from his near heart attack, he staggered toward Priscilla, who was stepping out of the street in a daze.

“Are you all right?” Philip cried out as he reached her.

“This really isn’t my day,” Priscilla said.

“I almost got you killed,” Philip lamented. He was still ashen from witnessing the close call. He bent over, hands on knees, as if he were about to pass out or throw up. Priscilla regarded him and sighed.

“Phil, why don’t we find a place where you can sit down for a minute,” she suggested. “There’s a park in the next block—think you can make it that far?” she asked. Philip nodded and panted, gratefully letting her lead the way. The place Priscilla had in mind wasn’t much of a park, but it did have a few benches to offer. They found one unoccupied and sat down.

“I’m sorry,” Philip said.

“For what?” Priscilla asked. She was hugely out of sorts and quickly loosing what was left of her patience.

“For everything. For getting you fired, then almost getting you killed. Then almost passing out on you.” Philip couldn’t bring himself to look at her, he was so humiliated.

“You didn’t get me fired. I quit.”

“You quit because I got you in trouble with your boss,” he countered.

“Trust me, Phil—quitting that job was inevitable. I would’ve had to do it sooner or later. It really is miraculous I held out there as long as I did,” Priscilla said.

It was starting to register that she had actually taken a step in shaping her own future. True, it had been a reactionary move, but it had effectively retired that phase of her life. She had no clue where she’d go from this point forward, but she seriously doubted she could sink much lower than schlepping Frank’s miserable fare.

“What will you do now?” Philip asked.

Priscilla wheezed out a sad laugh. “Don’t know. Haven’t had time to think that far ahead yet.” Being suddenly unemployed was going to take a little getting used to. With all the crummy jobs she’d had over the years, she had always adhered to the policy of finding a replacement before she cut the other one loose. Being without a source of income was a rather daunting prospect. But at least she had her nest egg, thanks to the disconsolate man sitting next to her.

“Don’t worry, Phil. I’ll find work.”

Philip didn’t look reassured. “If we get a paper, I can help you look through the Classifieds.”

Priscilla laughed. “I don’t need help reading the want ads,” she said.

“I just meant…”

“Believe me, if there’s one thing I know how to do, it’s look for work.” Philip’s countenance drooped further. “Look, you’re giving yourself too much credit. I don’t have a job anymore, but that was my decision. I’ll get another one. I’m a big girl, I know how to look out for myself. You, on the other hand, look as though your world just fell apart.”

Philip took a moment to assess his mental state. It was true: he had fled the coffee shop as if he were about to lose the only thing that mattered to him. He had over-reacted, but not by much. Aside from Caitlin, Priscilla had become the only decent part of his day. Still, it wasn’t good to lose his dignity that way. After all, it was one of the few assets he had left.

“If I hadn’t come after you, I might never have seen you again,” he admitted simply.

Priscilla thought about this as she looked down the street. “Phil, I really don’t know why you hold me in such high regard, but I have the feeling the reason springs from desperation and not from anything rational.”

“You shouldn’t think that. It’s not fair, nor is it accurate. It’s true I would’ve never met you if I hadn’t lost most of what I held dear, but I like you because of how you are. The truth is I’ve just recently begun to fully appreciate the type of qualities you possess.”

Priscilla narrowed her eyes, wondering what “qualities” he could possibly be alluding to: her ability to carry seven plates at once, or perhaps it was her unique ability to decipher Frank’s garbled tongue? What else did he know about her? Nothing, really. Not a single clue about who she really was.

“I’m sorry—this is pointless,” she said, setting off waves of fresh alarm across Philip’s features. “You’re projecting some lofty characteristics on me that I don’t have. I think you’ve become infatuated with me—and I can’t imagine why—but I’d venture to guess it’s solely because I’m different than anyone else you know.”

“You are,” Philip said plaintively, missing the crux of Priscilla’s reasoning.

“Yes, Phil—I am different than anyone you know, and that’s because you’ve probably never been in a coffee shop until a few months ago.” Philip started to protest, but Priscilla cut him short.

“The world is filled with millions of women just like me, Phil. I’m not unique or special or possessed of uncommon wisdom just because I’ve spent years hovering around the lower rungs of society. I’m a waitress, nothing more glamorous or spiritually evolved than that.” Satisfied that she finally made her case, Priscilla rested her elbow on the back of the bench and watched as Philip assimilated this information.

“Ex-waitress,” Philip amended softly. His equilibrium took her by surprise. She let his eyes meet hers as she tried to take his measure. He wasn’t a lunatic or a deadbeat; he was evidently from a wealthy background: whether earned or inherited, she couldn’t say for sure. But in any event, he didn’t strike her as a flake, merely as someone who had lost his way. Someone who had hit a streak of bad luck. Priscilla’s mouth twitched as she fought back a smile. Of course he was on a downward cycle; why else would he be drawn to her? She turned away and stared at her hands in her lap.

“Let me take you out to dinner tonight,” Philip suggested. “It won’t conflict with your job anymore, so you don’t have to worry about that,” he added when Priscilla balked at his suggestion.

“Uh…” she hesitated, shaking her head.

“Come on, it’s the least I can do,” he insisted.

“No, really—you don’t owe me anything,” she said, letting her attention stray back down the street.

“Priscilla, I’m asking you to share a meal with me, not make a life-altering commitment. You have to eat…right? We can bring Caitlin along, if it would make you feel more comfortable. I will be a perfect gentleman, I swear.”

The more earnest his pleas, the more anxiety-ridden she became. There was a small part of her that was actually inclined to take his offer; a man like him might be good for her, in a weird sort of way. But the part of her more prone to skepticism and common-sense told her she would really only be accepting his invitation out of pity and a desire to avoid a confrontation with someone who seemed ill-disposed to cope with one.

Her lack of response had created a gaping silence between them. Both had let their gazes stray in opposite directions, leaving them with the appearance of two strangers occupying the same bench. The breach of conversation weighed most heavily on Priscilla, as her mind wrestled with her dilemma and finding a graceful way out of this situation, plus intermittent flash-bulletin reminders that she no longer had a job.

Philip, however, took the pause in stride, allowing her time to reach her own conclusions. The fact she was still sitting next to him was comfort enough. He watched as she fidgeted silently, until he decided it was best to give her an out.

“I’m not going to pressure you anymore about spending time with me. I’ve already caused you enough aggravation. I would love to have dinner with you, but only if it’s something you’d like to do. Here’s my number, in case you don’t have it anymore. You can take me up on dinner or a movie or anything else, whenever the time is right for you,” he said, handing her one of his business cards. She studied it for a moment, intrigued to find out something about him that should have been obvious.

“You’re an architect?” she said, thrown slightly off balance by this revelation.

“In the sense that you’re a waitress. In other words, I used to be, but I’ve sort of lost my job.” Priscilla consulted the card again.

“How do you lose your job if you’re the President and Executive Architect?” she asked.

“It’s a long story.” Philip replied. The credibility of his former position suddenly made Priscilla see him in a different light. “I’d be happy to share my sad tale with you over dinner tonight,” he said, making one last-ditch effort to persuade her. Again, his offer was met with no reply. He let his breath out slowly and turned around to face the street in front of them.

“I have too much to think about tonight,” Priscilla said. Her excuse was almost worse than her stony silence. “But tomorrow night would be okay.”

Philip was so resigned to the suspicion he was tilting at windmills, it took several beats to realize she had agreed to have dinner with him.

“Really? That’s wonderful!” he exclaimed. His apparent joy worked like a contagion, infecting Priscilla with a spark of enthusiasm. After resisting his overtures so vigorously, it amazed her how good she felt by simply giving in to her weaker impulse.

“This is splendid. Where would you like to go? You tell me what kind of cuisine, and I’ll pick the place, how’s that?”

Priscilla was beginning to regret her decision, as reminders of their dissimilar backgrounds dampened her optimism. How could she go out to dinner with a man of his means and taste when her own scope was limited to diners and fast food joints?

“Never mind, I’ll make reservations somewhere nice,” he tried to assure her. “Where should I pick you up?” Another wave of fear washed over her. There was no way in hell she was going to let him see her disgrace of an apartment.

“I better meet you there,” she said.

“All right, then. I suppose we need to settle on a restaurant now. Do you like Italian food?’

“Sure, Italian’s good,” Priscilla said, somewhat heartened as visions of the small, family run places in Little Italy filled her head.

“Great. I’ll get us a table at Il Pastori for seven-thirty, if that works for you.” Priscilla nodded, clueless. Il Pastori could’ve been on the moon, for all she knew.

“Okay. Well, I guess I’ll see you tomorrow. Oh, I better tell you where the restaurant is,” he said, laughing at his oversight. Priscilla answered with a nervous, hesitant laugh of her own. “Il Pastori is on Sixty-First, between First and Second. I think the address is 1109. You’ll see the long tan awning over the door. Any good cab driver will know where it is.”

Priscilla’s heart sank again as she discovered Il Pastori was nowhere near Little Italy. The neighborhood he was describing could only mean trendy, snooty and expensive. After her last experience in that part of town, she was hardly anxious to go rushing back.

“Well, ‘bye for now,” Philip said, as he stood to make his departure.

“Goodbye,” Priscilla said, smiling weakly. Philip started to walk off but faltered.

“Would you like me to walk you home, or catch a cab for you?”

Priscilla shook her head. “No, thanks. I have a few things to take care of first,” she lied.

“Okay. Goodbye,” he said with a loopy grin.

Priscilla lifted her hand in a limp salute. Her spirits continued to droop as she watched him disappear from sight. From her point of view, Philip was just the latest person to bring complications into her life that she neither wanted nor needed.

Eleven

The hotel manager unlocked the door to the Presidential Suite and handed the plastic key card to Tobias. After giving him a tour of all the rooms and lush appointments, the manager shook his hand and gave him a card with his direct number on it, in the event there were any special requests he could handle personally for the celebrated guest, who was understandably concerned with keeping a low profile. Tobias thanked the efficient man as he made his way to the door, stopping him just as he was passing through.

“There is one thing I’d like to make sure of before you leave,” Tobias said, walking to the grand piano. He lifted the lid and made a quick test of the keys. The hotel man’s experienced ear anticipated Tobias’s need. He used his cell phone to consult with one of his underlings.

“A piano tuner will be here shortly,” he said. “Very sorry for the inconvenience.”

“No problem.”

“Is there anything I can do for you in the interim?”

“Send up a club sandwich and a beer.”

“My pleasure, sir. Domestic or imported?”

“Whatever imported beer you have on tap is fine.”

While waiting for his requests to be filled, Tobias explored his new temporary digs, choosing one of the three bedrooms as his main camp. He unpacked his toiletries and hung up the few rumpled items of clothing he had grabbed in his haste.

As impersonal and elegantly bland as his new surroundings were, the suite was already beginning to feel like home. And why couldn’t it be? It had everything he needed, outside of a sound studio. But he could rent one of those by the hour, if he wasn’t inclined to see Brody. Yes, he thought, as he surveyed his surroundings, this arrangement was going to suit him quite nicely.

He had just sprawled across one of the sofas when the bell rang and a voice announced the room service arrival. He had not eaten half his sandwich when the bell rang again. He took his lunch into one of the other sitting rooms while the tuner set about his business.

Tobias wandered from room to room while the tuner discovered and tuned the slack strings. As the process was going to be a lengthy one, he stretched out on one of the beds and listened to the comforting sounds of a trained musician performing his task.

As he lay there, gazing idly out the window at the New York skyline, Tobias cast his mind over the last decade, reviewing with an unbiased eye the events that had led him to this point. It was curious though pleasing to him that he had come full circle, from living out of anonymous hotel rooms for years on end, to his redemption through marriage to Monica—as she was known before Tobias’s fame had given her airs—to this sudden escape from Monique and the life she had caged him in.

True, he had walked into that cage on his own accord, surrendering all responsibilities to his capable and willing wife. There was no denying she saved his skin. But now he realized he’d been in an emotional and artistic coma all these years, sacrificing his real needs for the promise of sanity and security, which he now saw as overrated.

In all fairness, he couldn’t fault Monique, for she was merely forging a life for them, addressing the requirements of modern living, allowing him to dally with models while dodging the downside of celebrity. No, he didn’t begrudge her, but he couldn’t honestly say he had any feelings for her now, either.

Nor did he believe she had any emotional dependence on him. They were simply keeping their feet on the treadmill, going through the motions of marriage, ostensibly keeping Tobias on the straight and narrow, while affording Monique all the comforts of the high life.

Even though Monique wasn’t bound to him by love, he doubted very much if she would welcome his departure. Being Mrs. Tobias Jordan had been her career and her calling card, one she would be loath to relinquish. But maybe it wouldn’t have to be that cut and dried; after all, his changing residences would make very little difference to their daily lives.

Besides, being married to Monique had always given him a guaranteed out when his girlfriends pushed too hard for deeper entanglements. As long as the cash pipeline continued to function without any hiccups, Monique would most likely adjust to his declaration of independence.

What other choices did she have? She wouldn’t divorce him; she was too clever to inadvertently capitulate to his desires. When the success of his comeback finally manifested itself in hard currency and renewed fame, she’d hang on for dear life. And he supposed that as long as it continued to work for him, he’d let her. But only on his terms.

Tobias breathed a sigh of satisfaction. He felt like a man set free after years of false imprisonment. Everything seemed more vibrant and full of life and hope than it ever had. From where he was sitting, his accomplishments were great. He had made a name for himself by doing what could not be suppressed. He had survived the circus that accompanies even the most lukewarm stardom. And he had recaptured his talent. Knowing now what he knew about himself, he believed he could maintain a more secure hold on his inspiration this time around.

Congratulations, old man, he thought. This is your new lease on life.

From the other room, Tobias heard the tuner run through the scales one last time. He ended with a few flourishes, breaking into assorted classical works as he tested out his handiwork. Tobias heard him close the lid and pack up his tools of his trade. The faint footfalls and the hushed sound of the door closing told him he now had the place to himself.

Casually, like a man with an endless supply of time, Tobias meandered his way to the piano and ran through the keys himself. The instrument was in perfect tune; a little overused, but he didn’t mind the mellowed, worn sound. It would suit his purposes until he brought over his keyboards and synthesizer.

As soon as he was ready to make this place more permanent, he would outfit it with all the necessary equipment. The important thing now was to keep his creativity flowing. Having successfully ditched all threats to that objective, he felt fairly confident he would not disappoint himself.

Tobias worked all through the afternoon, stopping only to order coffee and a bottle of Irish whiskey. When he finally called it quits, the sky had long been dominated by the mega-wattage glow that makes up the city sky at night.

He continued to sit on the piano bench for several minutes, his body too spent and his mind too frazzled to even care about the hour. By the time he worked up enough strength and presence of mind to call in his dinner order, it was already quarter to nine.

While waiting for his steak to arrive, Tobias filled the Jacuzzi tub and submerged himself. He was as crinkled as a gherkin when he emerged, but the static drone in his brain had cleared and his flesh was showing signs of renewed life. As proof of the perfection of his newly adopted lifestyle, his dinner arrived the moment he was wrapped in the white terry bathrobe. He poured another whiskey and had the waiter set up the table by the floor-to-ceiling window.

He ate the steak, salad and pommes frites with mindless distraction, pausing occasionally from his ravenous chewing to look out into the night. He had one of the best views in the city in his twelve-room apartment, but this view was more thrilling; the street scene seemed more accessible than it did from his guarded asylum in his posh neighborhood.

He was suddenly possessed by a second wind, and all he could think about was getting out, mingling on the streets he called home. He donned his customary disguise—leather jacket, baseball cap and dark glasses—and slid undetected through the hotel lobby.

He was immediately rewarded by a plethora of sounds, both human and mechanical, plus the added sensory treat of conflicting aromas. It was the anonymous stimulation he had been craving; it fed the part of his mind that turned external, random fragments into the alphabet of his lyrics. He didn’t even need to pay attention—everything would be absorbed, set to memory and ready for recall. Just like the old days, he thought, smiling as he passed an irate hooker and two sneaky vice cops.

He floated down the streets and avenues, instinctively changing direction in order to stay where the pulse beat loudest. Those same instincts would have him follow a group into a bar or nightclub at whim, allowing him to soak up more of the subliminal signals and practiced pantomimes of modern men and women as they grasped at their fleeting fancies. He would stay until something or someone beckoned him to move on. He chased the night into day, just like old times.

After exhausting all the late night haunts and segueing into the mainstream with the early-risers, Tobias continued to beat the pavement. Now that all the nocturnal energy had given way to the mundane determination of the workaday crowd, he felt in dire need of artificial stimulation.

He came across a diner populated by blue-collar types, gratefully taking a seat at the counter, where he was mercifully fed copious quantities of caffeine. Once his fatigue lifted, he became aware of his acute hunger.

He ordered a meal that was in stark contrast to the vile food served at Frank’s Coffee Shop. But as he ate the last bite of rye toast, it occurred to him a vital ingredient was missing from this superior eatery: the waitress called Bobbi.

The longer he sat there on his stool, the more it hit home how tepid this scene was in comparison to Frank’s. True, the food there was only edible in the sense that it could be chewed and digested. But it would always be the place where his creativity had returned to him, just when he was beginning to fear he had lost touch with it forever. The place had an intrinsic quality that filled him with an overwhelming hankering.

He paid his check and exited the diner, out into the full-blown day. He got his bearings and headed in the direction of Wall Street, narrowing in on the non-descript coffee shop as if guided by radar. Without hesitating, and without any appetite whatsoever, Tobias pushed through the grimy glass door and made a beeline for his regular booth.

He had been absently searching for the face that had compelled him to seek out this seedy joint, when a waitress he had never seen before flipped over his coffee cup and started to pour. Instantly, alarms went off in his head. This couldn’t be good.

“Where’s Bobbi?” he asked.

“I’m Bobbi,” the girl answered uncomfortably. Tobias looked at her nametag, discovering the trick of Frank’s frugality.

“I mean the old Bobbi, the one who was here last week,” he said, swiveling around in his booth, craning his head, urgently hoping this waitress was merely a trainee.

“She’s not here anymore. She was fired, or she quit, depending on who you talk to. Anyway, she left in the middle of her shift, which did not make June happy. She’s still complaining about it. Did you want to order something?” The girl flinched visibly as Frank’s grating voice rocked the room.

“Bobbi—pick up!”

“I’ll take a hot tea,” Tobias said, hoping to buy time to think while she rustled up the necessary equipment.

“That’s all?” she asked nervously.

“And a Danish,” he added, as he sensed her concern. Knowing she could catch grief from her boss for allowing a single to occupy a booth for a measly coffee and pastry, the new Bobbi anxiously flipped her ticket book closed and scurried off to claim her order.

Tobias’s mind raced as he struggled with this unforeseen development. He could feel his heart pounding irrationally in his chest, clearly an indication he’d consumed too much caffeine. There was no other reasonable explanation for the panicked state he found himself in now. The important thing was to pull himself together.

Really, he thought, falling apart simply because he’d lost contact with a coffee shop waitress? He shook his head at the foolishness of it. But the longer he sat there observing the scene around him, the more uneasy he became. He had never considered himself a superstitious person, but he couldn’t fight the growing suspicion that his ability to tap into his fountain of musical talent had suddenly become more tenuous.

“Stupid. Ridiculous,” he muttered to himself, but he wasn’t convinced. It was here he had broken the barrier that had kept him unproductive all those years. Yet as he sat there, he could actually feel his creative energy seep away. It wasn’t the place that restored his powers; it was the person, and he had to find her.

“Hey, excuse me,” Tobias said, leaning out of the booth to attract June’s attention.

“Your waitress will be right with you,” she said irritably.

“I need to ask you something,” he said, motioning her over with the wag of his head. Grudgingly, June heeded his call.

“Yeah, what do you need?” she said, her eyes averted to her order pad as she consulted her tickets.

“I need to get a hold of the Bobbi who was here last week.”

June looked at him, sizing him up for the first time. “If she wanted you to get in touch with her, you’d know how,” she said, her eyes narrowing.

“Yeah, but we only know each other from here, and from what the new girl told me, she hadn’t really planned her departure. She’d want to hear from me, I can assure you of that,” he said.

“I don’t know,” June said skeptically, “I don’t think Priscilla was one for dating the clientele.”

“It’s nothing like that—we’re just friends.”

“Just friends, who don’t know how to find each other,” June replied, tapping her pen against her pad in an agitated manner.

“You mean to say you don’t have friends and acquaintances you’d miss if you didn’t work here anymore?”

“From this dump? Are you kidding me?” Tobias reached into his pocket and pulled out his wallet. Discreetly, he removed a hundred dollar bill and passed it to June.

“I’d really like to make contact with Bob—Priscilla again,” he said. June’s eyes bugged as she saw the denomination on the note he had handed her. She scrutinized him once more.

“I guess you do. You’re not some kind of nut job, are you?” she asked as a matter of due diligence. “I mean, she totally screwed up my day by walking out in the middle of the lunch rush, but I don’t want to read in the paper she’s been found dismembered, or anything sick like that.” The buzz in the coffee shop was once again punctuated by Frank’s bark.

“June! Pick up food!”

“Be there in two shakes, Frank,” she said with an obvious lack of concern. “I can’t say I blame her for bailing on this crummy joint, but I just wish she’d done it at the end of her shift,” she said as she turned back to Tobias. He noticed she was no longer fingering the bill he’d given her, which he took as an encouraging sign.

“I don’t know her phone number—in fact, I’m not even sure she has a phone. All I know is she lives on Hester Street, between Essex and Ludlow.”

“How about a last name, then,” Tobias said, not at all satisfied with the information he was receiving.

“Vanderhooven, Vanderplatz…Vander-something,” June said vaguely.

“You don’t even know your coworker’s last name?” Tobias complained.

“Hey, we were hardly bosom-buddies. We were merely two soldiers fighting the war on hunger, one sorry customer at a time,” she replied glibly.

“Not very well,” Tobias remarked acidly. June chortled loudly at that commentary.

“No, here we wage a valiant fight against the war on hunger, but we’re dead losers in the war against heartburn.” June was interrupted by a thunderous crash, as the new girl dropped an armload of dirty dishes just short of the bus tray.

“Oh wonderful,” she said sarcastically. “Well, nice talking to you, but I gotta run,” she said. “If you find her, tell her she’s going to fry in hell for making me train a new girl by myself.” Tobias slipped a five under his coffee cup, grateful to be leaving the depressing dive for the last time.

With the little he had to go on, Tobias tried to formulate a plan of action. He knew the block she lived on and had a clue as to her last name, which wasn’t much, but at least it was something. He supposed he could hire a private detective, but there was a crudeness to such an approach that turned him against it. He would feel like a lunatic hiring someone to track down a coffee shop waitress.

Besides, only a truly desperate person would resort to a move like that, and he certainly wasn’t desperate. He merely wanted to find this Priscilla and…and…what? Tobias stopped abruptly in the middle of the sidewalk, causing another pedestrian to smack against him.

“Sorry, man,” he said, embarrassed, as he moved out of the path of traffic. As he stood in front of a high-rise office building, he wrestled with his intentions and calculated the distance to Priscilla’s neighborhood. It wasn’t that far a walk—twelve or fifteen blocks at the most. But in his irrational state, he couldn’t figure out if cruising up and down her block until he caught sight of her was a smart move or not.

But on the other hand, how else could he find her? With more demons taunting him than he had been exposed to in years, Tobias set off in the direction of one of the seamiest sections of town.

During the half-hour walk to Church Street, Tobias worked to make sense of his sudden obsession. He was a man at the top of his form twenty-four hours ago, yet now his world threatened to spin off its axis due to the displacement of a common working-class girl, woman—whatever she was, a person he knew nothing about. After ten blocks of serious reflection, Tobias was still utterly clueless as to reason for this sudden mania.

It’s okay, he told himself. There’s nothing wrong with checking out her neighborhood. I’ll simply walk up one side and down the other, and if I don’t happen to find her apartment, then no harm done. With that disclaimer filed neatly under ‘reasons to act,’ Tobias turned the corner at Baker.

The ugliness of the block hit him like a rotting pie in the face. It made his blood run cold to think of all the people who called this dreary, drab place home. Every step he took made him cringe as he imagined living there.

He remembered from grade school reading about all the immigrant families housed together under appalling conditions, many forced to live in oppressively small quarters without windows, most going without the most rudimentary conveniences. It didn’t look like a whole lot had changed since that time.

He had walked the length of the block without realizing it; as he stood on the corner, he debated whether to cross to the other side as he had planned. He had not been paying any attention to the names on the mail slots and buzzers he had passed, so it wasn’t as though he was making a diligent effort to find her.

After coming face to face with the world in which she lived, he wondered at the image he had formed of her in his mind. Whatever he had previously thought of her would now have to be amended.

As he stood there gazing up and down the street, he reviewed his impressions of her. First there had been the explanation about her name: Priscilla versus the Bobbi of her nametag and her nickname of Sam. He remembered being amused by her nonchalance, her apparent lack of self-consciousness and her wry wit.

He could still recall how she looked the first time she waited on him. She was actually fairly attractive, underneath the tacky uniform, though not in any remarkable way…except for her eyes. He recalled how he had been struck by the dark blueness of them.

Then, there was the way she looked at him while taking his order—very self-possessed, very comfortable with her role, not at all demeaned by it. Well, why would she be, if this was what she was accustomed to? Maybe working at Frank’s seemed like a good thing in her eyes. What a depressing thought. But if she didn’t like it, why had she worked there? Then again, she might not have had many choices.

He turned around and walked down the other side of the street, this time pausing at each entrance to examine the roster of tenants. From the outset he knew the deck was stacked against him; several buzzer buttons didn’t have any identification next to them at all. He could scour the entire block, up one side and down the other, and still never find Priscilla Vanderhoffen, or whatever her name was.

He worked the first side of the block to no avail. He asked two elderly women if they knew a Priscilla. One of them brightened at the mention of her name, which set his pulse to racing. Unfortunately, the Priscilla she was thinking of was Elvis’ widow. Discouraged, he ventured to the other side of the street.

He had given such studious attention to each building’s registry, he was starting to attract wary looks from idle observers who stared down from their cramped windows. Finally, irked by his task and the malignant vibes he was receiving, Tobias looked up to address his audience.

“Do you know where Priscilla lives?” he called out. Of the four voyeurs, two closed their windows defensively, one shook her head and the forth merely scowled. “Thanks,” he said sarcastically and moved on.

He was three-quarters of the way down the second side, wondering what other brilliant ideas he would come up with next, when a nameplate made from plastic tape caught his attention. P. Vanderpool, it read, white letters punched through blue tape. P. Vanderpool.

That’s got to be her, he thought, excited by the possibility. Okay, now what? He stepped away from the entrance and looked up at the four-story edifice, hoping for some confirmation of what he suspected. Much to his disappointment, there was no banner flying from any window with ‘Priscilla lives here’ emblazoned across it.

He stepped back up to the entrance and found her name again. P. Vanderpool, apartment 3E. He peered into the cloudy glass panels of the old wooden door, looking for signs of life. No such luck. He took a deep breath and beat his hand repeatedly up and down the panel, until the buzzer sounded and the doorknob gave way in his other hand.

Twelve

Priscilla lay slumped against a pile of crushed pillows on her bed. She had been in that position much of the time since the previous afternoon. Every now and then she was seized by a spasm of industry disguised as a plan, but she repeatedly ran out of steam.

She had exhausted her entire store of optimism and dismissed every attempt to look on the bright side. As far as she could tell, the single positive aspect gained by her recent unemployment was that she’d never have to see Frank the Food-Slayer ever again.

Other than that, being jobless felt akin to being at sea without a raft. As pathetic as it seemed, working at Frank’s Coffee Crematorium was the only thing she had going for her. Without that job, she had nothing.

She had reached the point in the honest assessment of her life where she had become immune to the sense of humiliation or failure. Everything now struck her as hopelessly absurd, and every new revelation made her shake her head with weary wonder.

It was absolutely preposterous to think she missed that God-awful job—lousy pay, crummy environment, food she wouldn’t take home to her dog, if she had one. But without it, she didn’t know what to do with herself. In reality, she should be jumping for joy, for now she was free as a bird. But freedom wasn’t worth much unless you knew how to use it. Freedom to lie on one’s bed for twenty hours at a stretch was actually rather unfulfilling, she decided with a sigh.

Disgusted with herself, she got up, stretched, crossed to her window and scanned her dreary vista for inspiration. Not surprisingly, she didn’t find much to inspire her, although it did occur to her that if she were really free, she could walk out of her miserable hole and never look back. This offhand idea immediately started to germinate. She sank down on the foot of her bed and let the fantasy grow.

“Why stay here?” she asked herself out loud, delirious with the thrill of a possible out. “There is absolutely nothing to tie me to this apartment, this city or this state, for that matter. Why not leave?” She stood and took in her three miniscule rooms and her scant possessions. This would be very easy, she estimated, as she opened drawers and cupboards and did a quick inventory.

There was little she felt attached to; most of what she had accumulated over the last twelve years of living in the city she’d be happy to never lay eyes on again. But if she were going to leave, she’d need a place to go. As she looked inside what served as her coat closet, and spied her winter coat lying in a heap where she had thrown it, the thought of moving to a milder climate suddenly came to mind.

“Florida. I’m going to move to Florida,” she said with conviction. “Why not? Mild winters, friendly people, relaxed lifestyle—what could be easier?” Sure, Florida was the perfect solution. She’d pack one small bag and hop on the first Greyhound Bus headed south. With the nice fat wad of reserves she had saved up, she’d be able to find a cute little house to rent close to the beach, with plenty of windows to let the sunlight in all day long.

Maybe she’d go all the way down to the Keys, where the communities were small and accepting. She could get a waitress job, or maybe try her hand at something more mentally stimulating, for a change. Yes indeed, she thought, this is starting to look very much like a silver lining.

As she sat basking in this joyously optimistic vision of starting over, her silver lining began to tarnish. And what was the cause of the abrupt fizzle? Philip Glessner. She fell back onto the bed, furious with herself for allowing one casual, burgeoning friendship to conflict with the first viable plan of escape she had hatched in years.

She lay there and cursed herself, her better judgment futilely arguing against her conscience. There was nothing between her and Phil that should prevent her from leaving town. Yet, she was reluctant to stand him up, nor could she bring herself to call him and cancel.

Truth be known, it was the promise of having dinner with him that had contributed to her crushing sense of inertia over the past twenty-four hours. She should have never given into his pleas or her weaker impulses. If she had just stuck to her guns and said no, she could be skipping to the bus terminal that very minute.

Call him—tell him you’ve had a family emergency and you’ve been called out of town for the foreseeable future, she reasoned with herself.

“I can’t,” she answered. “Besides, I don’t have any family.

Yeah, but he doesn’t know that. Okay, have it your way—if you don’t want to leave without telling him and you don’t want to stand him up tonight, then meet him as planned and leave town tomorrow.

She shook her head as she thought of Phil, what a nice guy he was, and how generous he had been to her. After all, she wouldn’t be able to entertain ideas of escaping her colorless, claustrophobic life if it hadn’t been for him and his ridiculously large tips.

“I don’t have anything to wear to a place like that,” she admitted.

You’re telling me. So take a few bucks out of your stash and go buy something. It’s your damn misplaced sense of guilt that’s keeping you from doing what you want. So, take some of Phil’s money and buy a nice outfit for the dinner with the man you’re so afraid of mistreating.

Priscilla had no comeback for that argument. With deliberate slowness, she got off the bed and unearthed her wads of cash. She removed five twenties, then another, and one more and stuffed them into the pocket of her jeans. If she couldn’t find something decent for a hundred and forty bucks, then screw it. She needed every cent she could get hold of if she was going to make a good start in Florida.

She was purposefully dallying, trying to postpone the unnecessary expenditure and the imminent rendezvous. It didn’t take much for her to lose her nerve, attaching herself to quite a different plan of action as soon as it occurred to her.

“I can’t go anywhere until I figure out what I’m going to take and what I’m going to get rid of,” she said, ignoring her common sense reply that she have time to pack and discard in the morning. She began by dumping the contents of her drawers out onto the bed, where she sifted through the items with little interest.

“Better get some garbage bags,” she said as she realized how much there was to dispose of. In no time, she had stuffed virtually all her clothing into the plastic bags. There were only a few articles that survived the cut. She had four large black bags, stuffed to the limit, which she hauled to the trash chute, two at a time.

When she returned the second time, she was struck by one serious oversight on her part: the stacks, piles and boxes of lyrics she had composed over the past twenty-odd years. She sank down on the arm of her easy chair, hand to her mouth. It was as if she had been planning to sneak away to safety and leave her kids behind.

What was she going to do with all these words, all these bits and pieces of herself? They were as much a part of her as an arm or a leg. Yet, they were also her albatross, an anchor to the past she would be carting into her new life, if she could figure out how to transport it all. But how could she take all this on the bus? It’d be impossible. She groaned and rubbed her eyes. So close to making a clean break.

Decisively, she stood, and with only a cursory glance at the top pages, she gathered up all the loose notebooks and tossed them in an old cardboard box she had stashed under her sink. She set it by the door and gathered up the miscellaneous containers that housed the fruits of her limitless inspiration, stacking them all together.

When she had corralled every scrap she had ever written, she began to shift the lot of it out into the hallway, restacking it in front of the incinerator door. Because of a new rule, the door was always kept locked now, so she had to go to the manager’s office to get the key. Down the three flights she went, anxious and trembling, fearful she might lose her nerve.

“Hi Mrs. Kay. Sorry to bother you, but I’ve got some paper I need to burn,” Priscilla said to the elderly manager, practically yelling to be heard over the din of her television game show.

“Come in, come in,” Mrs. Kay beckoned. “If they’re newspapers, they can be recycled,” she said.

“No, it’s all personal stuff.”

“I see,” Mrs. Kay said as she closed the door behind them. Just thirty seconds more, and they would have seen Tobias Jordan as he pushed through the front door.

Feeling a bit like a thief in broad daylight, Tobias threw furtive glances over his shoulder as he pressed the elevator call button repeatedly. After waiting an inordinate length of time without witnessing any progress, Tobias figured it for defunct and headed up the dimly lit staircase.

Upon his arrival to the third floor, he was greeted by a huge pile of trash someone had carelessly abandoned. He skirted it and slowly made his way down the hallway, looking for apartment 3E. Halfway down he found it.

Tobias stood looking at the door for several seconds before making up his mind to knock. He knocked and waited. No one came. He knocked again, more loudly—still no answer. He waited a moment and tried again.

Well, this had not been part of the scenario he had worked out in his head. Of course, none of this had really been planned, but after coming this far and struggling so hard with his decision, it was rather dismaying to feel thwarted.

Stumped at what to do next, he retraced his steps back to the staircase, pausing in his distracted state to stare at the pile of garbage. It was then he realized the contents of all the boxes and brown bags were spiral-bound notebooks.

Idly curious, he picked up the top one, scanning the words as he flipped through the pages. At first glance, he assumed it was poetry. Not many had titles, but the few he found were amusing: The River of No Return Wilderness Ball, Happy People and Other Myths, Flying Blind in a World Full of Seers. He could discern the connection if he really studied the lines, and he was consistently rewarded by sly, clever insights.

After skimming through three notebooks crammed solid with verse, he quickly poked through the other bags and boxes and determined the contents were the same. He was astounded by the sheer volume of words before him.

It must have taken someone years—maybe a lifetime—to compile this monumental collection. But what was it doing just sitting in the hallway? The juxtaposition of the incinerator next to someone’s life’s work made his skin prickle with dread.

Priscilla trudged up the steps, head down, mind on a thousand pressing thoughts, the foremost being her decision to venture out into a brand new life. It had been a long time since she had made any conscious attempt to steer her life, and she felt a great deal of angst over her daring plan.

In reality, it wasn’t all that daring; it wasn’t like she was leaving anyone or anything behind. There was no reason to feel she was severing any vital part of herself. The truth be known, she was merely hacking off the dead wood in hopes of preserving what little life force she still possessed. If this change worked the way she envisioned it, she would someday look back at this barren period in her life and marvel at her narrow escape.

Still, she couldn’t help but feel a bit tenuous about picking up and leaving. She had been living in New York all her adult years, trying to forge a life for herself. She had the niggling concern she might not know how to function outside of its magnetic pull. All she could hope was that by the time the South Carolina coastline rolled by, her heart would be drunk on the enormity of her freedom.

As she neared the third floor, she was met with a sight that was so hard to assimilate, she feared she was hallucinating. Her dogged pace slowed to a halt as she struggled with the concept of Tobias Jordan rifling through her discarded lyrics.

Tobias swung around as he became aware of her presence. He had been so absorbed with the abandoned treasure, it took him a moment to connect Priscilla’s sudden appearance with his reason for being there.

“Oh, hi,” he said vaguely, torn between the two rewarding discoveries. “Do you know who this stuff belongs to?” he asked.

Priscilla, baffled beyond words, cleared the last three steps and came to a stop at a safe distance from the eccentric rock star. “It’s mine. What are you doing in here?” she asked. Of the two mysteries confronting her at that particular moment, she decided it was more imperative to explain his presence than his unfathomable interest in her very private thoughts and observations.

“I don’t know if you remember me or not—” he began feebly.

“Yeah, you’re Tobias Jordan,” Priscilla said matter-of-factly. This was not the answer he had expected. “What—you didn’t think anyone would recognize you under that flimsy disguise?” Tobias squirmed. Was he really that easy to spot?

“You still haven’t answered my question,” Priscilla said rather tersely.

It was unsettling to find herself in such a bizarre situation. She felt as though she had gone down one set of stairs, only to come up an entirely different one, one which apparently led straight to The Twilight Zone. If this were a dream, she’d just as soon wake up. Strangely enough, Tobias seemed to be having as much difficulty with their predicament as she was.

“Uh…” Tobias uttered in response to her question. He had neglected to think that part of his plan through, and he now discovered he had no reasonable justification for loitering in her hallway.

“Uh…” he added feebly, setting the notebook carefully back in the bag. Priscilla crossed her arms and narrowed her gaze on him, forcing him to say something. “I wanted to see you again. I paid the other waitress a hundred bucks to tell me which block you lived on.” Tobias shrugged, having nothing more believable than the truth to offer.

Priscilla’s head whipped back as his explanation registered. This admission was harder to comprehend than the fact that he was in her building. If this was actually a dream, it was a doozy.

“You lost me. Why did you want to see me?” The most eloquent reply he could muster was another shrug.

“This is too weird,” Priscilla said, her mind spinning as she walked off toward her apartment. She stopped abruptly and turned back to Tobias. She was so rattled, she had forgotten what she had been in the process of doing. She couldn’t just walk away and leave the chore for later, not with him dredging through all her stuff like a homeless man in a dumpster.

She strode past him, took the key to the incinerator door out of her pocket and unlocked it. She carefully opened the furnace door and reached down for the closest bag of notebooks. In spite of her confusion, her heart made its reservations known loud and clear.

“No!” Tobias called out in unison with her own inner voice. “You can’t burn this stuff. It’s wonderful.” He grabbed the bag from her hand, more forcibly than he had intended. Priscilla took an involuntary step backwards, landing dangerously close to the incinerator.

“Can you close that door?” Tobias asked anxiously. “That thing makes me nervous.” Priscilla regarded him cautiously before swinging the door shut. “Thanks,” he said, relieved. “You’re not really going to burn all this, are you?”

Priscilla shifted her feet, uncomfortable at the thought of Tobias Jordan, of all the people in the world, going through her lyrics. It was akin to having Julia Child snoop through your recipe box. “Yeah, that was the idea behind putting it in the incinerator,” she replied cheekily. Though she meant to sound tough, Tobias was not convinced.

“You can’t do it. I read a few of these poems—”

“They’re lyrics, actually.”

Tobias regarded her solemnly. “I assume you wrote them.” Priscilla nodded almost imperceptibly. “They’re very good, some of them. I mean it.” He picked up a notebook and Priscilla had to forcibly resist grabbing it from his hand. “How long have you been writing like this?”

“A long time. Since I was ten,” she answered, acutely embarrassed.

“No kidding. Is this everything you’ve ever written?”

She nodded. “The oldest stuff is in those shoeboxes on the bottom,” she said, chewing a fingernail self-consciously. Tobias ran his tongue around his teeth meditatively as he processed this extraordinary information.

“Have you ever had anything published?”

Priscilla reacted as though he’d asked if she’d visited Mars lately. “No,” she said, shaking her head for emphasis.

Tobias took the notebook over to the banister, which he used for support as he flipped through the pages. “If you’re serious about getting rid of the whole lot, I’ll buy it from you.”

Her dream was now bordering on psychotic. “You want to buy my lyrics?” she asked in disbelief.

Tobias nodded. “I’ll give you twelve-thousand dollars for everything…”

Priscilla’s knees nearly buckled under her. “Twelve-thousand?”

“Make it fifteen, but you’ll have to sign a binding legal document assigning all rights over to me.” Priscilla could feel all the blood drain away from her face. “Are you all right?” Tobias asked, alarmed by her sudden pallor.

“It’s kind of stuffy in here,” she said, pulling her collar away from her neck.

“Look, this must be really strange for you, me coming here unannounced and everything…”

Priscilla let out a breathy wheeze. “It wasn’t exactly what I expected to see when I climbed those stairs,” she confirmed.

“If you don’t want to sell me your writing, I understand.”

“No…no, that’s fine. I fully intended to get rid of it anyway.”

“Can I ask why?”

Priscilla looked at the great heap of her work, and then at the famous songwriter. “I don’t have any use for it now.”

Tobias nodded solemnly. “I don’t have my checkbook on me,” he said, patting his pockets for his wallet, “but I do have six…seven hundred in cash. I can bring you a check tomorrow, if that’s all right with you.”

“Uh, yeah—sure,” Priscilla said, as she hesitantly took the money from Tobias’s outstretched hand.

“Well, I guess I should figure out how to get all this back…home. If you could give me a hand, I think we can get it all down stairs in one trip. I guess maybe I should use your phone and call for a cab,” he suggested, setting the bags back down.

“I don’t have one,” Priscilla shamefully admitted.

“Oh. I left my cell at home. That’s all right—I’m sure I can flag one down.” Priscilla had her doubts, but at this stage of the game, she felt the situation was well beyond her control.

She picked up a stack of shoeboxes—boxes she had been toting around since she was a teenager—and grabbed one of the brown paper bags. Tobias was balancing two bags on the cardboard box while trying to seize the two remaining bags. Gingerly, like a couple of novice equilibrists, they navigated the three flights of stairs with slow, unsteady progress. Once outside, they set the parcels down by the curb.

“So, I’ll come by tomorrow…around three, if that works for you.”

“Yeah, fine,” Priscilla agreed. She kept her eyes averted from the pile resting at their feet.

“Now, you realize that by buying your lyrics, I will have the sole rights to them.”

“Uh huh.”

“Which means that some of what you’ve written could wind up in one of my songs.”

Priscilla was dumbfounded. She couldn’t imagine such a thing. She nodded that she understood, wrapping her arms more tightly around herself.

“Okay. Cool.” Feeling something more was needed to seal the deal, Tobias extended his hand to her. “See you tomorrow, then.”

After a business-like handshake, Priscilla backed away. Tobias turned his sights to the street, just as a cab came barreling toward them. He waved his arms and the cab came to a screeching halt. Tobias briefly consulted with the cabbie, who got out and gave him a hand with his loot.

By this time, Priscilla had edged to her entrance, where she stood looking on in stunned silence. She watched as Tobias gave her a quick two-finger wave before ducking into the backseat, and she continued to stare down the street long after the cab had peeled away.

With the most profound lack of energy she had ever experienced, she tugged at the front door, only to discover she had gone outside without her key. She buzzed Mrs. Kay, who eventually let her in, but not without a protracted lecture.

By deploying every ounce of her willpower, she finally made it to her floor, where she nearly dragged herself through her door, which was gratefully unlocked. She sat slumped in her bedraggled chair, utterly dazed by the events of the last thirty minutes.

She sat unmoving for what seemed like ages before her head had cleared sufficiently. She forced herself into a more upright position, while she commanded her mind to properly catalog what had just transpired. She pinched the bridge of her nose hard, then shook her head vigorously, as if trying to shake some sense into herself.

“All right…let’s see now… I woke up this morning, decided to move to Florida…threw out most of my clothes, and virtually all of my other stuff… then I decided I couldn’t haul my lyrics all the way to Florida on the bus, so I decided to burn them. Okay.” She took a deep breath.

“But on my way back from Mrs. Kay’s, I ran into Tobias Jordan, who was reading my songs. Then when he sees that I intend to burn every last word I’ve ever written…Jesus…” she sighed deeply, “he offers to buy it all from me for twelve, no—make it fifteen…thousand…dollars.” She shook her head in disbelief. “And then, naturally, I sell it to him. No way—this did not really happen.”

Frantically, she jumped out of her seat and looked for evidence to the contrary. Of course it happened. She poked her head out the door, but there was no sign of her notebooks. But that didn’t mean she didn’t burn them, as she had planned. Maybe the experience was so painful, her psyche checked out, inventing this preposterous scenario to take its place.

The money. She crammed her hand into her pocket and pulled out the seven crumbled twenties she had stuffed in there earlier in the day—surely that was a lifetime ago—the money she had committed to spending on a new outfit for her date with Phil.

“Oh, Christ!” she wailed, as she remembered that forgotten wrinkle. Just as she was about to concede her insanity and hightail it to Bellevue, she tried her left pocket, pulling out seven one-hundred-dollar bills.

“Okay…okay, I’m not crazy. Yes, I am crazy. I sold my innermost thoughts and feelings, my life’s work, to Tobias Jordan. Oh,” she moaned, sinking down on the arm of her chair. “Fifteen thousand dollars. Oh, my God—that is so much money! I can buy a car and drive to Florida!” She was struck by the irony that she would now have transportation for the very items she had just sold, really, for no other reason than lack of transportation.

She got up and walked to her bedroom window. It was done. She had made decisions, real decisions, and she was now propelling herself down an entirely different channel, with only her at the helm to steer her away from the rocks.

She took several deep breaths, but despite her brave efforts, tears streamed down her face. There was nothing to do but go forward. She had to continue on with her new high-wire act, net or no net.

Thirteen

Philip navigated his SUV into a tight parking spot directly in front of what used to be his home. He almost never had the good fortune of finding a space when he lived here, but that was only a small rub compared to the fact his home was no longer his.

“Good job, Daddy,” Caitlin said, as she oversaw his progress in her side-view mirror.

“Thank you. Got everything?” he asked as he unfastened his seatbelt.

“Yep. Are you going to pick me up for breakfast tomorrow?” she asked.

“Sure, if you want me to. But we’re going to have to find another place to eat.”

“Why?”

“Because Priscilla doesn’t work at the coffee shop anymore,” Philip said, before seizing the break in the traffic.

“Let’s go to where she’s working now,” Caitlin suggested when Philip opened her door for her.

“We can’t. She’s not working anywhere right now.”

“Oh.” Caitlin pondered this problem as they climbed the front steps together. “When she gets a new place to work, can we go there then?”

“You bet.” This seemed to satisfy her. It gave Philip a pleasant tingling sensation to discover his daughter’s fondness for the woman he was so enamored with. “You have your key?” he asked. He had his own, but since he had moved out, he felt awkward using it. Some cruel twist of fate had made him a guilty trespasser on his own turf.

“Right here,” Caitlin said, pulling it out of her backpack. There was no need for it after all, as Marianne pulled open the door before she could get the key in the lock.

“Hi, Mommy,” Caitlin said as she stood on tiptoes to kiss her mother’s cheek.

“Hello, darling. Go and ask Paulina to give you a snack before you do your homework,” she told her daughter, conveniently shooing her off so she could speak to Philip privately.

“Bye, Daddy. See you in the morning.”

“Bye, sweetheart. See you then,” Philip said affectionately. He watched over his wife’s shoulder as Caitlin disappeared down the hallway. As if to stymie his pleasure, Marianne pulled the door closed behind her, forcing the two of them out on the front steps.

“The school called me this morning. They’re quite displeased by your illegal abduction of Caitlin,” Marianne said in a flat, hostile tone.

“What are you talking about?” Philip replied, indignant at her accusation. “That’s rather an overstatement, don’t you think?”

“Not according to Dean Lowell, who called me to let me know it was against the school’s policy to allow a parent to remove a child from a school sponsored function, unless that parent was the child’s sole guardian, or he or she has permission in writing from the other parent authorizing such an action. He was calling as a courtesy warning, so the school would not be put in such an awkward position again,” Marianne said haughtily.

“What did you say?”

“I told them the truth. I said that you absolutely had no right to take Caitlin away from her class, and that I would hold the school personally responsible if they ever allowed such a breach of security in the future. And if you pull a stunt like that again, you’ll find yourself with extremely limited visitation privileges, if any at all,” Marianne hissed venomously.

“You seem to be forgetting she’s still my daughter, regardless of what’s going on between you and me.”

“And you seem to be forgetting I’ve been very lenient with your visitation rights, so far,” she retorted. To Philip’s disgust, he could see in her eyes how much she enjoyed exercising her power over him.

“Since we are her legal parents, we will both have equal custody rights,” he maintained calmly.

“Oh really? Says who? Frankly, my attorney is baffled by my generosity in this matter. He finds it quite surprising I’m not suing you for full custody.” There was a heavy-handed threat in her words, despite the false sweetness in which they were delivered.

Philip barked out a laugh at her audacity. “That’s pure crap, and you know it,” he said, making Marianne’s eyes bat at his vulgarity. “There would be absolutely no cause for you to have sole custody of Caitlin, none whatsoever,” he said harshly, fighting to keep his voice to a whisper.

“Oh, I think a judge might see it differently. What sort of stable home life can you provide for Caitlin? You’ve been mooching off the kindness of friends since we separated.”

“I’ll find a place of my own just as soon as I sell off a few things and get my capital together —”

“Which brings up another matter. What guarantees can you offer the court regarding child support payments, if you are dragging your heels on my settlement? Surely, you must know how the courts frown on deadbeat dads.”

“Now you’re being ridiculous,” Philip said, turning away from Marianne as he fought down his anger. “I have plenty of assets. Even when you and your blood-sucking attorney are through draining me, I’ll still have plenty of money to live on,” he said.

Marianne tittered condescendingly. “I’ll be sure to mention that to Mr. Michelson. I bet he’ll find it very enlightening.”

For the first time in Philip’s life, he had to control an almost overwhelming desire to cause physical harm. It would have been a downright pleasure to place his hands around her neck and wring it slowly, till her head flopped lifelessly like a rag doll… He took a deep breath and shoved his hands in his pockets, just in case they acted of their own accord.

“You do that. And I think I’ll have a little chat with my attorney, see if maybe I should be pursuing sole custody of Caitlin myself,” Philip replied once he had recovered from his fantasy throttling. “I suppose if I did have full custody, I wouldn’t be forced to pay you such ludicrously high child support, would I?” It was satisfying to watch Marianne’s jaw muscles tighten.

“Watch your step, Philip,” she croaked, exposing a tiny fissure in her well-constructed façade.

“Are you threatening me, Marianne? Because, I honestly hope you’re not. I’m getting a little sick of it. Through all these trials and tribulations, I’ve tried to be more than fair and considerate of you. But now I have to ask myself ‘why?’ One of my buildings collapses, and bam, you toss me away like I’m one of last year’s ball gowns. I never cheated on you, I always gave you everything you ever desired, I couldn’t have treated you with more kindness or respect. And this is how you pay me back, by going for the jugular at the first sign of weakness. I guess your provincial, bourgeois parents neglected to pass on to you the concept of standing by your man, instead of hopping on the first bandwagon to bring him down.”

Philip cringed as the door slammed violently in his face. But soon a smile replaced his shock. How good it felt to tell her off! How long he had denied himself that pleasure. With a surprisingly light heart, Philip sauntered back to his vehicle.

Though he had planned not to order anything before Priscilla arrived, Philip realized he needed something to quiet his nerves. Now that he had time to digest his tête-à-tête with Marianne, his ire had been increasing. He was so incensed by the way she treated him, it had caused him to completely reevaluate his strategy in regards to their divorce.

Maybe there was no real reason for him to lie down and die, fork over everything he had worked so hard for. It had been his concern for Caitlin that had motivated him to be so generous and considerate with Marianne, but she had turned his concern around and was using it as a way to extort every cent she could from him.

How could I have been so blind to her spitefulness? he asked himself. How did that sweet, uncultured woman turn into such a cold-hearted, condescending witch? It was pointless to try to solve those riddles now; it wasn’t as though anything could be done to make amends at this juncture.

Even if the miraculous happened and Marianne decided it best to reconcile, he didn’t think he could look upon her the same way as before. He would constantly be second-guessing her reactions to him, wondering what was really going on in her mind.

Ah, ignorance truly is bliss, he acknowledged, realizing he been living in a fool’s paradise. No woman would jilt her husband just over a business scandal not due to greed or intentional malice on his part. Marianne’s contempt for him had to have been brewing for some time. If he hadn’t been so wrapped up in his own pursuits, he might have seen it sooner.

He removed the stir from his drink before killing it in one toss. It wasn’t pleasant to discover he couldn’t deposit all the blame at Marianne’s feet. He shook his head and conceded his culpability where his ruined marriage was concerned. After shouldering all the guilt for the collapse, it would’ve been a relief to claim innocence in the breakup of his marriage.

All right, so he could have been a better husband to Marianne—less preoccupied with his own agenda and more attentive to her needs. But did his shortcomings entitle her to ravage his assets and leave him groveling for even the most basic right of joint custody of his child?

Even with this fresh serge of culpability, Philip had trouble reconciling Marianne’s greed and hostility. Maybe he was just a stupid oaf when it came to reading people. Maybe her grievances were greater than he realized.

Philip stared morosely at his empty glass. Here he was, poised on the brink of his first date with Priscilla—which he shouldn’t be classifying it as a date, though it sure felt like one—and all he could think about was Marianne and how furious she had made him.

He had been looking forward to spending time with Priscilla for months, yet now that he had the chance, he felt filled to his molars with a bilious mix of resentment, contempt, anxiety and fear, garnished with a mere sprig of joyous expectation.

It should have been the other way around, with the thrill of seeing Priscilla pushing all other emotions to a safe distance in the back of his brain. He found himself longing for another drink, but abstained. The last thing he wanted to do was get soused and end up grousing about his wicked future-ex-wife all evening.

Philip looked up from his empty glass in time to see Marcello escort Priscilla to his table. His shock at seeing her caused him to spring from his chair, setting it rocking precariously beneath him.

“There you are,” he exclaimed as she approached. His cloud of dread dissolved with one look at her. Priscilla stood nervously in front of him as Marcello pulled out her chair. Philip reserved all further comments until the maitre d’ had seated her and inquired about a beverage.

“Just water,” Priscilla said, fidgeting with the handbag that she couldn’t find a home for. She gave up and let it lay on the lap of her expensive, but plain new dress. “On second thought, I’ll have a vodka and tonic.”

She had given Philip the barest of glances, all she could manage in her over-wrought condition. After the surreal encounter with Tobias Jordan, she had gotten ready in a fugue-like state. The decision to go through with this assignation had been insisted upon by an alter ego, the one that had stepped in to govern her actions when her conscious mind took a powder.

If she found it disconcerting to be sitting across from Phil in a swanky Italian Ristorante wearing a dress the likes of which she had never felt before, let alone put on, it was no more perplexing than having a famous songwriter appear out of the clear blue sky and purchase all her accumulated works for fifteen thousand dollars. If King Kong had reached through the roof and plucked her out of her seat that very moment, she could not be more astonished than she already was.

But amazement was a minor component to what she was feeling. The last thirty hours had conjured so many perplexing concerns she could hardly put a name to them all. Besides bewildering disbelief, she sensed growing apprehension over committing to the bargain she had made with Tobias.

It was still settling in that she had separated herself from the thousands of words she had written in an effort to make sense of her life. In one small corner of her brain, panic was brewing over her rash act. Plus, she was still questioning her decision to abandon New York City in favor of parts unknown.

And to top it all off, she capitulated to her sense of guilt and honor, spending a ridiculous amount of money on a dress for dinner with a man who had an absurd and unreciprocated crush on her.

Priscilla took measured breaths and met Philip’s gaze in fleeting intervals, as she waited for her drink to arrive. The taxi ride over had been excruciating, as her emotions tugged her this way and that.

She had long been accustomed to bobbing along on the prevailing current, wherever it had taken her, but never had she been caught in such daunting, conflicting riptides. So real were the forces bearing down on her she could feel her muscles twitch from the strain.

“I can’t get over how breathtakingly beautiful you look tonight,” Philip said after an awkward silence. Instead of breaking the tension, his heavy-handed compliment had the opposite effect.

A waiter placed the vodka tonic on Priscilla’s plate, and she did her level best not to lunge at it. In her most ladylike manner, she took a sip and daintily returned it to its resting place. Once she had performed this sequence several times, she had regained enough composure to make simple chitchat.

“This is a really nice place,” she managed to say. She was so appalled at the lameness of this remark, she immediately regretted coming. Her anxiety was so palpable, Philip started losing his regained optimism. In an effort to guide the evening away from a crash landing, he asked the waiter to bring the menus.

Priscilla was grateful for the diversion, yet the menu produced another wave of concern. She studied the italicized type in pale sepia, trying in vain to decipher its meaning. A translation of each dish appeared underneath in a font so small she had to squint to see it. And nowhere on the menu could she find such staples as Fettuccine Alfredo or Spaghetti with Meatballs.

All she could find were dishes and ingredients she’d never heard of before: Veal Sweetbreads in a Marsala demiglaze; Sunchokes on a bed of braised fennel and radicchio, with a lemon-walnut oil dressing; Tortelloni stuffed with black truffles, served in a foie gras reduction. She suddenly felt sick to her stomach.

“What sounds good to you?” Philip asked sociably over his menu.

“Uh…” she replied hesitantly. She had been in the process of striking a deal with herself in which she’d get through this evening by any means possible, her reward being a plane ticket to Miami just as soon as she received her payoff the next day. “Gee, it’s so hard to decide…” she truthfully admitted.

“Tell you what we’ll do to make it easier—when I can’t make up my mind, I leave it up to the chef. Takes all the work out of it, and you never know what kind of surprises he’ll come up with.” Priscilla smiled blandly, wondering what bizarre concoction she would be forced to consume. Philip instructed the maitre d’ and ordered a bottle of wine, while she drained what little watered-down vodka remained in her glass.

“Would you like another?” Philip asked as the clatter of ice caught his attention.

“Only if you’re having one,” she said, setting the glass back down.

“I think I’ll switch to wine, if that’s all right with you.”

“Oh, sure.”

Philip handed the menus to Marcello, who dispatched their request post haste. “Well, that’s settled. Now all we have to do is sit back and enjoy.”

There was enough activity at their table to make conversation avoidable. The sommelier came with Philip’s wine, followed by a waiter providing an unusual quantity of utensils to accompany the imminent onslaught of courses.

Priscilla’s first challenge was a pair of tiny crostini, one topped with a mousseline of duck liver, the other with a fried quail egg garnished with flakes of shaved white truffle. She waited until Philip ate his before she tackled her own. The flavors were so strong and foreign, she didn’t dare let them linger on her tongue. She managed to consume both with copious swallows of wine in between, which was harsh and almost burnt tasting to her uneducated palette.

The second food obstacle was fairly tame by comparison: a small teacup of fish bouillon with threads of zucchini and parsnips and a dollop of langoustine meat. Again, Priscilla took her cues from Philip, who gingerly spooned off the solids before drinking the broth.

The third course was pan-roasted slices of monkfish served over a bed of braised kale with pancetta. Mistaking the greens for spinach—which she hated—Priscilla picked at the fish, and was forced to concede that it wasn’t so horrible. The fourth course, however, was a different story.

“Squid in its own ink,” the waiter announced with a proud flourish. Priscilla felt all the peculiar edibles churn threateningly inside her. She turned white with trepidation as she stared at the dish before her.

“I can’t do it,” she said finally, putting the napkin to her lips. “I’m sorry, I just can’t do this anymore,” she said, her voice low and faint. Philip, who was inordinately fond of squid—ink, or no ink—was slow to pick up on Priscilla’s distress. “I’m sorry, Phil—I just can’t stay here,” she said, as she pushed her chair away from the table.

“Oh…oh, I see. Yes, of course. Let me get the check.”

Priscilla’s hue had worsened from white to a pale sickly green. She lurched out of her chair as Philip signed his check, heading unsteadily toward the exit. He caught up with her as she passed through the front door, where she paused to take in great gulps of fresh air.

“I’m sorry, Priscilla. I thought you liked Italian food,” Philip said.

“It’s not your fault, Phil. I’m just not cut out for this kind of scene. I’m more of a jeans and beer and pizza person. All that exotic stuff—nice as I’m sure it is—is wasted on me.” Philip looked at her, the way she had fixed herself up for the evening, obviously going to great lengths in order to fit into his scheme of things. A wave of shameful regret washed over him.

“It was wrong of me to bring you here. I completely lost sight of what would make you feel comfortable and happy—”

“Really, it’s no one’s fault—”

“Let me make it up to you,” Philip said earnestly.

“That’s not necessary,” Priscilla said. Now that she had extricated herself from her ordeal by food, she was impatient to have the whole experience behind her. She glanced out at the street, hoping to spot a free cab.

“I know, but I want to. Let’s go have some pizza—that sounds like a much better idea to me.” Philip’s unwavering optimism was starting to grate on her nerves.

“No, I couldn’t possibly face food right now,” she said, feeling queasy all over again. The only thing she wanted to do was return home for one final night in her grungy apartment and prepare herself for her life-altering trip to Florida.

“Well, let’s go have a drink—a beer—somewhere.” There was a tinge of desperation in his voice that made Priscilla clench her teeth.

“Phil…look, this isn’t going to work. Date or no date, we’re simply not compatible. It has nothing to do with you or me. We’re too different. It was just a bad idea.”

“How can you say that? You haven’t given it enough of a chance yet.”

Priscilla snorted and shook her head. “I’ve never seen anyone so devoted to lost causes as you, Phil,” she said. Philip chewed his lower lip; her accusation was more accurate than she could know. “I think we should say goodnight, good luck, have a nice life and chalk it up to experience.”

“No, I can’t do that.” Philip’s earlier eagerness was replaced with an adamant conviction that Priscilla found hard to debate. “There is something about you I can’t turn away from. I don’t know what it is—chemistry or a sixth sense, or whatever. But I know with every fiber in my body that we are meant to be more than casual acquaintances in a coffee shop.”

Priscilla looked him steadily in the eye and took his measure. There was zero chemistry on her end, and as far as sixth senses were concerned, he didn’t strike her as the type to have one.

But on the other hand, he wasn’t a lunatic; she’d bet the farm on that. He wasn’t one of those emotional jellyfish she had encountered so many times in her life, either. He was a man who had made his own way in life, made a success of himself, so he could hardly be classified as a flake. He was merely confused about his feelings for her. It happens. Lord knows, she had made the same mistake herself more than once.

“Have one drink with me,” he said. “If you still feel uncomfortable with the idea of spending time with me after that, I’ll personally put you in a cab and send you safely home, and I promise to never push myself on you again. Scout’s honor.”

Priscilla shifted from foot to foot as she debated this offer. It wasn’t like she couldn’t use a proper drink, and she knew she had absolutely nothing to fill that need at her place.

“One drink,” Philip lobbied.

Priscilla sighed and consented. “All right. You win. One drink.”

Philip, attuned to Priscilla’s sensibilities by this time, chose a bar that was neither too uptown nor too low-rent, one in which almost anyone could feel comfortable knocking back a drink or two. There was a good crowd, so it was plenty lively, but it was still possible to be heard when speaking.

They found a booth in the far corner of the main room, which allowed them to observe those around them while gradually becoming accustomed to one another’s company. Philip nursed his double scotch on the rocks while Priscilla settled her nerves with another vodka tonic. Philip made light conversation, intentionally benign enough not to scare Priscilla away. Eventually, she relaxed her guard, and after about half an hour, they had begun to converse almost companionably.

“So, by the time I was eight, I knew I’d be an architect when I grew up,” Philip said, as he recounted for her the history behind his infatuation with building design. The enthusiasm in which he detailed the chronology of his love of architecture intrigued her. She tried unsuccessfully to imagine having such a concrete sense of purpose.

“You never thought about doing anything else? Never thought of being a pilot or a Peace Corp volunteer, window washer?”

“Nope. Never even considered being anything but an architect.”

“Wow.” Priscilla shook her head in wonder. What a neat, tidy world Philip had. It struck her how abnormal normality was these days. Philip had managed to defy the forces of accident and adversity to stay a course he’d chosen at the age of eight. She could think of no one else she knew who had enjoyed such stability of purpose. She had personally never conceived of an idea that lasted more than a week.

“How about you? What did you dream of being when you were a kid? I have a hunch it wasn’t waiting tables.”

Priscilla smirked. She stirred her drink while she tried to recall that far back. “Honestly, I can’t remember wanting to be anything specific—probably a nurse or a princess, or something totally unrealistic like that,” she said, as she thought back to her childhood.

“I guess I always harbored the belief I’d be a writer or a reporter one day. It wasn’t something I consciously decided to pursue, it was just something I assumed would happen. I suppose that came from the sheer volume of newspapers I’ve pored through every day since I was ten.”

“Really? What gave you such an interest in reading newspapers?”

“It wasn’t something I started doing on my own. It was my uncle’s notion of educating me without benefit of the local school system.”

“Why was that?” Priscilla regarded Philip for a moment before speaking. Conjuring up her uncle’s way of life before Philip struck her as being hilariously incongruent.

“My uncle traveled constantly with his band—heavy metal/grunge rockers. I suspect they would’ve been hippies in an earlier era. They lived like hippies, with the converted school bus and the communal living and all that. But the music and the clothes and the attitudes were different.

“It was a pretty interesting lifestyle for a kid, hanging out with a bunch of crazy musicians, always touring or rehearsing. There was no such thing as a normal schedule. Our lives seemed to revolve around whatever gigs they could line up. Now that I look back on it, I’m surprised we got away with it so long.”

“How do you mean?”

“Avoiding the school situation. It would have changed everything for my uncle if schooling had been a constant consideration, and I probably would’ve been sent to live with my Aunt Jane a lot sooner. But we managed to duck the issue for six years, until my uncle finally came to the conclusion that dragging me around the country with a bunch of loadies probably wasn’t the most ideal upbringing for a teenage girl. Of course, my aunt agreed whole-heartedly. It turned out she had been trying to track us down for years.”

“Am I to take it you lost your parents?”

“Yes. They were both killed when I was ten.”

“What a tragedy. I’m so sorry,” Philip said softly, his eyes full of sympathy.

Priscilla shrugged. “It was a long time ago.”

“Was it an automobile crash?”

“No, it was a freak accident. One of those improbable scenarios only my parents could pull off.” Priscilla hoped no further elaboration would be necessary. Philip, however, was too distracted by her touching revelation to pick up on her discomfort.

“How did it happen, if you don’t mind my asking?”

Priscilla shifted uncomfortably in the black vinyl booth, wondering if it was fair to give Philip what he was asking for. She allowed her gaze to drift into middle space, as if she were looking back over a long passage of time.

“It was one of those completely avoidable errors. The kind of careless mistake you’d assume everyone knew not to do—you know, like sticking your hand in the garbage disposal or whacking open a hornets’ nest.” Already, Philip was watching her with mild alarm. Priscilla tried not to smile as she continued to relate the sad tale of her parents’ horrible demise.

“My father, who was not handy with tools, was replacing a rung on the ladder that led up to my tree fort. A nail had worked its way out and the step had broken free when I was coming back down one day. It was the second step from the top, so it was pretty high off the ground. The thing went right out from under me and I sort of glanced off the other steps on my way down. My chin was split open and my left leg was broken in two places, which is why I was in a cast to my hip the day of the accident.

“Anyway, I was lying on the living room floor one Sunday afternoon, reading the funny pages to my cat, and my mom was in the kitchen baking a cake—a German chocolate cake. I can remember licking the beaters.

“My dad, who was a famous procrastinator, had finally decided to fix the step, after six weeks of my mother pestering him to take care of it. My cast was coming off the next day, and she didn’t want me going up and down with the step missing, which I would have been inclined to do.

“I was reading Pogo out loud when my mother started to scream. She flew out the kitchen door faster than I’d ever seen her move. I pulled myself up on the sofa so I could see what was going on through the window.

“I saw my dad a split second before my mom reached him. He was sprawled out on the ground, twitching violently. I knew instantly what had happened. I saw the puddle of water, the chainsaw, with my father’s hand still gripping it. I also knew at that same second my mother would not know what to do. I knew what to do because we had seen a safety film in school.

‘“Don’t touch him, Mom!’ I yelled at the top of my lungs. ‘Unplug it!’”

“But it was too late. She grabbed hold of the chainsaw, instinctively wanting to take it out of my father’s hands. Immediately she began to jerk violently, as if under the control of some demented puppeteer. Then she fell down on top of him, quivering until she too was dead.” Priscilla stopped and took a long sip of her vodka tonic, lost in thoughts of that seemingly benign day when her world hit a brick wall.

“I’ll never forget that smell,” she said, her voice so low, it seemed to come from a great distance. “Even over the chocolate cake, I could smell it.” She glanced over at Philip, whose mouth was hanging open in horror and disbelief.

“Like I said, it was a long time ago.” She cast her gaze away from Philip. She wasn’t sure what had prompted such open disclosure. Though it was not her custom to reveal that part of her past, either to astound or shock, she couldn’t help feeling a perverse pleasure in his discomfort. She took another sip of her drink as he grappled with her frightful revelation.

“That’s one of the most horrifying stories I’ve ever heard,” he said at length. Priscilla smiled blithely for his benefit. “How incredibly horrible to witness something like that so young. And to have to watch your own parents…”

He chased away the unwanted image of Caitlin discovering him and Marianne in the throes of death, the last traces of life being rattled out of them as she watched on. He covered his mouth with his hand, as if to hold back the unspeakable.

“Are you all right?” Priscilla asked. Perhaps it was callous and a touch cruel of her to subject a sensitive guy like Philip to such a grisly story.

“I feel so awful for you, what you had to endure…” Philip appeared on the verge of tears.

“Phil, it’s okay. That’s all in the past now. It doesn’t have the power to devastate me any longer.”

Philip did not seem convinced. “But…what did you do? A little girl…with a broken leg…?”

“I hobbled out and unplugged the saw.” Philip wore a fresh look of astonishment. Priscilla shrugged. “Then I called 911. Then I cried a lot. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have told you all this.”

“No, no—I’m glad you did,” he said, taking her hand in his, a gesture that startled her. “It just makes me admire you all the more.”

Priscilla gently retrieved her hand. “There’s nothing to admire about being orphaned,” she said coolly.

“I didn’t mean it like that. I meant I admire your ability to cope, to go on with life.”

“I was ten. Ten-year-olds don’t know they have any choice.”

“Maybe, but you grew up to be a kind, wonderful person. I would’ve never known you had such a traumatic childhood. You seem so happy and normal and well-balanced.”

Priscilla laughed. Normal? Well-balanced? He obviously didn’t know the first thing about her. “Yeah, well…”

“So, your parents…died… and your uncle got custody of you?”

“Not officially. He came as soon as my aunt notified him. He was in Chicago at the time, which was only a couple hours away. My aunt asked him to stay with me until she could make arrangements to come up from Wichita. My uncle had different ideas. He came, all right. He took me to the doctor to get my cast off, brought me back to pack my things and grab my cat, and off we went.

“We didn’t even stay for the funeral. My aunt was furious, I’m sure, but Uncle Bob managed to elude her for years. That could have been one reason he wasn’t too keen about me attending school.

“After the first week, I came home and told him I hated my new school, none of the kids liked me and the teachers were mean. He told me I wouldn’t have to go anymore. That’s when he initiated the mandatory reading regimen. Every day, no matter how late he’d gone to bed, or what kind of condition he was in when he woke up, he’d go out and buy as many papers as the local newsstand had to offer.” Priscilla smiled.

“See, my life wasn’t so bad. I had stability, of a sort, and plenty of love. I was the only kid in a household full of adults. I was spoiled rotten.”

“But you missed your parents,” Philip surmised.

“Of course. I suppose for a long time I couldn’t really assimilate what had happened. But the sudden change of scenery and lifestyle forced me to deal with what was in front of me, not behind me.

“Uncle Bob didn’t give me enough time or space to have an emotional breakdown. I’m sure he wouldn’t have known what to do if I’d gone all to pieces. He didn’t really know how to cope with unhappy situations. He loved his brother, but I don’t think he had the stomach for the grieving process, and I suspect he hauled me out of there so fast to spare me any further tears. It worked.” She paused to sip her drink.

“There were times when it hit me I was an orphan and I’d never have anyone to replace my folks, and I really was all alone in the world. Sometimes I’d get this sharp pang of melancholy when I’d see other kids with their parents, or even grown women with their mothers.

“I began to realize I wouldn’t be able to look into my mother’s face and see my future self, or have the road map of her life to guide me as I grew up. She wouldn’t be around to help me pick out a wedding dress or help me with my first-born. Nor would I have the benefit of her wisdom, or her unconditional love. All those little things,” she said with a dismissive shrug.

What she couldn’t bring herself to reveal to Philip was how hollow she still felt whenever she saw women her age shopping or having lunch with their mothers, talking and laughing and planning, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Priscilla looked away sharply, vexed by the sudden lump in her throat. All this wallowing in the past had brought out emotions she’d long since exorcized, or so she thought. It took her a moment to pull herself together.

“So…you did a lot of traveling with your uncle’s band?” Philip asked aware that she was struggling to maintain her composure.

“Yeah,” Priscilla nodded as she swallowed hard, grateful for the diversion. “Yeah, we set up house in fifteen different cities, not counting the ones we just passed through when they were on tour. Altogether, I’ve been to twenty-four states, thanks mostly to my uncle.

“That’s a lot of traveling for a kid.”

“It was, but it was fun. I felt very free in those years. I had a lot of unusual experiences living with Uncle Bob. I think he did a decent job raising me during my tenure with him, and I’ll always be grateful that he took me under his wing,” she said, trying to give her childhood an upbeat spin.

“Well, I think you’re a wonderful person, Priscilla, and I think your mother would be very proud of you. Not everyone could go through what you have and turn out so well,” Philip said. Though it was meant as a compliment, she could feel every fiber in her body bristle. She would have given anything to blink her eyes and transport herself far away from Philip and his sterling ideals and sensibilities.

“You give me too much credit, Phil. You make it sound like I’ve fought adversity and made a shining success of my life, but you seem to be forgetting that all I’ve amounted to at the ripe old age of thirty-two is an unemployed waitress. My life is hardly anything to brag about. I know there are a lot of people who have gone through worse and have managed to make something of themselves,” she said, then drained the last of her cocktail.

“But you’re young—you still have plenty of time to pursue your goals,” Philip said earnestly.

“I’d believe that if I had any goals to pursue.” The acidity of her remark stung Philip. He was trying to find the right rebuttal when the waitress picked up Priscilla’s empty glass and asked if they wanted another round. Priscilla nodded. “Make it a double this time,” she said. Philip shook his head.

“You know Phil, I’m tired of talking about myself. My past is quite boring to me now. Let’s hear about your life and the bugaboos you’ve had to contend with,” she said, leaning into the table in a way that seemed mildly threatening. “Something tells me your life isn’t as picture-perfect as you expected it to be.”

Philip flinched involuntarily, recognizing the glint of retaliation in her eyes. Before he could defend himself, the waitress reappeared with Priscilla’s double vodka tonic.

“Eleven-fifty,” she said matter-of-factly as she set the drink on a fresh napkin. He extracted a fifty and handed it to her. She made the change and set it in front of him. Priscilla was sucking up her drink zealously through a straw, her eyes fixed on Philip in a challenging way. He took a sip of his watered down scotch and cleared his throat, but still couldn’t bring himself to say anything.

“So, am I to take this prolonged silence to mean all’s just peachy-keen in your world?” she said between sips.

Philip grunted weakly. “Not exactly. It used to be, but it’s not anymore,” he said more to the table than to her.

“So, what changed it?” She knew she was making Philip uncomfortable, but she didn’t care. She continued to stare at him inquiringly until he sighed and took another, longer sip of his drink.

“Just a bit of bad luck,” he said with a shrug.

“I’ve told you things about myself I’ve only told to a handful of people, and I hardly know you,” she prompted him. He squirmed in his seat, but finally faced her.

“I assume you know about the scandal surrounding the Phoenix Tower.” Priscilla thought about it for a moment and shook her head. It sounded vaguely familiar, but no bells went off. Philip sighed. It was nice to think his identity had been anonymous with at least one person in Manhattan. But so much for that.

“Well, The Phoenix Tower was, at the time of its construction, an innovative idea. It promised to bring life back to one of the more defunct areas of the city, right on the edge of the financial and meat packing districts, in that eerie dead zone where nothing seemed to be alive. Old abandoned warehouses and such. You probably know the area.” Priscilla nodded slightly; there was a stirring deep in her memory, but nothing was coming to the surface.

“Anyhow, this proposed project seemed like such a gamble at the time. Most people scoffed at the notion of building an upscale housing development in an area that decent folks wouldn’t dare go to at night, or even in broad daylight, for that matter. In fact, I had so much trouble finding investors for the project, I ended up financing it alone.

“It was a huge risk, but I felt so strongly about it and I was determined to make a go of it. To me it was much more than a single forty-unit building—it was the seed that could eventually revitalize that whole part of town. I had no problems with the city planning commission—they were behind it completely. And the land was cheap, as you can imagine.” Philip stopped while he appeared to consider something.

“You know, the saddest part of what I’m about to tell you is that my vision came to fruition. Because the land cost was so low, and because I didn’t need to share the profits with other investors, I was able to offer the units for sale at prices not seen in Manhattan in a decade or more. Even so, they were slow to move at first.

“But once a few canny buyers signed up, the project was completely sold out in less than six months. And what’s more, as soon as other developers witnessed my success, they were eager to take a chance on that depressed neighborhood. Now when you walk from Lafayette and Broadway, what you mostly see are new or refurbished buildings, trendy shops and cafes, and people…people happy to live in a neighborhood with so much to offer.”

Philip looked over at Priscilla, whose formerly hostile expression had now been replaced with a look of startled recognition.

“The building they had to evacuate,” she said slowly, as the memory came back to her. “It collapsed, or something…but it didn’t really fall down…but there was something wrong…”

“Visible signs that the building was sinking appeared over night. Fortunately, the deterioration was slow enough and spotted so quickly, no one was injured, or worse.”

“I do remember it now,” Priscilla said somberly. It had been a very big deal in the paper for weeks. As she recalled, Philip barely escaped being tarred and feathered. It surprised her she hadn’t recognized him from the photos in the paper. Poor guy. You would have thought he was public enemy number one the way city officials pounced on him.

“What exactly was the reason?”

“I scaled back the diameter of the caissons used, in order to save money. I felt the engineers’ recommendation was overkill,” Philip said.

Every time he said this he was filled with shame. He knocked back the last of his drink and raised his glass to get the waitress’ attention. Now it was Priscilla’s turn to be impressed with the enormity of his burden. To feel the brunt of all those outraged buyers and all the negative press he had received since then. She regretted never having seen the building in person.

“So, they evacuated all the people living there and then what…tore it down?” she asked.

“No, it’s been sitting vacant all these months while city officials and engineers argue about the best way to handle the demolition. It’s finally been slated to come down week after next.” The waitress set his drink down and Philip took a twenty from the pile of change.

“What will happen once it’s torn down? Will you rebuild?” Priscilla asked, all her former maliciousness now gone. Philip shook his head.

“No,” he replied, as though the possibility was completely out of the question. “The land will be sold by the insurance company to help offset its losses. I’d be extremely lucky if I ever have my name associated with another project in this city.

“After what it’s going to cost the insurer, I seriously doubt I’d find a company to underwrite the expenses, provided there was someone foolish enough to put their trust in me again. My firm has disbanded and everyone in the building industry regards me as pure poison.” Philip scoffed and took a swig of his drink. For a while, neither of them said a word. It was Priscilla who finally broke the silence.

“What will you do now, Phil?” she asked.

He shrugged. “I don’t know. It’s a question I ask myself everyday as I sit behind my desk in my empty office. You remember when you asked me earlier if I’d ever contemplated becoming anything other than an architect? Well, there’s the crux of my problem—I can’t imagine doing anything else with my life. It would be like asking Pavarotti to come up with a backup career. I’m not saying my talent is on par with his—I’m only stressing how ingrained design is in my system. It’s all I know. It’s all I want to know.”

Priscilla nodded at his predicament. “That’s rough, Phil,” she said. “And to think how discombobulated I feel not working at Frank’s dump anymore.” She laughed. “At least I can find another dump to work in.” She imagined herself job hunting in some sun-filled beach town in the Florida Keys. It would have to feel less demoralizing than pounding the pavement in New York City.

“Have you ever considered relocating to another area?”

“Oh, sure, but I’ve got Caitlin to consider. Her mother’s trying to put the squeeze on my dual custody as it is. If I leave town, who knows how limited my time with her will be.”

“So, there’s a divorce, too,” she said.

“Oh yes. I had two collapses in one week—my most well-known building and my marriage.”

Priscilla groaned sympathetically. “You really are in the shits, aren’t you, Phil?”

Philip laughed more loudly than either of them expected. “Yes, I am definitely in the shits,” he confirmed. He was staring down at his drink, his elbows on the table, his arms making a protective fort over what was left of his second scotch.

“Phil, I’ve got to ask you something.”

“Fire away.”

“Do you think you’ve developed some sort of attachment to me simply as a mindless escape from your troubles?” Philip reared back slowly as her words took effect. “I don’t mind—we all need to be carried through the rough spots from time to time. But I think this might be a good time for us to put the right label on our friendship.” Philip stared blankly at her.

“Can you honestly define your feelings for me? I bet if you take a hard look at them you’ll see you’ve turned me into a paragon of wonderful qualities that I can hardly take credit for.” Philip continued to stare soundlessly. “Am I right or am I wrong?”

Philip turned away from her, ostensibly preoccupied by the basketball game on the TV screen across the room.

“I guess it’s a fair question,” he said at last. “Are you a mindless escape from my troubles? Hmm. I suppose if you define the pleasure I derive from thinking about you when I’m overwhelmed with all the crap on my plate right now as ‘mindless escape,’ then you’ve got me dead to rights.

“But, on the other hand, if you believe it’s possible for someone to have strong feelings for you for no other reason than because of the person you are, then you should consider my overtures by the sincerity in which I’ve made them.” He finished this last sentence while looking her straight in the eyes.

Priscilla felt the tables turn once again. Well, this was certainly a night for surprises. She exhaled loudly, a sound somewhere between a wheeze and a sigh. She couldn’t think of any way to respond.

It definitely gave her a new perspective on a man she had initially written off as a dandified blue blood, momentarily fascinated by the plebeian side of life. There was substance to this man, much more than just an ivy-league education or the uptown address. He had eloquently put her accusation to bed, but had he really told her what he saw in her?

“Can I see you again?” he asked, breaking into her internal debate. “We can go bowling, catch a movie, eat pizza with pitchers of beer—it’s entirely up to you. I don’t care what we do, as long as I can spend time getting to know you.”

Priscilla felt a peculiar constriction in her chest. It confounded her that she couldn’t get a handle on this guy. Ordinarily, someone she didn’t have a mutual crush on wouldn’t get to the first date stage; yet here she sat, unable to say no to Philip when he asked to see her again. All she had to do was tell him she was moving to Florida the next day and he’d be blown out of the water. But she just couldn’t bring herself to do it. Instead, she nodded.

“Great. How about tomorrow?” Priscilla stifled a laugh. “Okay, fine. Here’s my card again—in fact, here are three of them. You call me. I don’t care when, as long as it’s in the next twenty-four hours. No, seriously—call me whenever you’re ready. I’ll wait as long as it takes.” Priscilla took the three business cards with Philip’s cell phone and temporary home number written on the backside and tucked them into her bag.

“I think we’ve had enough excitement for one evening, don’t you?” he said.

“Yeah, I sort of feel like I’ve played ten rounds of spin the bottle,” she replied, scooting out of the booth. Philip placed his arm protectively around her as he escorted her through the now crowded bar, his face radiating a smile of pure contentment.

Fourteen

Tobias tipped the bellman who assisted him with all the tatty parcels. He tossed his jacket, cap and shades on one of the living room sofas and kicked off his shoes. He arranged the boxes and bags by the other sofa, where he sat and contemplated his latest compulsive act.

Now that he had this collection of another person’s life’s work in front of him, he wondered what possible use it could have. Sure, it was intriguing to be able to read through someone’s private musings; but it was also a bit embarrassing, when he got right down to it.

Priscilla told him she had been writing these lyrics, as she called them, since she was ten, and though he imagined the older material might be quaint and even amusing, he feared a lot of it was bound to be painfully amateurish. Still, with all his reservations, he couldn’t help but be tempted by the prospect of exploring another person’s mind.

He reached for a shopping bag filled with shoeboxes, each containing a dozen or more mid-size spiral note pads. He set the box on his knee while he flipped through the contents. Every page had its own song, some written in pencil, some in colored inks or marking pens.

As he scanned through a selection of notebooks from the various shoeboxes, he could discern changes in penmanship and sentiment as the writer had gradually matured. He read a few verses out loud, occasionally irked by the young writer’s predictable sentiments. But every now and then he found verses that struck him as remarkably perceptive.

After a quick perusal of the first bag, he endeavored to make a rough estimate of the number of works this collection contained. It boggled his mind to try to put a figure on it. In all his years of composing lyrics for a living, he hadn’t amassed even one tenth as many works as this waitress had.

He cast the shoeboxes aside and stood up. It was beyond his ability to imagine what she could’ve felt compelled to commit to paper. His head begin to throb at the mere thought of so many words. What lay before him was almost obscene in its magnitude.

He helped himself to a whiskey and soda and took a seat at the piano. It was just a comfortable resting place for him; his mind was far too befuddled for creative expression. He straddled the bench, leaning against the piano for support, while he sipped his drink and watched the world outside his window.

He rubbed his neck and shook his head in wonder. He couldn’t decide which was more baffling: a waitress throwing her life’s written works into the incinerator or him purchasing the whole mess for fifteen thousand dollars.

The money wasn’t such a big deal; he could find many ways of disposing that sum in the blink of an eye. At least this time it would go to a good cause. The girl was obviously a heartbeat away from being homeless. He cringed at the thought of the slovenly dump he had tracked her to. And she was jobless. What would’ve happened to her if he hadn’t come along? He shuddered to think.

One thing was for certain—he couldn’t take all this crap back to her and tell her the deal’s off. Even he wouldn’t be able to do that to someone so down and out, although he wished he hadn’t been so cavalier in offering to buy every last page from her. If she had been inclined to burn this burdensome anthology, that was her business and he had no right butting. But more puzzling than this rash act of misplaced chivalry was his manic compulsion to find her in the first place.

As he sat there, the reason for his desperation came back to him. Now that he had gone to such ridiculous lengths to find her, he seriously questioned the feverish notion that she was his muse. Could a coffee shop waitress really be credited with pulling him through his creative impasse? How exactly had she contributed to his recovery? Wasn’t it just as likely he snapped out of his slump on his own accord?

And even if she had been instrumental in rousing his talents, did it necessarily follow that her unwitting good turn should be rewarded in such an extravagant manner? It was a hard scenario to sell, and even he wasn’t buying it. No, he sincerely doubted his deeds had anything at all to do with helping the unemployed waitress. As usual, he acted solely to fill some unnamed inner void.

Tobias rubbed his chin thoughtfully as he took stock of his current situation. Living at the Amsterdam Hotel suited him ideally at this juncture, though he knew he was accumulating some seriously bad karma by avoiding wife, lover and partner in the bargain. He dismissed this minor detail with a breathy snort. They’d just have to get over it.

The composing was starting to take a significant swing in the right direction, finally, after several false starts. What he now realized about the fledgling songs that once seemed so promising, was how truly lacking in proper inspiration they were. He knew he was in for a battle with Brody trying to convince him the material they had spent a good deal of time and energy on wasn’t worth calling their own, despite his earlier enthusiasm.

Those sorry excuses for songs now seemed laughable in their feeble attempt at musical worthiness. He might as well have taken a few pages out of Priscilla’s notebooks, for that matter. Writing songs was easy enough; writing exceptional words and music that could stand the test of time and stir others to profound reflection was something altogether different.

Well, well, well, he thought to himself: it always comes back to the music. Even when he tried to take a hard look at his life, music was the aspect that rose to the top like the foamy head on a beer. Music was what had defined him for years, yet music—the act of creating it—had been absent for the better part of a decade.

If he was back to his old self, if he had managed to awaken from his paralyzing dream-world, then he needed to be very vigilant about protecting his metamorphosis. This might involve drastic changes; shedding the people and things that had anesthetized him into a life of inertia. If it were the only way to hang on to his second chance, he was going to have to do it. Whatever it takes was his new motto.

Full to bursting with resolution and self-discovery, and feeling claustrophobic with Priscilla’s clutter vying for his attention, Tobias grabbed his rudimentary disguise and headed out into the city, for the refreshing anonymity it could provide.

As soon as he hit the pavement, he became revitalized. The air was fresh with the coolness of an early springtime afternoon, and the four o’clock sun cast a pleasing glow on the shapely legs that darted in and out of taxicabs as the rush hour frenzy commenced.

Feeling in need of an antidote to the morning’s excursion through the lower end of the island, Tobias walked up Madison to Fiftieth and cut across to Fifth Avenue, heading up to Central Park. If he required proof of the season, he found ample evidence on the pathways that snaked their way through the park.

The foliage ranged in color from delicate to eye-popping green, and all around him people of every age and background were peeling off unnecessary garments as the sun warmed them. Even Tobias was coaxed into removing his leather jacket, baring arms that seldom saw the light of day. Children frolicked and squealed, while mothers and nannies strolled obliviously down the sun-dappled walks.

Tobias found a vacant bench in full sun and luxuriated in the happy sights and sounds around him. He had to admit he loved all the seasons for different reasons, but spring had to be the sexiest time of the year, especially in the city. Everyone spent all winter in woolen cocoons, and as soon as the mercury edged above sixty, curvaceous body parts began to emerge.

He watched contentedly as young women recently released from their desk jobs walked by in twos or threes, their suit jackets draped over an arm or suspended from a bare shoulder, sporting not-so-business-like footwear in shades that rivaled anything nature could dish up.

He took a long, deep breath, a grin spreading across his face as large and self-satisfied as the Cheshire Cat’s. He wouldn’t have traded his ringside seat in this springtime parade for anything.

It was only natural that watching such a delightful procession would turn his mind to thoughts of Simone. If there was any downside to his self-imposed asylum, it was being out of touch with his model of the moment.

There is a reason why lovely young ladies are employed to advertise everything from toothpaste to automobiles: they embody, albeit for a limited length of time, all the ingredients society simply can’t resist. They are the custodians of creamy, unblemished skin; clear, unlined eyes; flawless smiles that promise everything from fidelity to untamed sexual desires,; and the picture-perfect bodies that only a tiny fraction of mere mortals possess. So was it any mystery why he had an almost unquenchable thirst for them?

As much as Tobias wanted to see his young mistress, he couldn’t bring himself to forfeit his newfound liberty. He might spend half a day basking in the glow of her affections, but what happened when he wanted to slip back to his life incognito? Simone was sweet and pliable, but she could be demanding in her own way.

Besides, he would have to endure a number of reproaches for having vanished without a word before he could have access to her pleasures. Just imagining her grievances got Tobias up and walking, for her voice would be only one in a chorus of three once he decided to come out of hiding. But then again, why would he want to do that?

The traffic on the street had doubled since he had taken refuge in the park. He made a quick dash across Central Park South, risking life and limb as he bobbed through the alternating lurch/creep of the vehicles as they pulsed down the choked avenues. Taking his cue from the assortment of folks pushing through the portals of the Plaza Hotel, Tobias stepped through the door and headed for the Oyster Bar, where he indulged in two dozen oysters.

After a couple of beers and fair amount of eavesdropping, he decided to up his ante. He paid his tab and took his patronage to the other side of the Hotel, taking one of the last available tables in the Oak Room, where he ordered a cognac and a Hoyo de Monterrey.

This elegant refuge suited his mood as long as the cigar lasted, but he became restless again. Since the early days of his success, he had never lacked for companionship, always having either a partner, girlfriend or spouse by his side, and often a crowd of some dimension, usually of Monique’s choosing.

Now, because of his decision to go solo for a while, he alone was responsible for his comings and goings, his next move and the one after that. And though he enjoyed the freedom, he also keenly felt the loneliness of autonomy. He was aware of the way he moved through crowds and buildings, always seeming in more of a hurry than he really was. His independence spurred him into a more purposeful mode.

And though, in reality, he had an abundance of time on his hands, he did not feel comfortable lingering in any one spot for very long. It was one thing to blend into a crowd and feed off the conversations of those around him, but to wander museums or galleries or take in a movie day after day would make him despise the sound of his own inner voice.

As Tobias pushed through the revolving doors and out onto the front steps of the Plaza, he was looking forward to the single item on his immediate itinerary: his appointment with Priscilla the following day. It made him feel rather pathetic to admit his life had shrunk to such a small scale, but it had been his call.

All he had to do was show up at home and he could reenter his real life without skipping a beat. That was his trump card, and because of it he realized his loneliness was only situational.

All the same, he wouldn’t have minded sitting down and chatting to some simpatico soul over a nice, tongue-loosening cocktail. He changed his course and headed down toward the West Village, where there were plenty of drinking establishments devoted to freeing inhibitions and sparking new alliances.

Though it was still early in the evening, Tobias found a welcoming bar deep in the throes of happy hour high-jinx. The mood was convivial bordering on delirious, so it took very little effort to assimilate into a nearby conversation.

Things were bobbing along on an amiable cloud of similar likes and opinions, until it eventually occurred to someone that Tobias bore a remarkable resemblance to the lead singer in Absent Among Us. Several others had to be persuaded, while Tobias kept his head low, saying nothing. The spell had been broken.

Without any protest from him, it became obvious they had a mega celebrity in their midst. After that, everything changed. He was no longer looked upon as a regular Joe, but as the big star. A hushed reverence gradually gave way to solemn confessions of adoration, followed by cocktail napkins and ballpoint pens.

If he ever reached the day when there was no one alive who knew his music, he might wish for this experience. But raising him up to the status of idol had effectively isolated him once again. He wasn’t just a normal person, he was Tobias Jordan. He excused himself on the pretext of needing to visit the loo, slipped the waitress a hundred dollar bill to apply to the group’s tab, and exited out the backdoor into the alley.

The incident in the bar left Tobias feeling vaguely disturbed. Paranoia was searching for a foothold in the back of his mind, and he did his best to play it down. He wasn’t afraid of the public, nor was he afraid of being forced into a solitary existence. That was just a fluke, being recognized like that, he told himself as he hailed a cab. The great majority of the time he went completely unnoticed, thanks to his concealing mode of dress.

He ignored the fact he almost always frequented places where he was known and his celebrity was proudly guarded, or in the attendance of others who knew how to properly chaperon a star of his magnitude. Though he liked to believe his band had enjoyed only an above-average success, thereby giving him fame that had no more shelf life than an ordinary battery, the royalties he received on a continuous basis clearly disputed that self-deprecating notion.

Tobias checked his watch once safely ensconced in the back of a cab. It was almost eight o’clock. He had the driver drop him at P. J. Clark’s, as he had a sudden hankering for a burger. As if to prove his anonymity, he had chosen a place that was boisterous and busy, and not quite as conducive to striking up new acquaintances than the last place.

He ate his burger at an inconspicuous table positioned on the periphery of the dining room, allowing him a good view of all the comings and goings around him. He sat alone, declining to remove any part of his inadequate disguise, as he absorbed tidbits of conversations from nearby tables.

Eventually, Tobias’s mind wandered back to the inconvenient heap of words strewn across the floor of his rented living room. The sheer volume was the thing he found so hard to comprehend. How did that girl find so much inspiration from everyday life? Taken in total, it was far too much everyday life, so much so that it became monotonous.

Tobias had become so distracted by these thoughts, he left his check untouched until the waitress made a point of telling him she’d be happy to take care of it when he was ready. Embarrassed, he immediately paid his bill, leaving a larger tip than necessary. But he wasn’t in any hurry to dash out into the night. He needed a plan, and to that end he relocated to the bar where he ordered a beer and assimilated into the crowd.

He soon became aware of a marked interest coming from some of the female patrons. At first he was too genuinely distracted to recognize the potential of their overtures, but his natural instincts kicked in when an absolutely stunning blonde sidled up next to him and offered him a warm hello.

Their light, cordial conversation rapidly evolved into sharing the first table that became available. The blonde, whose name was Eva, allowed Tobias to buy her another martini. Tobias switched from beer to Bushmills, neat, and from that point on, things quickly heated up. After a mere hour in her company, it was plain she was leaving the next move up to him.

As much as he appreciated her attentions, and as tempting as it was to whisk her back to his suite at the Amsterdam, something was preventing him from capitalizing on this delightful opportunity. A cloud had settled over his mind, giving him an uneasy feeling, as though he were afraid that he was being spied on. As gallantly as possible, he said goodnight, leaving Eva the Beautiful with a perplexed expression on her exquisite face.

Though he initially wanted to walk in order to clear his head, Tobias, who had become quite aggravated by his uncharacteristic behavior, grabbed a cab to the hotel. He showered himself with recriminations and unflattering assessments as he rode the elevator to the top floor.

By the time he unlocked the door to his suite, he was fuming and hell-bent on ridding himself of Priscilla’s bothersome clutter. Whatever weird impulse had prompted him to get involved in her private affairs had passed, and now all he wanted was to be done with it.

As superstitious as it seemed, he was certain this cumbersome pile of papers had put him in a mental funk. Intent on dragging the whole mess to the hotel garbage chute, he wedged the boxes under his arms and grabbed as many of the bags as he could get his hands on. Unfortunately, one of the bags ripped down the length of its seam, spilling the entire contents at his feet, causing him to stumble and drop the other parcels.

“Goddammit! Shit!” he swore, as he kicked ineffectually at the mounds of clutter. Thoroughly disgusted with himself, and certain that he was coming unhinged, he held the sides of his head while he attempted to bring himself under control. He went into the kitchen and came back with a large bottle of mineral water, which he drank in big swigs as he surveyed the damage.

“What the fuck am I doing?” he asked out loud, though even he wasn’t sure exactly what the question was meant to address. He sank to the floor, resigned to the situation in front of him, and began to reassemble the notebooks in a haphazard pile. As he gathered them together, he was assailed by an impulse to flip through them one last time. Grudgingly, he grabbed the closest notebook and cracked it open to an random selection.

“Mind over Matter”, he read, chuckling harshly. “I guess I could use a dose of that philosophy right about now.” He read the words silently. Then, as their impact set in, he read them out loud to test the fluency of their sound.

I kept my good eye trained

On the grey sky out the window

Watching the rivulets of rain

As his voice turned me hollow

If it were my decision

I wouldn’t be here at all

But it’s one small incision

And there’s really no time to stall

Deliver me

Save me from the saviors

Hold them at bay

Spare me their kind favors

If this is final

Why can’t it just be done?

I don’t need your pity

I just want to be left alone

Save your wisdom for

Some other sorry individual

And leave me to my

Private, custom-made hell

I closed my eyes real tight

Though it took a while

Everything turned white

I couldn’t help but smile

I hadn’t believed him

Yet the feeling was so light

The world seemed less grim

So I just gave up the fight

I let the drops of rain wash me away

Tobias sat for several minutes in reflective thought, as his instincts for tune and melody toyed with Priscilla’s lyrics. He personally enjoyed creating unusual patterns that defied conventional methods, which is why this particular piece interested him. Though it didn’t follow any standard for either song structure or verse, he had little difficulty picking up its natural melodic rhythm.

He turned to the next page, where he found a more traditional structure. Feeling that his instincts had been right, he turned the page again and found one of a completely different style from the previous two. He read through it quickly, daring the words to disappoint him, but they didn’t. Once more, without effort, Tobias fell into the seductive cadence of her words.

We knew the rains would come again

Yet we acted so surprised when they did

Laughing and running

Papers over our heads

Scrambling for refuge

A small, crowded bar

With few empty chairs

I stepped out of time

To join your fantasy

When all along

I thought you’d joined mine

If I had seen it coming

I would not have run

For nothing tempts us like

Life come undone

I see now the flush of excitement

Was caused by the circumstances

And not by me

The charged atmosphere

Of the hostile locale

The afternoon cocktails

Prescribed by the heat

I stepped out of time

To join your fantasy

When all along

I thought you’d joined mine

If I had seen it coming

I would not have run

For nothing tempts us like

Sins we can’t out-run

“Well, I’ll be damned,” he said, resting the booklet against his crossed legs as he thumbed through the rest of the pages. It was all good, respectable stuff—not a trite word or cliché phrase in the lot. What had seemed to him earlier in the day as predictable and sentimental, had taken on an entirely new tone.

It was the seeming innocence of each piece that had initially fooled him. He was also pleased to discover that each page seemed to possess at least the basic elements for an interesting tune. He glanced around him at all the similar notebooks, once again overcome by the sheer volume. He pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes and sighed, then reached without looking for the closest unread edition.

Tobias squinted his eyes shut after opening them to a sun-filled room. He groaned as he brought his watch close to his face, cautiously easing one eye open to read the time.

“Ten-forty-three? Christ Almighty,” he yelped, as he awkwardly raised himself to an upright position. This proved to be a costly move, for his equilibrium was not quite up to the task yet.

He held his head until the room stopped revolving. Slowly, he tested his vision again, this time with better results. He emitted a series of grunts and complaints as he turned over on his knees and raised his aching body off the floor with the assistance of the end table.

Once semi-erect, he hazarded a glance around the room, which could have doubled for a disaster site without any difficulty. It was more damage than he could undo in his current condition. The most he could manage was picking up the empty scotch bottle, an effort that made his stomach lurch.

“I’m too old for this shit,” he rightly assessed, as he moved like a zombie to the nearest telephone. “Coffee—black. A large pot. And toast—nothing on it. What? Oh…umm…rye,” he said weakly into the handset. “Do you have any applesauce? No, forget it—I don’t want a baked apple…but maybe a grapefruit—cold, please. Very cold. Yeah, that’s all.” He replaced the receiver with exaggerated care and staggered toward the nearest shower.

By the time he had eaten his Spartan breakfast, his mind and body were in a less egregious disposition. He still didn’t quite have the wherewithal to properly tackle any housekeeping chores, but he didn’t like the idea of the maid rifling through those valuable notebooks, especially since he had spent more hours than he’d care to think of segregating them into distinct categories: those that had lyrics that were so-so, those with real potential, and those he hadn’t gotten to yet.

He had meticulously dog-eared every page that caught his fancy, hoping to further distill the group later on. With less skill than was required, he haphazardly shoveled the few notebooks that didn’t interest him into the shoeboxes, depositing the more promising ones and the unread ones on the sofa, as if that somehow got them out of harm’s way.

It was almost noon before Tobias was able to focus sufficiently on the day’s agenda. The primary event was meeting Priscilla at her depressing digs at three. He needed to get his act together quickly if he were to pull that off. After a few minutes of intense concentration, he had worked out a plan to help him make his deadline.

“This would be a whole lot easier if she had a phone like a normal person,” he groused. But then he was forced to concede she was anything but normal. Priscilla Vanderpool was one of the most prolific and gifted lyric writers he had ever encountered, and in his experience, gifted people were seldom normal.

That was certainly the case with her, considering she slung hash for a few bucks a day, instead of capitalizing on her abundant writing talent. He shook his head as a long wheeze of a laugh escaped him. She was an eccentric, that’s what she was. So eccentric, in fact, she nearly tossed her life’s work into the incinerator. It gave him pause to think how close she had come to destroying this amazing body of work.

Tobias picked up the phone and got down to business. After much wheedling and cajoling, his attorney agreed to have a release form drawn up and delivered to his hotel by 2:00. His next call was to the manager at his bank, informing him that he was issuing a check to one Priscilla Vanderpool for fourteen-thousand-three-hundred dollars. It was Tobias’s guess she would rush to the bank to cash it.

After those two important details had been handled, he called and arranged for a car to pick him up at quarter to three. Although he had his own car and driver on retainer, he wasn’t about to put the wife on alert that he was holing up in some hotel less than two miles from home. He was pushing his luck with this disappearing act and soon he would need to come up with a more permanent fix. But one task at a time, he cautioned himself, mentally dragging himself back to the issue at hand.

“Okay—release form, money, driver…I guess it’s all settled.”

It was only quarter to one by this time, and now he had the formidable prospect of trying to fill the next two hours. He was too strung out from his all-night read-a-thon to face any more of Priscilla’s lyrics, and he didn’t really feel like hanging out in his spacious yet suddenly claustrophobic suite until the car came to fetch him. Out of habit, he camouflaged himself per the usual and left the hotel, merging seamlessly into midday Manhattan.

Fifteen

Priscilla had lain awake the entire night, tossing and turning. The events of the past two days had left her far too agitated and confused for sleep. As the sun rose, she drifted into a tormented slumber, which lasted a little more than an hour and left her feeling drained and disoriented. It chagrined her that Brawny had figured prominently throughout her brief spells of sleep. Groggy and out of sorts, she swung her legs out of bed in preparation for getting up. But she found herself just sitting there, lacking the required impetus to get on with her day.

She rubbed her temples as the same thoughts that had stolen her sleep mounted a fresh offensive. Her apathy made her vulnerable to the demons currently hounding her, and one by one, or sometimes in combination, they pranced through her brain, each vying for the chance to drive her mad.

Every issue was a valid concern that she going to have to face, sooner rather than later. Giving in, she shuffled her quandaries as if they were a deck of cards, trying to put them in some hierarchal order, a task that made her feel like a cat chasing its own tail.

“All right,” she said, hoping that hearing the words out loud would give them more clarity. “There’s moving to Florida, right? Ugh. There’s Phil. Double ugh. And there’s the matter of selling all my songs for enough money for a good start in my new life. Okay, that all works, in theory. Except for the Phil part, and the fact that I sold my most personal thoughts to a famous stranger.”

On top of those minor glitches, there was the nagging suspicion that she didn’t possess the resolve to forge a new life. Such a brave move would require making decisions and having the commitment to carry them through, two attributes she could hardly claim as her strong suits. She rubbed her eyes vigorously, then began madly scratching herself as though she had fleas.

“When Tobias Jordan comes today—if he comes today—I’ll just tell him that I’ve changed my mind and I want my stuff back. I’ll have to return the money he gave me, of course. Damn, I wish I hadn’t spent so much on that dress. I wonder if I can return it.”

She reached for the dress and inspected it for damage, sniffing the armpits for obvious odors. It was in fairly good shape, a little wrinkled, but she could fix that. She hadn’t taken the tag off, the fear of something like this forcing her to endure the scratchiness of it on her back throughout her evening with Phil. But it was a good thing she hadn’t cut it off, for she could hardly afford those kinds of splurges if she was going to run off to the Florida Keys without Tobias Jordan’s money.

But concern number one had a sub-dilemma: was she really ready—mentally and emotionally—to abandon everything and everyone she knew in favor of a complete unknown? It didn’t take long to answer that. There was no person, place or thing that she wasn’t ready to say goodbye to forever, nor did she think there was anyone who would be devastated by her departure. Except maybe Phil.

Priscilla sighed heavily and lurched off the bed, padding into the kitchen on bare feet, unrealistically hoping to scare up enough coffee grounds to make a decent cup of coffee. Her findings were even more disappointing than she had suspected, as she had somehow blotted out the clean sweep she had made of the apartment the day before. She flung open each cupboard, confirming that she had tossed out everything, right down to the salt.

“Crap,” she groaned as she sank onto the battered chrome and vinyl dinette chair, burying her head in her hands. “Well, I guess moving makes sense,” she said with a sad laugh. She idly toyed with the ends of her hair as her ever-present thoughts began needling her again.

“So, fine—I’m moving to Florida. What other plan do I have? Okay, that’s settled. So, what about Phil?” She sighed. Thinking of Phil always made her sigh. “That should tell me something,” she said, nibbling on a well-chewed nail.

She became aware of a persistent urge lurking on the periphery of her mind. Out of habit, one ingrained in her since youth, she cast about for a pen and notepad, the way a smoker searches for cigarettes and matches, slavishly bending to corporal needs. She caught herself as she stood, irked by her slip. She felt the impulse to vent her frustrations, but there wasn’t a single scrap of paper remaining in the apartment.

She lowered herself back onto the chair, feeling vaguely alarmed by the corner she had painted herself into. What had she done? Was her subconscious systematically trying to sabotage every aspect of her life?

Why shouldn’t she continue to write songs? Everyone needed some sort of outlet. Was there really any harm in what she had been doing all these years? No, there wasn’t. So why had she been seconds away from destroying the work that had kept her sane for so long? She didn’t like the implication.

“Maybe I should just quit,” she said glumly, though surviving the mother of all nicotine withdrawals would’ve been easier.

For all the time spent trying to make sense of her actions over the past forty-eight hours, she had only come up with two concrete resolutions: moving to Florida, and returning the expensive dress, though she still didn’t feel one hundred percent sold on the former. She was consoled by the idea of calling off her deal with the roving rock star, though she was half afraid she wouldn’t be given the chance.

In the event that he was a no-show, she’d have to try and come up with some scheme to get her lyrics back. But how the hell could she track them down living in Florida? She lowered her head to the table top, banging it slowly against the hard Formica surface. All this round and round was making her feel crazy. After the last bounce, she turned her head and let her face rest against the cool tabletop.

“Okay, no point sitting around this place till three o’clock,” she said, pushing herself up and staggering to the bathroom. After a quick shower and a reassuring recount of her nest egg, Priscilla bagged the expensive, slightly used dress and left the apartment.

“Didn’t like the way it looked on me when I got it home,” Priscilla told the clerk with deliberate casualness. She took the cash refund and stuffed it into her pocket, feeling better already. Now she could return all of Tobias’s down payment in exchange for her lyrics, and she no longer felt as though she had squandered any money on her miserable date with Phil.

Exiting Bloomingdale’s, she was forced to concede that her experimental ‘non-date’ with Phil hadn’t really been so terrible. It definitely had its moments, but as she thought it over, she found she actually enjoyed seeing a different side of him. There was really only so much you can learn about a person while serving them plates of eggs or waffles.

Without their previous roles of waitress and customer to define their conversations, she had been able to think of him as something other than a man with a high tolerance for bad food. At least he hadn’t mooned over her all evening, which was a tremendous improvement. Aside from the gushing compliment in the beginning, he had managed to keep a leash on any unwarranted flattery.

With that kind of distraction out of the way, Priscilla was able to get a better idea of what lay beneath his cultured exterior. Until last night, she wouldn’t have believed it was possible to ruffle his precisely arranged feathers.

Though she felt cruel admitting it, she had actually enjoyed seeing his anguish over the collapse of his famous project. Expressing his anger and shame over the much-publicized event brought him more on par with mere mortals like her.

It was also refreshing to learn that the light of happiness did not always shine brightly in his hopeful eyes. She had never fully trusted anyone who appeared forever cheerful; it just didn’t seem natural. She’d take someone with a few dents in their chrome over a pristine model any day of the week, not that she was in the mood to ‘take’ anyone at the present, least of all Phil.

Now that her first minor hurtle of the day was behind her, she finally rewarded herself with a blueberry muffin and a cup of coffee at the closest bakery. While consuming her paltry breakfast, she mapped out the rest of her day. There really wasn’t much she could do before Tobias came, but she had to find some way to occupy herself until then.

Just the thought of actually getting on the train—make that bus, now that she was set on rejecting Tobias Jordan’s ludicrously large offer—made her go all fluttery inside. She couldn’t remember the last time she felt such anxiety. But she had to go to Florida to start a new life; nothing else held any promise for her. She couldn’t stay in her rundown, depressing apartment any longer, living off her savings while she searched for another unfulfilling job.

No, she was long overdue for a change. She had entertained leaving several times over the years, but then she’d end up meeting some down-and-out underachiever like Brawny or Ryan or Nick—colossal wastes of time, all of them. It irked her to think of the years spent in stupid, nowhere relationships with stupid, nowhere men.

Priscilla shook her head in disgust. She would be more selective in Florida, she promised herself. In fact, she might even give herself a fictitious husband to keep would-be romancers at bay. She congratulated herself on her very sound idea and turned back to her more immediate needs: how to fill the four and a half hours until she was to meet Tobias Jordan.

It occurred to her that checking out departures and perhaps purchasing her ticket in advance would be a wise move, that way she could get out of town by nightfall, before her nerve faltered and she again found herself trapped in a whirlpool of indecision.

“Excellent thinking,” she said out loud without realizing it. This talking to herself thing was getting out of control. She scarcely glanced at the curious faces around her as she grabbed her bag and headed out the door. She ducked into the nearest subway station, where she studied the train routes before purchasing her token.

After two transfers and twenty minutes, she reached the Port Authority Bus Terminal. She questioned her choice of transportation while she stood in line with less than savory characters—some offering her lascivious smiles, some eyeing her with maladjusted contempt—as they waited an inordinate length of time to buy their tickets to various obscure destinations. She felt almost affluent and glamorous by comparison as she stepped up to the window and asked when the next bus left for Key West.

“We’ve got one leaving at 1:42, arriving at 11: 32 pm on the 20th. The next one departs at 9:00 this evening, arriving at 11:30 am, May 21st. The fare’s $159, one way.”

Just as Priscilla was about to purchase a ticket on the evening bus, she thought of one conflicting detail she had managed to overlook. She had been thinking she could return Tobias’s deposit and get her lyrics back, but it wouldn’t be as simple as that, would it?

If he were coming to pay her the balance of what he had offered her, he certainly wouldn’t be lugging around that ragtag collection of boxes and bags. She would have to go to wherever he had them stashed to collect them… and then what? Was she really going to lug them down here? Wasn’t that the reason she had decided to burn them all in the first place?

“Did you want to purchase a ticket for either of those departures?” the clerk asked, breaking into her internal conflict.

“Uh…” she stalled, as she tried to weigh the facts. If he hadn’t appeared when he did, all that crap would have gone into the incinerator. Either way, I’m free of it. The only difference with selling it to Tobias Jordan is I’ll have a hell of a lot more funds to start a new life. Plus, I wouldn’t have to worry about dragging all that shit across the country.

“Yes or no?” the clerk asked, growing more bored and impatient, if that were possible.

“Hang on a sec,” Priscilla said, while she dug through her bag in another effort to stall her decision. So, if I have fifteen thousand in addition to Phil’s three-something, then I don’t have to ride with a busload of miscreants for thirty-plus torturous hours.

“Look, either you need to buy a ticket or you need to get out of line. I got customers here.” Priscilla slung her bag onto her shoulder, gave the clerk a nasty look and told him to forget it.

“Why do I get all the loonies?” she heard him grumble as she wove her way past the impossibly long line.

Once out in the fresh air, she was grateful she had come to her senses in time. At least that little exercise had convinced her to not renege on her deal. She had solved two critical problems and it was still early. Now she needed to decide which mode of transportation she would prefer to take to her new life: plane or train. The bus idea was definitely out.

Her first inclination was to head to a travel agent and book a flight, but caution tempered her impulse. If she didn’t buy an advance purchase ticket, they’d charge her an arm and a leg. There was no way she could hang around the city another week just to get a decent fare.

Besides, what if Tobias didn’t show up as promised—then what? She could not afford such extravagance on Phil’s money alone. Of course, she’d still have Tobias’s seven hundred, but that would go pretty quickly.

The train was the obvious solution, and it thrilled her that she had overcome so many obstacles with such determination and reason. She was facing tough decisions like a pro. All of the sudden, she filled with the kind of optimism she’d only witnessed in others. The more she thought about it, the more convinced she became that everything was going to work out just fine.

Since it had turned out to be a beautiful sunny day, Priscilla chose to skip the subway and walked the dozen blocks to Penn Station. Another wave of expectation swept over her as she descended into the station, the atmosphere frenetic with hundreds of people coming and going, all with an air of distracted purposefulness. Again a long wait.

There was a train departing at 5:35, an express to Miami, sleeper compartments—what the agent referred to as “roomettes”—still available.

“How much?”

“Roomette, Penn Station to Miami—$732,” the agent said, without batting an eye.

“What? That’s outrageous! I could fly for less than that. I thought taking the train was meant to be economical,” she argued.

The agent remained unmoved. “That includes meals and bottled water, newspapers and turn-down service.” Pricilla was not impressed. “A view seat is only $217,” he said.

Priscilla thought of sitting in a worn seat for over a day. It would save her over four hundred bucks, but her body would be ruined.

She was tempted to walk away and check airfare prices, but she really wasn’t keen on the idea of flying to Florida. Three hours in the air, then she’d be wandering the airport without a clue of what to do next. At least if she took the train, she’d have ample time to plan her next move. Plus, if she chickened out, she could always bail somewhere along the way.

Grudgingly, she paid the roomette price—all the money Tobias had given her so far, and then some—non-refundable. This was it. No turning back now.

When she emerged from the bustling train station, it was almost noon—still too early to head back to Hester Street. She was feeling so fine at that moment, she dreaded returning to her neighborhood, so much so, she contemplated skipping her rendezvous with Tobias Jordan and hanging around Midtown until time to board her train. But she was counting on having the extra money now, and besides, there were a few odds and ends she wanted to take from the apartment, though certainly not much.

It was lunchtime, and the muffin hadn’t gone very far, so Priscilla had a farewell hotdog with everything on it. She ate as she strolled aimlessly, content to be out in the day. She began to suspect she would miss life in the big city. Who could say? Three days of peace and quiet might send her scurrying for the next train back.

But then again, this was springtime, and every place was in its glory. Come December, while her former fellow New Yorkers would be swathing themselves from head to frozen toes like live mummies, she would be lying on the beach eating fresh-picked oranges, not a care in the world.

She smiled at her pleasant reverie, glancing absently up at the John Jacob Astor Branch of the New York Library as she walked by. It was then that she was struck by an intriguing prospect. Why not? she thought. This way she could kill time while satisfying her curiosity. She climbed the wide steps and went inside.

She planted herself at the first available monitor, logged onto the library’s newspaper database, and spent the next hour and a half doing a little research on her most ardent admirer.

What she gained as she scanned through one article after another was a wealth of information on Philip M. Glessner’s professional odyssey. She had located a blurb dating back to April of 1987—well before her move to New York—touting him as a young visionary, someone to watch in the future.

That writer had been quite astute, for Philip’s name cropped up over a hundred times in the New York Times alone. One would think he’d been the only architect in the city the last two decades. She didn’t bother to read every piece his name appeared in; that would’ve taken all day. Instead, she looked for mention of The Phoenix Tower, a subject that had generated enormous press.

It interested her to learn not all that had been written about the famed building prior to the collapse had been positive. Even though he had chosen one of the most dilapidated structures in one of the most derelict sections of Manhattan, there were those who had begrudged him for altering the so-called integrity of the area, objecting to the gentrification of the once seedy section.

“With all due respect, the integrity of both the building and the neighborhood has been in decline for decades,” Philip told the reporter. “Integrity in this case lies in the soundness of the structures, without which they cannot endure the passing of time. Not only will The Phoenix Tower have structural integrity, its advent and design will spark hope and renewal for the whole section of town. You can mark my word on it.”

Priscilla scrolled on and found the front-page account of The Phoenix Tower’s downfall. She was disappointed to discover there were no photos shown in these archived articles, only text. As she read on, she could only imagine how devastated Philip must have been. Though there wasn’t a single quote from him in which he denied his culpability, Priscilla got the distinct impression Philip had difficulty accepting the fact his building was fundamentally unsound.

She skimmed through the subsequent articles, which became boring in their repetitively negative tone, although the last one she found had a rather chilling finality to it. “PHOENIX TOWER SLATED FOR THE WRECKING BALL, MAY 29TH,” which was only nine days away. Poor Phil, she thought.

She checked the date the story appeared and reconstructed the timeline in her head. It had been the same day he had broached the subject of going out with him. She let out a soft grunt as she chewed her lower lip. He was a desperate man with nothing else to lose; his cartoon overture to her had been a last ditch effort to forge something good out of the mess his life had become. She was touched, despite herself.

She scrolled back up to a small bit entitled, “ARCHITECT FACES TROUBLE ON HOME FRONT AS WELL,” which heralded a brief account of his wife suing for divorce just days after The Phoenix collapse made him notorious.

“Boy, that’s rough,” Priscilla said, receiving looks of mild reproach from those seated close to her. She silently mouthed her apology, then scrolled upward to articles she had skipped. “PHOENIX TOWER COLLAPSE RAISES CONCERNS FOR OTHER GLESSNER PROJECTS,” “RESIDENTS SUE PHOENIX TOWER DEVELOPER,” “CITY INSPECTORS SAY THEY WERE DECEIVED BY GLESSNER & ASSOC.,” “CITY HALL POINTS FINGER AT ARCHITECT AS RESIDENTS THREATEN CLASS-ACTION SUIT,” etcetera, etcetera.

There was even more coverage about Philip and his building after the damage was discovered than before, which was saying something. She searched through the pieces published prior to and during construction, the in-depth, multi-page article in the Lifestyles section released upon the building’s completion, and all the perky blurbs that appeared nearly weekly. It was evident Philip Glessner had been one of the city’s favorite sons before his luck had turned cold.

Priscilla sat back and folded her arms across her chest while she digested all she had read. It was curious to her how quickly all of Philip’s champions had become his detractors once the story broke. She didn’t know the first thing about architecture or construction, but she figured building inspectors did something for their pay. If there had been a flaw in the caissons, wouldn’t it have been their job to discover it before the building went up?

She scanned back through the more recent pieces trying to find an answer. It seemed to her the city officials had mounted an aggressive offensive right from the get-go. The day after the news broke, the mayor was calling for a thorough investigation, promising that the guilty party or parties would be made to pay. That was rather strong language so early in the game, especially since Philip had enjoyed a favorable relationship with the current mayor, as well as many of his predecessors.

She began to search backwards, seeking out stories mentioning Marianne. Most of them pertained to society gatherings and charitable events. The text was generally limited, probably only the minimum needed to support the missing photos.

Priscilla had had enough of the hard library chair and eyestrain for one day. She closed the research and headed back out into the glorious sunshine, a commodity she had better get used to if she were going to move to the Sunshine State.

At 2:57, Priscilla turned the corner at Delancey and Church, limping along on over-taxed feet. She had let the beauty of the day seduce her into walking back to her assignation with the elusive rock star. She had convinced herself she could diminish some of the sordidness of her apartment if she could absorb enough pristine daylight.

All she had really succeeded in doing was wearing blisters on her feet and making herself thoroughly exhausted. The only thing that spurred her on was the thought of climbing aboard the train and crashing in her expensive ‘roomette.’ Collecting the money wouldn’t be bad, either, if Tobias actually showed up.

She was fumbling listlessly through her bag for her keys when she became aware of a vehicle creeping stealthily by her side. She glanced over, slowing to a halt as the limo glided to a stop beside her. The dark glass of the rear window slid down, revealing the now familiar baseball cap and sunglasses.

“That’s what I call perfect timing,” Tobias said jauntily. Priscilla stood staring, unable to speak. It really was going to happen after all. For the first time since he appeared in her hallway, the reality of what had taken place finally hit her.

“You all right?” Tobias asked, concerned by her peculiar expression. Priscilla nodded vaguely. “Why don’t you get in for a minute?” He signaled to the driver to cut the engine and opened the door to let her in, scooting over to make room for her. Hesitantly, as if too dazed to fully comprehend what was happening, Priscilla ducked into the back of the limousine.

“Are you feeling all right?” Tobias asked again, alarmed by her heavy breathing.

“Yeah, I’m fine. I just walked back from Penn Station. I’m a little winded, is all.”

“That’s a long walk. Couldn’t you find a cab?”

Priscilla took a deep breath to calm herself. The walk had been nothing compared to the shock of being in the back of a limousine, all alone with a man she had idolized for years, though she had never admitted it to herself in so many words.

It had been one thing to serve him fried eggs and hash browns while on duty; it was quite another to be up close and personal with him in such an intimate setting. Forget the fact that he now had access to every word she had ever committed to paper. She felt her face grow hot as the thought of him riffling through her boxes and bags flashed across her mind’s eye. She squeezed her eyes shut to dispel the vision.

“It felt nice to be out,” she answered belatedly.

“Ah…” Tobias said, recognizing the mark of a fellow wanderer. “Well, here’s the balance of what I owe you,” he said, removing a plain white envelope from his jacket pocket. “I just need you to sign this document, which states you’re selling me the rights to all the works now in my possession.”

He handed the three-page agreement to her, folding it back to the space highlighted in yellow. He felt his pocket for something to write with, realizing he must left his Waterman behind.

“Damn, forgot a pen. Do you have one on you?” Priscilla rummaged through her bag, grateful for the diversion.

“Here’s one,” she said, holding it up for him to see.

“Good. All right,” he said, prompting her to use it. Bewildered once again, Priscilla glanced down at the document, her eyes bouncing aimlessly across the legalese.

“Don’t worry, there’s nothing sinister in it. It basically states that I’ve paid you a total of fifteen thousand dollars for the rights to the lyrics you’ve given me. It’s really only designed to protect me if later you decide to sue me for copyright infringement or something like that.” Priscilla looked blankly down at the signature line.

“But you’ve only given me seven hundred dollars,” she pointed out, causing Tobias to laugh.

“Here’s the check for fourteen thousand three hundred,” he said, handing it to her.

“A check?” she said, her voice just barely audible.

“Yeah, a check. Don’t worry, I’m good for it,” he said with a tang of sarcasm. “Did you expect me to show up with an attaché case full of money?” he asked with derisive cackle. Priscilla stared at him open-mouthed. How could she answer that when she had never really considered any of this would actually happen?

“No,” she said, feeling humiliated.

“Here—c’mon, take it. It yours,” Tobias said, still thrusting the check toward her. Priscilla took it, reading the amount with disbelief. She folded the check and held it tightly, closing her eyes. She had done it: she had sold her past and bought her future in one casual, unforeseen act.

“Thank you,” she said after a moment’s reflection.

“Sure, you’re welcome. And thank you for selling them to me.” Priscilla laughed, though it sounded more like a faint wail.

“What?” Tobias asked.

Priscilla shook her head. “Nothing.” She turned and looked out the window. “Well, I guess I need to get to the bank,” she said, reaching for the door handle. Having to go to a bank was one of the details she had overlooked when she had planned out her escape to Florida.

“If you take the check to my bank, there won’t be any hold placed on it,” Tobias suggested. Nodding at this reasoning, Priscilla unfolded the check to find out where he banked. Of course, it would be back uptown.

“Why don’t you let me take you there? It doesn’t look like you’ve got any more walking in you.”

She found it hard to argue with that observation. “If you’re sure you don’t mind,” she said. Tobias merely smirked before picking up the phone to converse with his driver. The car glided away from the curb as smoothly as if it were a shark in deep water.

Priscilla leaned back against the plush seat, feeling as though she might melt into the upholstery. She felt she owed Tobias some sort of conversation, but when she turned her head toward him, she lost her nerve, even though his expression seemed to welcome dialog.

She smiled timidly and faced forward, closing her eyes again, this time for a silent celebration. This was by far the most thrilling day of her life. It was also the most terrifying. Her eyes popped back open with a start.

“You all right?” Tobias asked, as she jerked forward suddenly.

“Yeah, sorry.”

“No problem. Just sit back and relax. The ride’s going to take a few minutes. Traffic’s already getting backed up.”

Priscilla gratefully complied. Within two minutes, she had fallen into a heavy sleep. When Tobias jiggled her arm softly, she had no idea where she was. “Oh!” she exclaimed, sitting bolt upright, the back of her hand going reflexively to the corner of her mouth to wipe the bead of drool that had formed there.

“We’re here,” Tobias said, evidently finding her fatigue comical. Priscilla blinked several times to shake off sleep’s paralyzing serum. She felt the door for the handle, but the chauffer opened it before she could.

“Why don’t I go in with you? I’ll speak to the manager and get all the formalities out of the way, how’s that?” Tobias asked. Priscilla was hardly in any state to handle formalities of any kind. She accepted his offer gratefully.

They had to wait in the main lobby for a couple of minutes while the branch manager could be found. During that awkward period, Tobias shuffled his feet and fidgeted like a kid, constantly looking over his shoulder, as if the Paparazzi would be on him any second.

In the meantime, Priscilla’s brain began to fire on all its synapses. When the manager did appear, Tobias was quick to explain the situation and get out of there.

“I’ll wait for you in the car,” he said in a low whisper, slinking off like a hunted man. The bank manager, a man named Haskell Worthington III, showed Priscilla to his office, where they could discuss in private her reason for being there.

“So, Miss…Vanderpool, how would you like to handle the disbursement of these funds?” he inquired in his habitually solicitous tone.

“Could I get it converted to traveler’s checks?” she asked. Mr. Worthington beamed as if she’d come up with a most brilliant solution.

“Absolutely! Of course.” He leaned into the speakerphone and summoned one of his minions. “Natalie, bring one hundred dollar denomination traveler’s checks for $14,300 to my office, would you please? I assume you want hundreds, for that large an amount?” he asked Priscilla, who nodded her agreement. “Yes, that’s correct. And please do hurry. We don’t want to keep one of the bank’s most important clients waiting.”

Despite Mr. Worthington’s effort to expedite the process, the procedure took far longer than Priscilla had bargained on. She felt acutely every second that crawled by while she scribbled her signature on a seemingly endless stream of traveler’s checks, as if picking up on Tobias’s impatience telepathically.

When she exited the bank almost thirty minutes later, she was surprised to find his limousine still parked where they had left it. The chauffer sprang out of the driver’s seat like he was ejected as soon as she was within ten feet of the vehicle, opening the door without daring to make eye contact with her.

“I thought you’d have left by now,” Priscilla said as she climbed into the backseat. Tobias was positioned in the far corner, his body language conveying his intolerance for waiting.

“I told you I’d be waiting for you,” he said coldly.

“I’m sorry, it took a lot longer than I had anticipated.” Tobias seemed unmoved by this explanation.

“Any more stops?” he asked with sarcastic graciousness. Priscilla shook her head. “Back to that address on Church Street,” he instructed the driver, folding his arms across his chest, his gaze taking in the sights of passing traffic.

As Priscilla sat rigidly on the plush seat, she suddenly became annoyed—annoyed by the way he was now treating her, and annoyed that she found herself having to take it. How she managed to end up on the receiving end of Tobias Jordan’s bad humor, she’d never know. Why hadn’t she just told him to take a hike when he came snooping around her apartment building? And what the hell was he doing there in the first place?

She had been so stunned by what had taken place afterward, she neglected to pin him down on that point. She glared at him out of the corner of her eye, trying to figure out what had caused the abrupt change in him. Mercurial celebrities—who needs ‘em?

“I think I’ll get out here,” she said, as indignation took control. Tobias looked over in mild alarm. “You can tell your driver to pull over at the corner,” she said, watching their progress out her side window.

“It’s no problem to take you back to your place—”

“No… that’s way out of your way. Tell him to pull over,” Priscilla insisted. Tobias did as she instructed, though he hadn’t given up on persuading her to stay aboard.

“Really, it’s no trouble to take you back…I’ve got nothing better to do right now,” he said.

“Yeah, right. You’ve been more than accommodating. Besides, I don’t mind the walk.”

“You were practically dead on your feet when I picked you up,” he countered.

“Well, I feel surprisingly peppy now. Must be that fresh infusion of cold hard cash,” she said, moving toward the door as the car docked at the curb.

“Wait…” Tobias said, an inexplicable urgency entering his voice. Priscilla turned back to him, waiting. “It feels funny leaving things this way. Why don’t we go have a drink somewhere, or something?” Priscilla got a mental flash of Tobias struggling to maintain a low profile in a very public place like a bar, and passed on the offer.

“Thanks, but I’ve got a lot of things to take care of before five.”

“Then let me drop you somewhere,” Tobias argued.

“No, this is fine here,” she said, opening the door before the chauffer could get out of his seat. “Thanks for…relieving me of my lyrics,” Priscilla said with a strange laugh, the whole situation striking her as surreal. Tobias scooted over toward her as she pushed the door shut, blocking her attempt at closing it. Only his face and right arm were visible as he tried to stall her.

“You know, I was really hoping to have a chance to talk to you about your work,” he said, his tone a complete departure from five minutes earlier. Priscilla remained unmoved by his solicitation. She gave him a half-smile and shrugged as if to say “oh, well.” She looked up and down the avenue, obviously antsy to get going.

“Let me ask you one question, and then maybe we can get together some other time…to discuss your work.”

Priscilla didn’t bother to enlighten him on her imminent travel plans. She shifted her feet and clutched her purse tighter to her side.

“Are you a musician?” Tobias asked. Priscilla shook her head. “No musical background, then?”

“No,” Priscilla confirmed.

“Then, why is it that you refer to your work as lyrics instead of poetry?” Priscilla smiled wanly.

“Because I hear the music to every line I write,” she said.

“Really? But you don’t know how to read or write music?”

Priscilla shook her head again. “No, there’s the rub,” she said. “I hear the words and I hear the music, but the songs will never be played anywhere outside of my head.”

Tobias regarded her solemnly for a moment. “Have you ever thought of studying music? All that stuff can be learned, you know.”

Priscilla’s eyes darted back and forth over the top of the limousine. “I’m sorry, I’ve really got to get going.”

“Why were you going to burn your work?” Tobias asked. Priscilla tried to penetrate the dark lenses of Tobias’s glasses as he fixed her with an enigmatic gaze.

Giving up, she backed away slowly, then walked in the opposite direction of the traffic, disappearing around the corner before Tobias could act. He slid back against the seat, anxiously contemplating this encounter for a few seconds before telling his driver to circle the block.

Tobias’s eyes flitted nervously from side to side as he scanned the sidewalks for sight of her. When they had completed the loop, the driver requested further instructions. Without thinking, as if it were an involuntary reaction, Tobias gave Simone’s address.

As the driver maneuvered the long vehicle to the far left lane and turned back in the direction of uptown, Tobias acknowledged that sometimes the physical needs are easier to satisfy than the cerebral.

Sixteen

“How was school today, Pumpkin?” Philip asked as he lined up to exit the school parking lot.

“It was pretty good,” Caitlin replied as she rummaged through her backpack. “I got an A on my math test,” she added, producing the wrinkled evidence for her father’s praise.

“Good job, Tiger! See, I knew you could do it. Well, this is terrific news. I think we need to celebrate, don’t you?” Caitlin was all for this idea. She bobbed her head so enthusiastically, her entire body shook along with it. “What would you like to do, then? You name it—the sky’s the limit.”

“I want to go bowling,” she answered unequivocally. Philip looked at her askance.

“Bowling?”

“Yes, and I want Priscilla to come with us,” she said, with all the confidence of a child used to getting what she wants.

“Oh, I see. And what exactly makes you think Priscilla would like to go bowling with us?”

“She likes to go bowling. I heard her talking about it at the coffee shop one day.”

“Did you, now?” Philip devoted his attention to making a left hand turn, just squeaking past the oncoming traffic.

“Well, can we?”

“Can we what?”

“Can we call Priscilla and ask her to come bowling with us?”

Philip glanced over at his daughter’s determined face. “I don’t have her phone number.”

“How come? You went on a date with her.”

“It wasn’t really a date,” Philip hedged.

“Yeah, but you went out with her,” Caitlin insisted.

“We’re just friends,” Philip explained.

“I have all my friends’ phone numbers.”

Philip took a deep breath. “Well, I don’t have Priscilla’s.” He was hoping that would put an end to the matter. He should have known better.

“Let’s go by her house then.”

Philip was beginning to regret having kept his daughter abreast of his budding relationship. “I don’t know where she lives.”

Caitlin was clearly pained by this admission. She drew a deep sigh, as if to say her father was beyond hope. “Let’s go by the coffee shop then,” she suggested.

“It’s closed now. Besides, I already told you—she doesn’t work there anymore.”

“Why not?”

“She quit, remember.”

“How are we ever going to see her again?” she asked, distressed by their dilemma.

Philip had been pondering the same question all day. “She has my phone numbers. We’ll just have to wait for her to call us.” Caitlin settled back in her seat and turned her face toward the window. Her arms were crossed and her expression was dour. Philip felt guilty for letting her down.

“Okay, so, we need a backup plan,” Philip said, trying to get Caitlin’s mind off her disappointment. “If Priscilla doesn’t call us anytime soon, what would be your second choice?”

“I want to go somewhere and have pigs in blankets,” she said without hesitation.

“You really like those, don’t you? But it’s not really something served for dinner,” Philip said as he wondered where in the city he could find a place still serving breakfast.

“Yes it is. Randall Humpfries’ nanny makes him pancakes for dinner anytime he wants it. French toast, too,” Caitlin said, with more snippiness than Philip liked to hear.

“All right, then—we’ll find a place that’s serves pigs in blankets for dinner. Or I’ll make them myself.”

Caitlin regarded him skeptically. “You can’t make pigs in blankets. That’s restaurant food.”

“I can make pigs in blankets. There’s nothing to it,” Philip said. Somewhat appeased by this promise, Caitlin turned on the CD player and wagged her head back and forth to the music. Suddenly, Philip’s cell phone rang, startling them both. Caitlin was quick to reach for it, answering it before Philip could protest.

“Hi,” she said into the phone. “Who’s this?”

Priscilla had not expected to hear a child’s voice on the other end. An announcement came over the PA system and Priscilla had to press her finger to her ear to hear anything.

“Hi, this is Priscilla. Is this Caitlin?” Caitlin held her hand over the phone, her eyes bulging as she mouthed the caller’s identity to her father.

“Let me have the phone,” Philip said, letting his attention wander away from the road, eliciting strenuous horn blaring as he strayed out of his lane.

“Where are you? It sounds very noisy,” Caitlin managed to ask before her father wrenched the phone away from her.

“Priscilla? Hi, it’s Philip.”

“Hi Phil,” Priscilla said, instantly regretting not leaving him a voicemail message on his business phone. It would have been so easy, yet she found herself unable to speak once the beep sounded. She owed him more than a one-sided goodbye; after all, he had been her ticket to a new life.

“What a coincidence that you should call now. We were just talking about you.”

“Is that right?”

“Yep, Caitlin got an A on her math test today and she wanted to celebrate by going bowling with you. Isn’t that funny?”

“Yeah, that is funny,” Priscilla agreed, though she wasn’t in the right frame of mind to appreciate the humor of it. Another departure was announced, making communication temporarily impossible.

“It sounds like you’re at Grand Central,” Philip said once they were able to converse again.

“Penn Station, actually.”

“Oh.”

“The reason I called is to tell you I’m going to Florida tonight and I won’t be coming back.” Priscilla couldn’t tell if he was still there or if they had been disconnected. “Can you hear me?” she asked.

“Yes, I can hear you.” Philip’s voice was clear, but at the same time, it sounded very remote.

“I just wanted to call and say goodbye and let you know how much I enjoyed having met you.”

“Why Florida? Why are you moving away? Is it because you lost your job here? I can make some calls and find you something much better. Let me help you. It’s really my fault you’re not working there anymore,” Philip said, speaking low in a futile effort to escape Caitlin’s keen interest.

“It’s not the job issue. I need a change of scenery, that’s all. I’ve been in the city too long,” Priscilla said.

“Wait a second—don’t hang up! I need to pull over,” Philip said, dropping the phone to his lap as he maneuvered his SUV across three lanes of traffic to secure a parking place.

“Daddy, those cars are honking at us,” Caitlin said, excited by her father’s reckless conduct.

“Stay here,” he said to Caitlin, as he hopped out into the street. “Are you still there?” Philip said anxiously into his cell phone.

“Yeah, I’m here,” Priscilla assured him.

“Look, you stay right where you are. We’ll come to you.”

“No, Phil, don’t do that. My train leaves in forty-five minutes.”

“You can’t get on it. You can’t leave until we’ve had a chance to talk.”

Priscilla hung her head, silently cursing herself for making this call. She could’ve just as easily boarded her train and sidestepped this whole scene altogether. But no, she had a flaw in her personality that compelled her to do what was decidedly not in her best interest.

“Phil, please. I’m getting on the train and I’m going to Florida.”

“Priscilla, you can’t. I need to see you again.”

Despite her irritation, Priscilla was moved by the plaintive tone in his voice. After all, how many people did she have in her life who felt so strongly about her? It wasn’t a question she had to ponder for long. She let her mind wander to the external white noise surrounding her. The chaos of it comforted her.

“Priscilla…listen… I’ve got a proposal for you. If you wait one week, just one week, I’ll reimburse you your train fare and fly you to Florida, first class, if you still want to go. But you’ve got to let me see you again. I…I care about you very much. I care what happens to you, and I’m not going to be all right with your leaving without the opportunity of trying to talk you out of it. You’ve got to listen to me, just for a little while. I’ve got some pretty persuasive arguments for why you need to stay here in the city. Just give me one week to change your mind.”

“No. I can’t stay in the city another week. I’m ready to go and I want to get out of here. As much as I like you, Phil, I doubt there is anything you can say or do to change my mind about leaving.”

“All right, three days then. Surely you can postpone your departure that long. It’ll take you almost that long to get to Florida by train, so you’re not really losing any time,” Philip said, turning on the hard sell. Priscilla hesitated, just long enough for Philip to go in for the close.

“What do you say? Let us pick you up at Penn Station. I’ll be your personal chauffer, I’ll take you anywhere you want to go. Out to dinner, or… maybe go bowling,” Philip said, as he got back behind the wheel. “Or we could go have pizza—”

“Pizza!” Caitlin enthusiastically endorsed.

“and beer. Whatever you want.”

“Beer, yuck!” Caitlin said, earning a swipe from her father.

“Shhh,” Philip said, covering the phone with his hand. “Anyway, the point is I think this is a rash decision and I think you need someone to talk it over with before you just pick up and leave your entire life behind.”

Priscilla closed her eyes and counted to ten. She was doomed to a circuitous hell, where she chased herself in circles as she tried to prevent the inevitable. She no more felt like bowling at that particular moment than she felt like hitchhiking all the way to Florida. Nor did she particularly feel like company. All she wanted was to cocoon herself away in her reserved sleeper compartment and chug off into the sunset. But all of that didn’t stop her from caving in to Philip’s pleas.

“Look, you and Caitlin can come and get me and we’ll hang out for while, but I fully intend to get on a train at some point tonight.” She vaguely remembered seeing a departure around 9:00, and cavalierly assumed she could get on it. In any event, she had to leave that evening since she had no place to stay. She had turned her keys over to her landlady, giving her a month’s rent in lieu of a thirty-day notice, which seemed extravagant in retrospect. Now she was officially homeless. It was Florida or bust.

Priscilla’s plan may have been a compromise on her end, but it was the prayed-for reprieve for Philip. He high-fived his daughter, and with his free hand, shifted out of park and assimilated into the flow of traffic.

“We’re on our way. Can you meet us at the main entrance on Seventh? We should be there in a few minutes.”

“All right. I’ll be there,” Priscilla said with heavy heart.

“Thank you. You won’t regret it.”

Priscilla replaced the receiver, the reality of what she had just done slowly sinking in. She felt like a prisoner who spends years tunneling to freedom, only to turn around and walk back through the prison gates. Would there ever come a day when she put her own desires ahead of others’?

“Dad, can I have one of your pepperonis?” Caitlin asked after she had picked off all of her own. Philip extracted all the pieces remaining on his plate and placed them on top of her ravaged slice of pizza.

“But why did you pick Florida, if you’ve never even been there? How do you know you’d like it there? It doesn’t strike me as your kind of place at all,” he said to Priscilla, who was taking methodical sips of her beer.

“It’s warmer there,” she said with a shrug, as if no other explanation was necessary.

“True, but winter’s over now, and you’ve got all of spring, summer and fall to enjoy here. Besides, you’ve been a New Yorker too long to not to miss the changing of the seasons. Sure, Florida has good weather, when it’s not having hurricanes, but all that sunshine would become monotonous after a while,” he said, topping both their beer mugs from the plastic pitcher.

“Spoken like a true city snob,” Priscilla commented, mildly amused by Phil’s anti-Florida campaign.

“And anyway, you’d miss the people. New Yorkers are a special breed. Where else can you find such open honesty? New Yorkers don’t mince their words. I think you’d really miss that.”

“You mean the special brand of rudeness that passes for communication here? I don’t think so. Besides, from what I understand, there is no shortage of former New Yorkers in the Sunshine State,” Priscilla reminded him, as she ate her pizza in the same fashion as Caitlin, one pepperoni at a time.

“It’s not the same thing. The people who move from New York to Florida do so because they’re giving up on life.” Priscilla grunted at this shameful tactic. “No, it’s true—think about it. When they lived here, they were accountants, firemen, schoolteachers, businessmen, doctors, nurses—you name it. But when they move to Florida, all they seem to care about is playing golf and getting melanoma.”

Priscilla smiled, despite herself. “That’s because they’re retired,” she said, defusing his argument.

“That’s my point exactly. Do you really want to hang out with a bunch of retirees?” Priscilla arched her brows but otherwise let that question go unanswered.

“Daddy, can I have some money for a video game?” Caitlin asked. She had abandoned all pretense of eating now and had been practicing dubious tricks with her straw.

“You haven’t eaten all your pizza yet,” Philip said, instantly recognizing the old ploy of dismembering one’s food to make it look insignificant.

“I ate all the good bits.”

“Eat it all,” Philip said.

“I’m too full,” Caitlin claimed, groaning at the sight of her mangled pizza.

“Here, eat this much, then you can go play videos,” he said, dividing the remains of her slice in two. “You know, it’s very unsafe on the streets in Florida—no, I’m serious. All those aging retirees driving about all willy-nilly, barely able to see out of those huge dark glasses they have to wear because of the cataracts caused by all that relentless sunshine.”

Priscilla couldn’t help but laugh. “You told me if I didn’t get on the train tonight, you’d give me solid reasons why I should stay here in New York. So far, all you’ve done is pooh-poohed Florida. If there are really so many pitfalls to living in that state, maybe I should set my sights on California,” Priscilla said. She was teasing him, but by the look of horror on his face, it was evident Phil didn’t get it.

“California? That’s way too far away!” he cried out. “Besides, the whole state is an earthquake waiting to happen.” Priscilla leaned back and wrapped her arms across her chest, fixing Philip with a look that said she was getting tired of this game.

“Done!” Caitlin announced, holding her hand out for her reward.

“Stay where I can see you,” Philip said, taking a five out of his wallet and handing it to her. She pressed a greasy kiss on his cheek and took off like a bullet for the nearest available game.

“What’s wrong with New York? Why would anyone want to leave the most exciting city in the world? Maybe you should start by telling me what’s making you want to leave, and then I can make a specific argument for staying, because honestly, I can’t imagine why you’d want to leave.”

Priscilla unwound her arms slowly, keeping her eyes trained on Philip as she considered her answer. She hardly knew this man, yet he seemed to have no qualms about prying into her private affairs.

“Personal reasons,” she said, taking a swig of her lukewarm beer. Philip fiddled with his mug, waltzing it in a circular motion, a small smile forming on his mouth.

“Personal reasons. I see. Well, if you’re going to leave me to guess, I’ll have to start with the obvious: escaping a failed romance? No? How about to care for an ailing relative? To fulfill a lifelong dream of becoming an aquatic dancer at The Singing Springs Underwater Gardens? Okay, I give up.”

If Philip hadn’t been so surprisingly entertaining, Priscilla would’ve had her fill by now. Despite her better judgment, he was beginning to prove his point: she had absolutely no valid reason for choosing Florida, other than the fact that moving there bore equal weight with her other options. In theory, she could go anywhere, as no place really offered her any guarantee of success. But she also knew some sort of change was necessary. She had come to the end of the road as far as her current circumstances were concerned, and the only hope she could see of starting a new life would be relocating.

And since she had come to abhor virtually every aspect of her present situation, choosing the antithesis had the most allure. She would move from dark, dank and old to bright, sunny and new, leaving behind crude, rude and relentless in favor of casual, friendly and laid-back. So, the reason for her desire to flee New York stemmed from nothing more than the desire to leave a life devoid of contentment and direction. Anything other than the status quo had to be better.

“There’s absolutely nothing to keep me here,” she said simply.

“Oh come, now. If nothing else, there’s me. Why would you want to leave when you could witness first-hand the spectacular downfall of a once vital man,” Philip asked, his tone lighthearted and self-mocking despite the look of disillusionment in his eyes. “Surely that’s a compelling enough reason to stick around.”

“No offense, Phil, but that prospect doesn’t appeal to me. Besides, it wouldn’t be the first time I watched a man unravel.”

Philip, slightly stung by her words, sat back and regarded her for a moment. “All right, then—stay and watch a once brilliant man extract himself from the depths of failure,” he said hopefully.

Priscilla watched him through wary eyes, wondering if he had just said this for affect. “Can you do that?” she asked. His words were encouraging, a little thrilling even, and Priscilla observed the subtle change that came over Philip as she challenged him.

“I should be able to, when you think about it. I had to prove myself when I started out, so why should it be any different now?”

This argument, a completely novel thought for Philip, began to search for a permanent spot to take hold and grow. And grow it did, immediately, using Priscilla’s intrigued expression as the most effective form of fertilizer. For a prolonged moment, their eyes searched each other’s faces, looking for confirmation of this promise.

“You have a distinct disadvantage this time around. The powers that be have vilified you in the press. In the beginning, they thought you could do no wrong,” Priscilla pointed out, breaking their moment of communion.

“I’d gotten the impression you didn’t even know who I was,” Philip said, startled by Priscilla’s sudden grasp of his situation.

Priscilla smiled. “I didn’t know who you were until you brought up The Phoenix Tower. I had read all about you for years, but for some reason I hadn’t put your name and face together with the all the press, good or bad. I guess I never imagined a person of your caliber would frequent a hole like Frank’s. Anyway, I passed by the main library today and decided to review the New York Times articles written about you. I had no idea what a popular topic you and your work were. You must’ve been mentioned at least a hundred times in that paper alone.”

“Yep, I was on top of the world until a few months ago. I can’t believe it’s been less than a year since everything went to hell. Funny how fast things can change.” Priscilla nodded, knowing how true this was. “But getting back to what you just said—I may have the world against me now, but I also have dozens of successes to my credit, and most of them will survive this scandal and be remembered solely for their attributes, not merely because they were designed by me.”

“The trick would be to have them remembered because they were designed by you, without the association to The Phoenix,” Priscilla said.

“That would be the trick, all right,” Philip agreed, nodding his head somberly.

“But hey, the world has the collective attention span of a gnat. Martha Stewart stepped over her public humiliation and soared to greater heights. And look at Michael Vick—he’s a hero now. The public can be quick to crucify someone, but if you humble yourself and pay your debt, they’re also quick to forgive. If you bide your time and wait for the changing of the guard over at City Hall, I bet you can be one of the city’s premier architects again, and the collapse of The Phoenix will be long forgotten. In fact, as soon as they knock it down, it will start to fade from memory. All you need to do is grow a thicker skin and get back in there with all the movers and shakers,” Priscilla said.

She had become so caught up in her pep talk, she hardly recognized her own voice. She had never considered herself an optimist. Quite the opposite. Then again, Phil was probably the first person she had known personally who was honestly worthy of optimism. She may have seen him as a rather sad case initially, but she had glimpsed a spark of determination and authentic capability in his eyes that led her to believe he possessed the power to change the course of his future. It was the first time in her life she actually envied anyone.

Philip had listened to Priscilla’s words with a mixture of awe and skepticism. Though he had felt solid enough to fight the barbarism of public ridicule just moments earlier, he had a hard time picturing a scenario in which he was back in favor with the public at large. Still, it was remarkable that she saw him in such a light. That alone was sufficient to nourish his budding hope.

“I’m going to do it,” he said. “I’m going to live down this scandal and I’m going to aggressively try to rebuild my reputation. But I’m not going to wait for a better climate. I’m going to do it now, while this mess is still fresh in everyone’s mind.”

Priscilla was suitably impressed. “How exactly are you going to do that?” she asked.

“I don’t know yet. I’m going to have to do some serious soul searching, but I will do it. But only on one condition.”

“What’s that?” Priscilla asked, smelling a rat with a T-square.

“You’ve got to agree to stay here in New York to help me. I couldn’t possibly work my brain properly if I was worrying all the time about how you’re doing.”

“You don’t need to worry about me. And what help could I possibly be to you?” she asked, perturbed that he would try to guilt her into staying in a place she had no more use for, and vice versa.

“You’re my moral support, my only cheerleader,” he said.

“You’ve got Caitlin,” she reminded him.

“Caitlin gives me the blind devotion of a seven-year-old daughter, which is priceless, but it’s not quite the same as the unbiased support of an intelligent adult.”

“You know, Phil, part of me would like to oblige you, but I’ve got my own life to sort out. Right now I’m technically without home or job. As challenging as your situation is, I find my needs a tad more pressing.”

“So…if you had a home and a job, you’d consider sticking around while I brainstorm a way out of my shameful state of affairs?” Priscilla wouldn’t take the bait. “Stay here—we’ll get you a nice place and find you a good job. Heck, you can work for me. All I have is temporary help now, people who barely know my name. You can take over one of their jobs.” Priscilla leveled a stern look of reproach at him until he wiped the idiotically hopeful expression from his face.

“Thanks, but no thanks,” she said, considering the case closed. A silent stalemate ensued until Caitlin reappeared looking for more funds.

“You already spent the five dollars I gave you?” Philip asked as he dug into his pocket for his wallet.

“Gallatica was the only game open, and I stink at it. But Spy Ring is free now and that’s my favorite.” Philip held up three ones and she snatched them from his hand.

“Make it last,” he called out as she wove through the tables. “How about we find a nice hotel for you to stay in for a couple of days, and you can forget about the work part? I’ll pay you a consultant’s fee just to listen to me while I think out loud,” Philip suggested, being careful to keep his enthusiasm down.

“Like I said, I’ll buy you a first class ticket to Florida, or anywhere else you want to go. But I’d really appreciate it if you would consider helping me out. I’m not used to asking for help, so I’m afraid I’ve been a little awkward about it.”

Priscilla exhaled heavily. Philip’s humility had moved her and she felt herself buckling under his pleas.

“All right. I’ll stay for three days—that’s it. But I won’t accept any pay,” she said.

“Okay, that’s fine, but I insist on paying for a hotel while you’re here. There’s a nice place just around the corner from where I’m staying—small, but it’s thought to be quite nice. It’s right on Madison Avenue.”

Priscilla shook her head. “No. I’ll be paying my own way. ”

“But—”

“No way, Phil. I’ll reshuffle my agenda and stay on for a couple of days, but under no circumstances do I want to feel beholden to you,” she said sharply. “It’s going to be that way, or you can forget the whole thing.”

“Okay, that’s the way it will be, then,” he said, holding his palms up in surrender to her demands. “Can I at least take you to where you’ll be staying?”

“You can do better than that—you can find me a place, since I don’t know of any. But it can’t be any swanky joint on Central Park. That’s not in my budget.

“You’ve got it. I think I know of a place on Fifty-Fourth between Sixth and Seventh. It might be kind of funky, but it’s a decent location and I think it’s reasonable. You want to go check it out?”

“Sure,” she agreed. Philip fetched a reluctant Caitlin while Priscilla gathered her worldly goods together. She had made another dubious bargain, but as was often the case, she caught herself adjusting her priorities with curious alacrity. Life was easier when she felt she had no control over it. She waited by the exit and let Phil lead her to the next phase of her life.

Seventeen

Tobias let out a long, low groan before pitching over on the bed next to a recumbent and radiant Simone. Their lovemaking had been a veritable smorgasbord of postures, emotions and attitudes, the final result being two entirely spent and satiated bodies. Simone, being younger, was the first to recover sufficiently to make a move. She propped herself up on an elbow and giggled at Tobias’s sorry condition.

“Stop,” he croaked weakly, making her titter all the more. When she had laughed herself out, she rolled over in the opposite direction, removing a fuchsia silk box from her bedside table. She sat up and crossed her legs as she took out a plastic baggie and began to roll a joint. Once completed, she lit it and took a deep drag, handing it to Tobias, who had only managed to lift his head three inches off the bed during the whole process.

“You shouldn’t stay away from me so long,” Simone chided him as he took a hit of the joint and coughed most of it out.

“I don’t think I could stand this on a regular basis,” he said. He handed the joint back to her and sat up to recover his breath. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and panted like a much older man for several seconds.

“In fact, I think this kind of thing might kill me one of these days.” Simone tapped him on the shoulder to hand him the joint again, but he waved it away. “No more for me,” he said, standing up on wobbly legs.

He tottered off to the bathroom, leaving his girlfriend to puff away to her heart’s content. When he returned several minutes later, she was nowhere in sight. He collapsed on the bed, pulling the sheet over his private parts. He was on the verge of dozing off when she popped out from behind a door and flew at him like a crazed animal.

“Jesus Christ!” he cried, taking a direct hit. At least she wasn’t heavy, he thought as he threw her off him. “Lay off that shit, will you? I’m not in the mood for exhibition wrestling right now.” Simone pouted for about five seconds, then bounced up and began jumping up and down on the bed.

“Cut it out,” Tobias said, but Simone smiled and continued to bounce energetically. After several irritated appeals, he reached out and grabbed one of her legs, sending her crashing down.

“Owww!” she moaned. When it was evident no sympathy would be coming from Tobias, she abandoned her sore leg and snuggled up against her man.

“I’m hungry,” she whispered in his ear.

“Why doesn’t that surprise me?” he answered.

“You know what I’m craving right now? Caramel corn. Doesn’t that sound divine?” Tobias made a dubious face. He couldn’t remember the last time he ate anything that sweet.

“No,” he said flatly. Simone remained undaunted by his cold response.

“Umm, it does to me. Where can we get some? I could eat a truckload of it. I bet you they have it at Coney Island. Let’s go get some.”

“Forget it. We are not driving to Coney Island for caramel corn. Besides, that crap will make you fat.” That remark got her attention.

“I’m getting fat, aren’t I?” Without waiting for an answer, she squirmed off the bed and stood in front of her full length mirror, pivoting back and forth as she anxiously appraised her dangerously slender frame.

“Of course not. Don’t be idiotic,” Tobias told her.

“I am. I know am. That’s why I haven’t had as much work lately,” she fretted, attempting to pinch her imaginary love handles with no success.

“Simone, if you had one fat cell, it would expire trying to find a mate.” Simone was unconvinced. “Oh please, you’re being ridiculous,” he said, exasperated by her histrionics.

“I’m getting fat.”

Tobias propped himself up and looked at her. “You’re right. You’ve got a great big lump of fat on the back of each leg, just below your butt.”

Simone craned her neck as she endeavored to locate the offending bulges. “Where? I can’t see it!” she whined.

“Right…there,” he said, sending her into a fit of convoluted postures that failed to yield sight of the dreaded lumps. “Here, I’ll show you,” he said, beckoning her to come to his side. When she was within reach, he pulled her down on top of him, holding her tightly while she squealed and squirmed.

“Let me go, let me go!”

“No, I’m not going to let you go until I hear you say you’re skinnier than Olive Oyl,” Tobias said.

“Skinnier than olive oil? What does that mean?” Tobias rolled his eyes. Cradle robbing definitely has its drawbacks, he thought, not for the first time. He had to constantly remind himself Simone hadn’t even been alive when his musical career took off. All the fads, fashions and world events that had shaped him in his formative years were largely unheard of by her generation.

“Never mind. Just tell me you’re not fat,” he amended.

“I am fat,” she said. Tobias squeezed her tighter.

“Uh…” she huffed.

“Say it,” he said, tightening his grip further.

“I’m not fat,” she grunted, then gasped as he tossed her off him. “That was mean,” she said petulantly, swatting at him ineffectually.

“Watch it, or I’ll do it again.”

Simone lay quietly for a moment, and then recovered some of her former vigor. “Since I’m not fat, can we go get some caramel corn?” she asked as she leaned her face close to his. It was at this moment that the door cracked open and Winston poked his head in. Finding Simone in bed and naked, he halted momentarily, until he realized it was Tobias in there with her.

“Tobias!” he cried out in his oddly affectionate way, taking a flying dive at the two of them.

Must be some genetic proclivity toward hurling one’s body through the air, Tobias thought, as he rolled out of Winston’s path just in the nick of time. He tried to slip off the bed, but Winston was too quick for him, grabbing him in a playful headlock, which felt far too exuberant to Tobias.

“Dude! Where’ve you been, man? Simone’s been moping around the apartment for days.”

“Shut up—I have not,” Simone protested, hitting Winston over the head with a pillow.

“Bullshit,” Winston countered, letting go of Tobias in order to snatch the pillow away from her. “You should’ve seen her, man—she was like in a funk or something. Didn’t even make one of her shoots. I thought Arianna was going to blow a gasket. You’re lucky she didn’t can your ass,” he said over his shoulder. Simone glared at him with arms crossed.

“Hey, can’t you see there was something private going on here, until you so rudely interrupted us,” she said coldly.

“Looks to me like it’s over now,” Winston said, unperturbed by his sister’s anger. “Besides, I smell smoke. And where there’s smoke, there’s ganja. Give me a toke,” he said, holding his hand out.

“Get it yourself, butthead,” Simone said peevishly.

“Don’t have to get your knickers in a twist just ’cause I told your boyfriend what a mess you’ve been, worrying that he’d never call you again. ‘What did I do wrong? There must be someone else. He doesn’t love me anymore, boo hoo!’” Winston mimicked in a sing-song falsetto. Simone tried to wrest the pillow away from him, but he was much stronger than her.

“Give it to me!” she wailed.

“Jesus! Would you two shut up? I feel like I’m babysitting a couple of four-year-olds,” Tobias said. He had made his move during all the commotion and slipped into his jeans. He stood at the side of the bed, regarding the sibling squabble with disdain. While he pulled his T-shirt on over his head, Simone punched Winston in the arm as a parting warning, then scooted off her side of the bed and relit the roach.

“Darling Simone, dearest sister of mine,” Winston beseeched her, his thumb and forefinger extended to receive what was left of the joint. She took a long drag and grudgingly passed it to him.

“Tobias won’t take me to get caramel corn,” she said as she exhaled. Winston’s eyes widened at the mention of this sticky confection. “Doesn’t that sound good?” she asked, sensing her brother’s renewed alliance.

“Definitely,” he croaked out. “So does a hamburger and onion rings. Or a nice, thick filet and fries, like they have at Juniper.”

Here we go, Tobias thought as he pulled his boots on. It was the same scenario he’d gone through dozens of times before: have sex, get stoned, end up taking the whole family out for a prolonged orgy of food and drink, come back here and repeat the process all over again. The novelty had worn off long ago, but Tobias had yet to wean himself off the habit of Simone.

“The fries are better at Norton’s, and so are the drinks. But I still want caramel corn,” she insisted. Out of deference to her brother’s presence, she had donned a pair of skimpy undergarments. Despite her urgent craving, Tobias knew from past experience that it would be at least an hour before Simone would be ready to leave the apartment.

Tobias had two choices: hang out with Winston and Josh while he worked up a hunger of his own, or nix this plan right off the bat. It shouldn’t have been too hard a choice, though Tobias found himself reluctant to give up his connection to the outside world.

Now that he’d been relieved of his sexual tension, his mind kept straying to Priscilla and the massive collection of verse he had purchased from her. He was aggravated with himself for having gotten into a huff over waiting for her outside the bank. It wasn’t her fault, yet he’d been standoffish with her when he should’ve been getting answers to the questions that plagued him.

He had a fleeting impulse to duck out of Simone’s and head over to Priscilla’s place, not that he was anxious to revisit her dismal neighborhood so soon. But in the end, he talked himself out of it. He didn’t want to appear desperate, not that he was desperate. Nothing of the sort. He was merely curious, and his curiosity could wait.

For now he needed to decide how he wanted to spend his evening: playing the sugar daddy to his squad of rambunctious young bloods, or holed up in his hotel like a recluse, poring over reams of lyrics that had nothing whatsoever to do with him, yet at the same time were too compelling to leave alone. Before he could make up his mind, he became distracted by the annoying audio assault of Simone’s cell phone.

“Hey, where are you?” she asked as she absently surveyed her closet. “You’re just finishing? God, you must be annihilated. Nothing. Tobias is here, and your brother the pest. We’re trying to decide where to get something to eat. Oh really? Where? Cool. Yeah, let me find out,” she said, turning her attention to Tobias. “Do you have a car?”

Tobias had to think about this for a moment. Now was the time to bail. Instead, he nodded, sealing his course for the evening. “Can we pick Josh up? He wants to go with.”

“Yeah, sure,” Tobias said, tossing a pile of clothing out of the only chair in the room and slumping into it.

“Okay, see you in a few. Ciao.” Simone tossed the phone on the bed and turned a serious eye toward her wardrobe.

“I don’t know what to wear,” she complained, picking through her clothes impatiently. “Mikeala’s having a big party at her place. She was just chosen to be the new face of Lamel. Can you believe it? That’s easily a two mil a year contract. Probably more. Damn. I’m going to tell Arianna to get me a cosmetics gig. That’s where the real money is. She says I have the face for it,” Simone announced, assessing her features in the mirror. “Do you think I do, Tobias? Tobias?”

Tobias had closed his eyes, drifting away from her prattle. With effort, he pried them open and endeavored to focus on what she was babbling about.

“What?” he said, bleary with the sudden onset of fatigue. He was hoping to catch a few winks while she busied herself with her elaborate beautification routine. Hanging around a bunch of kids straight out of high school had not fostered a vicarious sense of youth; quite the opposite. There were times when Tobias felt old enough to be their grandfather. This was one of them. His sex-a-thon with Simone had all but flattened him.

The thought of spending a greater part of the evening with a room full of similarly self-obsessed pipsqueaks made his mind ache with boredom. Oh, the price of clinging to one’s glory days! he thought, as he worked up a phony smile to mask his inattention.

“Do you think I could ever land a cosmetic contract like Mikeala Douglas?”

“I don’t know,” Tobias replied with a shrug, as he squirmed to find a more comfortable position. “Sure, I guess so.” This lukewarm response did not please Simone. Tobias could tell by her expression she was on the verge of a major snit. Perversely, he didn’t feel like pandering to her vanity.

“Just because you want a cosmetic contract doesn’t mean you’ll get one. I imagine most models out there would sell their souls for a multi-year contract in the seven figures. That’s sort of a no-brainer.” Good thing.

Simone, not known for her rationality or maturity, stood glaring hotly at Tobias before turning her back to him. Even if she hadn’t started throwing the contents of her closet out in the general direction of the bed, one article at a time, her irate vibes filled the air like a highly charged electrical field. Even a narcotic-mellowed Winston found the atmosphere too hostile for his liking.

“I’m going to have a shower,” he said, as he hauled his lanky frame off the bed. “See you two in a bit,” he added, giving Tobias a wink of solidarity as he passed. Simone seemed even more aggravated at losing half her audience. She began to hurl armloads of clothing, most of which landed just beyond her feet.

“Shit!” she cried out, kicking at the pile of assorted garments that threatened to trip her.

“What the hell are you so bent out of shape about?” Tobias asked, growing steadily more irritated by her temper-tantrum.

“Nothing,” she replied sullenly.

“What? Was it something I said?” This question earned him another icy glare.

“Look, I’m not really in the mood for this kind of crap,” he said, hoisting himself out of the chair.

“Where’re you going?” Simone whimpered. Tobias stood by the half-opened door, reconsidering his options.

“I know you’re young, but for chrissakes, do you have to carry on like an infant?”

“Wait! Tobias, don’t go,” she pleaded grabbing him by the arm and pulling him toward her.

“What’s your problem?”

Simone lowered her head and swayed coyly under his stern reprimand. “You really hurt my feelings, what you said about me not being pretty enough to land a cosmetic contract,” she replied in an injured tone.

“I never said anything of the sort,” Tobias said, holding her at arm’s length. She started to protest, but he cut her off.

“I said it’s a very difficult achievement, that’s all. I never said you weren’t pretty enough. I think you’re a beautiful girl, but the world’s full of beautiful girls.” A cloud shadowed Simone’s hopeful eyes. She twisted her arms out of Tobias’s grasp and wrapped them tightly around herself.

“Okay, you’re the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen in my life. Satisfied?”

“You’re just saying that,” she pouted. Tobias swore under his breath.

“Look at me. You are the most fucking beautiful female on the planet, bar none,” Tobias said. He was about five seconds away from losing his desire for her permanently.

“More beautiful than Mikeala Douglas?” she asked sweetly, kissing him lightly around his mouth.

“Yeah, ten times more beautiful than Mikeala Douglas. Okay? All right? Are you all over your fit?” he asked as Simone redoubled her efforts to soothe him. Tobias pulled her away mid-smooch. “Want to get ready now, before I completely lose interest in going anywhere?”

Simone snuck one final kiss in before sashaying off. “I’ll be just a minute,” she assured him. Tobias rolled his eyes and headed out the door. “Tobias!” Simone called out. He stuck his head back around the door. “I love you,” she said. Tobias nodded solemnly.

“I’ll be waiting in the living room,” he replied, leaving Simone to pick through her fashion landslide. But with every step he took he felt an overwhelming impulse to flee. He glided past the living room, regarding a headphone clad Winston out the corner of his eye, and kept on moving, out the door and to his livery car.

Eighteen

Priscilla was torn from her writing by a sharp, precise knocking at her door. She quickly stashed her notebook and pen in the bedside table and hastily pulled the bedspread over the twisted bed sheets. She had tossed and turned relentlessly all night, haunted by her incessant doubts.

She got up around 3 a.m. and scribbled till daybreak in the notebook she picked up before retiring for the night. With all the changes that had taken place in the last seventy-two hours, her penchant for writing was the one of the few things remaining of her former life.

“Just a minute,” she called out, as she struggled out of her ratty T-shirt and wriggled into her jeans. She pulled a better looking light blue T-shirt over her head and smoothed her hair down.

“Good morning,” Philip said brightly, his face positively radiant with the pleasure of seeing her. “How was your night?”

“It was all right,” Priscilla fibbed, extending her arm in a welcoming gesture. Philip stepped cautiously into the small room, unsure of what to do with himself.

“This is a nice room,” he said pleasantly, though he wished she would allow him to put her up somewhere nicer.

“Yeah, it’ll do,” she said, giving her hair a few quick strokes with her brush. Philip averted his attention to her view of the street while Priscilla applied some mascara and a light coat of lipstick, smacking her lips as she assessed the results. Good enough.

“I guess I’m ready when you are,” she said, grabbing a sweater out of her duffel bag.

“Are you sure you still want to do this?” Philip asked. “I have to admit, I started feeling kind of guilty last night when I got home. I feel very selfish commandeering you this way. Like you said, you’ve got troubles of your own.”

“Don’t worry about it. I chose to do this of my own free will. Whatever help I can be to you in the next three days, you’re welcome to it.”

“That’s very generous of you,” Philip said.

“Don’t mention it. Shall we go?”

“I thought I’d take you to see my office—what remains of it, anyway, and then just play it by ear.”

“Sounds fine,” Priscilla said, as they entered the elevator and gave their undivided attention to watching the numbers light up in descending order as the car lowered them to the lobby floor.

“My office is only a few blocks from here, but we can catch a cab if you’d rather not walk.”

“Walking is fine with me.”

Philip made a few brief attempts at conversation as they walked along, but eventually gave it up. The ensuing silence had a surprisingly comforting effect on him, as though he were walking down the street with someone he had known for years. By the time they had walked five blocks, his nervousness had completely abated.

“Have you had any brainstorms on how to rebuild your career?” Priscilla asked as they neared his building. Philip grimaced self-consciously.

“I’m afraid not. It seems a lot less plausible in the cold light of day than it did last night. I don’t know if I’m really worthy of the confidence you have in me,” Philip confessed as he pulled the heavy glass door open.

“Oh, don’t be so modest. You experienced two decades of success relying solely on your own talents. You don’t need to look to anyone else for confidence.”

Though Priscilla spoke these words matter-of-factly, their impact on Philip was far from casual. His heart swelled as he signed in with security. He couldn’t remember receiving that level of support from his own wife in all the years they had been together. But then again, he hadn’t needed it when everything was going his way.

They rode the elevator at the far end of the lobby, the one exclusively serving the top floor. Instead of sneaking in through his private entrance, Philip took Priscilla through the main reception area. Even though it wasn’t much more than a hollowed-out shell, his once grand offices were still impressive at first glance.

“Good morning. And how is everyone today?” Philip called out to his slightly startled temporary staffers, who’d been caught chatting up a storm. For months they’d only had brief glances at this once distinguished man.

“Fine, thank you, Mr. Glessner,” one of the young women finally managed to say.

“No one’s come to repossess the furniture, I see,” he said with a demented cackle. “Just joking. I trust there’s a nice, fresh pot of coffee brewing somewhere in this vast tomb of an office?”

“Yes, sir. In the kitchen area,” the same young woman replied.

“Excellent. Shall we go get some?” he asked Priscilla, who was eyeing him curiously.

“You’re really enjoying yourself today, aren’t you?” she asked him when they were out of hearing range.

“Yes, I am,” he said smugly. “I don’t know why it’s taken me so long to get to this stage, but now I realize I’ve been to the bottom and so what? Am I dead? Is anyone l love dead? Did anyone die as a result of what happened to The Phoenix? No. I’ve been creeping around my own office like a wanted criminal for the last nine months and I’m tired of it. I’m fully insured—everyone negatively affected by the collapse will be made whole, except me, of course.

“By the time my soon-to-be-ex inflicts her final blow, it’ll be old clothes and porridge for me. But I think the first step toward reclaiming my career is to start acting like I’ve done nothing wrong. Hell, it worked for the Teflon Don, and he was a homicidal maniac. There’s really no reason I should fall on my sword to prove my integrity. The best thing I can do for all involved is to try to facilitate a solution to this difficult situation.”

“So, you do have a plan,” Priscilla surmised as she took the proffered mug of coffee.

“No, that’s just my version of the pep talk you gave me last night. I figure if I keep repeating it to myself I might start believing it. Sugar? Cream?” Priscilla shook her head. “Now if you’ll follow me, I’ll give you the grand tour.”

Philip led her down a corridor lined on both sides by individual offices, private glassed-in ten-by-ten foot squares. Abandoned picture hooks were the only signs the rooms had ever been occupied.

At the end of the hallway was a huge conference room with floor to ceiling windows that seemed to take in the entire city. The room was virtually empty aside from a sleek table that could seat twenty. There was an unnatural stillness to the setting that made Priscilla feel as though she was looking at a modern day relic, perfectly preserved as future testimony to a bygone era.

“Eerie, isn’t it?” Philip asked lightly. “My office is back this way.”

“Why do you keep all the lights on if no one is working over here?” Priscilla asked as they made their way back toward the reception area.

“It feels dead over there without them. It’s hard enough to ramble around this place with maximum wattage. There’s no way I could face it dark,” Philip replied as they passed the bevy of temps, all of whom had affected a more business-like demeanor.

“Terrific cup of coffee,” he sang out merrily as he held his mug up in a one-sided toast, causing the women to eye him warily. “They’re probably afraid I’m going to come in here one day with a foot long beard and five inch nails,” he whispered to Priscilla, who nearly choked on her coffee.

“I never suspected you had such a devious side, Phil,” she commented, impressed by the change that had come over him.

“Me neither,” he said with a wily grin.

On the other wing of the office there was a series of large glass-walled spaces used for erecting and displaying scale models, many of which lined the perimeter of the rooms like miniature villages. It fascinated Priscilla to see the vast body of Philip’s accomplishments, toy-sized monuments to the man’s seemingly limitless visions.

“Here we are—the mastermind’s habitat,” Philip said with a self-deprecating snort. While the view from the conference room was stunning, what Philip’s windows had to offer nearly knocked her off her feet.

“Whoa! I think I’m getting vertigo,” Priscilla said, bracing herself against a chair as her equilibrium adjusted. “I can’t get over this. It’s like hovering just above everything. Wow, it’s like super-real,” she said, inching her way toward the window for a closer look. “This must be incredibly inspiring for you.”

“I suppose it used to be, in the beginning. But frankly, I’ve become so accustomed to it, I’m hardly even conscious of it anymore. It’s become part of the background, like wallpaper.” Priscilla found it impossible to imagine becoming jaded to such a sight. She regarded him askance.

“Really?”

“Truly. To be honest, I’ve spent more time looking out these windows in the last nine months than I had in the last ten years. But now when I look out I feel more melancholy than inspired. All those grand edifices are simply reminders that I’m out of the game. Temporarily, at any rate.” Philip pursed his lips and turned away from the view.

“So, this is where all your brilliant ideas happen,” Priscilla said, taking in the office itself.

“Yep…well, this is where most of them were committed to paper. Most of my concepts come together in my mind during non-working hours, like when I’m driving, sitting at the Opera or helping Caitlin with her homework. Or playing golf, which is the only reason I put up with the sport. But, yes… this is where most of my projects came to fruition.”

Priscilla caught sight of the collection of photographs, which, along with awards and commendations, covered nearly all the available wall space. She glanced back at the kind, self-effacing man behind her and found it difficult to reconcile the two personas. The Philip in these pictures seemed so different than the one she knew—more confident of his place in the world, more in command, more empowered by his station in life.

“Looks like you were a walking photo-op,” she said, as she followed the private exhibition around the room.

“Oh, yes—always a darling of the press. You know, I think that kind of thing went to my head. I think I started believing I would always have the most prestigious projects and carte blanche to let my ideas run wild.

It was a rarified experience—I see that now. I enjoyed an unimaginable run of good luck in my career. It had to crap out eventually. There was no way it could go on forever. I just never conceived I would be brought down by poor judgment on my part.” Philip sighed and perched himself on the edge of his massive desk.

“I take it this is your wife,” Priscilla said, pointing to an earlier photo of Marianne. Philip nodded. “She’s quite stunning.”

“Yes, she is. It’s funny, I think I was gratified by Marianne’s beauty the same way I was gratified by my architecture.” Philip came over and stood next to Priscilla.

“I’m finding it remarkable the way I’m beginning to see everything around me so clearly. It’s as if I’ve stepped out of time and now I’m allowed to really examine details I waived away as insignificant in the past. It’s an extraordinarily enlightening perspective, I can tell you that.”

“In what way?” Priscilla asked.

“Well, for instance, I understand now what I passed off as love for Marianne was pride. I was as proud of her looks and deportment as I was of my work. It wouldn’t surprise me if underneath it all I once considered her one of my most flattering creations.” Priscilla looked up at him quizzically. “Awful, isn’t it? But that’s the kind of man I was, I guess.”

“I don’t know… you don’t strike me as being self-centered or egotistical,” she said. “You’ve certainly never acted like that all the times I’ve seen you. Just the opposite. In fact, you seem almost selfless when you’re with Caitlin, like your only mission in life is to care for her.”

“Well, she’s different. She’s my little girl and it’s my job to look after her and help her grow into a responsible, happy adult.” Priscilla turned back to the wall of photos, her eyes flitting over the various images of Marianne.

“So you think of Marianne as your creation, but your daughter—your own flesh and blood—isn’t? Is that what you’re telling me?” Philip reared back slightly.

“Well… figuratively speaking—”

“Then at some point you decided to give your creation a mind and attitudes of her own. The woman in this photograph, while obviously the same person, gives off an entirely different impression than in earlier photos. This one, here, where you both look like you’re in your late twenties, compared to this one, shows two people matured by years of living.

“The change in you is quite marked—the bright-eyed dreamer became the elder statesman, edified by his successes. And your wife went from being the shy, awestruck bride to the full embodiment of a woman who trades on her husband’s accomplishments. What’s wrong? Does that assessment shock you?” Priscilla asked.

“You can get all that from a few photographs?” Philip asked skeptically.

“I’ve had the benefit of getting to know you,” she replied.

“But you’ve never met Marianne,” he countered.

“No, and I don’t think I need to,” she said, smiling at Phil’s resistance. “I think I’ve got a pretty good grasp of the type woman she is.”

Philip had to digest this assertion for a moment. “So, you don’t agree with what I said about me subconsciously treating her like a possession rather than a wife?”

Priscilla laughed. “I think it’s more likely the other way around,” she said.

Philip gave her a stern look, then scrutinized several pictures of himself and Marianne.

“I don’t know,” he said softly, though it was clear he couldn’t entirely dismiss what she had said.

Priscilla shrugged and wandered off to an alcove that held more three-dimensional models. In the center, situated like a crown jewel, stood the replica of Philip’s most notorious structure. One glance and she remembered seeing shots of it in the paper.

The photographs she’d seen could not capture the entire building in one angle. She had seen a photo taken from one of the upper stories looking out toward the center of the edifice, which graduated outwardly from the sides, allowing the windows set at angles a view of the building’s central design without compromising the privacy of others, giving each occupant a feeling of seclusion while gazing out.

“There lays the Great White Hope,” Philip said, as he came around the other side.

“This is quite an interesting design, really a departure from most of what you see being built these days,” Priscilla commented.

“Yes. I’m not sure why, but when I first began toying with the idea of revitalizing that part of town, I kept coming back to the image of a Phoenix. And I always saw it white. The Art Deco styling seemed to suit those elements the best, allowing us to use the image in a subtle way without being too obvious or gaudy,” Philip said, tracing his finger along the bas-relief at the top of the building.

“We tilted the image ever so slightly so that it can be viewed in its entirety from the street. And, if you happen to be one of the residents on the top two floors, the Phoenix looks like it’s about to take flight. It’s pretty extraordinary, really.”

“That’s very impressive,” Priscilla agreed.

“Yes, I liked the idea so much, I gave the building two facades,” he said, swiveling the model around to reveal an identical treatment on the backside.

“Very clever. But what about the lower floors? The ones in front have those interesting windows, but the ones in back have nothing,” Priscilla asked.

“This side abuts another building.”

“Oh, I see,” she said, bobbing her head back and forth to take in both sides. “But these folks on the upper floors could lose their views if someone takes your idea and builds something taller,” she surmised.

“That’s why we bought it before we even took our plans to the Planning Commission,” Philip admitted.

“Now that was a smart move,” Priscilla said approvingly. “Looks like you covered all the bases.”

“We thought so. But it just shows you how wrong you can be. In what—nine days—this whole glorious building will be reduced to rubble, double Phoenix and all.” Philip snorted and leaned against a credenza, regarding his breakthrough concept with chagrin.

“That is such a shame, Phil. This is a wonderful design, really. I imagine it’s quite a sight, mixed in with all those dilapidated, ancient eyesores.”

“It was in the beginning. And our critics were quick to point that out. But once it was built, even the naysayers had to admit it provided a shining benchmark. Since then, a lot of renovation has taken place in that area, that block particularly. All the old structures have been replaced. You’ve never seen it?” he asked as an afterthought.

“No, unfortunately.”

“Oh. Well, you must,” he said, taking her by the arm.

“Where are we going?”

“To see The Phoenix, before some antsy bureaucrat jumps the gun.”

After stopping by a neighborhood deli, Philip and Priscilla took a cab down to the south end of Manhattan, in area past Chinatown, but not quite in the Financial District. With sandwiches in hand, Philip gave Priscilla a detailed accounting of all the architectural features and interesting anecdotes regarding the erecting of his most celebrated and contentious building.

“And when it came time for the masons to attach the terracotta Phoenix to the façade, they miscalculated the weight of the piece and did not apply sufficiently strong anchors to keep it in place. Thank God it had come in sections. Before they could get the second piece in place, the first came crashing to the ground—”

“You’re kidding!”

“I wish I were. I was up on the seventh floor, supervising. I saw the piece as it fell to earth. I’ll tell you, the sight of it made me feel physically ill. I just knew it was going to be a catastrophe. Amazingly, no one was hit. It shattered into a million pieces, but other than breaking up the sidewalk a little, no damage was done.”

“Wow, that was a miracle,” Priscilla said through a bite of ham and Swiss on rye.

“You said it. As an architect, I’ve seen a lot of aggravations in my years. But that incident aged me on the spot. Just the split-second image of the possible carnage stopped my heart for what seemed like a minute. I don’t think I’ve ever been so frightened,” Philip said, averting his eyes from the subject in question.

“So what happened? Did you have to come up with a different idea?” Priscilla asked, looking warily up at the imposing figure.

“No, we had to have a replacement section sent to us. Glading-McBean always makes two of every piece they are commissioned, which in this case meant four—”

“Because of the mirror image on the backside,” Priscilla supplied.

“Exactly. So at least we didn’t lose time while they fabricated a replacement. And they sent out two of their own technicians to direct the installation, so everything went smoothly the second time around.”

“I’m surprised you went ahead with it after that close call.”

“I felt I had to. It was an integral part of the design. I couldn’t conceive of calling it The Phoenix Tower without a Phoenix somewhere in the design, however stylized.”

Priscilla had noted on the model how subtle the namesake appeared. It was there, all right, but because it appeared to be made of the same material as the façade, and because the design was so simplistic, it seemed more a part of the overall design than a dominating feature.

“Plus, I had used architectural terracotta many times in the past and never had any trouble with it. I think the fact it actually tilts forward threw the masons. And as you can see, even with the building sinking underneath it, it’s still soaring proudly,” Philip said, giving it one final fond look before moving on. “Come over here. I want to show you something.”

Priscilla took a swig of her soda and followed Philip and the caution tape to the far left corner of the building. The entrance had an intricate lace of orange plastic mesh to keep curious passersby from getting too close. If that wasn’t enough, the ominously large “CONDEMMED” sign nailed across the front entrance was sure to do the trick.

“This cornerstone has about three inches exposed, right? It used to be twelve. There was an iron balustrade that ran along the front and curved up along the entrance. You may have remembered seeing it on the model.” Priscilla nodded.

“It was removed once the damage was discovered. It was the buckling of the railing that first caught someone’s attention. Fortunately, they knew enough to contact the city.”

Priscilla’s eyes searched for further evidence of the damage. She couldn’t find any cracks or fissures on the building’s surface.

“You know, I was really expecting much worse. To be perfectly honest, it doesn’t look there’s anything wrong with it, other than the sinking. Are you sure the whole building has to be demolished? Isn’t there some way to get under there and raise it back up? Or let it stand like the other sinking tower in Pisa?”

Philip chuckled. “Our modern-day inspectors aren’t quite as forgiving as the Italians of old. And as for bracing it in some way, I can’t imagine how it could be done. Besides, it would be such a phenomenal undertaking at this stage, and I can’t see the insurance company getting behind any experimental fix.”

“So, they’re just going to knock it to the ground and sell the lot to the highest bidder.”

“That’s it in a nutshell,” Philip said, regarding his pride and joy grimly. Priscilla shook her head, baffled.

“But to look at the rest of it, you’d think it was in perfect condition,” she argued.

“I know, I know. It’s been very hard for me to accept its fate. I invested a lot in this baby—time, inspiration, money—all of it my own.” Philip’s sigh sounded as though it came from an exhausted horse. “But what can I do? The city and the insurance company are calling the shots now.”

Priscilla stepped backwards across the street until she was standing on the opposite sidewalk, looking up. Her eyes traced the façade for even the slightest evidence that the building was in imminent danger of collapsing.

“It’s odd how in all the news coverage they always refer to the “collapse of The Phoenix”, when in reality, it only sank, and just a few inches at that,” she said as Philip joined her. “Why do they insist on making it sound like the building came crashing down into the street one day?”

“Because that’s exactly what they think will happen, sooner or later.”

“But what if it doesn’t ever collapse? What if this is the final extent of the damage? What if it wasn’t so much that the caissons weren’t big enough, but that the over-all weight of the building once finished and filled up with stuff was more than had been anticipated, and now that the…whatever you call the things that supports a building from the bottom—”

“The underpinnings.”

“Yeah, what if they’ve adjusted themselves in a way that allows them to support this unexpected extra weight?” Priscilla asked, becoming excited by this theory. She stared at Philip expectantly.

A large grin began to spread across Philip’s face. He tried hard to prevent the laughter that eventually broke from his throat, which he tried to cover with a cough. Priscilla glared at him reproachfully.

“You don’t have to remind me I’m not a civil engineer, Phil. Obviously, there’s a lot about building and design I couldn’t comprehend in a million years. All I’m really asking is if there isn’t some way of saving this building, your baby. Not that I care one way or the other.”

“Hmpf…” Philip said, clearing his throat and wiping the offending smirk from his face. “I’m sorry, that wasn’t a commentary on your hypothesis. Believe me, I’d love nothing more than to find a way to save The Phoenix. It’s just that I’m stuck between the city and the insurance company. Neither wants anything to do with a structurally unsound building. And the insurance company is in no way obligated to spend money trying to find a cure.”

“Yes, but they’re the ones that’ll have to cough up the money to settle all those claims. They couldn’t possibly hope to recoup those losses by selling a vacant lot,” Priscilla said. Philip shrugged.

“I know. It’s a lose-lose situation,” he said, folding his arms across his chest resignedly. The two of them stared at the building for another couple minutes, keeping their thoughts to themselves.

“I’ve got another dumb question for you,” Priscilla said at length.

“You haven’t asked a dumb question yet. Go ahead.”

“Is there a lot of damage inside the building?”

“No, not as far as we were able to tell. Not that we were allowed a whole lot of time in there. But from what we saw, everything seemed to be in perfect shape—no damage to the plumbing, walls or central heating systems. We didn’t try every tap or look into every duct, but every floor appeared to be sound. It’s the damnedest thing, really. She feels as sturdy as she did when we opened her doors four years ago.”

“So, they won’t let you go into your own building? Not even to assess the damage?” Philip shook his head.

“No, we all met here shortly after the building had been completely vacated—a huge posse of inspectors and engineers and city officials. Attorneys, insurance company representatives, blah, blah, blah. We spent hours here, and most of us reconvened the next morning,” Philip said.

As he thought back to that frustrating final morning, he recalled it was the very same day he had ducked into Frank’s Coffee Shop for the first of many visits. He smiled at the memory.

“Anyway, the fate of The Phoenix is sealed. But because everything that passes through bureaucratic channels takes a dog’s age, they’ve just now put it on the slate to bring it down.”

“Because the caissons are underground, does that mean you can’t see them?” Priscilla asked, her thoughts stuck on something she couldn’t let go of.

“They’re mostly underground, but there is an area—a sub-basement—where they are visible.”

“Oh, so that’s how they could tell they had collapsed,” Priscilla concluded.

“Yes. There was notable deterioration,” Philip said.

‘And there’s no way to…never mind. Like I said, I don’t know the first thing about construction,” Priscilla said, with a dismissive wave of her hand. “What a waste,” she lamented. “How about moving the whole building, taking it to another site after putting the right size caissons in? I’ve seen some pretty big buildings moved… oh, forget it. I’ll shut up,” she said, laughing at herself before Philip could.

“You’ve had more useful ideas in a few minutes than a whole roomful of professionals could come up with in several hours. Your practical way of looking at this situation is the only positive input I’ve received so far. A fresh, unhindered perspective can provide surprising insights sometimes.

“If I could find just one other construction expert who had the imagination required to solve this problem creatively, we might have a chance,” Philip said, searching Priscilla’s eyes as though the identity of such a person might be found in them.

“Well…I wish I had a degree in engineering,” she said, shifting away from Philip’s penetrating gaze.

“You’ve helped me more than you can imagine. Just being here with me has given me a sense of peace around this mess. C’mon, let’s go do something fun till it’s time to pick up my rug rat,” he said jokingly.

“Caitlin’s no rug rat. She’s a good kid, as far as kids go,” Priscilla said with a sly grin.

“She’ll be gratified to hear that,” Philip said, looking back at The Phoenix as he escorted her down the street.

Nineteen

You look at me with eyes sincere

A villain those eyes make of me

You know better than to show me tears

‘Cause I’m still obliged to set you free

Drink up, you gorgeous heathens

Leeches to the last

Young barbarians need no reason

So have yourselves a blast

How was it you never saw the best part of the deal was mine?

Did you really think I was worthy of a person so divine?

What made you think that what you gave would someday be returned

When every bridge I’ve ever crossed I’ve never failed to burn

Fear aging, truth, each other

Don’t think you play for free

Ask your precious little flower

If she risked too much on me

If you could do it over

You’d play it just the same

Your mistake was in trusting

Not knowing how to play the game

How was it you never saw the best part of the deal was mine?

Did you really think me worthy of a person so divine?

What made you think that what you gave would someday be returned

When every bridge I’ve ever crossed I’ve never failed to burn

Tobias read through the song he named Pay to Play one more time before crushing it into a ball and flicking it off the end of the piano. He pounded out a few discordant cords, then swiveled off the bench. He stood, hands deep in the pockets of his pants, eyes staring blankly into space.

“Shit. I must be losing my mind,” he said to the empty room.

He walked to the end of the piano, and using it as support, he leaned down and picked up the paper ball. He smoothed it out on top of the aging Steinway, took a deep breath, and tried again to add a melody to the words. He sang the first verse, changing the rhythm as he went, but he just couldn’t match the words to music. Everything he tried sounded like a rehashing of earlier songs.

“You’d think that after ten years you could come up with better than that,” he admonished himself. He left the paper where it lay and walked over to the window, idly taking in the sights and sounds of the evening below him.

He was in a foul mood, the worst he had been in for some time. But it wasn’t just frustration at not being able to provide a melody for a song that had been languishing for years. He had written it during his brief attempt at a solo career, but he’d never managed to put music to these lyrics.

Adding to his sense of ineptitude was discovering his life was in exactly the same place it had been a decade ago. His hair had thinned, his posture had lost its confident straightness, his eyes had acquired annoying grooves at the corners, yet his modus operendi hadn’t evolved in the least. He was still cheating on his wife with beautiful babies, empty-headed spoiled brats who thought they had invented the word cool.

What did he get out of these dalliances? Sex, sure—but how much fun was that, when all the baggage that came with it had become deadly boring? It was like numbing his gums on pure cacao leaves. What the hell did he need numb gums for? Why did he subject himself to Simone’s mind-numbing company when he could get reasonably good sex from his own wife? There was a song here, all right, but it should go something more like…

Watch out for the man with too much money

And time

He hates himself for the things he can’t

Surrender

To give up the farce of playing with

Children

Would leave him without a single

Thing to buy

Tobias laughed joylessly after singing this impromptu parody of himself. Oh, there were millions upon millions of belittling phrases he could use to mock his world. Miss Priscilla Van-der-pool had nothin’ on him! Tobias barked out another harsh laugh before admitting to himself the one aspect missing from the talented waitress’s repertoire was self-loathing.

She had a knack for stringing some of the most deceptively powerful words and feelings together, and even though she knew quite intimately the darker side of human behavior, she managed to always keep malice and hatred out of her lyrics.

Slowly, as if answering a call he would’ve rather ignored, Tobias plodded his way to the closet where he had stashed Priscilla’s writings. Carting a large chunk of the collection to one of the sofas, he cursed himself again for not having used the chance to pick Priscilla’s brain when he had her in his car.

He had been carrying on silent dialogs with her for two days now, yet not one of them was based on anything they had actually talked about. All he had was a shallow, one-sided relationship with someone he barely knew, which left him feeling wholly unsatisfied.

He lifted the lid off the first shoebox and stared at the contents. He couldn’t bring himself to pick up a notebook, but he couldn’t turn away from it, either. He had entered some sort of limbo phase where he had become paralyzed by his conflicting emotions. He felt an enormous pull toward Priscilla because of her writings, yet he was immensely threatened by her boundless abilities.

Hell, there were more pieces of pure poetry in one notebook than most so-called poets could wring out of their souls in a lifetime. Who was he to gorge himself on her private musings? True, he had paid her a ridiculously high price for the privilege of poring through pages that had barely escaped the incinerator, but did he really have any right to assume ownership?

I should have brought her back here, made her decipher some of this stuff for me, Tobias told himself. If I’m very sweet and don’t act like a horse’s ass, maybe I can convince her I need her help. She seems like the kind of girl who secretly enjoys being useful. Tomorrow—I’ll get her over here tomorrow.

With this oath, Tobias felt he had earned permission to take another peek at the notebooks. He fished down toward the bottom of the box and brought out one with a red cover. He flipped it open to a page in the middle and read the title out loud.

“A Model Life,” he said, chuckling at the absurd appropriateness of his selection. “A Model Life.”

She walks into the gallery

Unnoticed by the rest

And stands before her likeness

She was considered the best

She beckons frank appraisal

Just put her to the test

Have you ever seen such beauty

Such legs, such arms, such breasts?

Lights flash

Who’s the girl?

Lots of cash

Cruel, cruel world

How could a creature so fine and rare

Be captured in a flash

So exquisitely preserved for eternity

Behind a cage of glass

Lights flash

Legends made

Lots of cash

It’s a trade

That was her finest moment

You wouldn’t even know her now

That beauty was so fleeting

But you must give a humble bow

Lights fade

Crowds stray

Money’s gone

So is fame

Tobias laid the notebook down and tried to imagine what had inspired Priscilla to write these words. Unlike his own situation, he doubted she had ever had first-hand experience with anyone in that particular profession. By all rights, he should be able to write volumes about the superficial world of the high-profile model. It was a subject he knew inside out, literally.

Yet, in a few well-chosen words, Priscilla had summed up the bitter downside of trading on one’s looks. Sooner or later, models reach their peak. And with all but a few notable exceptions, the ride up is a lot shorter than the ride down.

He was beginning to understand that Priscilla had a knack for zeroing in on basic human truths without the benefit of having lived it personally. She was a keen observer, though she never let on that she even cared.

He wouldn’t have guessed that the person who had so dispassionately served him hash browns and eggs had any scope outside of her immediate world, let alone was capable of creating verse equal to his own. But then again, the best observers were adept at hiding their own thoughts. Brody didn’t refer to him as the Sphinx for nothing.

Okay, that was a cute little parlor trick, nailing his current frame of mind with his random selection. But reading Priscilla’s canny observations would not be enough to entertain him for the whole evening. Even though he had worked out a living situation designed to maximize his freedom and minimize his aggravations, his current setup was distinctly too solitary at times.

He realized now being alone wasn’t as fulfilling as he first thought. He was a social creature, in his own weird way—social like a fly on the wall. He needed the buzz of human companionship, even if he didn’t fancy the ties of human involvement. Hell, he didn’t need to participate in a conversation in order to gain something from it.

He could be plopped down in the middle of a bar in Helsinki, for all he cared. He’d still be able to divine the dynamics of the relationships of his fellow patrons, make up scenarios about their lives, without the benefit of knowing a word of Finnish. Where he happened to be was not important, as long as there were people around. He picked up the phone and called for a car.

Tobias stripped out of his clothes, leaving a trail behind him as he headed for the shower. Yes, a good, sexy dose of nightlife would be the cure for what ailed him. Pick up a fragrance on the wind, Check your caution at the door, Follow the blend of talk and laughter, We know what you’ve come here for. Intoxicated by night.

Tobias reached into the shower and turned the faucet on. Well, if that wasn’t annoying. If he was going to have a song stuck in his head, why couldn’t it be one of his own, or at least some other legitimate piece of music? How ironic was that: he spent an inordinate amount of time trying to link a melody to some of his most promising lyrics with no success, yet he had no trouble finding a tune for one of Priscilla’s songs.

He reached back into the shower and turned the water off. Damn. He heard Priscilla’s song set to music. It was as clear as the hundreds of other songs he had cataloged in his brain.

He wrapped a towel around his mid-section as he retraced his steps back to the main room. He dug frantically through the shoeboxes, tossing notebooks in every direction as he searched for the one containing the lyrics he had just heard in his head. Finally finding it, he lurched to the piano were he tapped out the first stanza.

“Just when you think you’re immune

You catch a whiff on the air

You can’t stop your heart as it races

As you follow the scent up the stairs.”

The words fell into place like magic, as if he had just held two shells together and found them to be a perfect match.

“It’s the subtle things that snare you

Subliminal signs that catch your eye

The crush of unknown bodies

The perfume in large supply

It’s the brush of silky fabrics

And the hints of luscious skin

Make eye contact with a stranger

It’s the way the game begins

Intoxicated by night

Overwhelmed by the sight

Whether wrong, whether right

It’s an irresistible delight

To be intoxicated by night…”

He grabbed the phone and hit the redial button. “Hi. This Tobias Jordan—I just called. Cancel my order. Yeah, that’s right. I don’t need a car right now. Maybe later. I’ll call if I do.” He ended the call and hit the room service button. “Send me seven ounces of Beluga, a dozen oysters—make it two, and a bottle of Veuve Cliquot, La Grande Dame, if you’ve got it. No, just one glass.” He replaced the receiver and returned to the bathroom. “If that doesn’t put me in the right frame of mind, nothing will,” he said, ducking into the steam-filled shower.

Twenty

“Is this the kind of place you had in mind?” Philip whispered to Priscilla as they followed the middle-aged hostess to a table in the back room.

“Buon appetito,” the woman wished them with a broad smile before she scurried back to her command post.

“Yes, this is my kind of Italian restaurant,” Priscilla answered, looking over the menu chock-full of comforting favorites, such as Lasagna and Chicken Parmigiana. “We could’ve brought Caitlin along with us. I wouldn’t have minded.”

“Thanks, I appreciate that. She really wanted to join us, but it’s Marianne’s night to have her. Maybe tomorrow we can all do something together,” Philip suggested. Priscilla smiled, though she was experiencing strange twinges in the pit of her stomach. She supposed it could have been hunger, but it was most likely dread.

For most women, Philip’s undisguised enthusiasm toward her would have them swooning with visions of long white dresses and a diamond big enough to choke on. But for Priscilla, Philip’s mild but sincere overtures made her skin prickle with fear.

They had made it through the first day of her commitment, with only two more to go. Whenever she thought about it, she had decidedly mixed feelings regarding her postponed departure. After the sharp rush of adrenaline that came with imagining herself en route to Florida, a fog of melancholy descended upon her.

She liked Phil, there was no denying that, but not in the way he apparently liked her. Even though their relationship had been for the most part casual in nature, by her own reckoning, no one outside her immediate family had ever treated her so kindly.

As she tried to choose between the Fettuccine Alfredo and the Spaghetti Bolognese, Priscilla snuck furtive glances at Philip. The day spent with him had changed her opinion of him dramatically. Not only was she deeply impressed by his vision and his wherewithal to carry it through, she also honestly admired his equanimity when faced with such a devastating setback.

She fought back a smile as she watched him deliberating over a menu that must have seemed impossibly pedestrian to his taste. He would never complain, no matter how indifferent the meal might seem to his elevated palate, nor would he allow his discomfort to interfere with her enjoyment of the place.

He was a genuinely sweet man, a man of uncommon integrity. His packaging wasn’t so bad, either. He was tall and trim and had a nice face—almost boyish, in an Ivy League way. His skin was smooth and his jaw line strong. He had never shaken the habit of wearing his hair slightly long in front, but swept back with gel or something, as was probably the fashion when he was at school…

Priscilla flinched as Philip looked up from his menu and caught her gaze. If he realized she had been studying him, his thoughtful blue-grey eyes didn’t show it.

“Have you decided?” he asked pleasantly, folding his menu and setting it aside.

“I’m not sure…lasagna sounds kind of good, but so does spaghetti. What are you going to have?” she asked, keeping her eyes on the menu.

“I think I’m going to try the Veal Saltimbocca,” he said as the waiter approached.

“Buona sera. Are you ready to order?” he asked in a heavy Italian accent. They obliged him, Priscilla first.

“And to drink?”

“Would you like wine or would you prefer beer?” Philip asked. Priscilla chose wine. “A bottle of Chianti Classico,” he said as he handed the modest wine list back to the waiter. “So,” he said, lacing his fingers together and looking at her expectantly.

“So…” she answered, also at a loss for something to say. They smiled awkwardly and turned their attention to the décor, which relied heavily on Italian travel posters and inventive uses of empty Chianti bottles.

It felt strange to her to spend so much time with someone she had so little in common with. Surely it had to feel that way to Philip, despite whatever attraction she held for him. Though he assured her she was providing him an invaluable service by being his companion for a few days, in some ways she felt like a fraud.

It wasn’t that she didn’t enjoy his company; quite surprisingly, she did. And she liked getting to know him better. He was about the finest person, in all respects, she had ever come across. But there was no point in becoming better acquainted with him if she would be on a plane, bus or train out of there in less than three days, which she was determined to do.

“It’s been years since I’ve been to a restaurant like this,” Philip said, after wracking his brain for appropriate small talk. “I’d forgotten how cozy these family-style places can be.” Priscilla smiled politely, effectively killing his attempt at chitchat. Fortunately for both of them the salads arrived, along with the wine. The waiter served both and moved on.

“Salud,” Philip offered, raising his glass.

“Cheers,” Priscilla returned, clinking hers to his. One sip had her wishing she had opted for beer.

“Not bad,” Philip concluded, setting his glass down and taking his fork to his salad hesitantly. Again, Priscilla experienced a guilty pang as she watched Philip eat. He was so willing to participate in her world, even after she had so flatly rejected his.

“How’s your salad?” she asked.

“Not bad at all,” Philip admitted. Priscilla was not surprised by his response. He had eaten Frank’s cooking for months on end, just to be near her. Anything had to be better than that. “How’s yours?”

“It’s good.” They worked on their salads in a more relaxed silence. Priscilla worked up her nerve to try the wine again. It went down a bit easier than before.

“I want to thank you for going to see The Phoenix with me,” Philip said, as he pushed his empty salad plate to the side.

“You don’t have to thank me.”

“No, I do. I’m grateful to you for giving me your unbiased opinion, for being able to see its architectural merits and not just all the negatives. You can’t know how much that meant to me.” Philip dropped his gaze to his wine glass, staring into it as he pondered his ill-fated achievement.

“You know, I’ve gone through my whole career expecting my buildings to outlive me—that’s what we hope for as architects. Especially the projects I’ve put so much of myself into. It’s an ego thing, I’m sure, but it’s also the hope that what I’ve created is well thought out and well constructed enough to survive many generations.

“I guess it’s particularly painful to me because The Phoenix was the most risky concept I’d ever done. I honestly believed it would generate an economic rebirth in Lower Manhattan. And it has. Old abandoned warehouses have been transformed into upscale modern housing, and a whole slew of neighborhood merchants have moved in to service the influx of new residents.

“But now The Phoenix will only be viewed as a sorry footnote to the revolution it started. Like I said, it’s all wounded ego. Maybe a good humbling was in order.” Philip shot Priscilla a wistful look as he picked up his wine glass. “I guess I need to stop being so maudlin about what happened and get on with it,” he said before taking a healthy swig of wine.

Priscilla didn’t know what to say. She never felt compelled to offer platitudes of encouragement when people faced up to reality. It diluted the hard truth to a palatable mush, easier to get down, but weakened in value. Instead, she changed the subject.

“Does Caitlin go back and forth between your place and her mother’s every other day?”

“During the week, yes. We trade full weekends. At least that’s been the routine so far. We’re still working out the custody issue. I’m not really sure which way is the best for Caitlin—every other day or every other week. Either way seems rough on the kid to me. I keep thinking she’ll eventually get to the point that she doesn’t have any sense of home, all that shuttling around. It can’t be good. But then again, you spent a good part of your youth in transition, and you turned out perfectly fine.”

“I don’t know if you can say that,” Priscilla scoffed. “I’m a thirty-two year-old, unemployed waitress with absolutely no plan for my future. But I’m not sure I can attribute that to having lived in more places than I can remember.

“Anyway, there are millions of former children out there in the world who have survived ‘broken homes.’ In any case, you can’t tie yourself in knots over the past. Or what’s lurking in the future. It might never get to you. Those are about the only words of wisdom I can personally vouch for.”

Philip mulled this over for a moment. “You must have some sort of expectations for the future. You were just minutes away from getting on a train to Florida when I shanghaied you.” Priscilla’s mouth twisted into a small smirk. “What did you plan on doing once you got there? Go to school, get a job, lie on the beach? You must have had something in mind.”

“I wish I could say I did,” she said, embarrassed by her appalling lack of direction. She doubted if Philip had ever taken any kind of action that hadn’t been thoroughly thought out. Except maybe chasing after her.

“You’re saying you were moving to another state with a handful of possessions, and you had no idea of what you were going to do once you got there?” he asked, semi-incredulous.

“You’ve got it.”

Philip stared at her in amazement. “Wow. You’re so brave,” he said, pushing back in his chair as he regarded her. “You don’t know anyone down there and no one was going to pick you up at the station?” Priscilla confirmed this with a shake of her head. “Why Florida then?”

“You’re not going to go into your Florida-bashing routine again, are you?” she asked.

“You never did tell me why you were leaving New York,” Philip persisted.

“Yes I did. I need a change.”

“Well, that’s the beautiful thing about this city—you get tired of living on the Lower East Side, you move to Chelsea or Brooklyn, or even Battery Park City.”

Priscilla arched her eyebrows in annoyance. “I didn’t live in a rundown apartment house on the Lower East Side because I liked the ambiance,” she said.

Philip twitched at his faux pas. “All right, point taken. But there are ways to improve your standard of living. Schooling, for instance. You can learn a profession or a trade. There’s no shame in that.”

Priscilla laughed weakly. “Phil, I’d sign up in a second if I could think of one single thing I would be halfway good at besides slinging hash.”

“Come on, Priscilla—you’re not being fair to yourself. I’m sure there are many occupations you’d excel at,” Philip argued.

“Name one,” she challenged.

Their dinners arrived, and not a moment too soon as far as Priscilla was concerned. She had almost lost her appetite. She couldn’t think of one exercise that gave her a greater sense of paralysis than taking stock of her life.

After three decades in residence on this planet, she had a big goose egg in the accomplishment column. Not that she’d ever thought of keeping score before. But there was a danger in spending time with a successful person; at some point, comparison was inevitable. Maybe that’s why she usually associated with underachievers like herself.

She ineffectually toyed with her spaghetti, taking an inordinate amount of time to assemble a single forkful. The mild tartness of the marinara sauce, which she normally loved, lay flat and flavorless on her tongue. If she had any guts, she realized, this would be the time to admit she was wasting her life. Suddenly, she felt as if she were going to be sick.

“Is there something wrong?” Philip asked, peering at her largely untouched pasta.

“No, I…need to use the restroom. Excuse me,” she said, bolting out of her chair before he could get to his feet.

Philip watched her go, alarmed by the change that had come over her. This was the second time she had run away from the table in the middle of their meal. He had a fleeting worry that she might be bulimic. No, he decided; she looked too healthy to have an eating disorder. He took a sip of wine to wash down the veal, which was actually quite decent, and watched for her reappearance.

What he had not recognized this time was Priscilla’s abrupt emotional unraveling. Priscilla herself had not realized how close she was to a full-scale meltdown until it was almost too late. She had barely made it inside the stall before great sobs burst from deep down inside.

The cries that broke free first were so long in the making, they were soundless, mere ghosts of cries that had been haunting her from within for more years than she could guess. She was doubled over in the effort of setting them free, clutching her sides as they shook their way out. There was such a deep well of pain and hopelessness inside her, she feared she might fall in and drown.

It was some time before her tears exhausted themselves and she was able to come to grips with what had just happened. This was a turning point for her, a real one, not a mere pantomime like the one that had compelled her to leave town. This was her day of reckoning; from this time forward, she would not be able to elude the reality of her life by changing jobs, boyfriends or towns.

She drew a few deep breaths and dabbed at her tear-streaked faced with a great wad of tissue. She blew her nose one last time, filled her lungs to capacity and let her breath seep out of her slowly, like air escaping an untied balloon. She ventured out of the stall to the sink, where she encountered her unwelcome reflection in the mirror.

“Holy shit,” she muttered, as she used a handful of wet paper towels to rub the last traces of makeup from her face. She splashed her face liberally with cold water, enjoying the invigorating and symbolic effects, as though she were washing away the past, preparing for the future. As she studied her red and puffy features in the mirror, she knew executing a metamorphosis would not be easy. But at this stage, she had no other options.

“Are you okay?” Philip asked anxiously in a low voice, as he helped her into her seat.

“I’m fine,” she replied, replacing her napkin on her lap, her manner markedly more serene than when she had left.

“Are you sure? You don’t look quite right,” Philip said, scrutinizing her skeptically. Priscilla laughed lightly, her amusement bringing a more normal color to her face.

“I feel fine.”

Philip smiled, hesitantly at first, but he couldn’t deny that she looked different. Perhaps a little softer, maybe a little younger. She also looked more at peace.

“Did something happen in there?” he asked anxiously. Priscilla beamed another brilliant smile his way.

“I guess so,” she said, picking up her fork as she examined her dinner.

“Let’s order another bowl. That has to be stone cold by now,” Philip said, flagging down the waiter.

“No, no, no,” Priscilla protested, waving his suggestion away.

“Are you sure?” Philip asked, as the waiter stood by awaiting a decision.

“I’m really not very hungry,” she said, signaling for the waiter to take her plate away.

“Signore?” he asked. Philip relinquished the last bite of his Saltimbocca.

“Café? Dolce?” Priscilla shook her head.

“We’ll just finish our wine,” Philip said.

“Take your time.” The waiter removed all the plates and silverware and left them to finish up.

“What did happen while you were gone? Did you run into someone in there?” Philip persisted. His gaze was so intent, Priscilla knew she would not be able to evade his questions all evening.

“You might say that,” she replied, causing Philip’s forehead to crinkle inquisitively. “Let’s say I ran into the person I used to be.” She could tell by his expression this answer only deepened his confusion. She ran her finger around the rim of her glass then picked it up and took a drink for courage.

“A lot has happened in the last few days, and I’ve been sort of slow in processing it all.” She paused. Philip, sensing he was about to hear a revelation, and not at all sure he was going to favor well as a result, sat back apprehensively.

“You know, I need to thank you for something,” she said.

“Me? What do you have to thank me for?” Philip asked uncomfortably.

“For being so persistent, for pestering me into spending time with you.” Philip couldn’t tell if she was having a go at him or being sincere. “I mean it. Getting to know you has given me the opportunity to see how little I’ve made of my life—no, don’t stop me—this is something I need to get straight with.” She drew a deep breath before continuing.

“I’ve spent most of my life around people who’ve been content to hover in the murky depths, happy to spend their entire lives with the status quo, never letting their sights go beyond spending their next paycheck. Sure, they’ve got grandiose obsessions, like winning the lottery or becoming the next big star, without a snowball’s chance in hell of them coming true.

“And I’m no better. I’ve lived my whole life stuck in neutral, heading downhill because it required no effort. I’ve never once thought I could foster a change that would elevate my life. It’s always been knee-jerk reactions that have altered my course, and then only laterally, or worse. You’re the only one I’ve ever known on a personal level who’s actually got something to show for your efforts. You’ve designed buildings, something tangible you can point to and say, ‘That’s my idea, I made that happen.’ To me, that’s truly awesome and inspiring.”

Philip inhaled sharply. He gathered by the redness of her eyes she had been crying. It touched him profoundly to imagine her standing in the bathroom of the Trattoria Mona Lisa sobbing her heart out because she found his life admirable and hers devoid of merit. He swallowed hard, and reaching across the table, he took her hand in his. He could feel her tense slightly but he didn’t let go.

It had taken an act of bravery to say to Philip what she had never admitted to herself. She could feel her heart beating erratically in her chest, and her breaths came in short, shallow bursts. She feared she was on the verge of tears again, and looking at Philip’s downcast eyes made it that much harder to hold them back.

They sat in a tense but compelling silence for several minutes, oblivious to their surroundings. A large, boisterous party was seated at a table near them, breaking the spell. Philip signaled to the waiter to bring the check. He slipped some cash into the folder and stood up.

“Would you like to see where I’m living?” he asked. Priscilla hesitated for only a couple of seconds while she conducted an internal debate over the question. As she couldn’t picture Philip turning into an unmanageable squid, under any circumstances, and since she was not anxious to return to the confines of her cramped hotel room, she nodded her consent and led the way out.

Twenty-One

“Wow,” Priscilla said, as she stepped out onto the balcony of Philip’s borrowed apartment. “So this is how the other half lives,” she commented dryly, as she gazed down Fifth Avenue in the direction of Central Park South.

“I’d say it’s more like how one half of one percent live,” Philip amended as he joined her by the railing, handing her a vodka and tonic.

“You have to be pretty lucky just to have friends with spare residences like this,” she countered, giving him one of those looks he couldn’t quite interpret.

“Yes, I’m very fortunate in that respect,” he admitted. “Would you rather have a seat?” he asked, indicating a table and chairs under the overhang.

“No, I like standing here, looking out over the world. You’ve probably gotten bored with this view, too” she said with a teasing smile.

“Not yet. I’m trying to soak up as much of it as I can while I have the chance. I plan to start looking for my own place, once Marianne and I hash out the details of our divorce, though it certainly won’t be in a neighborhood like this. In fact, if I were smart, I’d see if your place is still available.”

Priscilla barked out a throaty laugh. “I imagine it will be available for some time to come, though you wouldn’t let your cockroaches live there, if you had any.”

“I’m sure it wasn’t that bad,” Philip challenged.

“Trust me, it was.” The conversation lapsed as they took in the sights.

“How long did you live in that apartment?” Philip asked.

“Three or four years.”

“How could you stand it for so long if it was that terrible?”

“I don’t know. I suppose it sort of suited my mood,” Priscilla said.

“Do you miss it?”

Priscilla laughed again, a high, light, tinkling sound that made Philip’s heart flutter at the unexpected loveliness of it. “No,” Priscilla said, a smile lingering on her lips.

“So, quitting your job had at least one positive benefit then,” Philip speculated.

“Yes, definitely. Leaving that place was long overdue. Both places. But you have to keep in mind I only lived there out of financial necessity, not because I like dark, dank, dilapidated dumps.”

“Well, it’s good you’re in a position financially to make a change,” Philip said. Priscilla eyed him enigmatically. He shifted his stance and wondered if he had said something wrong.

“What part of town did you live in when you and your wife were still together?” she asked.

“Not too far from here, actually. We have, or rather Marianne has a brownstone over on East Sixty-Ninth, between Park and Lexington.”

Priscilla nodded politely, though she had only the foggiest notion of what the area was like. For someone who had spent the entire twelve years of her New York experience living in the nether regions of lower Manhattan, the Upper East Side was something that seemed more myth than reality.

“That’s nice,” she said blandly.

“Yeah, it is. I miss being over there, though it’s really only a few blocks away.” Philip snorted at how silly that sounded. “It’s funny how dramatically this city can change in a matter of blocks. Do you think you’d be moving to Florida if you’d had a better living arrangement here?”

Priscilla considered this. “I don’t know…I guess if I had a nice, roomy apartment in a good part of town and a great job and a nice husband and a couple of kids and a cat and a dog…probably not,” she replied.

“So, is that why you’re leaving? To find a husband and start a family?” Philip asked. Priscilla’s laughter rebuked him.

“No. I just gave that as a hypothetical. You change any detail of our lives and it puts a whole new spin on everything. It’s like me asking you if you’d be here right now if The Phoenix hadn’t collapsed. Not likely. Chances are you and your wife would still be happily married and living comfortably in your lovely brownstone on the Upper Eastside. If Frank hadn’t freaked out on me one time too many, if, if, if…” Priscilla shrugged. “That game loses its charm after a while, don’t you think?”

Philip smiled tightly. “If you don’t mind my asking, what do you hope to find in Florida?” Philip’s ceaseless curiosity about the subject was starting to put Priscilla off the whole idea of going there.

“I don’t know, Phil. A fresh start, that’s all. When I picture life down there, I imagine it to be less stressful and less aggravating. I mean, Floridians seldom have to ride overfilled subway trains or worry about falling on their butts on icy sidewalks.

“I know how you feel about Florida—you’ve made it abundantly clear. But it just seems to me it’s easier to get by down there. I might hate it, like you said. Who knows? I might be back here in a week with my tail between my legs, and no one here would notice or care.”

“I would,” Philip assured her. “And for purely selfish reasons, I hope you are.”

“Phil, that’s not very supportive. You’re supposed to say you hope I’ll find everything I’ve always wanted and that I’ll live happily ever after.”

“I do hope you’ll find everything you’ve always wanted and that you do live happily ever after. I just don’t know why you can’t do it here,” Philip said.

“I admire you’re single-mindedness, Phil—I really do,” Priscilla chuckled.

She leaned against the railing and drew a deep breath of the cool springtime air, which had a much fresher quality than the air she was accustomed to breathing. The whole world was a different place for the very rich, she surmised, though she was forced to acknowledge that only applied superficially.

Despite all Philip’s advantages, he was one of the most forlorn souls she had ever seen come through Frank’s door, and that was saying something. She looked over at him, aping her posture as he stood by her side. He surely did not appear forlorn now.

“What about you, Phil? What are your plans for the foreseeable future?”

“My foreseeable future…let’s see…well, I guess I’m going to be putting you on a plane in less than two days, and that’ll throw me back into a deep, dark funk…”

“Seriously,” Priscilla prompted.

“Seriously,” Philip insisted. Priscilla stared him down. “Well, there’s the demolition of The Phoenix next week—I’m looking forward to that, and then shortly thereafter, my soon-to-be-ex and her jackal of an attorney will have undoubtedly worked out a plan to wring every last cent out of me, so I’ll probably have to sign up for government aid,” he said facetiously.

“Oh come, Phil—you’re not going to let a couple of little glitches like those get the best of you, are you? Why, just last night you vowed to put on a brave face and reclaim your reputation,” Priscilla reminded him.

“That lofty notion was fueled by the prospect of spending the next three days with you. The closer we get to your departure, the less confidence I have about the future.”

Priscilla gave him a dubious look. “Sorry, emotional blackmail isn’t going to work on me. I’ve built up an immunity to it over the years,” she said. “Instead of convincing yourself I’m so all-fired important to your future, you should be formulating a way to get your career back on track.”

“I have had an idea,” he offered.

“Good, let’s hear it.”

“I was thinking of relocating. It occurred to me you might have a point. Florida is constantly expanding, what with all the ex-New Yorkers fleeing to milder climes and ‘stress-free’ beaches. Plus, there are seldom weather-related delays, except when the hurricanes blow through.” Priscilla tried to not appear amused, but it was difficult. Philip’s talent for deadpan humor had a way of sneaking up on her.

“You never stop, do you?”

“What? I think it’s a really good idea,” he maintained with a straight face. “So what if I happen to run into you…daily? Would that be such a bad thing?”

“You seem to be overlooking one important detail.”

“What’s that?”

“Caitlin.” She had him there. “From the sound of things, I doubt your ‘soon-to-be-ex’ is going to let her traipse off to Florida with you, and if I know anything at all about you, it’s the fact that you’d rather lose your right arm than custody of your daughter.”

Philip was forced to concede her point. “You’re right. I had a moment of delirium and forgot all about Marianne. Darn, that was the best idea I’ve come up with so far.”

“I think maybe it’s time I head back to the hotel, let you do some serious thinking,” she said.

“Oh no, you don’t have to leave so soon. In fact, why go at all? I’ve got three bedrooms here. You could have your very own. Deluxe accommodations, I assure you.”

“Thanks, but I’m fine at The Essex,” Priscilla said, as she moved toward the door.

“No honestly, there’s no reason for you to be staying in some lonely hotel room when I have oodles of extra space for you here,” Philip argued. “Come on, it’ll be fun, like a sleep over, ha ha.” Priscilla regarded him sternly.

“No, Phil—it wouldn’t be right. I know you have only the best intentions, but you’ve already got some unrealistic notions about me, and I don’t think I should foster any new ones by spending the night here,” she said, setting her drink down on an end table.

“What do you mean I have unrealistic notions about you?” Philip asked, slightly incensed by her unflattering remark. Priscilla stopped and turned to face him.

“I mean you’ve not only endowed me with the ability to inspire you out of your temporary rut, but you seem to laboring under the delusion that you fancy me, as if it isn’t weird enough for the two of us to share the same dinner table,” she said. By the look on Philip’s face, she knew she had struck a nerve this time.

“I don’t have any problem with you making derogatory remarks about my state of mind, but I resent your implication that you and I are so hopelessly incompatible, we can’t enjoy each other’s company,” he said.

Priscilla bit her lip, wishing she could learn to control her tongue a little better. She couldn’t deny she meant what she’d said, but there was no reason to be brutally frank with a man as sincere and guileless as Philip. She cleared her throat and tried again.

“Phil, first of all, I didn’t intend for my remark to offend you. If anything, my comment was geared more to my shortcomings than to any deficiency on your part. I’m not cut from the same cloth as you. I’m low-class stuff. I don’t know about food or wines or architecture or the arts or any of the other fine, cultured things that make up your daily life.

“Sure, you find comfort in me, and to be honest, you’ve been very kind and generous in return. But to think we could ever be anything more than that to each other is—”

Priscilla never got the word ‘ridiculous’ out. In a move more befitting a matinee idol than a down-and-out architect, Philip seized the opportunity to prove her wrong. True, it was likely the boldest move he had ever made, aside from buying a derelict warehouse and turning it into luxury housing, and it was bound to illicit a strong response from the recipient.

But his instinct had been sound, and once Priscilla recovered from the shock of the kiss, she had to admit it was no insipid gesture on Philip’s part. She couldn’t remember the last time she had received such a passionate, confident kiss. And if the act itself wasn’t enough to compel her to reevaluate the man, the expression on his face insured it.

“Uh…I should go now,” she said, as she backed away unsteadily.

“Stay,” Philip said, though he made no move to stop her.

“No, I don’t think that would be such a great idea,” she said, her eyes searching the room for her purse.

“I think you’re wrong,” Philip said calmly.

“Yes, I see that,” she replied warily. “It’s been a long day…I better go.” She smiled awkwardly and turned toward the door.

“Wait, let me call for a cab.” Before she could object, Philip had a dispatcher on the line. “One will be here in five minutes,” he reported. He picked up his blazer off the back of a chair and slipped it on.

“You don’t have to walk me down,” she protested.

“I’m going with you,” Philip said decisively. Priscilla balked, but his mind was made up.

“You’re going to ride in the cab with me?” she asked, the pitch of her voice high with disbelief.

“That’s right,” he said, as he held open the door for her.

“That’s silly. I’m not Caitlin’s age. I don’t need an escort,” she said crossly.

Philip remained undeterred. “You won’t stay here, you won’t let me pay for your hotel room, even though you postponed your trip on my account. The very least I can do is see that you get back to your hotel safely.” Priscilla started to say something, but Philip cut her off.

“Sorry, it’s just the way I was raised,” he said with an unapologetic shrug. Priscilla emitted an exasperated sigh, but she walked into the awaiting elevator, where they rode to the lobby floor in charged silence.

The short cab ride was a continuation of the same prickly silence, although Philip appeared irritatingly smug. And though Priscilla could think of a thousand biting retorts, she held her tongue and smoldered. She exited the cab as soon as it pulled up to the curb, turning to fix Philip with a stony glare.

Whether it was to further vex her, or because he was honestly unmoved by her anger, Philip leaned toward the open window, an infuriating smile on his face. “Goodnight, my angel,” he said. “Sweet dreams.” And with that, the cab pulled away, leaving Priscilla to stare after the retreating vehicle in disbelief.

Twenty-Two

Tobias scribbled a few changes to his musical notations and looked at his watch. It was 1:30 in the morning. He had been slumped over the piano for the better part of five hours, breaking only long enough to order and consume a steak sandwich. His eyes stung and his back ached as he slid off the bench.

He couldn’t remember feeling this way when he pulled all-nighters with Brody back in their glory days. It had been nothing to enter the studio at eight in the morning and not emerge again until late the following day. Of course, they were a lot younger then, and the thrill of taking the world by storm kept them firing on all cylinders.

Plus, there had been an endless supply of hangers-on to see to their every need, which included artificial stimulants and plenty of beautiful young ladies. There was no aphrodisiac stronger than success, as he’d discovered early on.

Back then, if you owned a guitar and had a recording contract, you were automatically a babe magnet. And if you were lucky enough to actually produce an album, you had to beat the women back with a stick.

But that lifestyle required a lot of effort, despite the seeming casualness of it. If he were going to be honest, that kind of distraction would only hinder his efforts to get back into the game. I must be getting old, he thought, as he stumbled off to the kitchen for a bottle of water.

Although exhausted, he felt too keyed up to sleep. He turned on the TV and flopped onto a sofa, staring at the screen without really seeing it as he flipped through the channels. After about fifteen minutes of this mindless pastime, he became restless.

He hoisted himself up—stiffly, as though rigor mortis were setting in—and staggered toward the piano. He executed a few haphazard leg and back stretches before reseating himself. Blinking hard, he focused on the notes he had penned, the musical accompaniment to Priscilla’s words. He played a few bars before jumping in with the vocals:

Just when you think you’re immune

You catch a whiff on the air

You can’t stop your heart as it races

To follow the scent up the stairs

It’s the subtle things that snare you

Subliminal signs that catch your eye

The crush of unknown bodies

The perfume in large supply

It’s the brush of silky fabrics

And the hints of luscious skin

Make eye contact with a stranger

That’s the way the game begins

Intoxicated by the night

Whether it’s wrong, whether it’s right

You just can’t fight the feeling

Of being intoxicated by night

Let’s face it, helpless lamb

It’s as addicting as heroin

What’s the point in trying to fight it

When you know you’ll always give in

Say you can quit it in a second

Walk away without regret

Turn your back on random seduction

But you’ve never done it yet

If your desire wasn’t all-consuming

And your willpower all too thin

You might still be standing by morning

But you think you’ll always win

Intoxicated by the night

Whether it’s wrong, whether it’s right

You just can’t fight the feeling

Of being intoxicated by night

“Damn,” he said, sitting back to reflect. This was an entirely novel experience for him, setting someone else’s words to music. It was a strange concept, one he had never contemplated undertaking. After all, it was the one area of life he particularly excelled in. His lyrics ran through a generation’s minds, his words had made an indelible mark on rock music.

The very idea that he would use another person’s lyrics instead of his own was in itself alarming, or at a minimum curious. It was the kind of admission he’d have to think very hard about before making to anyone.

He could just imagine what Brody’s reaction would be. He’d assume Tobias had lost his touch, even though he had created the music, which was pretty fucking cool, if he said so himself. And with Brody’s ear for embellishment, this baby could be a winner, right up there with their classics, like Bagpiper’s Dreams and Many Ways to Lose; songs that had put them on the map and kept them there for decades.

But it wouldn’t be the same, would it? Those songs meant something to him because his lyrics had brought them to life. It was a difficult quandary he found himself in. This song would have to remain his little secret for now, until he could find the right time and way to reveal it. It was a shame, too, because he really felt good about this piece. In fact, he couldn’t get it out of his mind.

He hopped off the piano bench and took his sheet music to the rented synthesizer and adjusted the settings. It was too bad he didn’t have any of his recording equipment so that he could accompany himself, but he’d have to use his imagination for the time being.

He tapped out a few bars, conjuring up a roomful of sound. He was grinning with delight as the words came together with drums, timpani and marimbas, horns and saxophones. He swore in frustration for not being able to hear everything together—with his piano and Brody’s kick-ass bass.

It went against nature to repress something so well put-together. Maybe he could introduce the piece without mentioning the fact someone else had written the lyrics. Brody would logically assume they were his, so there would be no need to divulge the truth, not right away.

In any event, it was probably time to reconnect with his old partner, smooth Brody’s undoubtedly ruffled feathers. It felt good to work and he was now raring to get back into a solid routine. Now that his juices were flowing again, he felt confident that Absent Among Us could recapture their past popularity.

Tobias decided that if he was going to come out of hiding, he might as well make an appearance at his apartment. His alibi of being holed up at Brody’s country pad for purposes of composing could only hold so long before Monique got antsy and tried to make contact out there. He figured it would be prudent to make a quick check-in and out, and buy himself another chunk of time.

He didn’t expect to get away without some static from his wife; even if she hadn’t noticed his absence, she would needle him solely out of habit. It wouldn’t be anything serious, seeing how Monique had as much invested in their comeback as anyone. As long as he could play the moneymaking card, she would keep her complaints to a minimum.

That wouldn’t be the case with Simone, however, and the mere thought of the effort it would require to appease her made him wonder if it was worth it.

But he would deal with all of that in due course. In the meantime, a congratulatory beer was in order. He retrieved one from the mini-bar and sprawled out on the sofa again, one hand on the beer and one tucked into the waistband of his jeans.

It was in this sleepy and satisfied state that his thoughts turned to Priscilla. He had saved thinking about her as a reward, something to be savored once he had dealt with his more tedious preoccupations.

It was diverting to imagine how he would inform her of their collaborative work. His preferred method would’ve been to play a digitally mastered recording of the finished product and see how long it took her to recognize her own words. He would love to see her face!

But since that wouldn’t be immediately possible, and since he was hell-bent on spending time with her tomorrow, he would have to settle for giving her a private concert in his hotel suite, which held other interesting possibilities as well.

Okay, he might as well admit it: he did find something about Priscilla appealing, weirdly enough. She certainly wasn’t the type of female he usually gravitated to, but then again, maybe he had outgrown his old habit of falling for looks alone. The prospect of speaking to a woman about something other than restaurants and fashion stirred his imagination.

He felt a distinct thrill as he envisioned the two of them in rapt conversation, discussing matters only similarly-minded artists could understand. Finally he would have the opportunity to ask her all the questions that had pestered him since he first delved into her archived thoughts.

He would once and for all find out if he had a creative soul mate, someone who extracted glimpses of other people’s lives and converted these snapshots to songs. He couldn’t imagine this wasn’t the case, for no one—especially someone her age—could’ve had such plentiful and varied experiences, and certainly not as a waitress in a coffee shop. She had to be a snoop, like him: a voyeur with a deep need to understand.

He let his head loll on the top of the sofa and stared up at the ceiling while he imagined the conversations they’d have once they connected via their shared endeavor. In this dreamy fashion, his eyelids sagged and soon closed, sending him into a hard sleep, which he awoke from a couple hours later. Stiff and sore, yet too tired to make the short trip to any of the proper beds, he stretched out on the sofa, where he immediately drifted off, sleeping fitfully until sunlight filled the room.

Despite having slept on the sofa, Tobias found himself uncharacteristically alert and rejuvenated as he ate his cottage cheese and cantaloupe, while deliberating the best way to structure his day. His preference would’ve been to head straight over to see Priscilla, but he had to admit it would be impractical, as he had no idea how long their confab would last. It was quite real to him they might hit it off like twins separated at birth. And who knew what could happen when two like minds got together.

Going to Brody’s would most likely require several hours. After the initial unpleasantness of having to apologize for his inconsiderate behavior the last time they were together, he imagined they’d get in a few good hours’ work. It made more sense to stop by his own apartment first and get that out of the way.

This strategy had the added benefit of giving Tobias an honest excuse for an immediate departure from his wife’s quarrelsome company. Good plan: a brief stop at his apartment first, a few productive hours in Brody’s studio, swing by Priscilla’s when he was finished, maybe take her out to dinner, then retreat to his hotel for the big surprise.

He checked his watch and tried to guess Monique’s agenda for the day. He had been far too preoccupied with his own complicated life lately to be aware of her current schedule. He couldn’t remember what days she had her early morning Pilates classes or whatever fad exercise regimen she was into now, so he’d just have to take a chance, knowing he might find her in. If she wasn’t in, he would leave her a note.

But regardless of whether he had a chance to spar with his wife or not, he would definitely need to pick up a few more essentials: clothing, his laptop and guitar. For that reason alone, it made sense to hire a car for the day. He wished he could have his recording equipment, but that wasn’t feasible.

Too bad I couldn’t switch places with Monique, he mused. I could have my studio back and she could redecorate this suite to her heart’s content.

The closer Tobias got to his apartment, the more he hoped he wouldn’t find Monique at home. He had a moment’s hesitation before sliding the key in the door. He eased it opened, slowly at first, training his ear for any telltale sign of his wife’s presence. Hearing nothing, he slipped in and closed the door quietly and began creeping down the hallway like a burglar.

“Well, if it isn’t my long lost husband,” Monique said derisively, causing Tobias to jump half out of his skin. She had appeared in the kitchen doorway as silently as a cat, oversize mug of cappuccino in hand, surveying her wayward spouse warily.

“Jackson, would you look who’s here—it’s the giant rat fink I married all those years ago. God knows why.” Jackson Smythie slid out of his seat at the breakfast table rather conspicuously, dabbing at the poached egg traces that clung to his lips.

“Tobias,” he chimed enthusiastically. He was the epitome of smarmy at any hour. Tobias barely acknowledged his greeting, his curiosity at this oddly domestic scene too distracting for pleasantries.

“Good morning, Mr. Jordan,” Lilliana said dutifully, conflicted by her employer’s sudden appearance. “Would you like some breakfast? I made Eggs Benedict for Mrs. Jordan and Mr. Smythie,” she offered diplomatically.

“No, thanks. I already ate.” Her services not being needed, Lilliana gratefully went in pursuit of other household chores.

“So glad she’s feeding you, whoever now has the dubious honor of your company,” Monique quipped. Tobias shot her a piercing look. It was unlike Monique to start blasting with both barrels so early in the match. She usually began their encounters with some pretense of wedded civility.

“Looks like someone’s been depriving you of your beauty rest, Monique. I know how grumpy it makes you if you don’t get enough sleep,” Tobias said, shifting his glance to Jackson Smythie. “Maybe you should send lover boy home after your fun and games so you can get some decent shuteye.”

“I think I’ll go make some calls,” Jackson said, as he tried to slink away from the table.

“Sit down, Jackson. Tobias won’t be here long,” Monique said.

Jackson was loath to stick around and serve as a lightning rod for Tobias’s abuse, but it didn’t look as though he had a choice. He was frightfully in awe of Tobias Jordan, but he was terrified of earning the wrath of Monique. Not only was she his prime benefactor, but she was also his main social connection. Plus, things were heating up between them on more than one level; where it would all lead depended on how much these two wanted to torture each other.

“Let the man go make some calls, Monique. I think maybe you and I have a few things to discuss,” Tobias said. Again, Jackson levitated out of his seat, only to be forced back down by the gravity of his benefactress’ glare.

“Oh, that’s a good one, isn’t it Jackson? His lord and master thinks we have some things to discuss. Oh really, Tobias—what is there to discuss? You’ve gone about your merry way without a single moment’s consideration toward me, yet when you saunter back here out of the blue and find that your long-suffering wife hasn’t curled up and died, you think you’re somehow the injured party? Give me a break.”

“You make it sound like I’ve been off on a five-day drunk or something. For your information, Brody and I have been working very hard on our new album. What’s that ugly look for? You were more in favor of getting our band back together than I was,” Tobias challenged her.

“Cut the crap, Tobias. I’ve spoken to Brody, several times as a matter of fact. I know all about your disappearing act. You ditched him before you showed up here last time. So don’t try to use him as your alibi. He’s totally fed up with your bullshit. I don’t blame him for wanting to drop you.”

I knew I had stayed away too long, Tobias thought as his mind raced to find a reasonable defense.

“What did Brody tell you?” he asked. Monique merely glowered. “Look, I don’t know what you think happened, but we did go out to his place for a few days—” he scrambled, taking one point at a time.

“Only three,” Monique corrected him.

“Whatever—and we made some serious headway. But I needed to get back into town for a meeting with Marvin Stacks—”

“Which is why he’s been calling here every day for you, too,” Monique countered.

Tobias chewed the inside of his cheek while he considered this revelation. Monique had the distinct advantage of knowing what he had missed while holed up incommunicado at the Amsterdam Hotel.

“Okay, Monique—let’s just cut to the chase. Why don’t you give me your best shot, and I’ll take my medicine like a good boy. Come on, tell me what’s got your nose so bent out of shape,” he said, affecting a pose of patient interest.

As is often the case with couples who have been married for a fair length of time, Tobias had developed the ability to sometimes read his wife’s mind. He heard the word “Asshole” as clearly as if she had yelled it in his ear. But that was the only message he could decipher. Instead of answering, Monique turned her back to him while she filled her cup with more coffee and steamed milk.

“More coffee, Jackson?” she asked pleasantly, as if Tobias had suddenly dematerialized.

“I’m fine, Monique,” Jackson said, the squeak in his voice surprising both of them. Tobias barked out a harsh laugh as he watched this surreal tableau.

“Are you still here?” Monique said sharply.

“I believe we were in the middle of a rather important discussion, dear. Perhaps it would help your concentration if your lover waited for you in the other room,” Tobias suggested caustically.

“I think you’ve got the wrong idea here, Tob—” Jackson sputtered.

“Shut up, Jackson!” Tobias and Monique cried in unison.

Offended and hurt, Jackson froze mid-sentence. It only took him two beats to register the full impact of the insult. With exaggerated effect, he wiped his mouth and stood up, brushing past the warring spouses in a huff. Tobias mimicked his retreat in a decidedly unflattering fashion, causing Monique to say what she had been thinking all along.

“You’re such an asshole, Tobias,” she said flatly.

“Yes, I know. It’s one of my more endearing qualities,” he admitted proudly. Monique fumed while her eyes bore a hole in him.

“Okay…you’re here…what the hell do you want?” she asked. She was showing signs of exasperation, which puzzled him.

“I need a reason to come to my own home?”

“Since when have you thought of this place as home? It’s nothing more to you than a pit stop between bimbos. And speaking of which, you can tell your latest that if she shows her underage face around here again, I’ll shoot her,” Monique spat. Once again, she had the element of surprise in her favor.

“Simone?” Tobias squawked.

“Don’t expect me to keep track of your bimbi.”

“What was she doing here?” he asked, alarmed by the visual.

“She came here to pump Lilliana for your whereabouts, that’s what. Now, if your wife, your concubine, your partner and your business manager don’t have a clue as to where you’ve been hiding, this can only mean one thing,” Monique surmised.

“And what might that be?”

“That you’ve found yourself another bit of fluff to occupy your time.” Finally, Tobias had righteous indignation in his corner.

“Wrong again, dear wifey. This will obviously come as a great shock to you, but I wasn’t lying when I told you’ve I’ve been hard at work since the last time I saw you.”

“That’s bullshit. Brody hasn’t laid eyes on you since you unceremoniously ditched him and your jailbait du jour.”

“I left Brody’s and came back to the city. That’s when I stopped by here. Once I realized you and your decorator were about to turn this place into a construction zone, I packed up a few things and checked into a hotel. You can’t expect me to concentrate on songwriting when you’ve got a troupe of painters and such traipsing through here,” Tobias said indignantly. Monique narrowed her gaze as she tried to divine whether he was lying or not.

“Why didn’t you take your cell phone with you?”

“What, you think if I’m holing up in some obscure hotel trying to concentrate on writing music, I’m going to bring a cell phone with me? Not hardly.”

“You’ve been staying in a hotel?” Monique asked suspiciously. Tobias nodded serenely. “Why?’

“So I can work. I just told you that.”

“How can you work without your equipment?” she asked, still not ready to believe anything he had to say.

“I’ve improvised.”

“What hotel are you staying at? Since you’ve come in empty-handed, I assume you’re still in residence there.” Tobias chuckled as he shook his head.

“Sorry. Why would I want to divulge that information to you? You’d let everyone know where I was and I’d have no peace,” Tobias said smugly.

Monique snorted at the insult. “Fine. You play your little game of hide and seek, but don’t be shocked when no one comes looking for you,” she said. Tobias chortled at her childish warning. She was definitely losing her edge.

“What do you find so fucking humorous, Tobias? Is your brain so irreparably warped that you lost the ability to relate on a human level? Do you think you are so damn superior to the rest of us that we’re obligated to take whatever crap you want to dish out and keep smiling? Where did you get your ego?” she shouted.

Tobias smiled. “That’s more like the Monique I know and love.”

“Go to hell,” she said, as she hurled a sponge at him, regrettably the closest object within reach. “And why don’t you clear all your stuff out of here, while you’re at it. I don’t want you to have any excuses to come back.”

“It’s my home as well as yours. I don’t need an excuse to be here. Do you think you’ve acquired some sort of squatter’s rights? Just because I’ve spent a couple nights in a hotel doesn’t mean I’ve forfeited my right to come and go as I please,” Tobias said, his ire working him into a self-righteous snit. Monique tried to object, but he was on a roll now.

“And you can say what you will about me, Monique, but in all the years we’ve been married, I’ve never once brought my extra-curricular activities into our home. I don’t know what you think you’re getting me back for, but having that overpriced, color-blind fraud of a decorator staying here in my absence is way out of bounds.”

Far from having the desired effect of knocking Monique down a few notches, his tongue-lashing only made her gloat, as if he had somehow overlooked a key piece of information. She seemed absolutely tickled to death as she breezed past him and out of the kitchen.

Stumped and irked, he had no choice but to follow her. He had apparently missed a move and Monique was claiming checkmate. But she hadn’t won, had she? Before he could think of a volley that wouldn’t sound as though he was desperately trying to keep the play in motion, he was stopped in his tracks by the most ghastly transformation of what had once been his favorite room.

“Holy shit,” he gasped as his eyes swam in an effort to take it all in. His hands flew to his face of their own volition, clasping him on his checks with a mild pop. He squinted at the blue and lavender walls, the red-painted slate floor, the absurdly hairy white rugs, the screaming yellow leather sofas and chairs and the hideous paint-smeared canvases that passed for art. Monique could barely keep a straight face as she watched her husband assimilate the bold changes she and her designer had instigated.

“What have you done?” Tobias whimpered at length. He suddenly felt weak enough to sink onto one of the zebra-striped ottomans, but good taste prevented him from doing so. Monique smiled proudly, evidently enjoying her triumph.

“Isn’t it stunning?” she asked, turning a radiant face to his.

Tobias was beyond words. He shook his head wearily and made a move to leave. Disbelief caused him to turn around and regard the monstrosity his living room had become one more time.

The second look was more devastating than the first. He felt as if he was going to be sick. He turned away again, this time intent on the front door. He was no longer concerned about getting the things he’d gone there for. He’d just have to buy new clothes and equipment.

“Don’t forget to call Marvin,” Monique called out as Tobias reached for the doorknob. “He seems rather anxious about something or other. Money, I would imagine. I’m afraid this little renovation has been more costly than I had estimated.”

Tobias emitted something between a wheeze and a snort before passing out of his apartment. He was so devastated, he didn’t even pull the door closed behind him.

Once he had made it out of the building and into the fresh air, his head began to clear a bit. He had to laugh at himself for thinking his visit home would be an amusing skirmish at worst.

Something foul was definitely afoot. Monique’s behavior, as infuriating as it had been, had a curious tone to it. All that business about talking to Brody and Marvin. And Simone coming by his apartment. Boy, if that didn’t top it all.

Tobias climbed into the backseat of the town car before the driver could assist him. He gave the driver Brody’s address, but changed his mind. Since Brody’s co-op was only a few blocks away, and he needed time to sort out what had been going on behind his back, he told the driver to circle around the park first.

Revelations and grievances chased one another around Tobias’s head as his car glided smoothly down the avenue. He couldn’t decide what pissed him off the most: Brody and Monique with their heads together; Jackson Smythie eating Eggs Benedict in his kitchen; Simone sneaking into his building to pry his whereabouts out of his housekeeper; or the outrageously grotesque fate that had befallen his living room. It wasn’t even his home anymore. It had been Monique’d to death. She never did understand the first thing about decor.

Well, he’d buy himself a new apartment once their album came out, that’s what he’d do. Or then again, maybe he’d continue to live at the Amsterdam. It would certainly do for now.

But what was this talk of Brody wanting to drop him from his own comeback? He was the face of Absent Among Us. Everyone knew he contributed the bulk of the talent. It was ludicrous of Brody to even insinuate he had any kind of chance making it without him.

It had to be all bluster; he had only been venting to Monique, who no doubt had fueled his discontent. A few well-placed apologies and a little ego stroking and Brody would come around. They had been brothers in song far too long to let insignificant differences and meddlesome women break up their stellar partnership. The car pulled up in front of Brody’s building, but Tobias wasn’t ready to face him yet. “Once more around the park,” Tobias told the driver.

The problem was, Tobias no longer felt sufficiently enthusiastic about the numbers they had worked on up at Brody’s country hideaway. Some of the pieces he had initially thought were so promising now seemed pathetically amateurish, far below their former standards.

The fact that they had so openly embraced them seemed evidence of how difficult it was going to be to get their collective musical career back on track. If they were to come out with an album with songs of that caliber, they’d be washed up before they made the concert rounds. What their fans wanted was more of the same old stuff, only different—a tough act for any band, let alone one that had been away from the scene for so long.

His challenge would be to get back into Brody’s good graces and then convince him their efforts so far were below their standards. Nothing to it, Tobias thought sarcastically. He was beginning to regret having left the refuge of his hotel.

Now that he fully understood his next objective, he became too antsy to sit still any longer. He had the driver pull over and let him out on 5th Avenue at 81st. He walked through Central Park, taking a short cut to Brody’s building on Central Park West.

So focused was he on what had to be done, he had miscalculated the depth of Brody’s alienation. His first clue was in Roberta’s indifferent reception. She had him wait outside the door as if he were a stranger, like some huckster trying to sell magazine subscriptions.

While waiting impatiently for Brody’s appearance, he concluded that Simone had won Roberta’s sympathies in his absence. I should’ve never left her there, Tobias told himself just as Brody yanked open the door.

“It is you,” he said flatly.

“In the flesh,” Tobias answered, mildly amused that his behavior warranted such dramatic condemnation.

“What do you want?” Brody asked, as if bored by the intrusion.

“What do you mean, what do I want? We’re working on a new album, aren’t we?” Tobias said, making an effort to sidestep all the melodrama of wives and girlfriends.

“I thought you’d developed a case of amnesia in that regard,” Brody replied, arms folded across his chest in a censorious manner.

“Are we going to keep up this cute dialog in your hallway, or are we going to get some work done?” Tobias asked, making a move to enter the apartment. Brody remained unyielding.

“Look, Brody—we can waste valuable time with this father-son routine, where you act the disapproving parent and I the disobedient child, or we can leave our personal lives out of this and concentrate on the business of making music. For your information, the reason I’ve been avoiding Monique and Simone is because I’ve been locked away in a hotel, working my ass off for the last three days on some really promising stuff.”

“Don’t get huffy with me. I’m not the one who dragged your personal life and all its tawdry complexities into this. Credit for that is all yours, bro. All I wanted to do was bang out a few good tunes, get back into the concert scene, live the high life again for a while, make some nice dosh, be set for my old age.

“Instead, I feel like I’m running a hotline for all your disgruntled and brokenhearted women. Never mind the fact that you took a powder without any sort of heads up for where you were going or when you’d show up again. I haven’t gotten a decent day’s work in, what with all the “urgent” interruptions—first Simone, then Monique, Monique then Simone, back and forth, on and on. Now Roberta’s all over my case for the despicable way you’ve trashed that young girl’s heart. I don’t need this crap, man. I’m a musician, not a therapist.”

“You’re right, man—you’re totally right. From now on, nothing but music. No women, no bullshit—”

“No disappearing acts,” Brody added. Tobias regarded him gravely.

“I’m committed to working. I’ll be here when I say I’ll be here,” he said. Brody seemed to be studying his face for clues to the contrary.

“All right, if you’re really committed to working like partners, then let’s get back to business,” he said, holding the door wide to let Tobias in. As soon as he was in the foyer, Tobias distinctly heard the sound of live music.

“Is someone here?” Tobias asked as they moved down the hall to the studio.

“Yeah. Trevor Dix and Lenny Haskell. And Ben Lemeux just got here. We’ve been working on some new stuff of mine. Joe Denny’s here, too.”

Tobias took the news with an almost imperceptible wince. Two of the industry’s top studio musicians and the manager for Absent Among Us, getting down to brass tacks in Brody’s studio without Tobias’s knowledge or consent. And Ben Lemeux—how about that? Ben was a remarkable jazz violinist, almost maniacally talented. Tobias always wanted to record with him. It pricked his ego a bit that Brody had thought of recruiting him.

So, what Monique said was true: Brody had been pursuing an alternative comeback plan. And what’s more, Brody was making no attempt to apologize. Quite to the contrary. He let the admission of what he was up to hang in the air, a forthright affirmation that he was going to make it big again, with or without the mighty Tobias Jordan. And by the looks of things, he wasn’t messing around.

Brody pushed open the studio door, unleashing a torrent of sound. It took a few seconds for the trio to observe the fact that Tobias was now in their presence. Once they did, Trevor and Lenny halted their tune abruptly, signaling to Joe Denny to cut the tape. Ben had been sitting this session out, listening to the others through headphones.

“Hey, man…been a long time,” said Lenny Haskell, possibly the best alto sax player on the East Coast, as he warmly extended his hand to Tobias.

“Too long, Lenny,” Tobias said, as the handshake turned into a hug.

“Tobias,” Trevor said in turn, his trumpet dangling from his left hand as he appraised Tobias affectionately. Both Lenny and Trevor had been more or less fixtures in their stable of musicians back in their touring days. It gave Tobias a small pang of jealously to see them jamming with Brody, as if it were perfectly natural to be doing so without the group’s undisputed leader.

“Ben Lemeux, the infamous Tobias Jordan,” Brody said, making the introduction. The fellow virtuosos exchanged heartfelt compliments.

“At long last,” Joe Denny said, rising to embrace Tobias. There was no one on the business end of the music industry who Tobias respected more than Joe Denny. He was nothing short of a visionary.

The rush of pure emotion at being assembled with these men for the purposes of creating music was only slightly diminished by the static passing between Brody and him. Brody had every right to be miffed, and it was only natural for Tobias to feel betrayed. But if they could get past these petty grievances, there should be nothing to hold them from their main objective.

“Why don’t you show us what you’ve come up with,” Brody suggested, keeping the reunion between Tobias and the others brief. Tobias had not anticipated being put on the spot in front of such a savvy audience. Truth be told, he hadn’t really worked out the finer points of his plan to get back into the collaborative mode. In any event, he was not prepared to perform anything.

“Later. Let me hear what you all have been working on,” he said, sliding into a seat next to Joe, displaying his eagerness to observe. It was Brody’s turn to stall.

“I think it’s time to break,” he said. “Who wants to run out for some coffee?” As if on cue, Roberta entered the room with a tray laden with enough caffeine to keep the six of them wide-awake for days.

“The woman’s a mind reader,” Joe exclaimed, rising to help Roberta with her load. “Well, this saves us from having to break the mood. Thank you, dear lady.” Roberta accepted the praise graciously, smiling shyly at everyone but Tobias. Brody seized the chance to lob the ball back into his partner’s court.

“Yeah, now we can hear what Tobias has been busting his chops over the last few days,” he said. Tobias said nothing while the others waited expectantly. “C’mon, Tobias—you’ve never been bashful before. Let’s hear what you’ve been up to,” Brody challenged again.

Tobias glanced from the earnest faces of his former team to the less than supportive visages of Brody and his girlfriend. There was no graceful way to duck the situation at this point, no legitimate way to play down his claims to Brody of having worked his ass off on some great new material.

The tension in the small studio had grown almost palpable when Tobias finally stood and made his way to Brody’s fancy state-of-the-art synthesizer. Several possible solutions passed through his mind on the short walk to the instrument, but there was really only one plausible course of action he could take.

Even though he didn’t have the music with him, he had played the new tune so many times the previous night, he already knew every note by heart. He took his time adjusting the settings, adding percussion and bass to his piano lead.

“Feel free to jump in anytime,” he said half-jokingly over his shoulder, as he tapped out the first bar. He played the first refrain through once, then replayed it as he sang the lyrics.

“Just when you think you’re immune…”

“What do you think?” Brody asked their manager after the fourth run-through of Tobias’s new song.

“Pure gold,” Joe Denny replied reverently. “It’s got a fresh feel to it, but at the same time, it’s got that unmistakable Absent Among Us sound.”

“The violin makes it,” Tobias said, impressed by the polish the song had acquired in the studio. The others agreed. Everyone was giddy from the sheer power of their collaboration, and a renewed sense of brotherhood had taken hold. Even Roberta was now gazing upon Tobias with her former awe.

He was a hero to everyone in the room, except himself. He was a cad, a fraud, but he was also a damn good musician. He should feel proud of the fact he had single-handedly put their comeback on the right track. But never in all his brilliant career had he stooped to plagiarizing someone else’s work. He had never needed to, and really, he shouldn’t have done it now, but…

“Good stuff,” Brody said casually.

“You think so?” Tobias asked. Brody laughed reluctantly.

“It’s fucking awesome, man,” he admitted. “I guess we tend to forget what you’re capable of when you get your head in the right place,” he added by way of an apology. “I think it’s time to quit while we’re ahead,” he announced to the assembly at large. “I think my man Tobias deserves some time off for good behavior,” he said with a playful slap to Tobias’s back.

“When and where should we hook up again?” Lenny asked as he stowed his instrument in its case.

“Say here, tomorrow?” Brody suggested with his eye on his partner. Tobias, still high from his success and still conflicted by his guilt, nodded agreeably.

“You got it.” Even he believed his intentions were good.

Twenty-Three

Priscilla awoke to the loud clang of the telephone. She had become so accustomed to living without one, the sound of it quite startled her. She had been jolted out of a dead sleep; her pillow was damp with drool and she was still clutching her pen in her right hand. She couldn’t guess what had become of the notepad. With effort, she pried her stiff fingers open and released her cheap ballpoint, limping out of bed to catch the phone on the forth ring.

“Hello?” she croaked.

“Good morning, Sunshine,” Philip intoned happily.

“Oh, Phil. Good morning.” Priscilla forced a second eye open and blinked both of them hard. It seemed impossibly sunny in her room, far too bright for that time of day. “What time is it?” she asked, not being able to focus properly on her watch.

“Nine-fifteen,” Philip replied. “I thought maybe you were sore at me for last night and skipped town without saying goodbye,” he said, only half in jest.

“Sore about what?” she asked before the previous night’s finale replayed itself across her mind’s eye. “Oh, that. No, I’m not sore, I guess. But it’s early—I might get sore about it later.” Philip laughed, a light, cheery response she had not expected.

“I take it I woke you up,” he said. Priscilla yawned unrestrainedly into the phone, making a reply unnecessary. “How long will it take you to get ready?”

“Ready for what?” she asked. Sleep wasn’t quite finished with her yet.

“Well, since you haven’t noticed yet, it’s an absolutely gorgeous day outside, the most perfect spring morning the island of Manhattan has ever seen. I thought it might be fun to pack a picnic lunch and rent a couple bikes and get lost in the park for a few hours.” Priscilla squinted in the direction of her window, but all she saw through the hazy sunlight was the building across the street.

“Bikes?” she asked belatedly.

“Yeah, doesn’t that sound like fun?” Philip asked. “You do know how to ride a bike, I presume.”

“Of course,” Priscilla replied, but she couldn’t for the life of her remember the last time she had done it.

“So, does that sound like a plan?”

“Sure. That’s fine,” she said, glancing around the room rather anxiously. Apparently, a bomb had gone off while she was asleep, making her room eligible for disaster relief. Who would have thought so few possessions could create such a mess?

“What time were you thinking?” she asked as she surveyed her own lamentable condition. She licked her finger and rubbed at the white residue of slobber that ran from the corner of her mouth to her right ear.

“I was thinking I could pick you up in half an hour, or you can meet me in the park, if you’d prefer.” Half an hour? Priscilla thought in a panic.

“Uh…I’m going to need a little more time than that.”

“Okay, why don’t you meet me at the bike rental at 10:30? That’ll give you an hour. I’ll go ahead and get the lunch together and rent the bikes, and the timing should work out perfectly.” He gave Priscilla directions to the rental shop. “Any special requests for lunch?” he asked before he hung up.

“Anything but tongue.” It took her a moment to figure out why Philip laughed when she said that. A crimson flush spread across her face.

“No problem. See you soon,” Philip replied good-naturedly.

Priscilla replaced the receiver and stared at herself in the mirror that hung above the desk. “Bicycle riding in the park?” she said out loud. She thought about it and had to laugh: an unemployed waitress and an unemployed architect goofing off in the park like a couple of kids all day, as if they had no cares in the world.

Oh, what the hell, she thought. It’s one of my last days in New York. Might as well enjoy the city.

After she had showered and washed her hair, she made herself a cup of coffee in the rinky-dink device the hotel supplied. Surprisingly, it wasn’t that bad. Better than Frank’s, but then again, so was dishwater. She spread yesterday’s New York Times across the bed and speed-read the entire thing in about ten minutes, as she sipped her coffee.

When finished with both, she towel-dried her hair before blasting it with the blow dryer. She performed this chore while she read over her most recent contribution to her notebook. She smiled as she read lyrics inspired by the absurdity of Phil’s crush on her, and the obvious reasons they were romantically ill-suited.

In the end, she had to admit it was a lot more pleasant having someone like Phil mooning over her than wrangling with the kind of man she usually attracted. At least with Phil she felt respected, treasured even—certainly a novelty in her life.

So he was being irrational, chasing some fantasy figment. There was really no harm in it, as long as she kept reminding him of the impermanence of their situation. Day after tomorrow she’d be southbound, no matter what, and he was just going to have to accept it.

It was while picking through her scant wardrobe that it hit her. There was an article she had skimmed through that she now recognized as being vitally important. She had been distracted by another article she’d read earlier, one about a woman who had brought suit against her elderly parents for depleting her future inheritance by living so long; she was looking for the court to give her control of their estate so she could benefit from their wealth “before they spent it all.”

In her preoccupation, Priscilla had momentarily overlooked the significance of the rather innocuous piece she had subsequently read. She dashed to the wastebasket, frantically flipping through the paper, looking for the article about the building on the Lower West Side.

“Here it is,” she said, folding the paper back and creasing a border around it, as she sat down to reread it:

BUILDING SHOWS SIGNS OF SINKING. Geologists and engineers are scheduled to inspect a building in the seven hundred block of Walker Street tomorrow, following disturbing reports by occupants and neighbors that the structure is apparently settling. “I was sweeping the sidewalk in front of my shop when I noticed that the threshold was lower than the concrete,” said Harvey Morris, co-owner of Serendipity Floral, a ground floor tenant. “We just moved in two months ago. When I realized what this meant, my heart sank. Our business was just taking off. Now I don’t know what’s going to happen.” Though the building is apparently sinking, the façade and interiors are not showing signs of deterioration at this point.

Priscilla’s pulse quickened as she absorbed the impact of this story. It seemed too coincidental that there was another building in the same general part of town as The Phoenix with the same perilous defect. It rapidly occurred to her there might be hope for Phil’s crippled building, or at least his reputation, if they found another cause of the structures’ instability besides negligence.

She found her purse under last night’s outfit and pawed through it furiously looking for Phil’s business card. Frustrated, she turned the contents out on the bed and sifted through them until she finally found it. Breathlessly, she dialed his cell phone number and waited impatiently as it rang and rang. When his voicemail answered, she hung up the phone and stared at it while she considered her options.

She could try his office, but she knew he had no plans of going there. Only one thing to do, and that was meet him as scheduled. She felt instinctively that Phil needed to be in on what was discovered at this other unstable building. Though she was anything but an optimist, she couldn’t help feeling hopeful something good was about to happen for him. She dressed in a hurry and took off for the park.

She found Philip astride a comically long bicycle built for two, beaming at her in a way that made her almost regret she would be spoiling his plans.

“Hi there!” he called out, as he maneuvered the gangly contraption in her direction. The sight of man and machine wobbling her way made her laugh, in spite of the sense of urgency that had motivated her to run several blocks.

“I hope you don’t mind a tandem bike. I thought it might be kind of fun.” He gave the horn a playful honk, grinning like little kid. “You look winded,” he surmised as he stopped the bike in front of her.

“I am,” she admitted, using his handlebars for support while she caught her breath. “I tried to call you on your cell phone,” she huffed, “but I got your voicemail.”

“Oh, sorry. I turned it off after I talked to you. I didn’t feel like any rude interruptions today.” He could tell by the look of concern on her face that something was amiss. “Is there something wrong?”

“Did you read the Times yesterday?”

“I scanned it. Why?”

“I take it you didn’t read this,” she said as she thrust the clipping at him. She watched his expression as he read and reread it. As he looked up at her, she saw a hundred thoughts run across his mind.

“I think you better get over there,” she said.

“Yes. Right away. And you’re coming with me.”

There were several clusters of men standing outside the building when Philip and Priscilla reached the site. All were wearing hardhats and grim expressions. Priscilla had learned from the barrage of questions she asked on the drive over that Philip knew the builder, but only by reputation. He had been in the business at least as long as Philip, and as far as he could remember, he had never been associated with scandal. His company was relatively small, run by he and two sons.

It didn’t take them long to determine which man was Jack Cafferty. The sleeves of his light pink shirt were rolled up against the heat of the day and the ordeal that had befallen him. His ruddy face bore the mark of years of trying to survive the aggravations of his trade. By stark contrast, the city engineers and inspectors were conspicuous in their bored looks of bureaucratic apathy.

Whatever had already transpired, that group seemed to have only a passing interest in what happened next. The clusters involved in earnest conversation were obviously on the builder’s team. Jack Cafferty was in the middle of one such group. Priscilla fell back and let Philip integrate into the crowd.

“Yes, but I feel certain, after what I’ve learned so far, that the admixture is responsible for what we saw down there. I’ll bet you dollars to donuts the lab reports will bear me out on that,” Jack Cafferty was saying as Philip approached their circle. Jack paused as he regarded the newcomer.

“Are you Mr. Cafferty?” Philip asked.

“I am. And you’re Philip Glessner,” he concluded. Philip shook his outstretched hand. “I’m glad you’re here. I was planning on contacting you after we did our preliminary investigations.”

“What have you found?” Philip asked, as the contractor pulled him aside for a more private interview.

“It’s the caissons, no doubt about it.” The muscles in Philip’s jaw contracted visibly as he received this news. He felt his revived hopes drain away. If it had been anything but the caissons…

“I see,” he said gravely.

“You know, I have to tell you,” Jack Cafferty said confidentially, “I learned one important lesson many years ago, when I was still wet behind the ears, and it’s one I’ve thanked my lucky stars for a hundred times over.”

Philip hung on Mr. Cafferty’s words, not out of intense interest, but because his mind had become a complete void. He was listening because he didn’t know what else to do.

“Work with the most conservative engineers,” Jack continued, “and go by their word without fail, regardless of the cost, no matter how much overkill it might seem.”

At first, this testament only made Philip feel worse. What a fool he had been to cut corners. He stared blankly at the man for several seconds before the implication hit home.

“Are you saying you didn’t back off the recommended circumference and depth?” Philip asked cautiously.

“Not an inch.”

“But…”

“Let me ask you something. Do you have fissures and cracks in your caissons?”

“No, not really” Philip replied. “They seem to be deteriorating from the crowns down—crumbling, actually.” Jack nodded knowingly.

“Do you happen to know if any admixtures were used in the concrete?”

“I have no idea,” Philip admitted.

“You might want to ask whoever did the work for you. Better yet, I would strongly recommend you get a sample of it and have it analyzed. I wouldn’t be surprised if your problem and mine aren’t one in the same.” Philip took a moment to digest this.

“What does this mean, exactly?” he asked.

“If an admixture was used, and I know on my project one was, then it is highly likely the deterioration is due to a defect caused by the breakdown of the chemical strengtheners used by three different manufacturers.”

“I’ve never heard anything about this,” Philip confessed.

“Well, the problem just recently came to light. The manufacturers pulled the products off the market six months ago, once this defect started surfacing. Since then, they’ve conclusively nailed the cause.”

“How did you find all this out?” Philip asked.

“The internet, God love it. As soon as I saw where the damage was, I went online and did some research. It was all there in black and white—the signs, the cause, what action the manufacturers were taking. It was extremely informative. I’ve already been in contact with the company that made the admixture used in our caissons. They’ve been very cooperative. They even sent out one of their chemists to assess the problem. He’s not saying anything until the results come back, but I think he believes the admixture’s at fault,” Jack said as he looked in the direction of two men with their heads together.

“So…if this admixture eventually causes the concrete to break down, then it’s inevitable that the caissons will completely crumble over time, right?”

“Yeah, I would imagine so,” Jack said sanguinely. Philip felt as though he would be sick.

“Oh, this is awful,” he sighed, pressing his pulsating brow with the heel of his hand. “So, your building will have to come down, too.”

“Like hell it will,” Jack said vehemently. Philip looked at him curiously.

“What choice do you have?”

“I’m going to fix the problem—it’s my only choice. I did this project on my own—everything I could beg and borrow is tied up in it. We just leased the commercial spaces and the residential units are nearly finished. We were this close to putting them on the market. If this building goes down, so do I. And so do my kids.

“We risked it all on this baby, but the payoff is going to be worth it, once we get past this debacle,” he said confidently. He regarded Philip thoughtfully for a moment.

“You know, it’s because of your courage and foresight in redeveloping this area that we got involved here. It was a really gutsy move, what you did. My hat’s off to you.” The contractor’s praise did little to improve Philip’s mood.

“I hear The Phoenix is slated for demolition next week. You’re not going to let them go through with it, are you?” Jack asked. Philip shrugged resignedly.

“I don’t know how to avoid it,” he said.

“Do what I’m going to do,” Jack said. Philip looked skeptical.

“As much as I would like to believe it, I don’t think this admixture is the problem.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because, unlike you, I did cut back on the engineer’s recommended circumference.”

“So, what—you scaled it back from twenty-four inches to eighteen?”

“Twenty inches,” Philip said.

“How close together?”

“Every twelve feet. We’ve got twenty all together, at a depth of fourteen feet.”

“Seven story building—sounds like plenty of support to me,” Jack said. “You need to look into this admixture thing. But you’re going to have to act quick, if you’re going to save your building.”

“How exactly do you plan to solve this problem with the caissons?” Philip asked. He couldn’t for the life of himself imagine any viable or realistic solution.

“We’re going to jack up the building and install new supports. See that gentleman over there in the khaki blazer? He’s the head of a Norwegian outfit that specializes in shoring up structures from underneath. They’ve been doing it for years in Europe, places like Venice and Amsterdam, where they have real problems with settling soils. Anyway, they’re going to get in there with their special equipment, hoist it up, secure it and drill for new supports.” Philip’s head swam at the concept.

“How do they…whew! That must cost a fortune to do something like that,” Philip said, shaking his head at the mere thought of such a complicated scheme. “If you’ve got everything invested in your building, how can you afford to do this?”

“Well, for starters, Boyce Industries is going to have to pay. This problem is entirely due to their defective product. I feel certain of it,” Jack said.

“Be that as it may, have they actually agreed to foot the bill for this?”

“They will. Whatever it ends up costing will be minor to what I’d sue them for if I lose the building. From what I’ve heard so far, I think they are going to embrace the opportunity to rectify the problem. Like I said, they’ve been very eager to help. Why don’t I introduce you to Mr. Sanborn, Boyce’s head chemist, get your ball rolling.”

Priscilla watched as Philip spoke with one group or individual after another. Though she would have preferred not to be standing on the sidelines while all this was going on, she was encouraged by the amount of talking that was taking place. If there had been nothing to give Philip any sense of hope, he wouldn’t have kept her standing there all that time. She figured no news was probably good news. After about twenty minutes, he broke away from his powwow.

“Priscilla, I’m so sorry,” he said.

“What have you found out?” she asked.

“Well, a lot of things.”

“Yeah? Anything that could help you with The Phoenix?” Philip nodded his head slowly.

“Possibly. If you don’t mind waiting just a couple minutes longer, I’m going to give this man some information, and then we can leave. Okay?”

“No problem. Take your time.”

Priscilla watched Philip as he rejoined the other men. She had a feeling of wild excitement welling up inside her, threatening to burst free. She began ambling casually down the sidewalk, away from the crowd. Nonchalantly, she turned the corner and shook her fists in the air as she let loose a muffled yell.

She was so happy for Phil, she could hardly contain herself. She could tell from the expression on his face his hopes were high, regardless of how much he might play it down. He wouldn’t be feeling that way if he hadn’t heard some heartening news. If anybody deserved a lucky break, it was Phil. She calmly walked back around corner just as he began looking for her.

“Oh, there you are. Listen…I need to meet these men over at The Phoenix. It shouldn’t take too long to get what we need, but if you’d rather I drop you off somewhere—”

“Not a chance. You’re stuck with me, Phil. No way you’re getting rid of me at this stage of the game. I’m dying to know what’s going on,” Priscilla admitted gleefully.

“All right. Thank you for being so understanding. I’ll make it up to you, I promise.”

Philip shook hands with the Norwegian engineer and the chemist from Boyce Industries. They had been able to access the sub-basement, get what they needed and get out quickly. He had gotten the ball rolling, as Jack Cafferty had advised. Now he had to wait and see where it would go. He caught sight of Priscilla’s eager face through the windshield and smiled involuntarily.

“Tell me how it went,” she asked him impatiently, as he slipped into the driver’s seat and tossed Jack’s hardhat onto the backseat.

“Well, we got what we went down there for,” he said, enjoying the chance to string her along.

“Yeah? And?”

“And we’ll see what the lab says.”

Priscilla emitted an exasperated sigh. “But in the meantime, you can find out from your concrete company if they used an admixture, and which one,” she supplied.

“That’s right, Miss Efficient. And that’s exactly what we’re going to do, if you’re still interested.”

Priscilla snorted. “Here, eat your sandwich,” she said, handing him his turkey and Munster on whole wheat, as he started his Range Rover. He peeled back the paper and took a bite before shifting into drive and pulling away from the curb.

“So, let’s head over to my office. We can do some research, and see if we can find the paperwork on the caissons. Then we’ll make some calls and take it from there.” Priscilla nodded agreeably. She sat back in her seat, satisfied with the plan.

“Aren’t you going to eat your sandwich?” Philip asked, through a mouthful of his own.

“I ate it while I was waiting for you,” she replied, smiling at Philip’s relaxed demeanor. She doubted he had ever spoken with food in his mouth prior to that day. She took this as a good sign.

“I drank the coke, too, so you can have the designer water.” She twisted the cap off and handed it to him, forcing him to lay his sandwich on his lap.

“Thanks,” he said, taking a swig and handing it back to her. “You know what? I think we make a pretty good team,” he said.

Priscilla was reluctant to accept the compliment. “Yeah, right. What have I done?”

“What have you done? You have quite possibly saved The Phoenix from being demolished. If you hadn’t spotted that article in the Times, it would have come down before I ever learned of this admixture problem. It’s only because of you that I’ve got half a chance to do something. You’re amazing,” he added, his eyes filled with admiration.

Priscilla scoffed, but at the same time, she couldn’t help but be affected by his praise. It was possibly the nicest thing anyone had ever said to her.

Twenty-Four

Tobias pushed Priscilla’s buzzer for the third time. Still no response. Having waited all day for this opportunity, he was unwilling to accept the fact she wasn’t in. For all he knew, her buzzer could have been on the fritz. After what he seen of the building, it was entirely possible.

Or maybe she was in, but not in the mood to see anyone. Tobias could relate to that. But somehow he imagined that desire would not apply to him. So he hadn’t been very convivial the last time he’d seen her; he’d make it up to her. There was so much ground to cover, and they were only wasting time.

Frustrated, he used the same trick he used before, pounding all the buttons until someone buzzed him in. This time, however, he was greeted by the suspicious manager as he headed toward the stairs.

“And just where are you headed?” she inquired crossly.

“I’m here to see Priscilla,” he said, as he halted mid-step.

“Well, you’re two days too late,” she replied flatly, crossing her arms under her ample bosom.

Tobias stiffened at this news. “What do you mean?” A wave of hot fear washed over him, as her words from the other day came back to haunt him. “I don’t need them anymore,” she said of her life’s work as she was about to toss it all into the incinerator. Jesus. Why hadn’t it occurred to him then what a high risk she was for suicide? No job, crummy apartment, no prospects. Because he had his head up his ass, like he always did…

“She doesn’t live here anymore, that’s what I mean. She moved out two days ago. Didn’t give any notice, but she did pay me an extra month’s rent, which was awful decent of her, I’ll hand her that.”

Tobias went limp with relief. Hearing that she had not croaked herself had temporarily distracted him from the fact that she was gone. His mood plummeted as this discovery slowly sank in.

He gravitated back down the stairs, mouth slack with disbelief. Well, aside from being extremely inconvenient for him, he had to admit Priscilla’s move was a healthy and logical response to coming into a nice chunk of change.

The more he thought about it, the more he was encouraged by this turn of events. How weird it would’ve been to find her still inhabiting this dump after the generous sum he had given her. And the fact that she had paid a month’s rent instead of just walking away led him to believe she needed the old woman to give her a good reference. Another reassuring sign. Tobias donned his most charming smile as he turned back to the skeptical manager.

“Uh…Miss? Missus?”

“Mrs. Kay,” the manager informed him coldly, reluctant to be swayed by his sudden onset of good manners.

“Mrs. Kay…did Priscilla give you a forwarding address?” he asked sweetly.

“I’m afraid not.”

“I see. How about anyone calling for references?” Mrs. Kay shook her head solemnly.

Tobias regarded the manager silently for a moment while he gauged what her reaction would be to a little palm greasing. He reached into his pocket, watching her eyes as they followed his hand. By the expression on her face, he surmised she would not be offended by such inducements. He unfolded his wallet and pulled a twenty into view. Mrs. Kay’s posture straightened slightly, so Tobias tugged another twenty-dollar bill out into the open. This made Mrs. Kay smile.

“I sure would like to find Priscilla, Mrs. Kay,” he said, as he slipped the notes into the compact woman’s waiting hand. “I have something of hers that she’s going to miss terribly.” Mrs. Kay accepted Tobias’s donation with a satisfied smile, tucking it securely into her brassiere before enlightening him.

“Well then, you might want to take a trip down to Florida,” she said, causing Tobias’s hopeful face to fall flat.

“Florida?” he asked incredulously.

“Yessir. Miss Vanderpool has taken a Southern migration.”

Florida? Tobias still couldn’t believe his ears. Moving out of this hole, yes—but leaving the state just like that? He couldn’t fathom it. He had seen her only forty-eight hours ago, and she hadn’t even hinted at going to Florida. But why would she tell him anything? He barely knew her.

Besides, he had been a first-class jerk last time he saw her. He certainly hadn’t offered a sympathetic ear. She must have hopped out of his car and taken a cab straight to the airport. Who could blame her from wanting a clean break? It didn’t make him feel any better to realize his money had made her escape possible.

“Do you happen to know where in Florida?” he asked the manager, his polite manners seeping out of him as the reality of the situation became clearer.

“Nope, I sure don’t. But I know it’s not Daytona. My sister owns an apartment building down there, and I offered to call her. But Miss Vanderpool said she was headed further south than that. So that kind of narrows it down for you,” Mrs. Kay said, confident that she had earned her forty bucks.

Tobias snorted roughly as it became apparent no more useful information would be forthcoming. “Thanks,” he said sourly, turning toward the door. He hesitated, searching his pockets for something to write with. “Here, if you do happen to hear from her, could you please pass my number on to her. It’s a new one—she won’t be able to reach me at the old one,” he lied for the old lady’s benefit.

He scribbled the number of the direct line to his suite on a scrap of paper and fished out another twenty before he handed it to Mrs. Kay. He gave the manageress a meaningful look, then wished her a good evening, taking his leave of the depressing apartment house for the last time.

As soon as he was back in the hired car, Tobias started to panic in earnest. So much of his recent progress had been due to Priscilla. Hell, all of it, really. It wasn’t until that day in the coffee shop he finally broke through his decade-long dry spell. If he had first thought it was merely a coincidence, he had later come to believe otherwise.

It was his unspoken conviction that she had become his muse, his inspiration, the conduit running between him and his creativity. He couldn’t bring himself to think what her leaving town meant to his comeback. He was on shaky ground as it was already, passing off her lyrics as his own. His hands began to tremble as he imagined staring at the piano keys with his mind a complete blank…

“Where to, Mr. Jordan?” the driver asked, apparently not for the first time.

“Back to my hotel,” Tobias said, agitated, wishing he had requested a stretch limousine. He suddenly found the car claustrophobically small. It was like the whole world was closing in on him. His wife obviously had some plan to drive him crazy, slowly and painfully; his girlfriend was stalking him like a deranged fan; his partner was showing mutinous signs; and now the woman who had given him back the gift of music had disappeared in a puff of smoke. Where would it end?

“Pull over at that bar,” Tobias commanded the driver.

“Here?” the driver asked dubiously. They were on one of the worst streets in Alphabet City. He had taken it only as a means of turning around and heading back to the right part of town.

“Yeah,” Tobias said, opening the door before the car came to a full stop. “Wait here,” he said, before getting out.

The driver watched with apprehension as his client pushed through the red door, giving him a temporary view of the dim interior before it swung shut. After a fleeting concern for his patron’s wellbeing, he began to worry about his own. He clicked the door lock and hunkered down as far as he could while still keeping his eye on the door, hoping it was only a call of nature that had caused such an impulsive stop.

Tobias pulled out the nearest barstool, assessing his fellow drinkers as they assessed him. This was no happy neighborhood watering hole. This was a serious “you ain’t got no business on my turf” bar, one where even the bartender looked as though he resented the intrusion of an uptown slummer. Far from intimidated, Tobias held his gaze until the bartender was forced to come and take his order.

“Chivas on the rocks,” Tobias said. The bartender obliged and set his drink down without a word. Tobias laid a twenty on the bar, and left the change in plain sight while he drank. Once it was clear the stranger was there to drink and mind his own business, the rest of the customers got back to their own, carrying on as if he weren’t there.

Now that the scotch was starting to have the desired effect, he was able to look at recent developments more calmly. Okay, Priscilla had left town, but she hadn’t left the planet. And if she was on the planet, she could be found. Anybody could be found, given enough time and money. Money he could get; time was a different story.

He had as much as promised Brody he’d be at his place first thing in the morning, but there was no way he could face that whole scene in this condition. He had to first find out how bad his situation really was. He’d have to plant himself at his keyboards and see what happened. Maybe it wouldn’t be as bad as he feared. Maybe now, since he’d pierced the barrier that had separated him from his talent, he didn’t need Priscilla’s mysterious influence anymore. Somehow he doubted it. He drained his glass and motioned for another.

Damn, he thought. Just as he was starting to feel like his old self again. There was nothing in this world as rewarding as the appreciation of one’s own talents. There may be certain individuals who could convince themselves they are gifted when they are not, but most people are capable of rightly judging their own abilities. And when the talent was of sublime proportions, it could give the guardian of such talent the greatest high in life. Creating anything that gives pleasure to others is the ultimate gift to the giver.

As self-involved and egocentric as Tobias Jordan could sometimes seem, he knew his contentment lay in the hands of those who were affected by his work. It was a symbiotic relationship, and he accepted his role dutifully, no matter how much it cost him on a personal level. And because of his sense of duty to his craft, Tobias realized he had to find Priscilla. He couldn’t stand the thought of facing another drought.

The bartender set the fresh drink in front of Tobias and extracted a five from his change. The bar had filled up considerably since he had gotten there. He had been too engrossed in his thoughts to notice the skeptical looks from new arrivals who wondered what this quiet whitey was doing in their midst.

As far as bars went, this one wasn’t terrible. It had plenty of characters for watching, though discrete glances were a must. But there was an element missing that Tobias found himself suddenly craving. The bar was curiously devoid of music.

“Know where there’s a good blues club in this part of town?” he asked the bartender when he made it over to his side of the bar.

“Yeah,” the bartender said. His tone told Tobias he wasn’t sure a skinny, middle-aged white dude would feel very at home in the place he was going to suggest. But hey, he wasn’t the guy’s babysitter. “There’s a pretty happenin’ joint over on Avenue D, between Third and Fourth. Called the Blue Dragon. Don’t get going till nine or so. But that’s the place folks go when they want some serious blues.”

“Any good places to eat around here?’ Tobias asked.

The bartender regarded him suspiciously. What was the deal with this guy? Was he trying to be black for the night? Trying to soak up the local color? He had half a mind to tell him to get his anemic ass back across Broadway before he was sorry.

Instead, he gave Tobias the name of a place around the corner that served soul food around the clock. Tobias nodded his thanks and left the five and five singles as a tip. The bartender watched him leave, hoping he didn’t end up reading about his big tipper in tomorrow’s paper.

Tobias walked up Avenue C, looking for Lil’ Audrey’s Restaurant. He had never been especially fond of soul food, but what the hell? When in Rome… He had dismissed his driver, and though he was receiving some curious stares, he felt more comfortable being on foot than in the back of a chauffeur-driven Town Car.

He was not overly concerned for his safety; he was keeping his wits about him. Plus he was no stranger to the seamy side of life. In fact, the combination of liquid confidence and the energy on the street had him feeling seven feet tall. No one was going to mess with him, but so what if they did? He had reached the level of apathy where almost nothing could upset his equilibrium. Bring it on. He was a bad-ass tonight, a man with nothing left to lose.

Lil’ Audrey’s must have been the place to eat in Alphabet City, seeing as the line stretched out the door and down the sidewalk. Tobias didn’t even bother to investigate. It was one thing to hang out in strange bars and listen to music, but quite another to stick yourself so conspicuously in the middle of a crowd that wasn’t your own.

Had he not been sufficiently fortified with booze and remorse, he would have turned back after the first block. But he had some time to kill before the entertainment started at the Blue Dragon, and a little food in his stomach wouldn’t be such a bad idea.

He stumbled across a diner that looked halfway respectable, surely nicer looking than Frank’s Coffee Shop. He ordered the chicken fried steak with mashed potatoes and green beans fresh out of the can. He ate a few bites as he listened to the conversations around him, then paid his bill and went looking for the blues club.

The Blue Dragon was barely discernible from the street. A small sign bearing the club’s emblem hung at a right angle from the building, a sign not much bigger than an unfolded newspaper. It was still relatively early in the evening and they were just setting up the till when Tobias entered. There was a ten-dollar cover charge and a two-drink minimum, collected in advance. Tobias took his two drink chits and found a seat off to the side of the stage area.

As more patrons trickled in, Tobias found he was not the only white man in the place. A few other pale-skinned music aficionados were scattered about, and once they began to take their places, Tobias discovered the bass player was also white. Everything was cool. Everyone was only interested in taking in some hard-driving blues to help improve their outlook on life. Besides, music was the great equalizer; skin tones didn’t matter when music was the main attraction.

The band did not disappoint. Once they got going, they had attracted quite a decent-size crowd. They were all accomplished musicians, and the singer had a mesmerizing voice, though Tobias had never heard of them before. They were so attuned to one another, they had the joint jumping halfway through their first set.

Tobias was lost from the opening song. There was something so powerful about loud, pulsing music, plaintive lyrics and a sound that made a person want to get down on his knees and weep. He needed this kind of thing, more than he realized. He needed to surround himself with music and talented musicians on a regular basis.

Music was life to him; being insulated from that world in order to preserve his existence had in effect entombed him. He thought with disgust how Monique had masqueraded as his savior, rescuing him from the hard life on the road, only to enslave him with a careful existence. There was no life without music. There was no role for him other than musician.

After an hour of hypnotic rhythm and blues, the band took a break. Tobias, still tingling with appreciation of such fine musicianship, was submerged in his own thoughts when the bass player appeared at his table. Tobias changed positions so the man could get by, not realizing the bass player had come to speak to him.

“Tobias Jordan, right?” he asked. “I’ve been a fan of yours since I was in high school, man. What an honor,” the bass player said reverently, extending his hand to the rock legend. “Lloyd Paxton,” he added as an afterthought. Tobias offered him a chair, glancing nervously around in hopes this exchange hadn’t attracted any unwanted attention. Even as relaxed and unguarded as he had been, paranoia had become ingrained in him.

“You guys are incredible,” Tobias said, causing Lloyd to bow his head modestly. The waitress came by and Tobias offered his companion a drink. Lloyd ordered a beer and Tobias ordered another scotch on the rocks.

“Is this one of your regular hangouts, or did you come to hear the band?” Lloyd asked.

“I’d like to say I’d heard of you guys before, but this was just a lucky surprise on my part,” Tobias said.

“Really? You just happened to be wandering by…?”

“Something like that,” Tobias laughed.

“I take it you’re a blues fan, then.”

“I am, always have been. ’Course, I like most music. Occupational hazard, I guess.” The waitress returned with their drinks. “It’s been so long since I’ve heard honest nitty-gritty blues. I got to tell you, it’s like a tonic,” Tobias said, raising his glass to Lloyd.

“Thanks, man. I’ll take that as our best compliment so far.” They let the remark hang in the air, content to bask in their musical camaraderie. The noise level rose to the point that conversation was difficult without yelling at one another. Others from the band wandered by, but the din was too loud for Tobias to make out the introductions.

When their break was almost over, Lloyd leaned close to Tobias and asked him if he would lead them in a song. Tobias had one fleeting second of terror, followed quickly by an overwhelming urge to perform. Lloyd assured him they’d keep it low-key—just one song, no big fuss. They could do any song he chose, one of his own, even. Tobias couldn’t say no. Singing for an audience was his most irresistible craving, aside from young, tall blonds. He belted back the remainder of his drink and joined the bass player on stage.

He stood somewhat conspicuously on the edge of the stage while Lloyd conferred with the rest of his band. Lloyd waved him over to choose a number he’d like to sing. A few suggestions were bandied about until they settled on an old, crowd-pleasing standard. With little fanfare, Lloyd announced their guest vocalist, and away they went.

Though Tobias and Brody had written a few songs that were clearly in the blues vein, their style was most closely identified with jazz. They were concretely a rock ‘n roll band, but they had found a way to trick hardcore rock connoisseurs into an appreciation of jazz by weaving enticing, sophisticated riffs into their tracks.

That being the case, no one in The Blue Dragon who didn’t recognize Tobias Jordan would have ever guessed he was not a dyed-in-the-wool blues man. He sang The Thrill Is Gone with such depth of feeling, even he was transported by the effect. It took little persuasion to keep him on the stage for another song. Then another. And so it went.

When the band finally wrapped up their performance for the evening, long after the appointed hour, Tobias was still in their company. Not wanting to hog the spotlight from their lead singer, he had sung backup and played keyboards, occasionally heeding pleas to sing the lead.

They threw a couple of Absent Among Us songs in to see if anyone in the audience was paying attention. It gratified Tobias immensely to hear hoots of recognition when he sang No Trouble Like Old Trouble and Down For The Count. By that time, he was so giddy from jamming solely for the sake of it, he didn’t even care about having his cover blown.

When it was all over, Tobias had achieved a sense of euphoria that had been absent in his life since his touring days. He was as high on life as he could ever get, yet as he began saying his farewells, he felt the onset of a major crash. He hid his melancholy as he accepted handshakes and thanks from the band. He nonchalantly refused their offer of a lift, opting instead to call the car service for a driver.

He hung around with the band and the club owner until his transportation arrived, still trying to act like one of the gang. But as soon as he walked out to the awaiting limo, the spell was broken. He was once again rock legend Tobias Jordan and not just a guy with a soulful voice.

Tobias told the driver to head uptown. He didn’t give him any specific instructions because he really didn’t know where he wanted to go. It was late; there wouldn’t be many options open to him, especially in his general neighborhood. How could he follow up that experience, anyway? Anything would be anticlimactic after what he had just done.

The decision was made ten minutes into the ride, as his eyelids began to sag. As the euphoria lifted, fatigue took its place. He wasn’t the kid he used to be. He surrendered to his exhaustion. He had the driver drop him at his hotel.

Twenty-Five

Priscilla’s eyes bugged as Philip deposited two more storage boxes onto the worktable. That made eight boxes of invoices pertaining to the construction of The Phoenix Tower. Sensing her trepidation, Philip lifted the lid on one and thumbed through the contents.

“Darn. I was hoping they were at least in chronological order,” he said, turning to Priscilla apologetically. “It looks like they might be filed alphabetically. It’s too bad I can’t remember the name of the company we used for the caissons. That would make this process a lot easier.”

“Yeah,” Priscilla agreed, as she removed a lid and took a look for herself. She could already feel a headache coming on. “Is there anyone you could contact who might remember the name of the company?” she asked hopefully. Philip looked doubtful.

“Not anyone I would feel comfortable calling,” he said. Priscilla made a face. “The company that poured Jack Cafferty’s caissons is Tri-State Concrete and Cement. I suppose it’d be too much to hope we used the same firm, but at least that’s one name to watch for. I could get a staffer or two in here to help us sort through all this,” he suggested. Priscilla didn’t much care for that idea.

“No, it’s all right. We can do it ourselves,” she said, lifting a box off the table and setting it on the floor. She kicked off her shoes and sat down cross-legged in front of it. “So, what should I be looking for? Is the invoice just going to say ‘caissons’ on it?”

“Well, it would be handy, but every company has its own way of invoicing. See, like this one here—all it has is the company logo, invoice number and date, and a total. “Engineering” is all it says under description. Not very helpful. That could mean anything.

“This one only says “order completed 2-19-04.” Fortunately, I know Northern Alliance supplies drywall, so we can eliminate this one. I’m afraid it’s just going to take some diligence,” Philip said regretfully. Priscilla suppressed a groan and pushed up her sleeves.

“Maybe we should get your temps to fire up some more coffee,” she said, as she took a handful of invoices out of the box and began to sort through them.

“Good thinking,” Philip agreed. He went to his phone and buzzed the reception desk. “Yes, could someone please make a fresh pot of coffee and bring it here when it’s ready? Make it strong,” he added. Following Priscilla’s lead, he grabbed a box and sat down on the floor, not as agilely as she had, but it had been a long time since he had assumed such a position.

“Found it yet?” he asked facetiously, as Priscilla scrutinized a pink work order.

“Ha ha,” she replied, as she dropped it into the reject pile. They both fell silent as they examined one invoice after the other. So engrossed were they in their project, neither noticed that the temp had entered the room until she set the coffee tray down on Philip’s desk.

“Oh great, thank you,” Philip said from his roost on the carpet.

“Is there anything else you need, sir?” she asked, eyeing the two curiously. “We normally leave here at 2:30, but I can stay later if you need me to.”

“Thank you, we’ll be fine. You go on and we’ll see you tomorrow.” The temp nodded and headed for the door. “What time do you get here in the morning?” Philip asked as an afterthought.

“Eight-thirty.”

“Good. We’ll see you bright and early tomorrow, then,” he said, cheerfully waving goodbye. The temp gave a hesitant wave in return and ducked out the door. “Who knows, if we’re lucky, those girls might be putting in their first honest day’s work since they’ve been here.”

Priscilla grinned half-heartedly as she tossed another invoice aside. “Hold that thought,” she said, taking another batch out of the box. Philip gazed at her with gratitude and admiration as her brow crinkled over her task. There probably wasn’t anything that could induce Marianne to get down on the floor and sift through hundreds of bills, and the thought of helping him would certainly never motivate her. Priscilla looked up, catching his open stare.

“I guess I should pour us some coffee,” he said, struggling to raise himself.

“I’ll get it,” Priscilla said, easily springing to her feet. “How do you want it?”

“How strong is it?”

“It looks pretty strong.”

“Better give me the works.”

Priscilla stirred in generous amounts of cream and sugar into both their cups and handed one to Philip. “Cheers,” she said, clinking her mug to his.

“To good luck,” he replied, taking a cautious sip. Priscilla resumed her post and picked up where she had left off.

“Any idea what “W.K. Armstrong & Company” is? All it says is “work complete” she said, handing the bill to Philip. He studied it for a moment before he remembered the type of business it was.

“Excavators,” he said, handing it back. Priscilla tossed it in the pile and fetched another handful.

“Isn’t it funny how life has a way of leveling a person?” he asked rhetorically. “Virtually all my life I dreamed of becoming an architect—a famous New York architect, no less. I spent hours in the library as a kid reading about Adolf Loos, William Holabird, Theodore Link, Frank Lloyd Wright and others. I was going to become world renowned. Books would be written about my life and works. My designs would be studied in school. I worked so hard to make a name for myself. Now, here I sit, in the empty offices of my defunct firm, rummaging through stacks of five-year-old invoices.” Philip shook his head and forced a laugh that sounded more like a wheeze.

“At least you had the luxury of having a goal and making it work for a long time,” Priscilla said, taking a sip of coffee. “Whether you’ll be written up in books, I don’t know. But your architecture has had a lasting impact on the city. That’s a tremendous accomplishment, Phil. I wish I could know that kind of satisfaction.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to sound like I was whining. I do have a lot to be grateful for, I realize that. I guess I’m feeling a little humbled. I always thought if you have a good plan and worked hard, you could be the master of your own destiny. In hindsight, that seems ridiculously naïve.” Priscilla shrugged.

“Not ever having had a plan myself, it’s kind of hard for me to relate. I mean, it sounds like a more logical and reasonable way to approach life, but then again, the world’s full of surprises you just can’t anticipate,” she said.

“That’s my point, exactly. You can have the most admirable ambitions and work like a devil, but if the fates decide your time in the sun is up, look out!”

Priscilla took a break and rested on outstretched arms for a minute. She cracked her neck on both sides, sighing with relief as the pain subsided. She watched Philip as he poured over a sheaf of invoices stapled together.

Her life had been short of fulfilling, to put it mildly. And that was without the measure of goals or ambitions. Sure, she hadn’t gained much in her thirty-two years of living, but that was due more to lack of trying than anything else. The juxtaposition of her life to Phil’s made her wonder: how did an underachiever’s remorse compare to that of an overachiever? Was there more shame in falling from great heights than there was from slithering on one’s belly through the obstacle course of life?

She considered herself a nothing, a big fat zero. If that wasn’t a sign of failure, what was? Yet, with all his merits and successes, Philip Glessner had the taint of failure after one bad incident. It was true what he had said: life was the great equalizer. If this realization was meant to comfort her, it didn’t. The underachievers didn’t deserve much, but surely the diligent did. Especially a man like Phil. She reached over and grabbed some more invoices.

“I shouldn’t have said what I did,” Philip said softly.

“What?” Priscilla asked, nose in her work.

“About life being a leveler.”

“Why? I think you’re right,” Priscilla said, looking over at him.

“It might apply to the high and mighty, but the theory doesn’t fit everyone. Children are dealt hard blows that inalterably shape their futures. That’s not leveling, that’s having the deck stacked against them. Look at what happened to you. Losing your parents when you were ten was strictly a cruel act of fate. A child doesn’t need leveling. It’s not fair.”

Priscilla didn’t mean to laugh, but Philip’s sentiment was as comical as it was touching. He looked up at her, a hurt expression on his face.

“There’s no such thing as fair, Phil, as much as we’d like to think so,” she said plainly. “We have to deal with what we’re given. If it makes you feel any better, there’s no guarantee I would have ended up with a more promising future if my parents hadn’t quick fried themselves. We’re all responsible for our own outcomes, no matter where we start in life. You became a famous architect due to your own efforts, and I became a coffee shop waitress. Unemployed, I should add.”

“Yes, but I had all the advantages you never had.”

“It doesn’t matter, Phil. There are thousands of stories about disadvantaged kids going on to be mega-successes, while just as many privileged brats turn out to be deadbeats. You know the old story—you’ve got to put something in to take something out,” she said, discarding another unfruitful invoice.

“It’s not too late,” Philip said earnestly.

“Not too late for what?”

“To make something of yourself.” Priscilla scoffed. She could give pep talks, but she hated being on the receiving end of one. “You can go to school. You’ve got a wonderful mind.”

“Please, Phil—not that again.”

“What? Are you afraid of the thought that you might be good at something besides serving food?” Priscilla emitted a sigh, part exasperation, part indignation. “Or do you simply lack the imagination to see yourself doing something you find rewarding?” Priscilla sat up straight, mouth fixed in a hard line. When did Mr. Sunshine acquire the knack for mind reading? “I look at you and I see someone who would be an asset in almost any situation.”

Priscilla laughed dismissively.“Now you’re having me on.”

“Why are you so insistent on selling yourself short?”

“Why do you persist in making me feel inadequate?” she countered.

“What are you talking about? I just said I think you’d be an asset in any situation.”

“Yet you’ve only seen me in one—taking orders. I think I know my capabilities better than you do, Phil. I’ve been around me longer.”

“Ah, but that’s just it. You don’t have any perspective where your own attributes are concerned,” Philip insisted.

“Oh, is that it?” Priscilla said sarcastically. She threw the last invoice on the stack, then began the task of straightening them and putting them back in the box.

Philip kept quiet for a moment, then tried again. “The other night you mentioned something about wanting to be a writer. That’s something you can go to school to learn. You could be a journalist. You’ve been reading newspapers so long, it’d probably be second nature to you. Or you could try your hand at fiction—whatever interests you.”

Priscilla glanced up from her task and gave him a dubious look. “I tried that once.”

“What, writing?”

“Yeah. I took classes at night school in creative writing. I wanted to write short stories.”

“And?”

“I wasn’t any good at it. My stories were too short,” Priscilla said, fitting the lid on the box. She didn’t elaborate, and Philip was too confused by her answer to pursue it further. She stood and traded the completed box for a new one.

“I’ll stick this one by the door so we don’t end up going through the same box twice,” she said.

“Good plan,” Philip endorsed, as he got to his feet and followed suit. “Two boxes down, only six more to go,” he said, as he plopped back down on the floor.

“Don’t even say that,” Priscilla warned, knowing she would go blind if she had to inspect four boxes’ worth of invoices. They fell silent again as they each waded through the seemingly endless sheaves of paper. After several minutes of unproductive labor, Philip got excited.

“I think I’ve got something here,” he said, examining the bill closely. “I can barely work this out, but doesn’t that scribble look like “caissons” to you?” he asked, handing the bill to Priscilla. She squinted and concurred.

“I think you’re right,” she said passing it back to him. He sprang to his feet, his agility much improved by this stroke of good luck.

“Atillian Ready Mix, Structural Concrete Pouring,” he announced as he rounded his desk, intent on the phone. “Now the hard part—finding someone who will remember if they used an admixture on The Phoenix. Or if they’re willing to admit it, if they did. Keep your fingers crossed,” he said, as he dialed the number.

Priscilla, overcome by hope and relief, fell backwards onto the floor, gradually stretching herself to her full length as she unknotted the kinks. She crossed her arms and closed her eyes, listening to Philip’s protracted attempt to make contact with the right person. After a few minutes of listening to his patient but frustrated efforts, she got up off the floor and went in search of a restroom.

As she washed her hands in the sink, she stared quizzically at her reflection in the mirror. It struck her as absurd that Philip could look at this face and find potential in it. It wasn’t that she had a bad face; she supposed it was a decent face, but there was nothing remarkable about it. It was just an anonymous face lost in a crowd of millions.

She found perverse humor in trying to picture herself as a professional, in a suit and blouse, face and hair made up all prim and proper. She tried to imagine working in an environment like this one, working among other professional women similarly attired. She envisioned them walking into the restroom, talking amongst themselves, eyeing her disdainfully as they took pains to avoid contact with her.

Even in her fantasies, it was impossible to imagine anyone aside from Phil attaching any credibility to her. What potential did he see in her? If she really had it, wouldn’t she be able to see it, too? Maybe deep down inside, all that motivated him to build her up was pity. That had to be it. Philip simply wasn’t the kind of person who could bear the thought of anyone not fitting in and being happy.

Priscilla exhaled a deep, exhausted breath while she continued to stare at herself in the mirror. She would feel better once she got to Florida, she assured herself. The likelihood of attracting another Philip Glessner down there was remote. She’d be able to assimilate into the masses unnoticed, fade into the crowd of laid-back, stress-free souls, don their mask of tranquility and just live her life.

Surely, in the land of beachcombers no one would try to convince her that she could “be someone.” Why was it so important to be someone or something? Didn’t she have enough trouble getting through every day without having to “be” something? She splashed some water on her face and left the ladies’ room, training a nasty look at her imaginary coworkers on her way out.

Philip was still on the phone when she reentered his office. He seemed a bit frazzled but his tone was steady. Priscilla idly gazed at his incredible views while she waited for him to finish up.

“Yes, I realize that. Like I said, my problem is not with Atillian Ready Mix. Sure, I totally understand. All right, then…we’ll talk tomorrow. Thanks for your help.” Philip hung up the phone and stretched mightily in his chair.

“Good news?” Priscilla asked cautiously, as she came away from the window. The smile on Philip’s face confirmed her guess.

“He’s going to have to do some research to confirm it, but he says they were using admixtures in all their projects during that time frame. Coincidentally, it was the same admixture that was used on Jack Cafferty’s project.” He sat stock-still for a moment before jumping out of his chair.

“I can’t believe this!” he exclaimed, his elation too great to suppress. “Do you know what this means? This means I have a fighting chance now. Cafferty’s going to save his building, and by God, so am I!” He threw his arms around Priscilla so fast, she didn’t see it coming. She stood there, crushed to his chest, reluctantly allowing herself to be infected by his jubilation.

“This is amazing!” he said, as he released her. Priscilla couldn’t help but laugh along with him as he marveled over his good fortune.

“I don’t have any doubt that an admixture is at fault for what happened to the caissons. And because this is a freak problem completely out of the realm of my control, I won’t have to hang my head and take the blame for what happened. I will be vindicated and I will get my career back on track,” he vowed once more, with greater conviction.

“But…it’s going to require a lot of work,” he amended, becoming suddenly serious. “There are so many bases to cover. I better make a list.” As Priscilla was closer to his desk than he was, she reached over and grabbed a pen and a pad of paper.

“Shoot,” she said, poised for dictation. The sight of Priscilla in her customary pose caused Philip a momentary pause. “Hey, this is one thing I know how to do, remember?” she said with a playful smile, as she perched herself on the corner of his desk.

“Okay…well, this won’t be in any particular order, but here goes: contact City Hall and get the demolition stopped. That is definitely priority number one. Contact the insurance company and advise them of this development. There’s no reason to be in settlement mode if this problem can be corrected. Get the word out through the papers. They were always eager to hear what I had to say in the good old days. Even though bad news sells better, no one can resist a resurrection story. ‘Will The Phoenix Rise Again?’ They ought to love that. Stay on the people at Boyce—make sure we get those test results ASAP. And find out exactly what help they are offering to avoid a protracted lawsuit. Am I going too fast for you?” he asked Priscilla, who was mouthing the words as she raced to catch up.

“Got it,” she said, looking up for further instructions.

“Call Jack Cafferty—I want to watch his progress closely. Contract that Norwegian outfit and get that deal lined up. I still can’t believe they can actually hoist up a building and retrofit the caissons. Amazing.” Philip’s stream of consciousness halted abruptly as he stood transfixed.

“Whew! My mind’s just swimming,” he said, coming out of his reverie. “What else is there?” he said, thinking out loud.

“You’ve got your own attorneys working on this, don’t you? You probably should let them know what’s going on,” Priscilla said.

“Right. Got to put a stop to that clock until we see how all this is going to play out. It’ll be interesting to see how far Boyce Industries is willing to go to make things right. I’ve incurred legal fees up the wazoo over this problem—their problem. I need to start thinking of it as their problem, not mine.

“I’m going to have to put a lot of time and effort into reestablishing my former contacts and repairing my reputation. That’s why it’s so important to get the press involved immediately. I’m going to play that card for all it’s worth. In fact, I’m going to call my old contacts at the Times and Post right now.”

“Are you sure you’re not jumping the gun here?” Priscilla asked. “I know it’s hard to hold back, but maybe it’s better to wait until you get concrete proof—excuse the pun—before you get the media involved,” she reasoned. Philip thought about this and replaced the receiver.

“You’re right. I’ve got enough to sort out prior to that, anyway. I guess maybe I should call the staffing agency and get a permanent staff together. I’m going to have to rebuild this firm from the ground up.”

Priscilla could tell by the expression on Philip’s face his thoughts were coming faster than he could get a net over them. His eyes were wandering and his jaw twitched as he tried to come to grips with all the ramifications of what he had learned that day.

“Congratulations, Phil,” she said, bringing him back to reality. “Looks like you’re going to make good on your promise.” Philip gazed at her solemnly, overwhelmed by her words.

“It’s all because of you,” he said at length.

“No, it isn’t, Phil. Whatever small part I played by bringing the article to your attention is only incidental. You would’ve discovered all this on your own eventually.”

“Eventually would’ve been way too late to save The Phoenix. Sure, I might’ve been able to salvage my reputation to some degree if I’d discovered this admixture problem after The Phoenix came down. But to be honest with you, I don’t know if I would’ve still had the stomach for my profession. You not only spared me that horror, you’ve given me heart. I know I’ve been given the rare opportunity to right a wrong and vindicate myself. I can’t tell you how important this is to me.”

Priscilla felt a lump building in her throat. She wanted to say something glib, but when she opened her mouth, nothing came out.

“In any event, we need to celebrate,” Philip said, changing the subject for Priscilla’s sake. “You name it, we’ll do it,” he said. “What will it be? I’ve got Caitlin tonight, so it should probably be something kid friendly, but—”

“How ’bout putting me on a train?” Priscilla suggested. There was no hint of jest in her tone.

“You’re not serious, are you?” Philip gasped, stunned.

“Serious as a heart attack, Phil.”

“But…but…”

“The other night at dinner, you convinced me to postpone my departure because you couldn’t make good on your pledge to get your career back on track if you were worrying about me—”

“That’s exactly right—”

“Well, you’ve found the cause of The Phoenix’s collapse and you’re on your way to reclaiming your career. You don’t need me anymore,” Priscilla concluded, easing off the desk. “I’ve held up my end of the bargain. Now I want to go.”

Philip’s face looked as though it were going to crumble and dissolve right before her eyes. “Phil, cheer up! You’ve got your life back,” she said, walking over to the table where she had laid her bag.

“Yes, maybe…that still remains to be seen,” he hedged. “But you’re wrong in saying I don’t need you any longer. I need you even more now.”

Priscilla threw him a skeptical glance. “No you don’t, Phil. You’ve got a perfect roadmap right here to guide you through the process of saving your building and getting back on your feet,” she maintained, waving his list of tasks as proof. “If I’m lucky, maybe some of your good fortune will rub off on me when I’m down in Florida, starting a new life,” she said, slinging her bag over her shoulder.

Philip couldn’t believe she was ready to walk out on him and leave forever, just like that—no preamble, no warning. “Priscilla, wait—don’t do anything rash here,” he pleaded urgently. “A lot has happened today, and I think we both need to sit down and reevaluate the situation.”

“You mean a lot has happened to you. My situation is exactly the same as when I got up this morning. I’m two days behind schedule on my move south,” she said, crossing her arms in an unyielding manner.

“Ah, but see, this could be a sign,” Philip said eagerly. “Your plan didn’t come off the way you thought it would, and why? Because the real course you’re meant to take is an altogether different one,” he concluded excitedly. Priscilla sighed, annoyed by Philip’s endless, self-serving optimism.

“Oh really? And what, pray tell, is this alternate course I’m suppose to take? Could it possibly involve staying here and making encouraging noises while you reclaim your former glory?” she asked, her tone callous with sarcasm.

“Actually, I was thinking more along the lines of you remaining in the greatest city in the world and starting a fulfilling and exciting new life for yourself by becoming my assistant. I can offer a handsome salary and great benefits,” he said, laying on the hard sell.

“Phil…I’ll give you an A for tenacity,” she said, sinking down onto the arm of a chair and shaking her head wearily. “But in this case, it’s not going to do you any good.”

“Why not?” he asked, his voice rising in his distress. “Tell me one thing wrong with that idea.”

“It’s your idea, not mine—that’s what’s wrong with it. I have an idea of my own, one I happen to like a lot, one I’m very much looking forward to putting into action,” Priscilla said, standing up to underscore her intent.

“But what does Florida have to offer that you can’t find right here?”

“Don’t even start, Phil,” she warned, turning to leave.

“All right, all right. I’m sorry,” Philip said, scrambling to head her off before she reached the door. “Okay, no more Florida bashing. And you’re right. You’ve got your own plans and I have no business trying to talk you out of them,” he said, bringing her march to a halt.

“Good,” Priscilla said tentatively, still not convinced Philip was willing to concede so easily. “Then we can say goodbye and remain friends,” she said, testing his sincerity.

“Absolutely. In fact, I’ll do better than that. I’ll go online right this minute and purchase you the airplane ticket I promised you,” he said, making for his desk.

“No, Phil—I don’t want to fly. Thanks for the offer, but I’m actually looking forward to the train ride. I know it’ll be a lot longer, but it will give me a chance to prepare for everything that lies in front of me.”

“Okay, I’ll buy you a train ticket. Penn Station, right?”

“That’s right. The train I bought a ticket for left at 5:35,” she said, looking over Philip’s shoulder as he brought up the website.

“Destination?”

“Miami.”

“Okay. There it is. Now, I’d like to do two things…”

“What?” Priscilla asked suspiciously.

“I’d like to buy you a roundtrip ticket—just hear me out—open ended, which you can use if you find all that sunshine gives you a headache, or turn in for a refund, whichever. But in either case, you win. Okay?”

“What’s the second thing?”

“That we book it for tomorrow.” Priscilla, who had been leaning against Philip’s desk, sprang to attention as he said this.

“No way.”

“Look, you’re acting impulsively. That tells me you want to take the plunge before you lose your nerve.” Priscilla backed away from him, eyes narrowed in distrust.

“All I’m saying is if you are really dead-set on leaving, you’re going to feel the same way tomorrow. Stay one more night so I can take you out for a final goodbye dinner. I don’t mean to split hairs, but if I remember correctly, you initially agreed to stay three days and it’s only been two. Besides, Caitlin would be crushed if you left town without saying goodbye to her.

“Oh my gosh! I totally forgot the time. Caitlin’s school let out ten minutes ago! There’ll be hell to pay if Marianne hears about this. Come with me—we can continue this debate in the car,” he said, shepherding Priscilla out of his office. “I swear I’ll drop you at the station if you insist. Scout’s honor.”

Grudgingly, Priscilla fell in step, her teeth gnashing as she berated herself for being so easily manipulated. She wouldn’t be getting on any train tonight; she knew that as sure as she knew alligators inhabited the Sunshine State.

Twenty-Six

“Moo Goo Gai Pan, Moo Goo Gai Pan,” Caitlin repeated over and over, fascinated by the sound of it. “Moo Goo Gai Pan,” she tried again, loudly, affecting a Chinese accent this time.

“Shhh,” Philip cautioned her, glancing about nervously to see if her imitation had earned them any nasty looks. “Here, drink your Shirley Temple,” he said, pushing the garishly garnished drink in front of her.

“Look, Daddy—I’ve got an umbrella. Now I can stay dry in case it starts raining inside the restaurant,” she said, holding the tiny paper parasol above her head.

“What’s making you so silly tonight?” Philip asked, slightly peeved by his daughter’s animated behavior. Ordinarily, it wouldn’t have bothered him, but so far he’d had little time to persuade Priscilla to change her plans—permanently, if he had his way. Far from having a sobering effect on her, Caitlin roared with laughter at her father’s admonishment.

Priscilla, enjoying Caitlin’s antics, especially for the fact they were getting on Philip’s nerves, giggled softly as she sucked on her diet coke. Philip shot her a look—at once stern and perplexed—but Priscilla merely smiled and shrugged her shoulders, as if to say “she’s your kid, not mine.”

“Anyway, as I started to say earlier, before I was so rudely interrupted,” Philip began, turning his attention back to Priscilla, “I just want you to remember that if at any time you feel like you’ve made a mistake, you’ve always got a job here waiting for you.”

It was a heartfelt appeal, meant to soften Priscilla to the point that she gave up her stupid idea of moving to Florida once and for all. It did not gratify him in the least to find her on the brink of hysterical laughter. He looked over at his daughter, discovering the reason why. Caitlin had unwrapped her chopsticks and had them protruding from her mouth like giant tusks.

“Caitlin! Get those things out of your mouth!” he hissed, making an unsuccessful attempt to extract the chopsticks from their moorings. Caitlin sat far back in her chair, chopsticks snug and secure in her mischievous grin.

While Philip’s attention was diverted from her, Priscilla took the opportunity to fit herself with a pair of exaggerated canines, causing Caitlin to convulse with laughter. She fought to keep her sticks in place while Priscilla smiled serenely.

Philip, slow to follow what his dinner companions were up to, belatedly realized he had been outnumbered. Giving up his role as parent and adult, he hid his face behind a napkin, only to pull it away with a dramatic flourish once he had his chopsticks in place.

Priscilla held her dignity, hard as it was, and Caitlin, being a quick study, finally managed to stifle her mirth. Philip, acting once again the sober patriarch, sat proudly erect with his wooden incisors dangling from his prim smile.

Without warning, a flurry of waiters appeared with overloaded plates of foods, causing Philip to freeze with mortification. He sat, stoic and unflinching, as the waiter announced the various dishes. The girls, delighting in his discomfort, barely controlled themselves, fighting back their laughter until the waiters left them.

Though the staff had been aloof enough to not stare at their odd patrons, the trio’s antics had not gone unnoticed. But instead of plucking his chopsticks from his mouth in embarrassment, Philip gamely wriggled his mouth from side to side, making them dance wildly about until one shook loose and fell to his plate.

The hilarity of such a sight was too much for Caitlin to bear; she laughed so hard, she quickly lost both her chopsticks. Priscilla, the only one with her fangs securely in place, grinned broadly, making her sticks jut out the sides of her mouth like comic whiskers.

By this time, Philip and Caitlin had abandoned all pretense of self-control. Caitlin was barely visible over the table top, having slid halfway down in her chair, nearly strangling on her convulsive laughter. Even Philip’s normally unshakeable composure had surrendered to a barrage of frenzied gasps and wheezes.

Priscilla casually removed her chopsticks when she became conscious of the attention their behavior was attracting. She calmly dished Kung Pao Shrimp, Lemon Chicken and Moo Goo Gai Pan all around, allowing time for Philip and his daughter to pull themselves together.

Though they managed to get through their meal without further embarrassing displays, the evening had irrevocably shaken its serious tone. Even if Philip wanted to broach the subject of Priscilla’s imminent departure, he would’ve had an uphill battle.

The talk at their table had deteriorated to pure nonsense, from entire conversations carried on in faux Chinese, to in-depth examinations and multiple interpretations of all six fortune cookies.

It became apparent to Philip that throwing herself in collusion with Caitlin was Priscilla’s way of coping with what lay ahead of her, while effectively sidestepping the pressure he had been putting on her. He forced himself to act more aloof and carefree, though inside he was verging on a state of mourning.

“You’re so lucky!” Caitlin said when her father announced Priscilla’s plans. “You could go to Disneyworld every single day, if you wanted to,” she said, hanging over the side of Priscilla’s seat. “I wish I could move to Florida,” she said, shooting her father a look of longing.

“Sit back and put your seatbelt on,” he ordered, not at all happy with her hearty endorsement. She was just a kid; how could she know that Florida was the graveyard for adult minds?

In her childish fantasies, theme parks and aquatic diversions abounded. Little did she know the banal pleasure-seeking activities had to satisfy a person from youth to old age. There was no culture there, for crying out loud. How could an ex-New Yorker ever be content with an endless cycle of sun and sand and nightclubs for the rest of her existence?

“Can we?” Caitlin pestered, perturbed by her father’s lack of response.

“Can we what?”

“Can we go visit Priscilla in Florida? She’ll go to Disneyworld with us. She said so, didn’t you Priscilla?”

“Sure. If you and your dad come down to Florida sometime, we can meet up there.”

“Priscilla’s not going to be living near Disneyworld,” Philip said, bursting Caitlin idyllic vision.

“You’re not?” she asked incredulously.

“No, I’m moving further south, to the Florida Keys.”

“Oh,” Caitlin said, before falling silent as she grappled with the idea of moving to Florida and not being close to the Magic Kingdom.

Philip had the good fortune of finding a parking spot a few spaces down from The Essex. He maneuvered his vehicle with exaggerated care, drawing out his final moments with Priscilla. When he could stall no longer, he instructed his daughter to say goodbye.

“’Bye,” she said a little sadly, as she leaned forward and put her small hand in Priscilla’s. “If I give you my address, will you write to me?”

“Absolutely.”

“I’ll give it to her, Pumpkin,” Philip said, getting out of the car. He opened the door for Priscilla, who emerged rather sheepishly. She had been dreading this moment all evening. As soon as she was on both feet, Philip took her hand, depositing a wad of bills in it.

“What is this?” Priscilla asked, confused and a bit irritated by the sight of so much cash.

“For your train fare.”

“But…this is too much.”

“Take it.”

“No, Phil—I don’t like the idea of taking your money,” she said, shoving it back at him.

“Look, I promised if you changed your plans and stayed to give me moral support, I’d buy you a first class airplane ticket. This is less than what that would’ve cost.”

“But—”

“You held up your end of the bargain. You should let me do the same,” he argued. Priscilla demurred.

“Yeah, but this feels weird to me.”

“Don’t be silly. Take it. You certainly don’t need to be out-of-pocket any more on my account.” Priscilla hung her head, uncomfortable with this accounting process. “You’re going to need all you can get if you’re going to make a go of it down there. Sure, rents are probably a lot cheaper, but think of all the money you’ll be spending on sunscreen.”

Priscilla had to laugh. She had never known anyone who could take his dislike of a particular state to such a comic level. Her laughter made Philip smile, despite his misgivings.

“You know you can call me if there’s anything you need,” he said. He restrained himself from making any more pledges. He had said them all before. Priscilla nodded, head down, confused by the feeling of regret that had suddenly come over her. Saying goodbye had never been difficult for her before. She was startled out of her conflicting emotions by a rapping on the glass.

“Don’t forget to give her my address,” Caitlin shouted through the closed window.

“Oh, right,” Philip said, patting his pockets. “Do you have anything to write on?” Priscilla reached into her bag and brought out her ever-present notebook. He wrote down his current and former addresses, as well as his cell phone and office numbers, just in case she lost his cards.

“Well, you have a safe journey,” he said, handing the notebook back to her with all the dignity he could muster.

“Thanks, I will.”

“Okay, then. Goodbye.”

“Goodbye, Phil,” Priscilla said, executing a quick but cordial embrace. “Thank you for everything.” Philip nodded, tightlipped, turning to go. “Phil, I just want to say that knowing you was the nicest thing that happened to me in this town.”

The words sounded less sincere than they were meant to. Philip acknowledged them with a wistful smile before disappearing behind his Range Rover. Caitlin waved enthusiastically from the front seat.

Priscilla waved back, a jolly smile covering the rush of foreboding that had besieged her like a conquering army. Why did it feel wrong to want what she wanted? She turned her back on Philip and his daughter, walking through the entrance of her hotel to put finality to this severed relationship.

Once inside, Priscilla ducked out of view and waited until she was certain Philip had gone. She pushed back through the revolving door and turned to the left, walking briskly. She was amply glad her evening with Philip and his daughter had come to an end, but there was no way she could possibly sit in her hotel room, staring at the four walls all night, waiting for the sleep that would surely elude her.

She slowed her pace as she came upon a place named The Curtain Call, a neighborhood bar with grandiose airs. She felt a magnetic pull as she drew near the door, propped open to take advantage of the mild spring evening.

In the amber glow, she glimpsed further association to the Theater District in the framed eight-by-ten glossy photographs of famous actors that covered virtually every inch of wall space. The crowd, life-long patrons by the looks of them, glanced her way with tepid curiosity as she entered and walked the length of the bar, taking a stool that afforded a comfortable two-stool buffer between her and the others.

Though she was not really one to hang out in bars with sad, lonely drunks, she had chosen this place as being perfectly agreeable to the task she had in mind. Once and for all, she would capture on paper the blissful sensation that takes hold after the first few sips of a cocktail.

For years, she had struggled to dissect the elusive state that convinces brain and body the apex of cleverness and attractiveness had been reached, and the wittiness and clarity which one possesses in that particular moment is always accessible, if one could firmly grasp the essence of such an epiphany and hang on tightly. Priscilla was determined tonight would be the night she cracked the code; wasn’t she on the brink of a watershed event?

Surely, with nothing to distract her, and with the emptiness of liberty to aid her, she would seize that fleeting frame of mind—somewhere between stone sober and wholly inebriated—and wrest it to the page, exposing the mystery of it forever. But first she had to make her mind a complete blank so no thoughts would interfere and cause her to stray from her course, as had always been the case in the past.

“What can I get you?” asked the aging bartender, as he laid a napkin down in front of her.

“A Manhattan,” she said without a moment’s hesitation, though she had never in her life had one. It was appropriate, if nothing else, to order the famous cocktail on her last night in the drink’s namesake. Besides, it was sophisticated, old fashioned and definitely potent enough to see her straight to her goal.

“How do you want it?” the bartender asked as he reached for a bottle of bourbon, a low-end brand that almost guaranteed a headache.

“Up, and make it Jack Daniels,” Priscilla said as she set her bag on the bar and rifled through it for her pen and notebook. She was not going to let the magic moment slip by unrecorded this time.

She watched as the bartender shook her drink vigorously and poured the contents into a Martini glass. She slung the strap of her bag over one knee, making room for the lovely, dark honey-colored cocktail with the appealing red cherry at the bottom. Anything this pretty had to be good. With one glance, she was convinced it had the right chemical make up to induce crystalline revelations.

Priscilla took the glass by its dainty stem and lifted it slowly to her lips to prevent the contents from sloshing over. The first sip of the deceptively inviting substance shocked her tongue with its potency.

The whiskey, with its garnish of sweet vermouth, ravaged tongue and throat before landing with a burning thud in her stomach. She set the glass back down on the bar top while she catalogued the after-effects of her first Manhattan.

The burning sensation wore off quickly, replaced by a curious urge to sample the formidable cocktail again. She brought the glass to her lips, more steadily this time, and took an even braver sip. This time the effects registered in her legs, making them decidedly more relaxed, though in a rather alarming way.

She placed the glass back on the napkin, carefully setting it dead center. She ran her finger down the cool glass and stem. It was remarkable; one more sip would possibly do the trick. She opened the notebook to an unused page, took the cap off her ballpoint pen, and set it on top. She was ready. She lifted the glass to her lips a third time and took a long, languid sip, like a goodbye kiss to a lover she was leaving behind.

At first, she felt disappointed. But slowly a change began to take place. The corners of her mouth edged upward, forming a smile that owed its origins to an unshakable self-knowledge. She grasped the pen and sat poised, waiting for further enlightenment. But the only instruction she received from her brain was to take another sip.

It was a moderate sip, one calculated not to disturb her perfectly honed mental state. She let the whiskey linger on her tongue, enjoying the taste she had first found harsh. She set the glass down and gazed at it affectionately. She had it, by God, right there in her mind’s eye. She saw the truth of what she sought as a whole piece of information, multi-faceted and Technicolor, as if seen through a kaleidoscope.

The definitive answer was this: four sips of a well-mixed cocktail allowed one to view life in an unbiased state of mind. It had temporarily suspended the beliefs and sentiments of Priscilla Louise Vanderpool and allowed her to appreciate life’s intricacies with a Zen-like openness.

For instance, she now saw her fellow patrons not as sad, lonely drunks, but as individuals who had known for longer than she the calming and meditative effects of a good drink. She glanced around the room and saw the vulnerability and bravery of these individuals, where before she had suspected weakness. How could she know what trials and tribulations they had each endured, only to end up relying on shallow barroom camaraderie to fill their nights?

The bartender, whom she had initially written off as somewhat pathetically marking the last years of his life, listening to the sordid and trivial tales of his clientele, now seemed to her magically patient and non-judgmental.

There was something to be learned from these people, her fellow human beings, something she had grossly overlooked in the past. The lesson was this: don’t be so quick to judge. And what applied to these folks surely applied to others in her life for whom she had not bothered to look beyond the surface.

Naturally, Phil came to mind. But that was too easy; it didn’t take threading the cocktail needle to understand she had previously discounted his value. But she didn’t want to think about Phil just then. No, she wanted to put this new focusing device to a harder test. Frank: now there was a challenge.

She sat back, arms folded across her chest as she imagined Frank standing right in front of her, filthy apron and crooked paper cook’s hat. Okay, she had to give him credit for the language barrier. It had to be hard, being in his shoes.

If the tables had been turned, she doubted she could learn a foreign tongue half as well as he had. Still, no matter how difficult it was to blend into unfamiliar surroundings, she could never imagine herself being such a tyrant. But then again, it could just be a cultural thing.

Having debated Frank’s shortcomings and finding him to be merely human, Priscilla rewarded herself with another sip. She was enjoying this little game of hers, an internal spin the bottle. She closed her eyes and took another stab at it. Instantly, the face of Tobias Jordan popped into her head and she relished the chance of getting an unbiased take on him.

Well for starters, she might have been expecting too much from him. Just because he sat in her station a few times didn’t mean they had any kind of bond. So he happened to be the only famous person she had allowed herself to fantasize about; he had no way of knowing that. He had not taken part in the imaginary conversations she’d had with him about music, life, love. He could not be expected to behave the way he had in her fantasy.

Priscilla reached for her cocktail and drank immoderately, leaving just a large swallow in the pointed bottom of the glass. She exhaled deeply, as though she were trying to expel her humiliation. It was embarrassing to admit she resented Tobias Jordan, and only because he hadn’t looked at her that first day in Frank’s and recognized her as his soul mate. She was no better than the average groupie, building him up in her head that way.

No wonder the guy acted so strange and antsy; he never knew which female was going to lay claim to him. She couldn’t blame him for being so cold to her. But if that were the case, if he had erected a barrier to protect himself against delusional women like her, what could have possibly motivated him to come looking for her? She drained her drink and signaled for another.

Priscilla watched with anticipation as the bartender placed her second Manhattan in front of her. By this time, she was so intent on examining Tobias Jordan’s bizarre behavior toward her, she had lost sight of her scientific experiment.

She took a dainty sip of the liquid amber cocktail. She smiled to herself, believing erroneously that she was still in the rarified realm where she could unravel life’s riddles with piercing clarity.

The truth was she had merely shifted downward to the level of intoxication that skews one’s perception, buoys one’s self-esteem without proof of worthiness and fosters unrealistic expectations. Nevertheless, she continued her in-depth evaluation of the events that had haunted her for the last several days.

If Tobias Jordan had been looking for her, she reasoned unsteadily, what had been his purpose? He had no clue she wrote lyrics, so he couldn’t have come looking for what he had ultimately taken away.

And what could’ve possibly provoked him to buy all her lyrics, lavishly offering her fifteen thousand dollars for the dubious privilege of hauling her millstone across town? It was a mystery she wouldn’t be able to fathom if she lived a hundred years. She shook her head and took another sip.

Could there be, after all, a connection between Tobias Jordan and her that the rocker could not deny? Could he have been fighting the pull of their chemistry out of habit and the need for anonymity?

Priscilla gazed down into her glass. She plucked the cherry out by the stem and plopped it whole into her mouth. Sweet, sickeningly sweet, but oddly satisfying as well, like dragging one’s finger along the side of a wedding cake, snatching a taste of the forbidden frosting that never tasted quite as good as it looked. This fantasy of what Tobias Jordan’s actions meant was of the exact same nature; enticing, but impossible for a hard-boiled realist like her to take seriously.

As she was on the subject of men and their puzzling conduct—and they complain that women are hard to figure out!—she couldn’t help but take another critical look at Phil. If she was supposed to take him at his word, then he was plain out of his mind in love with her. More likely just infatuated, and only because he had been propelled toward his wife’s polar opposite by her cold-hearted rejection.

Priscilla didn’t doubt for a moment Phil would drop to his knees in elation and gratitude if his wife told him she had changed her mind and wanted him to come back to her. And now that The Phoenix and Phil’s career were poised for a reprieve, what could be more natural than reconciliation?

The woman in all those society page photos was no dummy; she certainly realized whatever she hoped to get out of a bankrupt Phil was far less than she could get by staying with him through more good times. Unless, of course, she had taken up with another lover already. Priscilla smiled to herself, a catty, malevolent smile, a devious grin that only jealousy could inspire.

All right, she was big enough to admit that she was intimidated by Phil’s wife. It was one of the reasons she had never been willing to take Phil’s overtures seriously. The woman was gorgeous and sophisticated, and obviously made for a guy like Philip Glessner, architect extraordinaire.

It was almost insulting that Phil would parody her by claiming to be interested in her. Maybe she resembled a high school classmate from the wrong side of the tracks who he had a secret crush on for years.

Maybe she represented not only a break from the world that had betrayed him, but perhaps he also felt as though he were performing a charitable act. Wasn’t that how those straight-laced, good-to-the-bone people thought? When one was feeling down, nothing warmed the cockles of their solid gold hearts like showing kindness to the downtrodden. The notion of being Phil’s charity case sickened her. She almost wished she had never met him.

Priscilla reached for her glass and was shocked to find she had killed nearly two Manhattans in less than an hour. With horror she realized her pen and notebook were laying untouched, no new words of wisdom inscribed on the ruled page. She wracked her brain trying to recapture those fleeting insights, the pearls of truth that had seemed so compelling just minutes earlier.

Uh…a small amount of alcohol allows a person to see with unbiased clarity… She stared at the blank page, willing her hand to record some earth-shaking revelations. But the hand lay stubbornly unresponsive.

Damn, she thought, as she grappled with her failure to catch the tiger by the tail. She had felt so certain she was on to something concrete and irrefutable this time. How could she have let it slip by again? Why couldn’t she have held her concentration long enough to nail this quest, once and for all?

With growing self-loathing, Priscilla watched in confusion as the bartender slid another Manhattan toward her. Was she so out of it that she couldn’t remember ordering a third drink? She needed another drink like she needed another man to think about.

“From the gentleman at the end of the bar,” the bartender said in answer to Priscilla’s puzzled expression. They both turned in unison toward a curly-headed man in his late thirties, smug in his loden-green corduroy jacket and his high-school teacher sensibilities. He gave her an ingratiating smirk, one that caused the Kung Pao Shrimp to dance upwards in a threatening manner. The bartender left her to deal with her quandary as he freshened a scotch and soda at the other end of the bar.

Priscilla pushed the nearly empty martini glass away, appalled at having two cocktail glasses in front of her. What had she been thinking, drinking with abandon in a place like this, with all the other wretched souls, friendless and pathetic? What made her think she would end up any better than the people around her? Did she have friends and family to see her through her old age? Did she have prospects for a normal life, with a husband, kids and a golden retriever?

Hell no. Normal was definitely not in her future. This is what she had to look forward to, wasting her time and money in anonymous watering holes for pitiful misfits. Why, she hadn’t even managed to get a song down on paper. The whole episode had been a complete waste of time. She should’ve gone back to her hotel room and laid low for the night.

But no, she couldn’t stand the thought of sitting in her room, all alone, watching time creep by. If she had gotten to the stage in her life where she couldn’t bear the thought of her own company for one lousy night, she was in big trouble.

Rather than further depress herself with visions of similarly dismal evenings in the Florida Keys, Priscilla stashed her belongings and pulled two tens out of her purse and laid them on the bar. The bartender appeared, suspicious look on his face.

“That’ll be twenty-six dollars for the two call Manhattans,” he said, his body language making her for a deadbeat stiff. Priscilla started at the outrage of charging uptown prices in such a shabby hole. Reluctantly, she reached into her wallet and pulled out another ten and pushed it across the bar.

“Thanks,” he said, in a less than cordial tone, as he removed her untouched drink and tossed the contents unceremoniously into the sink. Priscilla slung her bag over her shoulder and slid off the barstool.

She was in the middle of sending a wave of bad vibes to the surly bartender when she nearly collided with her latest admirer. Up close, he was even less appealing than she had first suspected. He laughed in a casual, off-hand manner, treating her to crooked yellow teeth and foul breath.

“You’re not leaving?” he asked in a tone that was meant to be seductive.

“Yeah,” Priscilla replied, stepping sideways to dodge his powerful halitosis.

“But the night’s still young. Besides, we haven’t been properly introduced yet,” the man went on, oblivious to Priscilla’s repulsion. “Albert Stubbens,” he said, offering his hand, which she glared at until it finally retreated from sight.

“Why don’t we have a seat over there where we can talk? I’ll buy you another drink and maybe you’ll tell me your name and why a beautiful girl like you is sitting all alone in a place like this.”

She stared in mild disbelief. She had not given him a single word of encouragement, yet he seemed completely undaunted by her lack of enthusiasm. It was as if he were a wind up doll, programmed to spout an endless stream of barroom pickup lines. She was surprised he hadn’t asked her what her sign was.

“I have to go,” she said.

He deftly stepped in front of her, blocking her path. “You’re not being fair to yourself here. All I want is a chance for us to talk and get to know each other.” Priscilla regarded him warily, wondering if there was a backdoor she could run out. “Can’t you at least tell me your name? Surely you owe me that much,” he said with an offended huff.

“Look, I’m not interested in getting to know you. So please just get out of my way,” she said, starring him down. He stiffened and took a half step backward. Priscilla sighed with relief and pushed past him. Shocked by the grope she received, she swung her bag at him reflexively. If she had taken the time to aim, she would’ve taken his head off.

“Jesus Christ!” the man wailed indignantly, taking the blow with his shoulder. “What’d you do that for?” he yelped.

“Don’t you ever lay your miserable hand on me again, you understand?” Priscilla warned through clenched teeth. By now, the commotion had attracted the attention of everyone one around them.

“What’s the problem here?” the bartender asked.

“This lady hauled off and slugged me for no reason,” bad breath said, feigning complete innocence. Priscilla started to protest, but immediately saw the futility of debating bad conduct in front of a jury of his peers. She glared at him hotly for a second before turning toward the door.

“Hold on a minute, lady—I think you owe the man an apology,” the bartender called out, his voice high with righteous indignation.

“I don’t believe this,” Priscilla said, turning around to face the maligning men.

“All I was trying to do was be friendly to a stranger,” corduroy jacket said for the benefit of his compadres.

“You hit a guy ‘cause he buys you a drink?” the bartender asked scornfully, instantly winning the support of the professional barflies.

“The drink was one thing. The hand on the ass was quite another,” Priscilla said coldly, her eyes boring a hole into her accuser.

“I didn’t touch her, I swear,” the man simpered pathetically. It was enough to turn Priscilla cold sober. Without listening to another word, she marched out the door, not slowing her pace until she was halfway down the block.

“Don’t come back till you learn some manners!”

Priscilla spun around in time to watch the cowardly groper slink back into his hole, probably out of fear she was going to come after him and finish the job she had started. She answered his insult with a harsh laugh.

She couldn’t wait to get out of this lunatic asylum of a town. No matter what kind of loafers and ne’er-do-well’s she encountered down south, she was sure she wouldn’t be met with such squirrelly arrogance. She’d had enough of this city and its inhabitants to last her a lifetime.

Her only regret was she couldn’t board a train and leave town that minute. She wasn’t even hell-bent on Florida anymore. It could be anyplace, as long as it was far away from New York City. She was now glad she had stayed one more night, for it had been the cure. She was finished with this place, absolutely and for good.

Twenty-Seven

Tobias reached over and picked up his watch. 8:45. He hadn’t gotten much sleep, but he was too restless to lie still anymore. He threw back the sheet and sat up. He had slept in his clothes on the sofa all night; for he preferred it to the three king-size beds at his disposal.

In many respects, living in a hotel suited him perfectly, but it hadn’t really begun to feel like home yet. Sleeping regularly in one of the beds would somehow signify a permanence he wasn’t ready to accept, regardless of what his home life was like these days.

Thinking of the last scene with Monique made him cringe. It seemed they had reached a point in their relationship where it was impossible to keep score anymore. He had arrogantly and incorrectly assumed he could do as he pleased and Monique would just have to take it.

It had never crossed his mind she would be unfaithful to him, though why it hadn’t was a mystery to him now. He supposed he’d always taken her love and fidelity for granted, as a sort of guaranteed payment for all her unfettered spending. They were both supposedly getting what they wanted, weren’t they? She took care of him, he took care of her. It was a bargain they had embraced, but now he wondered why they had been willing to settle for so little.

But maybe Monique hadn’t. She had been all too willing to play guardian to his celebrity, regulating his life, keeping it safe and uncomplicated. She was clever enough to pass herself off as Brody’s ally during their courtship, but she turned herself into a human wedge between the partners once the ring was slipped on her finger. If it hadn’t been for her, where would he be today? He’d like to think he’d be further along musically than he was now, yet it was just as likely he’d have ended up in drug rehab or a pine box.

He consoled himself with the idea that life was a series of phases. He had his phase of stardom and unabashed indulgence, then his phase of careful yet brainless living. Now it was time for the next phase to begin. But what exactly did he want that phase to be?

He couldn’t bring himself to go backwards, but that’s exactly what Brody and Monique wanted him to do. Knock out a few new tunes, cut an album and go on tour, regardless of the quality of what they were putting out. Just get the money machine cranked up and running again, before the well ran dry.

Brody had his own reasons for wanting to get back in the game, ostensibly for the creative outlet it provided. But even low-profile Brody had an ego to support. Monique’s motives were entirely selfish. She was only willing to let Tobias’s leash out a little in order to reel him back once he had refreshed his bank accounts and her status as wife to one of the most awesome rock talents alive.

Ironically, Monique had been the one who convinced him to break up the band in the first place, citing how destructive the business could be to body and soul. As soon as he and Brody split, she began campaigning for him to go solo. That experiment had been an eye-opening disaster, one that made Tobias gratefully retreat to Monique’s protective asylum.

But that was the past. He was in charge of his life again. At least that fact had been established. However things played out with his marriage, he would not cower in oblivion like before. He would not shun his gifts out of fear of the toll the rock ‘n roll lifestyle could take on his soul. He was a big boy now. He could keep himself on the straight and narrow, if he wanted to.

For Tobias, the least appealing aspect of their reunion was regressing backwards in time. Absent Among Us had its day in the sun. They struck gold, reveled in their glory and made a pile of money, enough to last them the rest of their lives, if they didn’t do anything stupid. Tobias hadn’t exactly been careful, with his expensive taste in young ladies and Monique’s gift for spending money.

But now Tobias found himself questioning his need for financial security. If he were to change the way he lived, if he were to devote himself entirely to music, how much money did he actually need? He could certainly do without a three-bedroom suite. And he surely didn’t have to live in a hotel.

Tobias pushed himself up off the sofa and went to the window. As he distractedly took in the sights of the city in its workaday mode, he wondered if he could really shed his glamorous habits and live a more modest lifestyle.

Could he live in a nasty little hole like Priscilla’s? His expression soured. Change was a good idea, but there was no need to go to extremes. He couldn’t picture himself living on the Lower Eastside, but there certainly wasn’t anything wrong with living in Soho or Tribeca.

The bigger question was whether he could give up his dependence on beautiful young things. In the cold light of day, this seemed an easy enough habit to break, but he knew himself better than that. It didn’t take much to stimulate his need for soft, smooth flesh, the flawless bodies of those young enough to still be compliant and eager to please. It was solely a physical addiction; he got nothing out of their company other than sex and a pretty face to look at.

Tobias turned away from the window and gravitated slowly toward the piano. There was a bigger void in his life than music alone could fill. His earlier relationship with Brody had satisfied him intellectually, and to a lesser degree, so had his marriage to Monique, but their interaction was more akin to mental jousting.

He’d had only one mistress who had challenged him mentally, but their breakup had been so excruciating, Tobias wised up and set his sights on less developed minds. And that’s what he got: an indistinguishable line of Simones, each one stunning, but shallow as a saucer.

Tobias lifted the lid and tapped on a key. While still standing, he played the opening bar of Priscilla’s song. He heard the words in his mind while he played, but neither words nor melody moved him the way they had before. He felt far too melancholy to appreciate the lusty lyrics and seductive rhythms.

He closed the lid and headed to the closest shower, where he doused himself for a long while. Afterwards, he dressed in his usual attire and went out into the day.

Twenty-Eight

Priscilla paid her hotel bill and toted her single bag out onto the street. She had awoken with a clear head and a determined attitude. A change had taken place inside her while sleeping, and she now saw the world and her place in it with new eyes. She was a free as a bird. She had no ties to any person, place or thing. She had conveniently moved Phil to a place in her mind where he no longer had the power to distract her: the past.

All she saw before her now was the present, and at that precise moment, the present was a partly cloudy day, a pocket full of money and a train ride south. She couldn’t imagine a more thrilling scenario. Here she was, poised to begin a new life. She could wipe her slate clean and replace the disappointing reality of her time in New York with a deceptively slim accounting.

She could tell whoever she met down in Florida she had spent the last twelve years in the Big Apple, where she had various jobs and boyfriends, until city life finally got to her, not to mention the horrible winters. End of story. There would be no reason to own up to anything more than that. Poof, just like that, the mistakes and misjudgments of a dozen years would vanish into thin, sun-filled air.

With the prospect of creating a new persona happily fermenting in her head, Priscilla decided some serious shopping was in order. A thirty-something turning her back on New York City because it did not suit her standards, would nonetheless take advantage of the abundance of retail stores before making her departure. Having lived so long in that fashion-conscious city, this savvy female would arm herself with the latest spring fashions before embarking on her new adventure.

In stark contrast to her former frugality, Priscilla was becoming giddy with the thought of buying all new everything: from lingerie to strappy sandals, maybe even a proper suitcase to hold it all. As she hurried down the street, visions of the new Priscilla Vanderpool flashed across her mind’s eye—relaxed, confident, hopeful, as she stepped off the train in Miami, wearing a brightly colored sundress, pulling her new suitcase behind her…

“Priscilla!” The shouting of her name sounded like an alarm, harshly yanking her out of her daydream, filling her instantly with a sense of impending doom. She stopped short and listened. “Priscilla!” the voice called again.

She turned, scanning the busy sidewalks and streets, afraid of finding out who was so desperate to get her attention. Not recognizing any of the faces turned her way, she started forward, deciding it was unwise to linger. After all, she couldn’t think of a single soul in that town she wished to speak to.

“Priscilla…wait!”

Her head swung around reflexively, and her feet stuttered to a halt, despite her commands to tune out the voice and keep moving. She backed away from the coursing foot traffic while her eyes sifted through the stream of oncoming pedestrians. She wracked her brain trying to place the voice.

“Priscilla,” Tobias said, short of breath, as he suddenly appeared before her. Priscilla’s mouth fell open, but no words came out.

“I can’t believe I found you,” he said, as he clutched her arm and laughed with relief. “Your landlady told me you moved to Florida,” he said.

Priscilla stared at him in disbelief. This could not really be happening. It was inconceivable she could’ve made such an impression on Tobias Jordan as to cause him to seek her out not once, but twice.

She had waited on him a handful of times, yet he was acting like her lifelong friend, risking exposure to the public by shouting her name on a busy street. There had to be something seriously wrong with the guy. Surely he had better ways to occupy his time than hunting down former waitresses.

“I don’t blame you for moving out of that hole,” Tobias was saying, clearly oblivious to her shock. “When she told me you moved to Florida, I totally fell for it. I guess you just said that as excuse for leaving.”

“I am moving to Florida.”

“What? Why?”

“Why do you care?” Even though her tone was plainly antagonistic, Tobias was more aggrieved by the fact that she was leaving the city than her chilly reception. Priscilla’s eyes wandered to the faces of passersby while she struggled to make sense of what was happening.

“You actually talked to Mrs. Kay?” she asked, fixing Tobias with a dubious stare.

“Yeah, I went back there the day after you left.”

“Why?”

“I wanted to talk to you about your lyrics.” Finally the light dawned. Priscilla took a step backwards as she braced herself for what was coming. He had belatedly come to his senses and wanted his money back. Fifteen thousand dollars is a lot of dough, even for a rock star. And to think she had almost made a clean getaway.

“All I have in cash is about twenty-five hundred. The rest is in Traveler’s Checks,” she said, already digging in her bag in a rather distracted fashion. “We should probably do this at your bank, don’t you think?” Tobias watched in confusion as Priscilla pulled out a wad of bills.

“What are you talking about?” he asked as she tried to hand him the loot.

“I have all your money, but most of it’s in travelers checks.”

“I don’t want the money back,” he said, slightly offended by the misunderstanding.

“You don’t?”

“No. Not at all,” he said, pushing her loaded fist back at her. “Put that back before you get mugged,” he said, suddenly self-conscious. Priscilla’s hand slowly retreated into her bag, stashing the money back in its secure place, feeling weak from relief.

“If you don’t want the money back…what do you want to talk about?” For the first time, Tobias looked unsure of himself.

“I just thought we could discuss your work,” he said, shifting his feet nervously. “It’s surprisingly good…some of it…pretty darn remarkable, actually.”

It was Priscilla’s turn to squirm. “Are you kidding me?” she said, eyes bugging in amazement.

“No, no…some of your writing is really incredible. It’s all yours, right, your original work?”

“Yeah,” Priscilla said, a giddy squeak escaping her. This whole scene was beyond belief. Tobias Jordan wanting to discuss her lyrics. It was straight out of a fantasy. She laughed again, shaking her head.

“What?”

“Nothing,” she said, pursing her lips in a modest smile. As she began to relax, so did Tobias.

“Why don’t we find a more conducive spot for conversation,” he suggested, as they both drew back against the pressing crowd. Priscilla looked at him askance, wondering what other weird moves he had up his sleeve. In the end, she figured as long as they stayed in a public place, she had nothing to fear from her unlikely, and obviously eccentric, benefactor.

“You really thought I had tracked you down to get the money back?” Tobias asked as he poured cream into his coffee. They had been fortunate enough to run into each around the corner from one of the best delicatessens in the city. Priscilla answered his question with raised eyebrows as she blew on her coffee.

Tobias laughed. “I got the best part of the bargain,” he said, stirring his coffee methodically.

“I’m not sure about that,” Priscilla replied. She still had a hard time imagining him lugging all those bags and boxes into his home. “What did your wife think when she saw all that stuff?”

“She hasn’t seen it. I’m not living at home right now.”

“Oh,” Priscilla said, noting that he was still wearing his wedding ring. Their waitress appeared and set a strawberry-covered slice of cheesecake in front of her. She slid Tobias’s lox and bagels in front of him and disappeared before he could ask for a side of red onion.

“The service here is nothing compared to Frank’s,” he said facetiously, temporarily giving up the quest. He spread the cream cheese on the bagel and arranged the salmon, but that was as far as he got. “Are you really going to eat that?” he asked, eyeballing Priscilla’s indulgent breakfast.

“Sure, why not? This will be my last chance to have the famed New York cheesecake.”

“You’re not really moving to Florida, are you?” Priscilla shot him a dubious glance. Not him, too.

“What have you got against Florida?”

“Nothing. It’s a great place to take kids for vacation, if you have kids. And it’s probably a real hoot for secretaries on parole—kind of a Club Med for poor folk.”

Priscilla, who had been about to try her first bite of cheesecake, halted the fork midair “And in your case, there’s probably some pretty amusing material for you to ponder. I can see you writing some clever lyrics about the wide variety of weirdness that exists down there—man-eating alligators kept as pets, local officials with the sensibilities of third-world dictators, and every other form of deviant indulgence.” The forkful of cheesecake turned flavorless in her mouth. Why couldn’t people just keep their opinions to themselves?

“It’s a rather interesting phenomenon, don’t you think, that some New Yorkers have such a bad opinion about Florida, yet the state has a surprisingly high percentage of former New York residents scrambling to infest it,” she countered. Tobias shrugged. Clearly, it was not a matter of much concern to him.

“It’s mostly the elderly, and they go there just to warm their old hides,” he said with off-hand cynicism. “But why would you want to go there? What could you possibly get from living in a crackpot place like that? You’re too young and your mind’s too sharp to give up city living in favor of hanging out with a bunch of zoned-out numb nuts.”

Priscilla was at a loss for words. With all the static she was receiving on her choice of future residence, you’d think she had announced she was moving to Calcutta or Baghdad. She laid her fork down, losing her appetite altogether.

“I just need a change,” she said almost apologetically. There may be huge numbers of former New Yorkers living in the Sunshine State, but it seemed one could not make the switch without enduring a fair amount of harassment.

Evidently, living in New York fostered a sense of conceit and superiority, something akin to school pride, Priscilla mused as she pushed the strawberry slices around on her plate. Funny, she couldn’t remember ever feeling boastful about being one in eight million residents on a tiny island.

“Travel the world for a while,” Tobias suggested cavalierly. “It’s a great way to blow away the weariness of day-to-day tedium. Plus, after you’ve stuffed yourself full of culture, you come back realizing how wonderful our country really is, despite the fact that it’s culturally challenged. No matter how enchanted I become when I’m traveling, I’m always surprised to find what a latent patriot I am once I hit American soil again.

“But seriously, if you need a break, Thailand, Morocco, the Netherlands—those are the places to go to.” As Tobias sipped his coffee, it occurred to him Priscilla probably had never been out of the country.

“Ever been abroad?” Priscilla shook her head. “You should take a world tour. It’d be a great adventure for you.”

Priscilla looked unconvinced. “No, I don’t think so. Even though I spent most of my childhood traipsing from state to state, I’m really not the traveling type. I don’t mind a change of pace every now and then, but when I get to a new place, I like to put down roots for a while.”

“And so you’re set on Florida, huh?” Priscilla nodded. “When are you planning on going?”

“The train leaves at 5:35.”

“Tonight?” Tobias croaked.

“Yeah.” It was highly amusing and perplexing to watch Tobias Jordan react to her imminent departure with the same alarm and trepidation that Philip had displayed. Why was it now, after deciding to leave town, that she was attracting all this male attention?

And what had suddenly come over her to make her attractive to such illustrious men? Were they both coincidentally having mid-life crises, the byproduct being a weakness for unemployed waitresses? It was simply too strange to comprehend.

Tobias had taken this latest discovery rather hard. He was practically twitching with nervousness as he sat slouched sideways against the booth, gnawing a fingernail to the quick. He had been so delighted in finding her, he had not thought any further ahead than savoring his good fortune. He was surprised to find how comfortable and relaxed he felt in her presence. He didn’t once feel like he was hunter or prey, which was a refreshing change for him.

Occasionally, he’d remember this was the same person who had penned those inspired lyrics, and he’d feel a chill of pleasure run down his spine. He found he admired her, strictly for her intelligence, which was a wholly novel experience for him. But now, without any consideration of him, she was about to vanish from his life for good. This couldn’t really be how it was meant to end.

“Do you already have your ticket?” Tobias asked, trying to keep the anxiety out of his voice.

“No, not yet.”

“Good. So that means that you’re not committed to anything yet.”

Priscilla cocked her head suspiciously. “I am leaving tonight on the 5:35 to Miami,” she said unequivocally.

“No you’re not,” Tobias said, a sly, defiant smile spreading across his face as he leaned across the table.

Priscilla, dumbfounded, merely blinked at his audacity. “You mind telling me why you think I’m not leaving this over-priced, insane rat race tonight?”

“Because I have a secret. And once I let you in on my secret, you’re not going to want to leave.”

Priscilla barked out an incredulous laugh. “Okay, I’m game. Tell me your little secret and we’ll see what kind of effect it has on me,” she said, arms akimbo, eyes registering her skepticism.

“I can’t tell you yet,” Tobias said, leaning back in the booth.

“You can’t tell me yet. I see. Am I supposed to guess?” Priscilla asked sarcastically. Without realizing it, she had picked and poked at her cheesecake until it looked like a mashed up glob. She pushed the unappetizing mess out of her sight.

“No. You’ll never guess.” Priscilla sighed deeply and sank back against the bright blue booth. Her gaze wandered for a moment before returning sharply to meet Tobias’s merry eyes.

“It’s been…interesting running into you,” she said, as she reached for the check and began digging in her purse for some cash, “but I have a few things I need to take care of before I—” Tobias’s hand on her arm stopped her mid-sentence.

“You’re not leaving tonight, I can guarantee you that,” he said. His cocky attitude made Priscilla flinch.

“Either let go of my arm and tell me what you’re playing at, or I’m going to put on a rather embarrassing show,” she threatened quietly.

“It’s not something I can tell you. It’s something you have to witness for yourself. I’m not putting you on here, swear to God. Come back to my hotel with me and I’ll share my secret with you.”

Priscilla hissed like a punctured balloon. “Surely you can do better than that.”

“It’s not a pickup line,” he said indignantly, releasing her arm with disgust. “Believe me, I do not have to go to these lengths to pick up women. For the record, you are not my type.”

“For the record, neither are you.”

“Fine. So when you to come back to my hotel, the last thing on my mind will be getting you into the sack. Okay? Comprende?”

Priscilla threw exasperated looks in every direction but his. She didn’t know much about the man, except a few basic facts she’d read over the years, such as having a wife and being the driving force behind his band. But she was starting to get the impression he was a major control freak accustomed to getting his way. For that reason alone, she was reluctant to give in to his persistent demand.

“How long will it take?” she asked, looking at her watch for emphasis. Tobias shrugged. He decided not to remind her she was about to have a life-altering experience and time was of no consequence.

“My hotel’s only a few blocks from here,” he said by way of an answer, as he reached over and snatched the check out of her hand. He slipped a few bills out of his wallet and casually tossed them on the check. “C’mon, let’s blow this joint.”

Twenty-Nine

“I’d appreciate that. Call me as soon as you have the information.” Philip hung up the phone and exhaled deeply. He looked at his watch: already quarter to eleven. Where had the morning gone? He looked over his notes and called to his assistant.

“Leslie, come here when you get a chance,” he said over the intercom. Within seconds she appeared, notepad in one hand, a fresh pot of coffee in the other.

“No, thanks,” Philip said, covering his cup with his hand. “If I have any more of that stuff, you’ll have to scrape me off the ceiling.” Leslie laughed, set the pot down on the warmer and took a seat across from her boss.

Philip had called her late last night, after tucking Caitlin into bed. He had the supreme good fortune of not only finding her at home, but of learning she was unhappy where she’d been working since he let her go. She offered her services as soon as Philip told her the good news about The Phoenix.

“Well, nothing’s for sure yet,” he had warned her.

“You called because you need someone to organize your office for you, right? Until you know for sure one way or the other, you’re still going to need someone like me.”

“That’s true, but I’d hate for you to quit your job and come back to work for me, only to find out the whole thing’s a bust.”

“Don’t give it another thought,” Leslie had assured him. “I hate working for these pretentious Harvard upstarts. You’d think they invented the concept of architecture. Besides, you’re going to prevail, I can feel it.”

True to her word, she had been at the office when he got there, her well-detailed game plan all laid out for Philip to see. As soon as the staffing agencies opened, she was on the horn, putting in her demands for the personnel they’d need to get Glessner & Associates up and running again. She had the temps scurrying around the office, making and answering calls like their jobs were on the line, which they were. Only the ones with real promise would be invited back at the end of the day. Already the long-dormant offices were starting to feel like a bona fide place of business again.

“Did you get any sleep last night?” she asked, studying Philip over her spectacles.

“About an hour, I think.”

“You’re going to sleep better tonight,” she promised him. “Any news yet?”

“No, everyone’s still working on it. I’m going to meet, uh, let me see…Joe Poncelli from City Hall, at the site at two-thirty. He’s the one who ordered the demolition. He’ll bring his engineers and I imagine they’ll crawl all over the place for a couple of hours trying to prove me wrong. But Jack Cafferty is going to be there, along with Olaf Hilmer, his contact from that Norwegian firm. I’ll have plenty of backup. So, how are things going on your side of the office?” Philip asked as he stretched his arms toward the ceiling.

“Pretty good. I spoke to Nate Rodriguez just a few minutes ago. He’d love to come back to work for you, but he wants to give his current employer a month’s notice.”

“Tell him that’s fine,” Philip said, excited that his best draftsman would be on board. All he needed was a few more dedicated employees like Leslie and Nate, and he’d be all set. There was no reason for his firm to be as large as it had been; all those extra egos hadn’t given him anything except extra headaches. He’d given most of them their starts, but that certainly hadn’t earned him any loyalty when he needed a unified front.

“Great. I’ll let him know. Other than Nate, no one else seemed interested in coming back,” Leslie said, taking a sip of her coffee as she watched her boss’s reaction.

“I’m not surprised,” Philip replied, imagining the skepticism out there. And who knew, they might be right. Perhaps all of this was premature. The problem was he had to act fast in order to save The Phoenix. Whether it panned out or not, his only course of action at this point was to proceed full speed ahead.

“Well, it’s probably for the best. I like the idea of being a smaller firm. If I’m going to be the only architect at Glessner & Associates, there’s no reason to have a huge staff. We’ll need a full-time bookkeeper and one competent PR person, but other than that, you can decide how many assistants you’re going to need to run the office. Even though you’ve always been my personal assistant, I’d feel more comfortable having you as office manager,” he said, curious how Leslie would react. He could tell by her expression she wasn’t thrilled by the prospect.

“Oh, wow, Philip…I don’t know. I don’t know that I’m the managerial type…”

“You’re selling yourself short, Les. You’re a natural-born manager.” Leslie still looked skeptical. “I’ll pay you twice what you were making as my assistant,” Philip said, adding sugar to the pot.

“You’re kidding me,” she replied slowly.

“Nope. More responsibility means more money.” A smile started to spread across Leslie’s face as she calculated how that kind of pay increase would affect her life. She might even make the move from renter to owner.

“You’ll be the big cheese around here. Everyone will answer to you.”

Leslie bit her lip to keep her enthusiasm under control. “I liked being your personal assistant,” she said, “I’ll miss working closely with you.”

“Believe me, you’ll see plenty of me. You’ll be my right hand,” he assured her. “But it’s important that I can do my work without worrying whether the office is running smoothly. With you at the helm, I know I won’t ever have to think about it.”

Leslie smiled broadly. “You don’t have to worry. I’d love to be the office manager,” she said, accepting the position.

“But I’ve got to warn you, it’s going to be a lot of hours, especially in the beginning.”

“Not a problem, boss. I don’t have a life outside of work, anyway,” Leslie said with a self-deprecating laugh. Philip smiled. He knew a fellow workaholic when he saw one.

“Mr. Glessner?” a voice on the intercom interrupted them.

“Yes?”

“I have Mrs. Glessner holding on line three.” Philip started at the announcement. Seeing the look of mild panic on Philip’s face, Leslie rose and excused herself.

“Good luck at 2:30,” she whispered with her fingers crossed as she left his office and closed the door.

“Marianne?” he asked tentatively. It could have been his mother, but she rarely called him at work.

“Philip, I’ve been trying your cell phone for hours,” she said accusingly. Philip’s heart beat hard against his chest, then sank. “I certainly didn’t expect to find you at your office.”

“What is it, Marianne?” he asked with strained caution, envisioning the worst. “Is Caitlin all right?”

“She’s perfectly fine,” Marianne replied impatiently. “But she is the reason I’m calling. I’m afraid I must leave town this afternoon. Father’s health is failing and Mother is starting to crumble under the stress of all the appointments and tests and numerous physicians. I plan to be gone no more than three or four days, five at the most, but I don’t want Caitlin to miss any school. You’ll need to pick her up today—”

“I had her yesterday,” Philip protested.

“Are you saying you can’t be bothered to take care of your daughter two days in a row?” Marianne asked snidely.

“No, of course not. It’s just bad timing for me today. If you could have told me about this last night, or even first thing this morning—”

“Well, forgive me for having an ailing father,” she spat. Philip emitted an exasperated grunt and held the phone away from his ear, glaring at it while he imagined beating it to pieces on the edge of his desk.

“I’m very sorry about your father, Marianne, truly I am. But I have a company to run. I would appreciate in the future if you wouldn’t spring these changes on me at the last minute.”

“What company?” Marianne asked, contempt coating every syllable. “All I hear out of you and your attorney is that “your company” is all but defunct. You plead poor mouth every time we offer you a settlement proposal. It’s rather pathetic to now try to hide behind that slim excuse of a job, especially when it comes to performing your fatherly duties.”

“I am not trying to shirk my fatherly duties, Marianne. But we’ve got to find a way to work together when it comes to Caitlin’s custody. I have no problems with having her for the next three or four days, don’t get me wrong. It’s just that this is coming at the worst possible time for me.” Philip heard a long, protracted sigh.

“Don’t worry, Marianne—I’ll pick Caitlin up at 3:30. I’ll have to drop her at home, because I do have an extremely important meeting scheduled at 2:30, which I’ll have to leave and go back to. Paulina will be at the house, won’t she?”

“Yes, but only until six,” Marianne grudgingly admitted.

“All right, I’ll make it work. Then she can pack her things and spend the weekend at my place,” Philip said, as he wondered how he was going to juggle all his imperative tasks and a seven-year-old girl at the same time. This would’ve been a great time to have Priscilla around, he thought as he listened to a list of do’s and don’ts that were spewing from the telephone.

“Fine, fine. Just go see your folks and take care of them. Caitlin and I will have great time together. I hope Herb is feeling better soon,” Philip said, the sentiment sounding empty and false to his own ears. Marianne uttered a curt thank you and hung up the phone.

He stared at his calendar in bewilderment for a moment before summoning Leslie back to his office. There wasn’t enough time in the day as it was. Now he’d have to break away from one of the most important meetings of his career to play chauffer, he grumbled, then immediately felt guilty. He’d do anything on earth for Caitlin, and besides, this was her mother’s fault.

For one fleeting, mean-spirited second Philip wondered if Marianne was pulling some sort of stunt on him. Her timing couldn’t have been more terrible. What if she had heard through the grapevine that The Phoenix might be saved, along with his career? Maybe in her heart of hearts all she wanted was to see him ruined.

He shook his head to dismiss the thought. That was just an over-abundance of caffeine talking. Marianne may possess some dubious qualities, but he could never believe her capable of using her father’s health as a bogus excuse for leaving town on a moment’s notice.

If there was one thing he could count on, it was Marianne playing the sainted image of motherhood until she had extracted every advantage from their divorce. More time with Caitlin meant more money for Marianne. Funny how a woman who had previously shown no head for figures had suddenly acquired a keen aptitude for finance. Philip turned back to his work and didn’t give the incident another thought.

Thirty

Tobias unlocked the door to his hotel suite and held it open for Priscilla. She entered cautiously, as though she were expecting some sort of ambush. Tobias smiled to himself, imagining how foolish she was going to feel when she found out how honorable his intentions were. He passed her in the foyer and led her to the living room. He got a kick watching the expression on her face as it changed from skeptical to awestruck.

It was the piano that impressed Priscilla most as she took in Tobias’s spacious surroundings. It was her first glimpse at his musical side and the only hint she’d had thus far of what lay beneath his protective façade. She found it oddly touching that he had a piano in his suite, though she couldn’t say why. Perhaps it was because it made him seem more like a serious musician and less like a wealthy eccentric.

“Do you play?” Tobias asked, watching Priscilla gravitate to the piano as though she’d been separated from it for years.

“No,” she said, backing away from it self-consciously. “But I know you do.” Tobias grinned as he ran his fingers across the keys.

“Want something to drink?” he asked, deliberately stalling. Priscilla, still leery of his intentions, declined. Though he was anxious for her to hear the music he had written for her lyrics, he didn’t mind building the suspense first. “Have a seat,” he said nonchalantly. Priscilla obediently sat down on one of the sofas, nervously taking stock of the room.

“Nice views,” she said, though in truth they weren’t particularly interesting. Certainly not as dramatic as the views from Philip’s office or his borrowed apartment.

As she glanced around the room, she caught sight of something that made her heart race. Until that moment, she had managed to forget Tobias was in possession of all her lyrics. He said he wanted to talk to her about them, but why? Did he plan on giving her a tutorial in song writing? Had he brought her here just to mock her? As her eyes darted in his direction, he began to play the first bar of her song.

“Just when you think you’re immune…”

Priscilla sat stock-still. At first, she couldn’t even bring herself to breathe. A private concert by her idol. She had to be hallucinating, she thought, as she tried to convince herself otherwise. Then a spark of recognition sent a wave of goose bumps down her body, from scalp to toe. Those were her words he was singing! Disbelief merged with elation; elation flared and faltered, and anxiety took its place.

She had been harboring the assumption in the back of her mind that Tobias had wisely discarded her unwieldy collection of bags and boxes. Other than that niggling fear, she tried not to think of their bargain at all.

So what if he had thrown twenty years of her private thoughts and observations in the dumpster? She had been within an inch of tossing them into the incinerator herself. It came as quite a shock to find that not only did he still have her lyrics, he had obviously read some of them as well. Not only read them, but put them to music.

Ironically, no words occurred to her to accurately describe the thrill, the joy, the honor of the compliment Tobias had paid her. Or how unnerving it was to sit there and hear him sing her own words to her. Her throat closed in on itself as though it were being physically squeezed shut. It was in the third chorus she realized she was crying.

The tears, great fat drops, splashed down her face, landing wetly on her shirt. She wiped at them furiously with both hands, mortified that Tobias would see. Fortunately, he was too focused on his playing to notice. She took sharp breaths and willed herself to be calm. She had just about steadied herself when Tobias glanced her way.

He stopped singing and his hands trailed to a stop. He threw one leg over the bench and faced her. It was clear this was not the response he had expected. Priscilla made a futile attempt to smile.

“I can’t tell by your expression if you love it or hate it,” he said.

Priscilla croaked wanly. She studied her lap while she composed herself. “You…put music to my words,” she said. Hearing herself say that almost made her break down again.

“I did. Do you mind?”

“No. Of course not. I’m just…stunned, that’s all. I mean, you…you can’t have any idea how this makes me feel. I never in all my life expected to hear my lyrics sung to music.” Her gaze drifted back to her lap and tears started to fall again. She hastily wiped them away without looking up. Tobias was deeply touched by her response.

“You called them lyrics. Lyrics are meant to be sung,” he said, trying to make light of the situation. Priscilla couldn’t argue with his logic. A man as gifted as Tobias couldn’t be expected to understand her plight. To him, writing music comprised creating both words and music. But she possessed a sadly compromised talent. It was like having thoughts without the voice to express them.

“Didn’t you write these words with the hope that one day they’d be sung?”

“No, I never imagined it. I mean, I always heard a tune, but…”

“But what?”

“I had no way of creating it.”

“Well, you could have learned.”

Priscilla shook her head. “No, I couldn’t. I have absolutely no musical ability.”

“Oh come on, everybody has some innate musical talent. Didn’t you play some kind of instrument in school?” Priscilla shook her head. “Not even the recorder? Ukulele? Kazoo? Nothing? Surely, you had choir. Even if you can’t sing, you can’t get out of choir practice. The teacher always made the tone deaf ones play tambourine or chimes,” Tobias reasoned.

Priscilla wagged her head stubbornly. “Nothing. I was the only kid in my whole grade who was literally prohibited from entering the music room,” she said.

“No way.”

“It’s the truth.”

“That’s plain cruel.”

“Tell me about it.”

“So, no musical outlet, but you still wrote reams of lyrics. Why?” Priscilla shrugged.

“I couldn’t help it. I’ve been writing since I was a kid. I guess it’s more of a coping mechanism than anything.”

“Really? That’s interesting,” Tobias said. He rose and took a seat on the sofa perpendicular to Priscilla’s, making her feel even more self-conscious. “And you never saw them as poems? Young girls often write poetry,” Tobias suggested.

“I’ve always heard them as songs.”

“Well, you’ve got a whole lot of songs in each one of those books. You must have to do a lot of coping.” Priscilla laughed weakly.

“Yeah, I suppose so.”

“No, really—did you honestly see writing as therapy, even when you were a kid?”

“Yeah. It was something that just came naturally to me. I started writing one day and I’ve never stopped.”

“Was there one specific event that started it?” Tobias asked casually.

Priscilla had to consider this question before answering. She had yet to make up her mind about this man, and she couldn’t tell if he’d asked it out of sincere interest or idle curiosity. It made her squirm in her seat to think he had poured over feelings and thoughts she never meant to share with anyone.

Complete privacy had been the chief benefit of never putting her lyrics to practical use. Because of one weird twist of fate, every creative effort she’d ever made in her life was now at the disposal of one extremely talented, cynical and egocentric man, a man whose music had profoundly affected her while she was growing up. The irony of the situation almost made her laugh.

But maybe fate wasn’t laughing through its hand this time. Maybe fate had donned the benign cloak of destiny and was acting as an ally. With all the weird goings-on of late, she supposed anything was possible. Could it really be that Tobias Jordan was so intrigued by her words because he recognized in them a kindred spirit? Maybe, but she still didn’t trust him yet.

“The death of my parents,” she said at length. “They were killed when I was ten.”

“Both of them? Wow, that’s rough. How?” Priscilla looked at him squarely.

“Car accident,” she said, without batting an eye.

“That’s awful. I’m sorry,” he said, offering somewhat empty condolences that meant nothing to either of them. “So you were an orphan. Did you have to go through all the foster drama?”

“No. My Uncle Bob took custody of me. He was a musician, oddly enough. Played guitar and bass. His band was called Trick Monkey,” she said with a laugh.

“Didn’t your uncle encourage you to learn music? If you were writing all this stuff while you were with him—”

“I never let on about what I wrote in those notebooks. And I never showed the slightest interest in following in his footsteps. I was their mascot, and nobody saw me as anything other than Bob’s niece, someone they needed to protect and take care of.

“I don’t think anyone wanted to see me end up the way they had. They liked to pretend their lives were glamorous, but subconsciously they knew they couldn’t carry on like that forever. They managed to get fairly steady gigs, but it wasn’t not like they were ever going to reach superstar status or anything close. Living hand to mouth, or drug to drug, was about the extent of their success.”

Priscilla stopped abruptly. She was rambling on out of nervousness. She smiled awkwardly and fidgeted, wishing she could disappear. Tobias looked at her thoughtfully for a moment before standing up.

“Do you want to hear the rest of the song?”

Priscilla nodded. “Do you mind starting from the beginning? I think I was in shock the first time around.”

“I’ll do even better than that. I’ll play it on the synthesizer so you can get the full effect.” He pulled the keyboards away from the wall and positioned it so he could face his audience. He set a few controls then began to play what had already become a familiar tune to him.

“…What’s the point of trying to fight it, when you know you always give in…”

“See, here’s the really cool thing about this instrument, why it’s invaluable when you’re writing music,” Tobias explained, interrupting his recital as he fiddled with the controls.

“Now that was kind of a mellow version with guitar, piano and bass. If we want to liven it up, we set the switch and Voila!—we’ve got a horn section. A trumpet. Two trumpets. And an alto sax. And if you want more drama, replace the guitar and bass with cello and violin.” Tobias played the repeating chorus as he demonstrated the different effects.

Priscilla was so giddy, she felt as though she might faint. She still wasn’t sure if this bizarre experience was the answer to a lifelong dream or the beginning of a particularly humiliating nightmare. She couldn’t fathom why Tobias had been drawn to her in the first place. She didn’t really believe in fate or destiny any more than she believed in reincarnation and out-of-body experiences.

But having Tobias Jordan wander into her sphere then move in on her life seemed too great a coincidence to write off as accidental. Of all the coffee shops in Manhattan…

“Could you start it over again?”

Tobias took his hands off the keys and let the synthesizer play out. “With the brass or without?” he asked.

“With.”

Tobias started from the beginning. He played the chorus through twice without lyrics so Priscilla could get a feel for the melody. He watched her intermittently as she absorbed the sounds. A smile spread across her face as she noted the compatibility of words and music. He sang the song all the way through, ending it with a hammy flourish.

“So, what do you think? Does it meet with your approval?” Tobias asked as he fiddled with the controls, creating random bursts from assorted instruments. Priscilla’s expression of pure joy made answering his questions unnecessary. “Is that how you heard it when you wrote the song?”

“Oh, God—that was so long ago, I can’t even remember,” she said. “I’ve never heard full orchestration to anything I’ve ever written. There’s always been a basic melody and rhythm, but really nothing much beyond that. I don’t know enough about musical instruments to imagine what they sound like.”

“How did you feel hearing it with all the bells and whistles?”

“Ecstatic. I can’t even describe what it’s like. I know nothing to compare it to.” Tobias beamed. He seemed almost as happy as she was.

“Did you recognize the words right away?”

“It took a few seconds,” Priscilla admitted. “The last thing I expected to hear was you singing something I had written. I think I’m still recovering from the surprise.” Tobias switched off the synthesizer and joined her on the sofa.

“You got a kick out of creating music for someone else’s lyrics, didn’t you?” she asked. Tobias crooked one leg up underneath him as he turned to face her.

“Yeah, I did, as a matter of fact. It was the first time I’d ever tried something like that.”

“Did it feel weird?”

“No…it felt completely natural. I’d never contemplated collaborating with anyone other than Brody, and all the lyrics to our songs were solely mine. I don’t think Brody could string two rhyming lines together if his life depended on it. But he is awesome when it comes to arranging.”

“I’d say you’re pretty good at it yourself,” Priscilla said. Despite her initial nervousness and awe at being in such close proximity to a rock icon, she felt surprisingly comfortable in this rather intimate setting. Tobias was definitely more at ease than she had ever seen him.

As they sat there, each glowing with their private satisfactions, they simultaneously became aware of this shared intimacy. The realization caused Priscilla to recoil back into her shell. Tobias, on the other hand, became intrigued by the situation. It had never crossed his mind that he’d be able to open up to anyone besides Brody where making music was concerned.

He was so private about his creativity, he had shunned all interviews, except the one he had given to Rolling Stone, which he always regretted. That interview and the brief bios she had read over the years were the only clues Priscilla had into the rock star’s personality. But nothing she had read or heard had prepared her for what she was witnessing now.

“What is it?”

“Nothing,” Priscilla said, trying to hide her grin.

“What?”

“This is just so strange for me.”

“Why’s that?”

Priscilla leveled an incredulous look at him. “You don’t find anything peculiar about what’s happened between us? You wandering into Frank’s Food Hell, me waiting on you…you stumbling into my apartment building and buying my stuff…? Then running into each other right before I left town? Doesn’t any of that strike you as incredible?”

“I didn’t just stumble into your building. I went there specifically to find you. Besides, weirder things have happened,” Tobias said, a playful grin giving him away.

“Well, I don’t what to hear about them. I’m having enough trouble with this.”

“What’s the trouble?” Tobias asked cavalierly. Priscilla was too exasperated to answer. “Hey, sometimes you just have to go where life takes you.”

“I never thought I’d hear such trite philosophizing come out of you,” Priscilla said reproachfully.

“Watch it,” Tobias said, an evil glint in his eye. “I seem to recall as few corny sentiments in those notebooks of yours,” he said, making as if to fetch the lot of them to prove his point.

“No fair. Most of that soppy stuff was written when I was a kid,” Priscilla said, grabbing his arm to prevent him from carrying out his threat.

This minor physical contact had a pronounced effect on both of them, though Priscilla pretended not to notice. Tobias leaned casually against the sofa, his gaze and smile lightly mocking her. Priscilla refused to be rattled. She stared back blankly as if she felt nothing out of the ordinary.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” she said.

“What is it?”

“You do have eyes, after all,” she remarked, belatedly realizing this was the first time she had ever seen him without his ubiquitous sunglasses. Now that she thought about it, she couldn’t remember ever seeing a photo of him without his shades, not even on an album cover. The difference it made in his appearance was so profound, it amazed her she hadn’t noticed it before.

“What color are they?” she asked leaning in for a better look. Tobias, suddenly self-conscious without his protective armor, arched away from her peering eyes. His discomfort was not lost on Priscilla. She enjoyed having him in a vulnerable position. Her eyes darted back and forth between the two orbs, comparing them in the different lights.

“They’re sort of a blue-grey, aren’t they?” she asked.

“Yeah, I guess so,” Tobias admitted, as he searched for his glasses. Spying them on a table by the piano, he leapt up and put them on, turning back to Priscilla with a childishly triumphant air.

“Oh really,” she sighed. “Hey, it’s too late—I’ve already seen them. They’re no big mystery anymore. Two eyes, one just like the other.” Tobias sat down next to her, smugly indifferent to her taunts. “Come on, there’s no paparazzi here. No need to hide behind those dark glasses.” Tobias resumed his earlier posture, confidently staring at her from close range.

“Okay, be that way,” Priscilla said, reaching into her purse for her sunglasses. She put them on and turned toward Tobias, each staring the other down fearlessly. Both found it hard to keep a straight face, but neither wanted to be the first one to crack. After a couple minutes of the staring standoff, it became a battle of the wills.

Tobias was the first to realize that subterfuge was necessary in order to become the victor, so with that in mind, he worked up a routine of facial tics so ridiculous, a person would have to be made of stone not to find them humorous. But Priscilla was immune to his tactics. She stared on without even a hint of a reaction.

She let Tobias’s act run its course before initiating one of her own, one subtler than her opponent’s. She nonchalantly pulled her hair back and secured it with a clip, an act so natural, Tobias never guessed at what she was up to until it was too late. Once he realized she was wiggling her ears, he was a goner. He tried to fight for control, but it was no use. Never had he seen anyone move their ears with such agility.

“Damn, how do you do that?” he asked, after surrendering with a fit of giggles.

“Can’t tell you. It’s a family secret.”

“No, really—where’d you learn to do that?” he insisted, leaning forward in an attempt to look behind her ears. Priscilla leaned away, throwing her hands over her ears. He pulled her arms down, laughing, making her laugh, too. She wrested one hand free and removed her clip, letting her hair act as a natural blind.

“Ha ha,” she said, clearly outsmarting him again. Tobias leaned back and feigned indifference, just long enough for Priscilla to relax her guard. Without warning, Tobias lunged at her, knocking her back against the sofa, her hands pinned next to her shoulders.

“Do it again,” he commanded her. Priscilla could barely protest over her excited laughter.

“Let go of me, you lunatic!” she managed to squeal, but Tobias would not oblige.

“Not until you show me how it’s done,” he said, moving in for a closer inspection. Priscilla was unable to answer for several seconds as she laughed and shrieked and tried to throw him off.

“You must have some kind of tiny mechanism behind there,” Tobias insisted, as Priscilla squirmed to prevent him from looking.

“Wait!” she croaked. “I think I heard someone knocking at the door.”

“Nice try.”

“No, honestly.” Tobias scoffed and continued the tussle. It was the low cough of the bellman that finally convinced him that she wasn’t fibbing. He sprang away from Priscilla with such alacrity, he startled the young bellman.

“Sorry, Mr. Jordan. You must not have heard me knocking,” the bellman said, coloring at his embarrassment. “Where would you like me to put your dry cleaning?”

“Any of the bedrooms is fine. Um…make it the other one, to your left,” Tobias said, causing the bellman to clumsily reverse himself. The young man made haste to dispatch his errand and get out. Tobias intercepted him as he rounded the corner to the foyer.

“Here you go,” he said, slipping the bellboy a ten to show no hard feelings.

“Thank you, Mr. Jordan,” the kid uttered nervously, bowing his way backwards to the door. “Call if you need anything, sir,” he added before shutting the door behind him. Tobias waived munificently and retraced his steps to his awaiting guest, who had taken advantage of the intrusion to pull herself together.

“Saved by the knock,” Tobias said, as he sauntered back into the room. Priscilla smiled at the remark. Whatever inspired their roughhousing had served to break through any remaining tension that existed between them. They had reached a level of intimacy that made it impossible and unnecessary for them to stay on their guard. They were at a new stage in their odd relationship, but what that stage was, neither of them seemed to know for sure.

“Well, that was fun. I guess we could find an empty coke bottle and give it a spin,” Tobias said facetiously.

“Or if you have a blindfold, we could play Pin the Tail on the Donkey. You can be the donkey first,” Priscilla suggested.

“Very funny.” Tobias sat back down next to her, and lapsed into thought while Priscilla continued to tidy her appearance.

“Are you hungry?” Tobias asked. “Neither one of us ate what we ordered at Loemann’s.”

“Yeah, I know. That cheesecake was really good, but I guess I didn’t have much of an appetite then.”

“How about now?”

“I could eat.”

“Where should we go?” Tobias asked, standing up.

“I don’t know. I don’t really know many places in this part of town. I imagine you know the area better than I do.”

Tobias considered the options. “What do you feel like?”

Priscilla shrugged.

“How does Japanese sound?”

“Can’t say I’m very fond of raw fish.”

“Okay…French, Italian, Greek…?”

“I’m fairly pedestrian when it comes to food,” Priscilla said, realizing that dining out with Tobias Jordan would probably be a lot like her first date with Phil. Rich people eat differently than poorer folks. It was just a fact of life.

“Why don’t you name the cuisine and I’ll pick the place,” Tobias suggested.

Priscilla could tell the process was starting to annoy him. “Um…well, how about seafood? Cooked seafood,” she amended, reading Tobias’s mind. She could tell he was really in the mood for Japanese, but there was no way she could put herself through that.

“Cooked seafood it is,” Tobias said, ushering her toward the door. “I know the perfect spot that serves both. It’s about a ten block walk, if you’re up for it.”

“Sure, no problem. I like to walk,” she said, watching as Tobias donned his baseball cap. At least he left his leather jacket behind.

“Is it hard for you to go out in public without being hounded?”

“Sometimes. Depends on the place, and the time of day. And who I’m with,” he added as an afterthought, recalling all the unwelcome attention he attracted when he was out with Simone and her brothers. The place he had in mind was so busy, and so accustomed to having celebrities milling about, no one would pay the slightest attention to a rock star and a former coffee shop waitress.

Thirty-One

Paulina let Philip in and led him back to the kitchen where Caitlin was eating her dinner. It was quarter to seven, forty-five minutes past the nanny’s quitting time. As late as Philip was, he had left the office with a pile of unfinished business.

“Daddy!” Caitlin cried, as she sprang out of her chair. Philip caught her mid-flight and hoisted her into the air.

“Hi sweet cakes!” he said, as he held her tight to his chest. “Thanks for feeding her,” he said to Paulina over Caitlin’s shoulder.

“It was no problem, Mr. Glessner.”

“Paulina made me macaroni and cheese,” Caitlin announced gleefully.

“I see that. Okay, squirt—sit down and finish your dinner so we can get going,” Philip said, as he lowered her to the ground. He pulled out a chair and sat down next to her to coax her along, but he could tell she was more interested in talking to him than she was in her half-eaten pasta.

“Haley Prattlesworth brought two turtles to school today.”

“Is that right? C’mon, sweetheart—take another bite,” Philip encouraged her, skewering several macaronis onto her fork.

“That’s too many,” Caitlin protested, pulling three pieces off with her fingers.

“Okay, eat that bite.”

“Can I make you something to eat, Mr. Glessner?”

“Oh, no thanks, Paulina. I’m not hungry.”

“Guess what their names were,” Caitlin said through a mouthful of food.

“Who? Don’t talk with your mouth full,” Philip said, as he loaded the next forkful. He held it at the ready while Caitlin made a big show of chewing her food thoroughly.

“Wait, can I just tell you something?” she pleaded as soon as her mouth was empty.

“Sure. Just take another bite first.”

“No, Daddy—I have to tell you first,” Caitlin insisted.

“All right, go ahead,” Philip relented, sticking the forkful in his own mouth. It wasn’t until he had the pasta on his tongue that he realized he hadn’t had anything but coffee and half a turkey sandwich all day. His stomach growled audibly, making both Caitlin and the nanny laugh.

“Daddy!” Caitlin squealed with delight.

“Sorry. Go on with your story.” Philip stabbed at the macaroni while Caitlin chattered away.

“Haley’s turtles are called Kermit and Miss Piggy! Isn’t that so dumb?”

“Why do you say that?” Caitlin rolled her eyes and feigned great impatience.

“Because, Kermit is a frog and Miss Piggy is a pig! You can’t call turtles frog and pig names!”

“I don’t see why not,” Philip said, helping himself to another bite. “They’re her turtles, so she gets to call them anything she wants. It would be no different if you had a dog and named him Dumbo,” he reasoned.

“Dumbo!” Caitlin cried indignantly. “Who ever heard of a dog called Dumbo?” she said, snickering at her silly father.

“Or naming your cat Bambi. Or your spider Mickey.”

“Daddy, that’s dumb!” Caitlin giggled.

“Come on, now—one last bite,” Philip urged, holding the fork for her. She snatched the forkful in her mouth and made bug-eyes as she struggled to chew the oversize bite.

“You don’t have to stay, Paulina—I can lock up.”

“Thank you, Mr. Glessner, but Mrs. Glessner gave me specific instructions to stay until you and Caitlin left,” the nanny replied, embarrassed at being put in the middle of their conflict.

“Well, we’re going right now…after one more bite,” he tried to con his daughter, but she was having no part of it.

“You said the other one was the last. You eat it,” Caitlin said, guiding the fork to his mouth.

“All right—all done,” Philip said, standing up, bowl in hand.

“Don’t talk with your mouth full, Daddy,” Caitlin warned. Philip tried to look stern, but it didn’t come off.

“Get your stuff together, Pumpkin. We’ve got to take off,” he said, handing the dish to Paulina. “Did you pack enough clothing for a few days?”

“Mrs. Glessner packed her bag,” Paulina said.

“I helped. I put in three pairs of shorts and five tops and two sweaters and two pairs of long pants and—”

“When did you help pack?” Philip asked, an uneasy feeling coming over him.

“When I got home from school,” Caitlin replied.

“I thought your mother had to leave for the airport before you got out of school,” he said, looking from daughter to nanny for confirmation or denial. “I thought that’s why I had to come and get you.”

“She wouldn’t have had enough time to pick Caitlin up and get back and pack,” Paulina offered.

“I see.” Philip, stinging from the deception, turned Caitlin toward the door and gave her a gentle push. “Go get your things, honey.” Turning to Paulina, he asked, “What time did Mrs. Glessner leave?”

“It was four-fifteen,” Caitlin piped up before the nanny could answer. “Mommy was mad ’cause Uncle Martin was supposed to be here at four o’clock, on the dot,” Caitlin added before sashaying out of the room.

“Wait a second, Pumpkin,” Philip called out. Caitlin popped her head back around the corner. “Martin Fink picked your mother up and took her to the airport?”

Caitlin nodded energetically. “Martin Finky-Stinky,” she said, looking bored with the thought of the man.

“Why would he take her to the airport?” Philip asked. Caitlin shrugged and made a face of comic bafflement. “Okay, go get your stuff.”

Paulina became very busy at the sink, so Philip couldn’t study her expression for clues as to Marianne’s trickery. “Uncle Martin” was supposedly his attorney. What earthly reason did he have for escorting the adversary to the airport?

Philip felt his face grow hot as he envisioned such a picture. He thought back to the settlement meetings and how solicitous Martin had always seemed when addressing Marianne. He had assumed Martin did so to underscore Stan Michelson’s distinct lack of manners.

That lousy son-of-a-bitch, Philip thought, the muscles in his face twitching with anger. Whatever was going on behind his back could not be good. His temptation was to pick up the phone and call his two-faced lawyer out on his actions. But Martin and Marianne would only come up with some cockamamie tale that he could neither prove nor disprove. No, the thing to do was feign ignorance and catch them at their own game, whatever that was.

Thirty-Two

Priscilla scrambled to keep pace with Tobias as he wove through the long corridors of the Plaza Hotel. She had only been in this famed establishment one other time, and the memory of it made her cringe. She had unwisely gone along with Rochelle and Darlene, on another one of their lofty schemes to meet rich men.

They had chosen The Oak Bar as the most conducive spot for bagging big game. Instead, they ended up having one of the most humiliating experiences of Priscilla’s life, which was saying something. Rochelle was so sure of her raw animal magnetism and womanly charms, she failed to realize that some of her male admirers had taken the lot of them for low-rent hookers. One word from the bartender and they were roughly escorted to the door and told never to show their faces around there again.

Priscilla threw paranoid glances toward the surveillance cameras and latched on to Tobias’s arm for protection, which Tobias embraced rather touchingly. He held open the door to the Oyster Bar, then led her to a table in a corner off to the side, completely out of view from the entrance.

“How’s this?” he asked, as he made himself comfortable. Priscilla sat back and tried to feel as relaxed as he looked. The waiter approached with menus and offered to take a drink order.

“We’ll take a look at your wine list,” Tobias told the waiter. “I’d say champagne is in order, wouldn’t you?”

The suggestion took Priscilla by surprise. “Champagne?”

“Sure, why not? We’ve got a lot to celebrate.”

“We do?”

Tobias laughed at Priscilla’s bewilderment. “Yes, we do. We’re celebrating your first song set to music. And we’re celebrating the fact that you’re not leaving The Empire State, after all.”

“I’m not?”

“Don’t play coy with me, Miss Priscilla Vanderpool. You’re future’s here, not in Swampland Safari.” The waiter reappeared, giving time for Priscilla to take a deep breath unnoticed. “We’ll take a bottle of the ’85 Vueve Cliquot, La Grande Dame. And make sure you’ve got another one chilled. Should we get some oysters? Oh, you probably don’t eat oysters because they’re raw.”

“Only if I’m drunk,” Priscilla admitted sheepishly. Tobias laughed.

“That shouldn’t be a problem. Why don’t you start us with a shrimp cocktail, the cracked crab and an order of steamed clams,” he said, looking at Priscilla for approval. She nodded almost imperceptibly, to which Tobias gave the waiter the go ahead.

“Ever been here before?” Tobias asked.

“Uh…no.”

“It’s really one of my favorite hideouts. You’d think a busy hotel like the Plaza would be one of the worst places to try to lay low, but I find the location of this bar to be just far enough off the beaten path, especially if you avoid the peak hours.”

Priscilla studied the barmen and the smattering of clientele. It was strange that she and Tobias had slipped out of the crazy midday rush and found this sanctuary smack in the middle of all the hubbub. It was like coming to rest in the eye of a storm.

The waiter startled her out of her reverie by plunking the wine bucket on the table. He dried the wet bottle with a napkin before presenting it to Tobias for approval. Tobias gave a quick glance at the label and nodded to the waiter. Priscilla watched as the he filled their glasses with expert precision, only halfway until the bubbles subsided, then topped them up.

“Champagne’s so fun, isn’t it? Salud!” Tobias said, raising his glass to Priscilla’s. She took a cautious sip, wriggling her nose at the unaccustomed effervescence.

“Not bad, huh?”

“It’s divine,” Priscilla admitted. It was not at all like the sweet and quaffable cheap, fizzy stuff she was accustomed to. Had she known what he was spending for this indulgent beverage, she would have choked on it.

Once the seafood assault began, it lasted an inordinate length of time. To Priscilla’s amazement, they did run out of champagne before the shellfish extravaganza was over, necessitating a second bottle to be opened. By that time, she was so satiated with food and wine, she could do little more than sit and grin and laugh at Tobias’s many witty observations.

He, too, was feeling the effects of good food, good wine and affable company, and these positive elements had put him in rare form. He was more naturally charming, simpatico and astute than he could remember being in years, and he reveled in feeling that way. Priscilla was under his spell without having noticed the transition.

But just because she had been relatively simple to win over didn’t mean she was an easy touch. It wouldn’t have been as much fun for him if she had been. But as hard-hearted as she might imagine herself, Tobias had an unfair advantage. After all, how many men had she encountered who could supply killer music for her lyrics? She didn’t stand a chance, Tobias reflected happily as he sipped his bubbly.

“Do you ever see someone and all the sudden a song just pops into your head?” Priscilla asked, her guard so relaxed she was willing to reveal things about herself she’d never shared with anyone before. She was usually as guarded with her personal life as he was with his.

Still, he weighed his strategy carefully before answering. He had her at her most vulnerable right then, and he’d either have to take advantage of the situation or invest considerable time in taking the slow approach to win her heart. He looked into her eyes, dancing with mirth and mischief, and the resolve came easily.

“I do, actually,” he said, smiling conspiratorially, thinking of the lyrics she had inspired him to write. “Who do you have in mind?” Priscilla sat back, casting her eyes at one of the waiters, a small, dark man of indeterminate nationality. A smile crept across her lips, her mind already assigning a fictional life to the unsuspecting man. One glance at Tobias told her he was similarly engaged. After a moment, his eyes lifted to hers.

“You first,” she said.

“No way—it’s your game. You first.”

“But I can’t sing. Especially not in front of you.”

Tobias scoffed reproachfully. “This isn’t American Idol. I’m not going to judge your vocal talent, or lack thereof.” Priscilla conceded reluctantly, then took a moment to focus herself. In a voice just above a whisper she began:

“Armindo sighs as he does his chores

Cleaning the counters, sweeping the floors

He thinks of the time before he left home

When he left his sweetheart and went on the roam

He remembers himself as a younger man

Graceful figure, golden tan

In his arms a dark haired girl

He swings her out and gives her a twirl

He was the dancing fool of Lisbon

A regular Fred Astaire

The heartthrob of every woman

A devil without a care

One day he’ll go home to find her

The girl with the long, dark hair

With fiery eyes and lips so sweet

Waiting to be swept off her feet

He was the dancing fool of Lisbon

A regular Fred Astaire

The heartthrob of every woman

A devil without a care.”

Priscilla giggled self-consciously and took a sip of champagne. Her eyes searched Tobias’s face for his reaction to her spontaneous rhyme, but it remained inscrutably blank. Just when she became convinced she’d made of a fool of herself, his expression softened.

“Did you really just make that up?” he asked, stunned by her effortless talent.

“It was silly,” she said.

“True, but it was totally fluid.”

“I’m sure you can do better than that.”

Tobias studied her as he wracked his brain for lines equal to hers. He had been so smug in thinking he had mesmerized her with his music, yet he had forgotten what a natural gift she had. Sure, his songs had a certain gravity and style about them that put them in a class of their own, but then again, he usually had to wring those precious words from his soul one line at a time. To spout off a fully formed song from beginning to end without as much as batting an eye impressed him beyond words. He should have known better than to have taken her innocent challenge.

“Okay, your turn,” Priscilla said, relaxing against the banquette, relieved Tobias had not ridiculed her. The bar was now deserted except for them. Their waiter came to the table and topped up their glasses.

“You think he’s Portuguese?” he said, stalling. Priscilla shrugged noncommittally. “That’s interesting. All right, here goes.” Tobias took a swig of his champagne before beginning.

“A man of the world

A man with no country

A loner to some

A stranger to many

A face in the crowd

A friend to no one

A man without footsteps

A man with no name

A man with a mission

A man without shame

A man with a secret

A danger to all,” Tobias finished softly. He ended with a cheesy drum finale, feeling more bashful than he had since grade school.

Priscilla applauded. “Very good. So,” she said, leaning closer, “you think the waiter’s a terrorist?” She sat back and regarded the man with mock scrutiny. “Think we should call the authorities?”

“You’re better at that than I am,” Tobias conceded glumly.

“No way. That was very inventive. Besides, you can sing. You’re amazing,” she said, her voice full of awe.

“Oh, please,” he said dismissively. “Yours was definitely much better.”

“That’s bull. You’re just saying that to make me feel good.”

“Don’t be so modest—it doesn’t suit you,” Tobias replied coldly.

“It’s different with you,” Priscilla insisted, stung by his tone. “You can supply a tune with your lyrics, and it fit the words perfectly. All you heard of my song were the plain, unadorned words. Of course yours was better,” she concluded, feeling suddenly out of sorts.

“It wasn’t supposed to be a competition,” Tobias said, leaning against the banquette, invading her space, making it difficult for her to sulk.

“I know. I guess it solidified what’s bothered me all these years. I’ve been given half a talent. It’s like a cruel joke. What good is thousands of lyrics with no music? All they’ve served to do is remind me of their uselessness,” she said contemptuously.

“All those words you’ve written have come from pure, honest feelings. You never wrote them to please anyone else or to prove anything. Your words have a wonderful quality that allows them to stand on their own. There are more really good lyrics in your collection than I’ve ever written—ten times more,” he said, earning a dubious scowl from Priscilla.

“It’s true. Hey, if I didn’t feel that way, would I have spent time putting them to music?” he asked. Priscilla found it hard to hold onto her disappointment.

“It’s so incredible you have that kind of talent. I can’t imagine what that must be like,” she said wistfully, taking another sip from her glass, her mind drifting off. Tobias watched her as his admiration grew.

“Don’t forget there have been plenty of famous lyricists who never wrote a single note of music,” he told her. “Songwriting is often a collaborative effort. You could be working right now as a lyric writer, and there’d be plenty of musicians who’d love to put your words to music. You’ve got a real marketable talent. You’ve just never had anyone to collaborate with, until now,” he said with a wink and a nudge, finally managing to get a smile out of her.

“I need to get up. I’m getting stiff,” he said, stretching. Priscilla reached for her bag and stood up on unsteady feet.

“Uh oh, I think I’m tipsy,” she said, wobbling. Tobias stood up and joined her. “And I definitely need to find the ladies’ room,” she whispered in his ear.

“Straight out, on your left,” he whispered back, guiding her down the hall. “I’ll meet you out here.”

She found him standing in front of the chocolatier, blissfully stuffing his mouth with chocolate confections.

“You’ve got to try this,” he said, holding one aloft, making her reach for it with her teeth. “Isn’t that sinful?”

Priscilla groaned. “Everything we’ve done today is sinful,” she said, wiping a crumb of chocolate from her lip. “Oh my God, what was that?”

“Dark chocolate truffle with a mocha center. Awesome, huh? That should put a little zoom back in your step,” he said, ushering her toward the main entrance. “What do you feel like doing now?” he asked once they were outside.

Priscilla made an unintelligible sound and wagged her head. “What’s there left to do? This has been the most extravagant day of my life,” she said, stopping to take in the sight of the hotel they’d just come out of. The look on her face was a blend of joy and astonishment.

The sight of her almost took Tobias’s breath away. “C’mon, let’s mosey down this a’way,” he drawled, affecting a bowlegged walk. Priscilla laughed and pretended not to know him as they merged into the flow of pedestrians. They had barely reached the sidewalk on Fifth Avenue when Tobias halted abruptly in front of Bergdorf-Goodman.

“Ever shop here?” he asked.

“Are you kidding me?”

“It’s fun. Let’s check it out,” he said, holding the door open for her. For a good long moment, it looked like she was rooted to the sidewalk. “Come on, no one’s going to bite you,” he chided her, dragging her by the wrist.

What she saw inside dazzled her. It was more crowded with merchandise than she had expected, and it had a quite lively air, as shoppers of various descriptions examined this, fondled that. Tobias evidently knew his way around, so Priscilla stayed close on his heels, bumping into him as he stopped abruptly in ladies’ hats.

“Here, try this one on for size,” he said facetiously, holding up a hat that would have bowed the neck of a Vegas showgirl.

“Ah…I don’t think so,” Priscilla replied, deftly sidestepping his effort to place it on her head. “This is more like it,” she said, donning a black wide-brimmed hat. She checked its effect in the mirror and removed it immediately. Definitely not her. Tobias offered her another one, which she tried and dismissed.

“I guess I’m really not a hat person,” she said, placing the third candidate back on the rack.

“Me neither,” Tobias said.

“Could’ve fooled me,” Priscilla said, the remark directed to his ever-present baseball cap.

“Well, it’s not like I want to wear this,” he said defensively. Priscilla chuckled and fell in step beside him as they meandered toward the next department.

“Oh my God!” she cried, frantically looking back in the direction they’d come from.

“What is it?” Tobias asked. Priscilla darted off before he got the words out. She snatched her bag from the floor where she had left it. Relief made her weak in the knees.

“That was a close call,” she said, clutching her bag to her chest.

“Here, let me carry that for you,” he said, taking it from her. “Jesus, what do you have in here?” he asked, slinging the small pack over his shoulder.

“All my worldly possessions,” she replied, nervously eyeing her bag. Tobias looked at her like she had to be joking.

“Everything you own is in this one bag?” he asked incredulously.

“Yes, including all my money,” she said. Tobias knew immediately what money she was referring to. He hitched the bag tighter to his shoulder. After a moment, he asked, “All your clothes are in here, too?” Priscilla laughed.

“Yeah, what’s left of them. I left a lot of stuff behind in the hotel I’ve been staying at the last few nights.”

“Why?”

“I was just sick of it all,” she said, her attention straying to a jewelry case they were passing. “I was actually on my way to buy a bunch of new stuff when I ran into you. Summery things I could wear in Florida.”

“Good thing I ran into you when I did,” Tobias commented dryly. Priscilla snorted at the implication. “Let’s go get you some new stuff now,” he suggested, leading her toward the escalator.

“I’m not going to buy anything here,” she said, alarmed by the thought of what that would set her back.

“Why not? They’ve got some nice stuff.”

“I don’t doubt that,” Priscilla murmured in his ear, as they rode the escalator single file. “This place is not exactly in my price range.”

“Don’t worry. We’ll make it my treat,” he said cavalierly, heading purposely for the nearest rack. Within minutes, Tobias had sent an armload of dresses to the dressing room for Priscilla to try on.

“Okay, that’s probably enough to get you started,” he said, indicating she should follow the salesgirl. “I’ll be right over here,” he told her, pointing to a plush loveseat. Priscilla obediently followed the pretty young woman.

Once alone, she stared at the assemblage of finery Tobias had picked out for her. She looked at each piece as if she had no idea what to do with it. There were six dresses in all: filmy silk chiffon numbers with floating tatters or an irregular hemline, a couple of cotton sundresses of surprisingly demure cuts, a sleeveless linen dress with a pleated skirt, and a slinky black thing, apparently meant to be worn at night.

Priscilla sat down, unable to bring herself to get undressed. What am I doing here? she thought. These things were not for her. These were dresses for women who had lunch in small French restaurants, who carried miniature dogs no bigger than an evening bag, and had names like Buffy or Min. She would look absolutely ridiculous in any one of these things.

She was about to abandon ship, when she felt a pang of guilt. It would be rude to say no to the lot of them without having tried anything on. She reached for one of the silk dresses, catching a look at the price tag.

“Fourteen hundred bucks for this?!” she cried under her breath. She put it right back on the hook and grabbed one of the cotton sheaths. “Eighteen hundred! That’s outrageous! It’s a simple cotton dress,” she muttered, disgustedly checking each price tag. There wasn’t a dress in the bunch for less than $950.

Priscilla stood back, uncertain what to do. There was no way in hell she was going to let Tobias shell out that kind of cash for one trendy dress. She objected to the idea on principle alone.

Plus, she didn’t want to feel any more beholden to him than she already did. It was bad enough he knew all her future plans had been made possible by his check for fifteen grand. There was no way she was going to let him dress her in high-society rags so she could follow him around like some sort of charity specimen.

She left the dresses where they hung and barged out of the dressing room, running into the salesgirl in her haste to escape.

“Did nothing work out?” she inquired, dismayed by Priscilla’s empty hands.

“Uh…no. I didn’t like the way they looked on,” Priscilla claimed with blasé disappointment, pushing past her. Tobias saw her coming and stood, the smile of anticipation fading as she got closer.

“What’s wrong?” he asked as she came to a halt in front of him.

“Can we just get out of here? I’m not really in the mood to try on clothes right now.”

“No problem.”

“I just feel really tired all of a sudden.”

“Let’s go. We can go crash for a couple of hours and then try it again, if you want,” he suggested.

“You know, I really should go catch the train to Florida,” she said, her eyes straying away from Tobias’s.

“What are you talking about?” he asked, his voice edging toward shrill. “You’re not going to Florida tonight…”

“That was always the plan,” Priscilla said, still not wanting to meet his gaze.

“The plan’s been changed, remember?” She shifted nervously and finally turned to look him straight in the eye.

“You don’t want to go and sit on a train for what—a day and a half—do you? Come on, let’s go back to my hotel and get a little rest. We can go through all your options later, after you’ve had time to recuperate. You’re just feeling a sugar crash, that’s all,” he said plaintively, trying to get a nod of acquiescence out of her.

Priscilla let out a long sigh and abandoned her plans of leaving town yet again. Tobias took her by the elbow and tried to usher her toward the escalator.

“I don’t like the idea of crashing in your hotel room,” she said, stalling their progress.

“It’s not a room, it’s a suite,” Tobias corrected her. “It’s got three large bedrooms with en-suite bathrooms. You might as well take advantage of it. We can work it so we don’t even run into each other, if it’ll make you feel better. C’mon.”

Priscilla faltered while she reviewed her situation. What were her options? Slug her way over to Penn Station and board a southbound train, an idea she wasn’t altogether sure of anymore; or go rest in the reclusive rocker’s hotel suite and then figure out what to do next. Not much debate needed to settle that decision.

“Lead the way,” she said.

Thirty-Three

Philip watched his sleeping daughter from the doorway before turning out the light. He closed her door, leaving it open enough so he could hear her if she called out, and crept softly down the hallway. There was one floor lamp on and he turned it off. He was in a black mood, so it was only fitting for him to sit in the dark.

He felt the urge for a drink—a large one—but he didn’t possess the required initiative to go over and pour himself one. Instead, he lowered his weary body into the low-slung chair and sat and stared at nothing.

“I’m such a damned fool,” he said into the darkness. Ever since Caitlin had innocently disclosed the deceitful behavior of his almost ex-wife and his rat-fink attorney, Philip had been able to think of little else. He had vacillated back and forth between wanting to believe there was some perfectly reasonable explanation for Martin driving Marianne to the airport and wanting to wring both their necks. At the moment, he was as disgusted with himself as he was with either of them. And just when life was starting to make sense again…

He had been too preoccupied with saving his building to heed the alarms set off by Marianne’s phone call earlier that day. Right away he should have suspected she was up to something. As much as she liked to portray herself as the kind and selfless daughter, Marianne would never interrupt her weekly schedule of lunch dates and salon visits to rush off to the aid of her parents. The whole concept was more akin to science fiction than it was to truth.

He wasn’t sure Marianne even liked her parents. Sending them the obligatory checks and gifts was more for show than a gesture of true affection. And when it came right down to it, what value did Caitlin add to her life other than the social connections that grew out of having a child in the right schools? Hadn’t she just dropped her parental responsibilities in a heartbeat to run off with a married man? The fact that the man in question was the scumbag of an attorney who was supposed to have his best interest at heart only made her selfish act more deplorable.

The veins in Philip’s neck throbbed with agitation and his mind whirred. If he continued on with this line of thought, pretty soon steam would start pouring from his ears. He catapulted out of the chair and went to stand by the glass door overlooking the patio.

If he didn’t have Caitlin in his care, he’d be out trying to walk off his frustrations, though in this case he’d probably end up in Brooklyn before that happened. He finally resorted to the next best thing, pouring himself a highball glass filled halfway with a thirteen-year-old scotch, which he took with him out on the deck.

There was only one way to end the vicious circle of thoughts parading through his head, and that was by formulating a plan of retaliation. Revenge would be the only satisfaction for the treachery Marianne was putting him through. And he would be very subtle in his delivery.

But before he put a lot of effort into plotting, he was going to make absolutely sure Marianne was not telling the truth. He took his cell phone out of his pocket and scrolled down to his in-laws’ number.

“Irene? I hope I’m not waking you,” Philip said when his mother-in-law answered on the third ring.

“Philip, is that you?” Irene asked, uneasiness in her voice. “Nothing’s wrong, I hope.”

“No, no—nothing’s wrong on our end. But I hear Herb’s not doing so well.”

“Well, you know how it is—the older you get, the more you start to fall apart,” Irene said, a light tinkle of a laugh coming across the line. Bless her heart, Philip thought, trying to put on a brave face for his sake.

“Well, I’m sorry to hear that,” he said, half disappointed that Marianne hadn’t been lying after all. It would have assuaged his wounded sense of fairness to nail her for something. “What do the doctors say?” he asked, sitting down in a nearby chair.

“Oh, you know, the same old thing. ‘Don’t work so hard, hire someone to do the heavy chores,’ that kind of thing. ’Course, you know Herbert—head as hard as a rock. I’ve told him at least fifty times not to mow the grass with that rusty old push mower—use the fancy tractor mower you and Marianne gave him. But no, he’s got to do everything the hard way.”

“Surely he hasn’t done any of that lately,” Philip said.

“He was up at sunrise this morning—pushed that damned contraption till I went out and made him stop,” Irene said, obviously delighted to have someone to complain to. But what she was saying couldn’t be possible.

“Irene, what exactly is wrong with Herb?” he asked.

“Rheumatism, same as always. ’Course, if he took his medicine like the doctor tells him, he wouldn’t get so stiff and swolled up.”

“You mean there’s nothing seriously wrong with him?”

“Only in the head,” Irene said smartly.

“Nothing life threatening?”

“No, darlin’. Other than the rheumatism, your father-in-law is as healthy as an ox.” Philip stared out into the dark shadows of the park, a bright, blood red coloring his vision.

“Well, that’s certainly a relief to hear,” he said with all the false cheerfulness he could muster. “Well, I know it’s late, I won’t keep you…”

“How are you doing, son? I know you’ve had an awful lot of trouble on your plate lately,” Irene said, her voice tinged with genuine concern.

“Actually, things are starting to look up for me,” he said, evil thoughts of retribution lightening his mood.

“I’m so glad to hear that, dear. And how is my sweet granddaughter?”

“Caitlin is just fine. She’s a constant joy to her old man, that’s for sure.”

“I know she is, hon. Well, you give her a great big kiss from her granny, will ya? Tell her I hope she can come out and stay with us sometime during the summer. You think that’ll be possible? It’s been ages since she was out here,” the old woman said. It sounded as though she was on the verge of tears.

“You bet. I’ll give you a call in a week or so and we can set something up, okay?”

“You’re an angel. I don’t guess my daughter ever did deserve a man as good as you.” Philip was about to say goodnight, but he had to ask one more question in order to be certain he wasn’t jumping to the wrong conclusion.

“Irene, do you mind if I ask you when was the last time you spoke to Marianne?”

“No, I don’t mind. It was about a month ago, I suppose. I’m afraid we had words again. Haven’t heard from her since. Guess I’ll have to give her a call one of these days… Why do you ask?”

“Oh, no reason—just wondering. Well, give Herbert my best.”

“I sure will, darlin’. Take care of yourself, now.”

“You too, Irene.”

Philip closed his phone and took a swig of his drink. That settled it. Now it was time for serious scheming.

Thirty-Four

Priscilla opened her eyes and sat up with a start. For one awful second, she couldn’t figure out where she was. One glance to her right confirmed she had fallen asleep in Tobias Jordan’s suite, with the maestro himself asleep on the other sofa. One thing was clearly evident: she was still feeling the effects of too much champagne at lunch.

She brushed her hair out of her face and smacked the sides of her face, as if she were trying to slap some sense into herself. So much for charting a new course for myself, she thought morosely, acknowledging for the second time in a week she had let some man talk her out of doing what she wanted to.

She had been in this town for twelve years, and now that she had made up her mind to leave, these two men come crawling out of the woodwork and insisted on her staying. Where the hell were Philip Glessner and Tobias Jordan a year ago? She was at such a low point after giving Ryan his walking papers, she might have welcomed their manic interest in her. But now was not a convenient time for strange flirtations.

But timing wasn’t the only problem with either of these guys; there was also the small matter of them both being married men. It wasn’t as if she objected to the idea of dating a married man on principle, nor was she one of those women who are automatically sympathetic to the betrayed spouse. She didn’t like dating married men because she found them to be more conflicted and less stable than the non-married variety, who were bad enough to begin with.

True, Philip was in the process of getting a divorce; she had read that in the paper with her own eyes. But Tobias wasn’t. Whatever sort of “arrangement” he had with his wife had to be more complicated than she’d ever get him to admit. A so-called ‘open marriage’ was nothing but a hoax that some married couples liked to perpetrate on themselves and unsuspecting bystanders.

Not that Tobias was romantically interested in her. She didn’t harbor that delusion. But there was no arguing that he did seem quite keen on her company, for what reasons, she couldn’t fathom. It was almost sad to think someone of his fame had to resort to under-the-radar friendships with the likes of her. It made her feel lonely for both of them.

It also made her crave a different scene, a less impersonal and hostile locale, where the sheer numbers of bodies didn’t overwhelm her into feeling like she was nothing. She looked over at Tobias sprawled across the sofa, sleeping like a baby. Was this kind of anonymous interlude just standard operating procedure for him?

Priscilla sighed and shook her head. The most perplexing part of her current situation was how natural and comfortable it felt to be with him. Aside from the awkwardness at Bergdorf’s, the rest of the time she felt as though she were hanging out with a lifelong pal—not that she had any lifelong friendships, but if she had, this is what she’d expect them to be like.

Belatedly, she became aware that her mouth was so parched, her tongue was sticking to the backsides of her teeth. She stood and was rewarded with a dull throbbing in the back of her head. She stretched cautiously and went in search of the kitchen.

On her way, she discovered the day had become night—eight-thirty at night, to be exact. She found a bottle of water in the refrigerator and took it back to the living room, where she sat down on the coffee table and studied the recumbent rock star.

It was strange to be in such close proximity to someone of his stature, especially while he was sleeping. She tried to remember her impressions of him before he wandered into Frank’s one morning, and compared them to what she had witnessed first-hand.

There was no comparison; the two versions didn’t bear any resemblance to one another. Not that she had known all that much about the reclusive musician prior to waiting on him, nor did she know a lot about him now. But those fleeting glimpses of him during his heyday portrayed a singularly confident and aloof man, obsessed with making music, with very little interest outside his career.

The fact that he’d been married for over a decade made him seem more of an enigma to her: more closed-in and inaccessible somehow. It was apparent he was very focused on music, but after spending the day with him carousing and carrying on, she found him to be more multi-faceted and a lot less driven.

She was curious to see what plan he would suggest once he finally woke up. She was getting the impression he was one of those feckless souls who could be carried off by the next breeze. Capricious was a good way to describe him. Capricious and indulgent.

She peered at his face, taking in all the details. It was funny to think she had a major crush on him when she was growing up. She had spent hours staring at Absent Among Us album covers, trying to glean a good look at him, trying to read the thoughts behind the dark glasses…

“Jesus Christ! You scared the hell out of me,” Tobias yelped, coming awake without warning. Priscilla nearly fell backwards off the coffee table, sloshing water all over herself as she recoiled.

“Likewise,” she said, standing up to swipe at her doused clothing.

“What were you doing?” Tobias asked peevishly, sitting up, his face warped by sudden wakefulness.

“Nothing. I just couldn’t tell if you were asleep or not,” Priscilla said defensively. Tobias took a couple of shaky breaths and seemed to calm down.

“Sorry,” he said, rubbing his face and scalp. “I didn’t expect to find anyone hovering over me,” he said. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, just a little disoriented. I can’t believe how late it is,” Priscilla said, looking toward the darkened sky outside the window.

“What time is it?”

“Quarter to nine.”

“Damn. I was out.”

“Yeah, I guess so.”

“Did you sleep?”

“Like a dead thing,” Priscilla said, resettling on the coffee table.

“What do you feel like doing?”

“I’m not a good one to ask,” she said.

“What do you mean?”

“Every time I tell someone what I feel like doing—like moving to Florida, for example—they tell me to forget it,” she said. Tobias smirked.

“Am I to take it I’m not the only one who thinks it’s a bad idea, or are you exaggerating for effect?” Priscilla smiled grudgingly, but didn’t answer.

“Are you hungry?” Tobias asked.

“Amazingly, yes.”

“Why do you sound so surprised? Lunch was hours ago. Besides, it was only seafood.”

“Only seafood? Only an ocean-full of it,” Priscilla said.

“There you go again, exaggerating wildly,” Tobias chided her.

“Not by much,” she corrected him. “We ate enough crab and shrimp and clams and…”

“And oysters…”

“And oysters to feed six people,” she argued.

“It was good, though, wasn’t it?” Tobias asked, a roguish grin on his face.

“Yeah, it was a lot of fun,” she said, examining her wet skirt.

“Oh damn, we didn’t get you any clothes,” Tobias said, squinting at his watch. “I guess we’ll have to do that tomorrow.” Priscilla didn’t comment. It was too hard to comprehend that Tobias Jordan was planning his day around her needs. “What kind of stuff do you have in your bag?” he asked hopefully.

“A pair of jeans, two T-shirts and a denim jacket. Not much, really.”

“Hmm…well, we can order room service. Get a couple of steaks, a bottle of red wine, see what kind of movies they’ve got,” he said. Priscilla laughed, sure that he was putting her on. Tobias smiled expectantly, waiting for a reply.

“How long have you been living here?” she asked.

“In this hotel?”

“Yeah.”

“Just a few days.”

“Why? Are you hiding from someone?” she suggested jokingly.

“A lot of people, actually. My wife, my partner, my girlfriend, my business manager…” Tobias said, counting them off on his fingers. “… my wife’s decorator, my wife’s brain-dead friend, my—”

“That’s a lot of people to be hiding from,” Priscilla said, tucking her legs underneath her. “How long can you hide from all of them?” she asked skeptically.

“As long as I want to, I guess.” Priscilla found the idea amusing. “Hey, you’re so eager to hide from people, you’re running to another state,” Tobias said.

“I’m not trying to hide from anyone,” Priscilla replied coolly.

“Sure you are. Running away, hiding—it’s all the same thing.”

“I’m not running away from anything. I’m running to something.”

“Really? What?”

“A new life,” she said simply.

Tobias grinned at her sarcastically. “I see. You just throw out the old life along with the old clothes and get a new one.”

Priscilla didn’t appreciate his condescending manner. “Honestly, there was nothing in the old life worth saving,” she said, affecting a detached attitude. “There’s no reason in the world to hold onto something just because it’s the only thing you’ve got.”

“You’re a natural-born sage, you know that?” Tobias said, getting to his feet, an inscrutable smile on his face. Priscilla could feel her skin grow hot. She couldn’t tell if he was mocking her or being sincere.

“Does a steak sound good to you?” he asked, as he retrieved the room service menu and began to flip through it. “How about a 10 ounce New York steak and a Caesar salad to start with?” Priscilla smiled at his unabashed plug. “And a quaffable Bordeaux? Sound good?” She nodded, noting with concern how easy it was to give in to him.

“And you’re wrong about not having anything in your old life worth saving,” he said with a nod in the direction of her pile of lyrics. “Hi, good evening… we’d like two New York steaks…rare…one rare, one medium rare… that’s right…and two Caesar salads. Also, a bottle of the ‘95 Ducru Beaucaillou. And a bottle of fizzy water. And a slice of New York-style cheesecake,” he said, turning back to grin mischievously at Priscilla.

“Make that two. How about a couple Long Island Iced Teas?” he suggested facetiously. Priscilla didn’t even bother to answer. “Scratch the cocktails. How long will that take? Excellent.” He hung up the phone and rubbed his hands together.

“It’ll be here in thirty minutes. I love living in a hotel. Don’t know why I ever stopped,” he said, cracking his neck in one direction, then the other. He was so chipper, it was hard to believe he’d been sound asleep less than ten minutes ago.

“Do you live like this every day?” Priscilla asked, astonished by his flamboyant style.

“What do you mean?” he asked, casting his eyes around him innocently.

“I mean stuffing yourself with fabulous food, ordering champagne and Bordeaux wine like they were diet Cokes,” she said, her tone slightly reproachful.

“It’s what I like,” Tobias said, palms up. “Fortunately for me, I can still afford to eat and drink what I want, though I don’t know how long that’s going to last.”

“You don’t strike me as being overly concerned about money,” she said, leaning back across the coffee table on outstretched arms.

“I’ve lived it up for so many years, it’s kind of hard to break the pattern. But my business manager has been a real stick-in-the-mud lately, clamoring for me to generate more income, which is why I agreed to a reunion with my partner—”

“The one you’re hiding from?”

“Exactly. So you see, I have to hide from my business manager because I’m hiding from my partner, and if I hide from my partner, I’m not doing anything to accelerate the flow of the green stuff, or whatever color it is these days.”

“So, why are you hiding from your wife, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“The reasons are too numerous to mention,” Tobias said, taking the bottle of water from the coffee table and swigging it down.

“I see,” she said, watching as he drained the bottle and belched like a ten-year-old boy.

“Sorry,” he said, holding up the empty bottle. “I’ll get you another one.” Priscilla arched her back, executing a few stretches of her own, and stood up. She was feeling a little better than when she had first awakened, but still groggy and lethargic. Somehow, she didn’t feel a big steak dinner was going to improve her physical condition much.

“And your girlfriend?” she asked as Tobias reentered the room.

“Ah…well, I think I’ve gone into permanent hiding where she’s concerned,” he said, handing her a glass of water.

“I see. I’m getting the impression she doesn’t know about that yet.”

“I’m sure she’ll get the picture soon enough,” Tobias said, settling on the arm of the sofa.

“Ouch…that’s cold-blooded,” Priscilla said, edging toward the other sofa.

“She’s young, she’ll get over it,” Tobias said nonchalantly.

“You’re terrible,” Priscilla said, eyeing him warily from a safe distance. “Somewhere in Manhattan there’s a young girl crying herself dry over you, and you toss her off like yesterday’s garbage.”

“How do you know she’s young?”

“You just told me. Yeah, I can see it now…she’s probably blond, wispy, taller than average. Ah, of course—she’s a model,” Priscilla deduced, thrilled to see how her newfound clairvoyance was making Tobias squirm. “You’re not one of these cliché rock n’ rollers who habitually chase after nineteen-year-old cover girls, are you?”

“I don’t remember giving you permission to probe into my love life,” Tobias said snidely. Priscilla laughed heartily at that crack. “Okay, if it’s open season on love lives, let’s hear about the state of yours,” he said.

“I have none. That’s why I can pick up and move to Florida,” she countered.

“Oh, come now—you don’t expect me to believe that, do you?”

“You can believe what you wish,” she said, trying to act impervious to his taunts.

“Okay, I’m supposed to believe that a decent-looking chick with all her limbs and facial features intact, who lives in New York City and is not a lesbian—can I assume that you’re not?—can’t find a boyfriend? You’ll have to do better than that.”

Priscilla ruminated on that one for a moment. “It’s not that I can’t find them, it’s just that I’m tired of finding them.”

“Then you are a lesbian?”

“Don’t be an ass.”

“C’mon, I’ve practically admitted I’m a dirty rotten son-of-a-bitch, ditching both wife and lover, and you won’t give me a hint as to what kinds of relationships you’ve had,” Tobias said, enjoying turning the tables on her.

“Stupid ones, all right? Dead-end, idiotic, cataclysmic, horrendous ones—okay? Getting the picture now?”

Tobias’s grin became more crooked. “Well, I guess you haven’t found the love of your life, or you wouldn’t be so wound up about leaving town,” he surmised smugly.

“Maybe I have, and that’s the reason I am leaving town,” Priscilla volleyed back at him, making him chuckle.

“Ah…I get it…he’s too good for me…it’ll never work…we come from different worlds…” Tobias mocked in a high, girlish voice. Priscilla glared at him. There was a little too much reality in his stab-in-the-dark attempt to rile her.

“What an asshole you are,” she said after a lengthy pause. Tobias merely laughed.

“I know, that’s what all the girls tell me,” he said, kissing the top of her head on his way to the kitchen, leaving her stunned and feeling out of her depth once again.

“I think I’m going to take a quick shower before dinner arrives. Feel free to do the same. Here, let me show you your room—the one furthest away from mine, for reasons of propriety,” he said. Priscilla smirked and followed his lead.

“I don’t care how many channels they give you, they’ll always find a way to fill them all with crap,” Tobias complained, flipping through the stations too fast to see what the contents actually were.

Priscilla, glass of red wine in hand, watched from her relaxed position in a daze. She hadn’t owned a television since hers was stolen over eight years ago. The brief glimpses she got at today’s programming made her feel as if she were having an especially chaotic dream.

When she felt as though her eyes were going to cross, she casually reached over and extracted the remote control from Tobias’s hand and turned it off. She handed it back to him without a word. He looked at it for a moment then tossed it lightly onto the other sofa and picked up the wine bottle. Priscilla covered her glass with her hand. Tobias topped his up and leaned back to join her.

“Well, the TV idea wasn’t much of a success,” he said, turning to face her. “Got any other ideas?”

“Nope, I’m fresh out of ideas myself,” Priscilla admitted. “I guess we could just sit here and get drunk.”

“Looks like you’ve beat me to it,” he said, as he reached over and righted her listing glass. “Here, you need to eat more. Have another bite of cheesecake.”

“Oh, God,” Priscilla said, waving his hand away. “You eat it. One more bite and I’ll explode.”

“You know what you need?” Priscilla eyed him suspiciously, fearing he might produce a vial of white stuff. “A little physical activity,” he said, getting up to turn on the radio. “All that food and wine has made you lethargic. You need to dance!” he announced, pulling her to her feet. She fought him off long enough to safely put her glass down, but then he became a force she couldn’t resist.

“I can’t dance,” she protested weakly, but Tobias seemed deaf to her claim. He danced her around like a demented Gene Kelly, humming along with the music when he didn’t know the words. Priscilla did her best to keep up, though the surprise of finding out that the stoic rocker danced like a cotillion all-star had a pronounced effect on her performance.

“Well, if your comeback fails, you can always make a living as a dance instructor at Arthur Murray,” she said, when the song was over. She seized the opportunity to put some distance between Tobias and herself while he searched for a better station.

“Classic Rock,” he announced. A song came on from the seventies that made both of them cringe simultaneously. “Some of this stuff should have been given a proper burial a long time ago,” he said, consulting the programming schedule again.

“Too bad they don’t have a station that plays just Absent Among Us,” Priscilla said from her perch on the arm of the sofa.

“Yeah, that’d be a good way to bore everyone right out of their minds,” Tobias said, flipping to a blues station.

“I’d listen to it,” she said.

Tobias threw her a doubting sneer. “You’re just saying that because you’re drunk,” he replied.

“If I am drunk, it’s your fault. If I love your music, that’s your fault, too,” she said, bobbing slightly as she spoke.

“How’s this?”

“Fine,” she replied, thinking she’d be safe from the mad dancer with that kind of music. She soon found out she was wrong.

“I think you could do with more dance and less drink,” Tobias said as he commandeered both glass and body.

“Nobody dances to the blues,” Priscilla said petulantly as he pulled her close and rocked her back and forth with slow, small steps.

“What are you talking about? I bet you more children have been conceived after their parents boogied to blues than all other forms of music combined.” Priscilla thought about this. The implication made her nervous. She had little time to dwell on this statistic due to a sudden change in footwork.

“You’re a regular twinkle toes, aren’t you?” she said, as Tobias increased the dramatics.

“You’d be pretty good yourself if you put more effort into moving your feet and less into moving your jaws,” Tobias said, promptly putting her into a dip before she could respond. The tactic worked; she was too flabbergasted to answer the insult. Tobias spun her out and drew her back for the grand finale. Another song started on its heels, but Priscilla went as limp as a rag doll.

“I’m done,” she said, begging off. “I concede the championship to you,” she said, holding him at arm’s length.

“Oh, come on—we were just getting warmed up,” Tobias said, pantomiming a dance for her entertainment. Priscilla giggled hoarsely and made for the closest sofa, where she collapsed unceremoniously.

“Hey, I’m the old guy here,” Tobias said, standing over her looking down. “Come on, be a sport. One more dance,” he said, tugging on her arm.

“No. I can’t. I’m afraid I’ll get pregnant,” Priscilla said, hiding her face with her free arm.

“You’ve had too much to drink.”

“Whose fault is that?” Tobias wrenched her arm until she was in an upright position. Before she could flop back down on the sofa again, he slid in beside her. When she fell back, her head landed in his lap.

“Hi,” she said, looking up at him.

“Scoot down,” Tobias commanded her. She shimmied down a few inches and Tobias shifted around so that he could cross his legs and rest her head in the crook of his ankles.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m going to massage your temples.”

“Why?”

“Because it will keep you from getting a hangover,” Tobias said, gently kneading the sides of her head.

“I never heard that before.”

“Shhh…”

“You know this is going to put me right out,” Priscilla warned.

“No, it not. It’s just going to make you feel…very…relaxed…” Tobias whispered, his voice trailing off. Priscilla was besieged by a fit of giggles, which she did her utmost to suppress.

“Stop it,” Tobias said in a low, far-away tone.

“I can’t help it—this is too weird.” She pursed her lips together, trying to think of something that wasn’t remotely funny. It was hard. No matter what image she conjured up, her mind was continually interrupted by the sight of Tobias Jordan sitting cross-legged on a sofa in a swanky hotel suite, rubbing her temples so she wouldn’t be hung over the next morning.

The very thought of such a thing happening made her feel she had finally gone round the bend. A decade plus of living in New York City had been too much for her damaged psyche to deal with and she had lost hold of her last wisp of sanity. None of this was really happening. She had simply imagined all these episodes with Tobias. In reality, she was probably crouched atop a heating vent in front of some department store, huddled with her few measly possession, penniless and panhandling for change to buy a bus ticket to somewhere warm…

“Aaaagghhh!” she screamed, sitting bolt upright.

“What is it?” Tobias yelled back, equally frightened.

“Oh, my God—I’m losing my mind,” Priscilla said. She buried her head in her hands.

“What’s wrong?”

“Where’s my bag?”

“It’s over there on the floor, where you left it.” Priscilla sprung up and fetched the bag, frantically searching until she found her stash of traveler’s checks and cash.

“It’s all here,” she said, amazed by the sight.

“Of course it is. What—you think I lured you here so I could steal back the money I gave you?” Tobias said, clearly offended. Priscilla sank onto the coffee table, holding the bag listlessly in her arms. She stared at Tobias without seeing him. After a few moments, she began to shake.

“Come over here,” Tobias coaxed her. “Come on.” Numbly, she stood and navigated the three feet to the spot she had just vacated. He tugged on her arm until she lowered herself. Without moving her from the crook of his arm, he leaned forward and poured her a glass of mineral water.

“Here, you need some water,” he said, holding the glass to her lips. She took the glass from him and drank, tentatively at first, then guzzling it until it was gone.

“Feel better?” Tobias asked. She looked at him and nodded. “Were you having a dream?” The sight of herself in rags camped out on a public sidewalk flashed again in her mind.

“To be honest, I feel like I’m dreaming now.” Tobias pulled away slightly, grinning. “No, I’m serious. You may have encounters like this all the time where you hook up with someone out of the blue and just do whatever comes to mind. You’re rich, you can do that. You can be generous and hospitable with people who don’t mean anything to you, although I think it’s pretty risky given how phobic you are about your celebrity.” Priscilla met his stare head on.

“I’m being honest. It doesn’t make any sense to me that you—Tobias Jordan, world famous leader of Absent Among Us—would take up with a common working girl just out of the blue.”

“It didn’t exactly happen like that,” Tobias said, removing his arm from Priscilla’s back. “We didn’t just collide on the street today…”

“No, but—”

“You gave your lyrics to me. That was a pretty big ice-breaker, don’t you think? I mean, I got a fairly good idea of what kind of person you are by reading through that stuff.” Somehow, being reminded of this didn’t make Priscilla feel any more at ease.

“Just a little while ago you made the comment that you loved my music. Well, there you go. You feel a connection to me, have felt it for a number of years, without me being aware of it. This time the tables were turned—I got to crawl inside your head, take your views for a test drive. See, that makes us even. We’re starting a relationship on equal ground. It’s not as out of the blue as you think. And this is not a typical experience for me,” Tobias said, letting his gaze linger on hers.

“I guess we are even,” she said. “I never thought about it like that before. Of course, you willingly put your songs out there…”

“True, but you didn’t have to sell yours to me. You could have tossed them into the incinerator like you planned.” He had her there. “Why did you give me your material?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” Priscilla answered. “I think I’ve been in shock since that day. It was like absent-mindedly selling my kids to a stranger because he thought they were cute. I don’t know what I was thinking…”

“Do you want them back?” Tobias asked. “It’s not too late to undo the deal.” Priscilla let out a wheeze, somewhere between a laugh and a sigh.

“I’m afraid I’m sort of dependent on your end of the bargain at this point,” she said.

“That’s okay. You can keep the money. Okay, it’ll be a loan. You pay me back when you get on your feet again.” Priscilla thought about this. She looked over at her duffle bag, too small to contain the sum total of thirty plus years of living. She looked at the heap of notebooks that represented countless hours of thought. She took a deep breath and let it out slowly.

“That’s very generous of you, but…I think I actually feel freer without them. I probably wasn’t a fit custodian to them, anyway. You’re welcome to keep them, for whatever they’re worth.”

“They’ve been more valuable to me than you can imagine,” Tobias said, pouring some water for himself.

“Really? In what way?”

“They’ve helped me focus my writing skills. A ten-year hiatus can close down your creative conduit. Your words have inspired me.” Priscilla tried to absorb this enormous compliment.

“How do you like being back together with Brody Haversham? Does it feel like the good old days?” she asked.

“Yes, in some ways. We’re bitching and fighting like we never stopped. Some of the music magic is still there, but I don’t know…the whole thing feels too strained to me. I don’t like having to try so hard to do something that should come naturally.”

“Are you still planning on touring?”

“If we can get an album together with any real merit. The stuff we’ve put together so far seems pretty tepid to me. I think Brody would be satisfied with anything that got us back on the charts, which means the more humdrum and commercial, the better.”

“So, you’re having artistic differences?”

“That about sums it up. But don’t you dare breathe a word of this to anyone. Things are bad enough between us as it is,” Tobias warned, turning cold and impersonal.

“Who am I going to tell?” Priscilla asked defensively. The answer to that was obvious once the words left her mouth. “You don’t have to worry. I’m not going to sell my exclusive story to the tabloids. Who’d believe it anyway?”

“You’d be surprised.”

Priscilla decided to steer clear of his career concerns for the time being. “Can I ask you something?”

“Shoot,” Tobias said. He set down his water and poured the last of the wine into his glass.

“If you’re having so many problems with your wife that you’re actually hiding from her, why do you stay married to her? I realize this is none of my business…”

“It’s complicated,” Tobias said, taking a sizable sip of his wine.

“Sometimes people are deathly afraid of divorce, even when their marriage is sheer hell,” Priscilla offered casually.

Tobias laughed harshly. “Have you ever been divorced?” he asked.

“No, never been married,” she replied.

“Well, you sound quite sure of something you’ve had no personal experience with.”

“It’s just an observation.”

“Let me make an observation of my own,” Tobias said, “Due to the fact that you’re—how old?”

“Thirty-two,” Priscilla admitted, hating the idea of where this was heading.

“Okay, you’re thirty-two and you’ve never been married. From what I’ve observed in my fifty-four years is that if a good looking woman like you is not married and not career-obsessed, then she has a phobia of marriage,” Tobias pronounced smugly. Priscilla let out a laugh that was so natural and unrestrained, it made him frown.

“What’s so funny?” he demanded.

“You think I’m afraid of marriage? Are you kidding? I’m scared to death of everything—marriage, divorce, success, relationships of all kinds, death, life…”

“You don’t act like you’re afraid of anything or anyone,” Tobias said, scrutinizing her through narrowed eyes. Priscilla shrugged a shoulder. “I don’t believe you,” he said, watching her closely for signs that she was having him on.

“You don’t believe me? Tell me, then, if you’ve got such keen powers of detection, why would an able-bodied, halfway intelligent, semi good-looking person like me work in a dump like Frank’s, have a string of unfulfilling, contentious relationships with emotional losers, and shun the only decent, successful man to ask me out on a date if I wasn’t scared out of my mind by the thought of actually being involved in something that could work out? Answer me that, oh wise one.”

“But…you act so tough and impervious,” Tobias said, struggling to reconcile his image of her with these very different self-perceptions.

“I act cynical. I am cynical. But you can’t confuse cynicism with bravery. I haven’t had any long-term relationships, none that have lasted more than a few years, not even with my parents. I guess I’ve come to view deep involvements as guaranteed emotional disasters. It’s made me leery of taking any kind of risk,” she said.

“But you were about to pick up and move to Florida. That sounds like a pretty risky thing to do,” Tobias reasoned.

Priscilla snorted. “You know how that whole idea came about? I got sick and tired of lugging my winter coat around.”

“So you wanted to move somewhere warm.”

“That’s about it. How’s that for sound decision making?”

“Were you really going to go through with it?”

“Yeah, and I don’t know that I still won’t. I’ve pretty much run out of options here.”

“Maybe you have options you never knew of before,” Tobias hinted. Priscilla merely smiled at the suggestion. She knew a charitable line when she heard it. “What about us? Does it make you feel anxious and frightened spending time with me like this?”

She shook her head. “No, it doesn’t. You did scare me a bit at first—after you gave me the money, and before, when you showed up at my apartment. But now, no, I feel perfectly comfortable with you, which should scare me.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Like I said, I’m not used to things running so smoothly.”

“Here’s to surprising smoothness,” Tobias said, lifting his glass. Priscilla picked up hers and drank to his goofy toast. “You know, if I were thinking straight, I’d get on the train with you.”

“You don’t mean that.”

“Why not? I’m virtually in exile in my own town, hiding from everyone I know. When I take a good hard look at it, nothing in my life is going the way I want it to.”

“What about your wife?”

“What about her? If I’m going to be honest, I should admit I’ve only stayed with her so we could drive each other crazy. Other than that, I don’t really have a use for her.”

“Then you might as well divorce her,” Priscilla pointed out.

“No, I kind of like the idea of moving to Florida and keeping her in limbo,” Tobias mused.

“That’s ugly.”

“You don’t know Monique,” he quipped. “No, Florida might just be the answer…”

“What about your reunion?”

“I’m growing colder to the idea by the minute.”

“I thought you needed the money,” Priscilla argued.

“Monique needs the money,” Tobias corrected her. “I could learn to make do with less. It’s got to cost a lot less to live there than it does here. I think Florida might just be the ticket.”

“You’re nuts.”

“Why am I nuts for moving there and you’re not?” he asked.

“I didn’t say I’m not nuts,” Priscilla said. “But you have a life here, I don’t.”

“Yeah, but I don’t like my life.”

“That’s bullshit,” Priscilla countered. “You love your life. You love hiding and skulking and drinking champagne in the middle of the day—”

“I can do that in Florida just as easily as here.”

“Okay, you try it and let me know how you like it down there, and maybe I’ll make the trip myself,” Priscilla said.

“Hey, wait a minute—Florida was your idea. I’m not going there without you,” Tobias said.

“Now I know you’re full of bull. All I’ve heard out of you is how bizarre the place is, full of loonies and corruption.”

“I don’t mind a few loonies, and corruption is everywhere.”

“Okay, fine. Let’s head down to Penn Station right now and book our sleeper cars. It’s a long way down there, you know.”

“I don’t mind,” Tobias said cavalierly. “It’ll give me a chance to enjoy the scenery.”

“You’re crazy.”

“So I’ve been told.” Priscilla didn’t have the energy to call his bluff. She was so tired and relaxed, she doubted she’d ever work up enough enthusiasm at this stage of the game to make the haul to Florida. Even Brooklyn seemed too far in her current frame of mind. But if she wasn’t going to go through with that plan, she’d need to come up with another one quickly. Who could say how long the mercurial Tobias Jordan would feel like playing host to her.

“Guess we’ll have to wait until tomorrow,” she said with a yawn.

“Good thinking. How about a night cap?” he asked, heading for the liquor cabinet.

“More booze? I hate to tell you this, but I think you might have a little bit of a drinking problem,” Priscilla said, forcing herself to sit up straighter.

“Well, I hate to tell you this, but you’ve matched me drink for drink,” Tobias reminded her. He poured himself a healthy portion of Maker’s Mark and brought it back to the sofa. “I’m sorry, did you want one?” he asked facetiously as Priscilla eyed his drink.

“Just a sip,” she said, taking the glass from his hand. The flavor of the whisky burned over the dry, tart taste of the wine at first, but she liked the way it warmed her mouth and throat.

“You take that one, I’ll get another,” Tobias said, already on his way to get another.

“You’re corrupting me, you know that?”

“If that’s the case, you’re awfully darn corruptible,” Tobias replied.

“You’re probably right,” she admitted and took another sip.

“How’d you get the nickname Sammy?” Tobias asked, as he resettled himself next to her. Priscilla chuckled at the memory.

“I hated the name Priscilla. Everyone at school had names like Bobby, Sally, Tommy, Ricky, Debbie, Susie—and here I come along, PRIS-CIL-LA. I might as well have been named GOD-ZIL-LA. Priscilla is just too big and sharp a name for a kid. I decided it had to go. I came in from playing one afternoon and told my parents that from then on my name was Sammy. They told me Sammy was a boy’s name. I said I didn’t care, it was my name now.

“At first they probably thought it was kind of funny, but I was dead serious. I scratched out Priscilla Vanderpool on all my books and replaced it with Sammy VP—I wasn’t all that crazy about Vanderpool, either. From then on, I refused to answer when they called me Priscilla.

“Finally, one day they sat me down and gave me a talking to. They tried to convince me Priscilla was a very pretty name, and that I’d appreciate it for being different when I was older. I told them they were wrong, I wouldn’t like the name if I lived to be a hundred. That’s when they got a little bent out of shape.”

“You were an ornery little thing, weren’t you?”

“I’m sure they thought so, especially when I told them if I was going to have to live with the name they gave me, they’d have to get used to me calling them Alfred and Bubbles.”

“Alfred and Bubbles? Were those their names?”

“No—my father’s name was John and my mother’s name was Ellen.”

“Where’d you get Alfred and Bubbles?”

“Who knows? Kids come up with all kinds of crazy ideas.”

“So, what’d they say to that?”

“They started calling me Sammy, along with everyone else,” Priscilla said with a sneaky smile. “How about you—did you have any nicknames when you were growing up?”

“A few…that I’m not going to mention,” Tobias hedged.

“Oh come on, spill the beans. I won’t blab.”

“Well, when I was a kid, my father called me Peanut Head.”

“Peanut Head?”

“I shouldn’t have told you,” Tobias said over her giggles.

“Tell me the others,” she insisted.

“No way. You laughed at Peanut Head, Priscilla.”

“Priscilla is worse than Peanut Head, believe me. Tell another one.”

“As it happens, I picked a new name for myself, too, but somehow it didn’t catch on.”

“What was it?”

“Clint.”

“Clint? As in Eastwood?”

“I reckon.”

“That’s cute. I like it,” she said.

“What’s cute about the name Clint? Clint is a rugged, manly name. It is not cute,” Tobias maintained defensively.

“I know, but it’s so cute that a little boy wanted to be called Clint,” Priscilla said. Tobias sat back and ruminated over her reasoning. He looked like he wished he had never brought the subject up. “Can I call you Clint?” she asked, pulling a pillow across her lap as protection.

“Shut up.”

“Why not? You like all that incognito stuff,” she said, putting the pillow over her face just as Tobias leapt onto her. The pillow offered no protection against his tickle offence, so she was forced to surrender.

“Uncle!” she cried. Tobias gave her one last tickle for good measure. “Whew,” she huffed, reaching for her drink. “I guess we’ve settled the nickname issue,” she said, smoothing her hair down with her free hand.

“Have we, Sammy?” Tobias said, testing the waters.

“You can call me Sammy, I don’t mind. Almost everybody does.”

“Except Frank,” Tobias reminded her, screwing his face up in an approximation of her former boss. “Bobbi! Bobbi! Pick up! Food get cold!” Priscilla laughed weakly and held the pillow in front of his face.

“So, what’s going to become of us? Are we going to drink and eat ourselves into oblivion, until they throw us out of here for non-payment of your bill?” she asked, too woozy to really care about the future.

“Don’t worry yourself about that. You’ve got enough money to keep us going for at least another week,” he said. “Here’s to tomorrow,” he toasted.

“What’s tomorrow?” Priscilla asked, her speech getting fuzzier by the minute.

“Tomorrow is another day,” he said, taking the highball from her hand. “But now I think it’s time for nighty-night. Better get you in bed before you land on your kisser.”

Priscilla was a teensy bit hurt to find that her magic day had come to an end, but she let Tobias help her to her feet anyway. She didn’t want to pass out in front of him. That would not be a chic exit at all, she thought as she walked rather jauntily down the hallway with Tobias.

“Can I get you anything?” he asked as he delivered her to her bedside.

“Oh, my bag,” she said, vaguely remembering she last saw it in the living room.

“I’ll get it.”

Before Priscilla could get her bearings, Tobias returned with her duffel bag and a fresh bottle of water. “Thank you,” she said, taking both from him.

“Okay, then. Hope you sleep like a baby,” he said.

“I don’t think there’ll be any problem there,” Priscilla said, feeling suddenly self-conscious.

“Goodnight,” Tobias said, backing out the door.

“Goodnight.”

Tobias turned off the lights as he made his way back to his side of the suite. He called room service and told them to pick up the cart and pushed it to the foyer. He had an aversion to seeing the previous night’s wreckage when he woke up. It had to be all those years of living like a heathen during his touring days.

This was another sure sign he was getting old. That, and the fact he had escorted Priscilla to her bed without extracting even a peck on the cheek. He had been so keen on the big seduction, too. He was surprised at himself.

He went to the kitchen and got himself a bottle of water and headed for his room for the evening. It made him go kind of cold inside entering this immaculate room, completely devoid of any personal touches. It was like entering a plush cell.

He sat down on the edge of the bed while he contemplated sleeping on one of the sofas. It had been fine every other night, but tonight he was afraid of encroaching on Priscilla’s privacy. Not that she would notice; she was going to be out for the count any second, if she wasn’t already.

Priscilla. Wow. He had not been prepared for becoming so fond of her. Fond: that was a strange word for him to use. But he was fond of her, wasn’t he? He did like her company, didn’t he? He liked the way she spoke, her opinions, her mannerisms and her self-confidence. He liked the way she looked. Cute. Pretty, actually, but in a very low-key way. Like her looks didn’t matter to her. Natural good looks. Large blue eyes, with that intrepid, no-nonsense gaze…soft brown hair to her shoulders… slightly turned-up nose…disarming dimples when she smiled…

“Tobias,” Priscilla said tentatively from the doorway. Tobias swung around on the bed to face her.

“Is something wrong?” he asked, getting to his feet.

“No, I…didn’t want to end the night without thanking you… ”

“Thanking me for what?”

“For everything—for the best day I’ve had in years, for letting me stay here, for the song,” she said, studying the carpet.

“It was my pleasure, on all counts,” Tobias said, hands in pockets. He also was finding it hard to make eye contact.

“Well…you can’t ever know how much that’s meant to me…”

“I think I’ve got a good idea,” Tobias said, managing a magnanimous smile. Priscilla looked directly at him and made a soft ‘humpf’ sound. She seemed to hesitate for a moment, then said goodnight.

“Goodnight,” Tobias answered, walking with her toward the door. Before either of them reached it, Priscilla turned and, grabbing his face in her hands, kissed him—a real kiss, not the peck Tobias regretted not giving her. Priscilla pulled away, out of breath, eyes searching his.

“Priscilla, I don’t want you to do anything you might regret,” Tobias said softly.

“Yeah, but I might regret not doing it worse,” she replied. Having performed the requisite amount of due diligence, neither one of them seemed able or willing to hold themselves back any longer. It was all they could do to make it to the bed before collapsing in a tangled heap.

Thirty-Five

The night and morning passed with excruciating slowness for Philip. He sat on the balcony well into the wee hours of the morning, devising and refining the best plan for dealing with his scheming wife and backstabbing attorney. He went through the charade of going to bed, once he had rehashed his many grievances with the lying louts, but sleep never overtook his whirring brain.

Surprisingly, he did not feel like a zombie once the alarm clock went off at six; if anything, he felt more centered and in control than he had in a long time. He tried to put thoughts of Marianne and Martin out of his mind as he made Caitlin’s breakfast and helped her get ready for school. Though he kept his composure in front of his daughter, he was chomping at the bit to get into his office and put his agenda into motion.

Once he arrived at Glessner & Associates, he had a certain amount of real work to attend to, critical issues that would shape the future of his career. But once he had dealt with or delegated the most urgent matters, he closed his door and told the receptionist to hold all his calls for the next ten minutes. With a completely serene demeanor, he picked up the phone and dialed the number for Schnabel, Hermann, Stanton & Fink.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Glessner—Mr. Fink was called away on an urgent business matter,” Martin’s secretary unwittingly lied. “Would you like me to take a message and pass it on to him when he returns?”

“Ah, no…that’s fine. I’ll call him on his cell phone. Thank you,” Philip said, disconnecting without waiting for a reply. Exactly as I suspected, Philip thought as he looked up Martin’s cell phone number. He was fairly certain Martin wouldn’t take the call, thereby allowing Philip to set the stage for maximum effect. After listening to Martin’s factory-defaulted greeting, he began:

“Martin, hi—it’s Philip. Your secretary says you’re out of town on business. Darn…I was really hoping to get hold of you. (Big sigh.) Well, a lot has happened in the last couple of days…I don’t know where to start, but I’ll try to keep it brief. You probably haven’t heard yet, but we’ve found out what caused the collapse of The Phoenix and, better still, how to save it. You’re not going to believe this, but by the end of next week, the repairs should be completed. Which of course means I’ve just lost a whole lot of aggravations, which is why I’m calling you.

“Obviously, all settlement negotiations need to be halted, as the building will be completely inhabitable once the structural problems have been corrected and signed off on. We’ll figure out settlements that will compensate for out-of-pocket expense and aggravation, but there’ll be plenty of time to assess that once the owners are back in their units.

“That’s issue number one. Issue number two is the divorce. Now that The Phoenix will be saved—and my reputation along with it—I’m going to do my damnedest to reconcile my marriage. Like we were saying just the other day, our women like to think of us as invincible, and I let Marianne down. No doubt she suffered a lot of humiliation because of this business with The Phoenix. But that’s history now. The problem was caused by a defective product, which the manufacturer readily concedes.

“So in reality, I’m completely blameless for what happened. Now Marianne’s shining knight can come back and sweep her off her feet again. In a year’s time, this episode will be completely forgotten. Anyway, we’ll talk more about this when you get back into town. I’ll speak to your secretary and she can tell me who I need to speak to about The Phoenix issue, in case I don’t hear from you until next week.

“And I’ll give Michelson a ring and tell him that I’m reneging on the marital settlement agreement. As it turns out, Marianne is also out of town for a few days, but I don’t want that shyster billing any more hours on my scorecard. I’ll sit down with Marianne the minute she gets back from her folks’ and sort everything out with her. Anyway, there you have it in a nutshell. Sorry this was such a long message, but life has gotten very complicated the last couple of days. Talk to you later. Goodbye.”

Philip hung up the phone and exhaled deeply. What a performance, he congratulated himself, as he reached for a glass of water. That’ll give the two of them something to chew on, he thought as he hit the intercom button.

“If a Martin Fink or a Marianne Glessner calls, tell them I’m in a conference and cannot be disturbed,” he instructed the receptionist. “Make sure everyone is aware of this. It’s extremely important.”

“Yes, sir,” the young woman replied. Philip sat back, arms above his head, exultant in his success. Anything less than pure panic on their end was unimaginable. He leaned back over his desk and buzzed the receptionist again.

“If you receive any calls from either Martin Fink or Marianne Glessner, I want to be notified via email immediately. Is that clear?”

“Yes, Mr. Glessner.”

“Thank you.” Philip looked up Stan Michelson’s phone number and followed through on his threat. Michelson wouldn’t be jumping for joy when he learned of this new development. Undoubtedly, he’d be on the phone to Martin as soon as he listened to his message.

It tickled Philip no end to imagine the highly charged conversations his bombshell was sure to ignite. Marianne would come unglued at the prospect of reconciling. He envisioned her face as she listened to his message, imagining how her features would distort and her voice would become shrill, her finely honed composure shattering like an expensive crystal vase. She might even get a wrinkle over this snag in her treacherous plan.

He imagined Martin cringing as he witnessed the perfect porcelain doll transform into a vexed shrew. And they probably thought fleecing him was going to be as effortless as taking candy from a baby. What they were soon to find out was ol’ spineless Jellyfish Phil was going to beat them at their own game.

Plan of retaliation in motion, he turned his mind to the business of saving his building. “Leslie, can you come in here when you get a chance?”

Over the next hour and a half, while Philip orchestrated the various components needed to save his building, he watched as urgent, red-flagged messages from Martin Fink appeared in his inbox. “Mr. Fink called. Says it’s urgent that he speak to you. Call him on his cell ASAP.” Twenty minutes later, same thing, with the tag-line “Don’t speak to anyone re: divorce until you speak with him.” And one more similar email thirty minutes after that.

At the same time, his cell rang so incessantly, Philip finally had to turn it off in order to concentrate. Though Martin’s frantic and thwarted attempts to reach him gave Philip a certain satisfaction, he was really far more interested in rebuilding his business than in what was becoming a mundane conflict. He had won the war against Marianne; at this point, the battles were insignificant.

Thirty-Six

Priscilla awoke to the sound of a piano playing at what seemed to be a considerable distance. It was so soft and vague, at first it seemed to be background music for her dream. Slowly, the details of her surroundings began to take on significance, until finally she realized with a sharp pang of dread exactly where she happened to be.

She sat up, holding the sheet to her as a thin protective shield, and checked the room for other inhabitants. She was alone, thank God. She exhaled and panted weakly as she summoned her brain for an accounting of the events that led her to be in what was apparently Tobias Jordan’s bed.

She spotted the few articles of clothing she had been wearing when she entered the room the night before, and made a quick dash out of bed to retrieve them. She pulled on her panties and squirmed into her bra and covered as much of herself as she could with her T-shirt.

“I can’t believe I came in here without my skirt on,” she lamented out loud. “Jesus, what he must think of me.” She staggered into the bathroom and confronted her disheveled appearance, groaning at the dark smudges of mascara under her eyes. She scrubbed them off with the nearest towel. Realizing this was only part of the problem, she gave up and hurriedly lathered her face and splashed away the remaining traces of yesterday’s makeup.

Great. Now she was barefaced and hung over, hardly a vision of glamour. Well, she wasn’t exactly hung over, just a little fuzzyheaded, especially in the memory department. She ran her hands through her hair while desperately trying to piece together what had transpired after the last cocktail.

“Oh God,” she moaned, sinking down on the edge of the bathtub. “What did I do?” she asked, strictly a rhetorical question, for she now had a remarkably accurate, blow-by-blow replay running across her mind’s eye. She felt sick with disgust when she recalled how she had put a lip-lock on Tobias, without any prior advance on his part.

He must think I’m such a slut, she thought, covering her face with her hands. No better than a groupie, she sighed, letting her fingers trail down her still-damp skin. It was then she realized the music she heard had to be coming from him. She sat there a moment longer as she tried to decide if this was a good sign or bad.

When she couldn’t stand her curiosity any longer, she tiptoed out into the hallway, where she snuck a peek at Tobias sitting at the piano. She slipped back behind the wall to assimilate the meaning of what she had seen. There he sat, alternately playing and making notations on a piece of paper, naked save for the pair of orange briefs, with a cup of coffee perched on top of the piano, seemingly happy as a clam.

This must be a good sign, Priscilla reasoned, hazarding another glimpse. If he hated me after last night, he wouldn’t still be here, let alone nearly naked. He’d have decamped, at least long enough for me to sober up and clear out, she thought, noticing how downright chipper he looked while he worked.

Well, that’s good, I guess. Unless what happened between us last night was so ordinary, it didn’t faze him in the cold light of day. She snuck one more glance, her gut feeling telling her that he didn’t really look remote or hostile. Feeling a little more secure on this front, she decided to make a run for the other side of the suite.

“I was wondering if you were ever going to wake up,” Tobias said casually, not bothering to look up from his work. Priscilla stopped dead in her tracks, mouth slack from surprise, hands stretching her T-shirt as far south as it would go. Tobias looked up and made a funny little noise, something akin to a laugh, that funny half-giggle, half-snort she heard from him before. Priscilla tried to speak, but nothing was forthcoming.

“I ordered some breakfast for you, but it’s probably cold by now,” he said, indicating a room service cart with a tilt of his head. He ran one hand across the keys in a grand swoop, signaling a time-out. “Did you sleep okay?” he asked, regarding her curiously.

“Yeah, I guess,” Priscilla managed to say. Flashbacks from a few hours ago made her blush and shift her feet nervously. All she wanted to do was dive into a hole and stay there.

“Wish I had,” Tobias said. “You kept me awake half the night with your snoring.” It was meant as a joke, but Priscilla missed it entirely. She stood there dumbstruck.

“I’m kidding. I slept like a rock. Come here,” he said, finding her discomfort entertaining. Against her will, her feet propelled her toward the piano, where she stopped short, using its shiny black hulk as a barrier between Tobias and her indecency. “Come sit next to me,” he coaxed her. Priscilla didn’t budge.

“I seduced you last night, didn’t I?” she croaked, her voice raspy with sleep and the excessive merriment of the day before.

“Well, let’s say you got the ball rolling. I had meant for it to be my job, but I didn’t have the heart to take advantage of you in your…uh…inebriated condition.”

“I was stinking drunk, wasn’t I?” she asked, tracing patterns in the fine dust on the piano lid.

“I wouldn’t say stinking,” Tobias said, barely able to stifle a grin.

“I’m so embarrassed,” Priscilla said, unable to look him in the eye.

“Don’t be. I don’t think you’re a rampaging tramp, if that’s what you’re worried about. Come and sit down. I want to show you something.” Holding her T-shirt down, she rounded the piano and took a seat on his left. The narrow width of the bench made for rather cozy quarters.

“Hello,” Tobias said, smiling. He gave her a light peck on the check, which made her even more self-conscious. “Want some coffee?” he asked, reaching for his oversize cup. Priscilla shook her head. “I had a lot of fun last night…before and after.” He got a slight smile out of her. “Here, have a sip—it’s good coffee.” She took the cup and held it with both hands as she took a cautious sip. “Good, huh?”

“Yeah, but not quite as good as Frank’s,” she said handing it back to him. He laughed and waved the cup away.

“We’ll share,” he said, reaching for his notations.

“Are you working on a new song?”

“Yeah. I got strangely inspired somewhere over the course of the last few hours.” Priscilla bit her bottom lip. She felt a strong stirring in the lower half of her anatomy. She crossed her legs and endeavored to act demure, but one look at Tobias showed her the futility of pretending that his nearness didn’t affect her.

“So…would you like to hear what I’ve got so far?” Priscilla made herself as small as possible in order to give Tobias all the room he needed. After a couple of experimental chords, he played what he had committed to paper.

“What do you think?” he asked afterwards, his hands resting in his lap modestly.

“That was beautiful,” Priscilla said, struck as she was by the simplicity of the melody. It was hard to believe his songs started from such a humble beginnings, only to finish up as complex and masterful compositions, as mesmerizing as they were indelible.

“No words yet?”

“The words are incubating,” he said, his fingers straying over the keys. “There was a girl named Priscilla/ Whose friends thought of her as Sam/ Who drank with the wildest abandon/ And liked to have her sex wham-bam…Ouch!” Tobias yelped, as he took a sharp elbow to the ribs.

“Thanks a lot,” Priscilla said, feeling insecure enough without the needling.

“It was just a joke,” Tobias said lightly.

“Actually, I was thinking the lyrics should be something like this,” she said, “Beware the man bearing exotic treats/ Imported champagne and expensive eats/ Who pours wine and whisky like water/ For girls young enough to be his daughter.”

“Touché!” Tobias said, stung by Priscilla’s sharp wit and sharper tongue. “That ought to teach me to not throw the first stone,” he said, looking at her askance. “You’re not that much younger than I am.” Priscilla laughed.

“That’s funny. There’s more than a twenty-year difference between us, but that makes me old compared to the rest,” she said.

Tobias glared at her with narrowed eyes before lunging at her. Priscilla anticipated the move and jumped off the bench just in the nick of time. Guessing at what was to follow, she rid herself of the coffee cup and primed herself to fend off the attack. The coffee cup had been a liability, costing her the second that gave Tobias the edge. In the blink of an eye, he had her pinned to the floor.

“You’re a maniac!” she shrieked, fighting him the best she could from her vulnerable position. Laughing so hard made it difficult for her to summon her strength. Tobias remained the straight-faced tormentor until Priscilla got wise and performed her ear-wiggling trick again. Tobias’s face split with laughter and Priscilla made her move, tossing him off her with a combined thrust from her hips and legs.

“You’re the Devil’s daughter,” he cried out weakly, flat on his back, the wind almost knocked out of him. Priscilla scrambled to her feet and made a run for it. Tobias, spryer than she had expected for a man his age, nearly had her by the ankle, but she slipped out of his grasp and lurched toward her room. She slammed the door, but forgot to lock it, and by the time she hit the shower, Tobias was on her heels. The frenzied foreplay turned them into a couple of lust-crazed animals.

“I guess we should do something,” Priscilla said, though she barely had enough stamina to lift her head to look at the clock. Tobias was in no better shape, despite his earlier vigor. They were both sprawled across what was meant to be her bed, spent and lethargic.

“Like what?” Tobias asked, not bothering to turn his head her direction.

“Um…I don’t know. Maybe go get something to eat,” she suggested.

“We can order room service,” Tobias said, clearly not up to the task of leaving his suite.

“Don’t you feel like getting out for a while?” Priscilla asked, rolling onto her side to face him. “It looked like it was going to be a nice day.”

“No. I’m just fine where I am,” Tobias answered, folding his hands across his chest contentedly. Priscilla laughed at him.

“I bet you couldn’t move if the building was on fire,” she teased him.

“I could, I just don’t know if I’d want to.” She gave up and rolled onto her back again.

“So, this is the life of a rock star, huh? Eat, drink, fuck, order room service four or five times a day…” Tobias lolled his head to the side.

“You don’t exactly look like you could run a ten-minute mile yourself,” he said dryly.

“Well, I haven’t had anything to eat since dinner last night. But other than being weak from hunger, I have plenty of energy.”

“Tell you what—order yourself an omelet or a club sandwich or something, and let me rest for a little while, then we can go out and cover this town from one end to the other, if you like. How does that sound?”

“Fine,” Priscilla said, “except for one small detail.”

“What’s that?”

“I think you should order for me.” Tobias scoffed. When he glanced over at her, he could see she wasn’t any more likely to flee a burning hotel than he was.

“I thought you were raring to go,” he mocked her.

“I lied.”

“All right,” Tobias said wearily, bending to an upright position. “I’ll make the call. What do you want?” he asked, reaching for the phone.

“Club sandwich,” Priscilla said, her mouth watering at the thought.

“And a beer?”

“A coke.”

“Hi. Can you please send up a club sandwich and a coke? You want fries or a salad with that? Both. And have the waiter leave it in the living room. That’s right. I’ll be in the shower, so go ahead and add a twenty percent gratuity. Thanks. Yeah. Thank you.” Having completed his task, Tobias flopped backwards onto the bed. “Enjoy,” he said, before closing his eyes.

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Are you going to go to sleep now?” Priscilla asked, snuggling up on her side to look at him.

“That’s the idea,” he said without opening an eye.

“You’re making me sleepy,” she said.

“Better listen for room service.”

As Priscilla lay there watching him, she wondered at what she had gotten herself into. She had a hard time believing that Tobias regarded her as anything but a casual fling, in spite of how natural and relaxed they were around each other, and how genuinely fond he seemed to be of her.

She supposed this sort of thing was normal to him: easy sex and companionship, disposable and readily replaceable. She wondered how many females had lost their hearts to him over the years, and if there had ever been a relationship that started as spontaneously as this which had made any sort of lasting impression on him.

It was hard to imagine, yet she honestly felt at that moment they could carry on this way indefinitely. Only someone really naïve could believe that, she told herself as she closed her eyes and drifted into a sleep so sound, she never heard the arrival of her food.

When she woke three hours later, Priscilla again had trouble remembering where she was. The sight of Tobias still sleeping next to her and the intense growling in her stomach quickly refreshed her memory. She propped herself up on one elbow to view the clock over Tobias’s inert form. Quarter to five? Amazing, she thought, lowering herself back down.

“Oh, God,” she groaned. She wasn’t a kid anymore. She very much doubted she could sustain this kind of lifestyle for long. How did Tobias manage it, at his age? Years of practice, she guessed, as she edged off the bed. She snagged a terrycloth robe out of the bathroom and padded down the hall to main room, where she found a sliver dome-covered tray sitting on the coffee table, like an offering to the gods.

She wasted no time diving into the sandwich, the bread soggy in the middle and hard around the edges, but manna from heaven, nonetheless. The coke was a lost cause, as was the salad, and even though the fries were cold and limp, she ate them anyway, dousing them with a torrent of ketchup.

She helped herself to a diet coke from the mini bar, balking only briefly at the five-dollar charge she was incurring by doing so. Tobias was such a big spender, she doubted he had any idea how much he was being overcharged for his extravagances. She wandered back to her appointed room, last quarter of sandwich in hand, and sat down on the corner of the bed to observe her host and lover.

It occurred to her as a funny footnote it was fortunate there wasn’t a soul in the entire world who was expecting her in Florida. She would have been classified as a missing person by this time. Oddly enough, she sort of felt like a missing person, someone who had mistakenly fallen through the looking glass and was never able to resume her old way of life.

Was that such a bad thing? she asked herself as she glanced around at her current digs. So what if the old Priscilla Vanderpool had disappeared? She had been toying with the idea of putting her former identity to rest anyway, at precisely the same moment Tobias called to her on the street. Well, wasn’t that an interesting coincidence? She glanced over her shoulder and discovered she had not been unobserved in her meditations.

“How long have you been awake?” she asked Tobias, who lay staring up at her with his usual maddening grin.

“Long enough to watch you devour your sandwich like a starving wolf,” he said. “I bet you didn’t save me any of it, either—did you?”

“Of course not,” Priscilla replied, sipping her high-priced soda.

“Give me a sip,” he said, taking the can from her hand. “My mouth feels like I’ve been staked out in the Gobi desert for a week,” he said, a complaint Priscilla understood quite well.

“I can get you your own,” she offered. “They’re only five bucks apiece.” Tobias crinkled his brow at her, as if the price of a soda—no matter how exorbitant—was irrelevant if you wanted it.

“You’d probably pass out if you knew what the nightly rate on this suite was,” he said, killing the last of the soda and crunching the can. “See, back to my old vim and vigor,” he said, depositing the crumpled can in her hand like a treasured gift. “What time is it?” he asked, stretching and groaning loudly.

“Five after five,” she said, lying down across the end of the bed.

“No way.” Priscilla nodded. “Oh well, c’est la vie. It’s not like we had a lot on our agendas today, anyway,” he said, grabbing at her leg playfully.

“You haven’t cornered the market on Viagra, have you?” Priscilla cracked, pulling her leg a safe distance from her aggressor.

“Don’t complain—it’s a compliment. It means you know how to bring out the beast in me,” he said, gracing her with a particularly cheesy come-on look.

“Great. Just how do we get the beast to go back into his cave?”

“Oh, like you’ve had such a bad time,” Tobias countered. “As I recall, you’re beastie came out before my beastie did.” Priscilla laughed.

“Yeah, but that was different. You plied me with alcohol and dazzled me with all these fancy trappings. You had me at a disadvantage.”

“Oh, boohoo. Big, bad Tobias took advantage of you,” he taunted. Priscilla responded with a long kick to his side of the bed, which he intercepted.

“Ha, ha ha, I’ve got you now,” he said, using her leg to pull her toward him. Priscilla giggled and whined intermittently, but was unable or unwilling to put up much resistance.

“Still want to get out and do something?” Tobias asked, holding her close in a somewhat tentative embrace. Priscilla giggled as she got a mental image of Pepe La Pew clutching the unwitting pussycat in his repugnant arms. “What’s so funny?”

“Nothing,” she said, not fool enough to get him riled up in her current position. “To answer your question, yes, I would like to get out of here before I start feeling like a sex hostage…”

“A sex hostage? Please!”

“…but at this stage of the day, I don’t have a lot of options, seeing as how I’ve just about exhausted my entire wardrobe…”

“Oh damn,” Tobias sighed, rolling over on his back. “We forgot to buy you some clothes.”

“We didn’t exactly forget…”

“What time is it?” he asked, sitting up to look at the clock. 5:15.

“I need to shower and wash my hair,” Priscilla said, preempting any ideas he might have of racing off on a shopping spree so near to closing time.

“Not a problem,” Tobias said, disappearing into the bathroom and returning in a matching white robe. “I don’t know why I didn’t think of this before.” He picked up the phone and dialed information. After receiving the number for Bergdorf-Goodman, he placed the call and asked to be transferred to a personal shopper.

“What are you doing?” Priscilla asked, confused and dismayed by his actions.

“What size are you?”

“Six. Why?”

“Hi, good afternoon. Who am I speaking to? Rebecca. Hi, this is Tobias Jordan. Good, thanks. I’m here in town with a lady friend, whose luggage has been mistakenly routed to Saigon, or somewhere. The problem is, we have an engagement this evening and she literally doesn’t have anything but the bathrobe on her back to wear. Could you possibly send over few dresses appropriate for evening, say a dozen or so? A nice variety of choices, okay? She’s a size six. Sounds good. We’re at the Amsterdam, keeping a low profile, if you take my meaning. Ask for the hotel manager, he’ll bring you up. Let me give you my American Express number and you can run a deposit on it, just to keep everything kosher. How does that sound?”

He recited a string of numbers so impossibly long, Priscilla wondered if he were making them up. “I realize how late it is, that’s why I called you. Bergdorf’s has always come through for me in the past. I promise we won’t keep you late, and I promise I’ll make it worth your while. That’s wonderful. We’ll see you then.” Tobias replaced the receiver and smiled smugly at Priscilla, whose face wore an expression of pure disbelief.

“I can’t believe what I just heard,” she sputtered. “You can really do something like that?”

“I just did, didn’t I? Go wash your hair. She’ll be her in about half an hour.”

Thirty-Seven

Philip tipped the delivery boy and took the brown paper bags into the kitchen, where Caitlin sat finishing her homework. It had been a long day—so long, it felt more like a week. So much happened with The Phoenix and related issues, Philip had to pick Caitlin up from school and bring her back to the office while he tried to tie everything up.

Poor kid, he thought, as he dished out the Phad Thai, Mee Grob, Shu Mai and Satay onto their plates. If things worked out the way he expected them to, he’d need to look into getting an au pair or a reliable sitter for after school. Although she got a kick out of hanging around the office this time, he imagined the novelty would soon wear off.

“Don’t eat the noodles with your fingers,” Philip said, as he tried to swat her hand away. Caitlin was too fast for him, hiding her hand behind her back, out of harm’s way. Feeling cocky, she ventured another shot at the Pahd Thai, but this time her fast little hand was intercepted.

“Ah, ah, ah,” Philip scolded her, holding both hands palm-side up as he inspected them. “Just as I thought. Go clean up, and make it quick. Your food’s going to get cold.” Like a shot, Caitlin was out of the chair and down the hallway. She loved Thai food almost as much as she loved pizza. In under thirty seconds, she was back at her chair.

“You couldn’t have possibly washed your hands that fast,” Philip said, withholding her plate from her until he saw proof of cleanliness.

“I did too, see?” she said, holding her still damp hands up for examination. Philip scrutinized them thoroughly, but more for reasons of wanting to prolong contact with her than out of fastidiousness.

“Oh, yum yum yum,” she said excitedly, as Philip set the plate in front of her. “Did they give us extra peanut sauce?” she asked, peering around the clutter on the table.

“One for you and one for me,” Philip said, placing a small Styrofoam container to the right of her placemat. “I want you to eat the chicken, too—not just the peanut sauce.”

He doubted whether she’d obey him, though she did make a big show of taking a bite of the chicken without licking all the sauce off first. She smiled smugly through her mouthful, causing Philip’s parental demeanor to flag. She was such a good kid, it was hard to be the authority figure all the time. But somebody had to make sure she didn’t grow up to be a spoiled rotten princess, like her mother.

He ladled peanut sauce on his own Satay and managed to get one bite in before his cell phone rang. Leslie was working late, as she likely would for some time to come. He had instructed her to call him if anything urgent came up, in addition to keeping him informed whenever Martin or Marianne called in. So far, Martin had been the only caller from that front. Michelson had not returned his call, but that didn’t surprise him.

“Hi boss, it’s me. I wanted to let you know the letter from the city just came over the fax.”

“Read it to me.”

“Mr. Philip Glessner—”

“You can skip all that part. I just want to make sure they’ve spelled everything out in plain English, so that I don’t need to get fifteen attorneys to interpret it.”

“Okay, it says…“the above mentioned property—known as The Phoenix Tower—has been removed from the city’s demolition schedule, effective at 4:30 on the above referenced date. The owner(s) will have a period of forty-five days from said date to perform corrective work. If agreed upon corrective work is not completed by this deadline, or if said corrective work is deemed unsatisfactory, the Department of Public Safety will be forced to reschedule demolition for the safety and well-being of the general public.” Signed, Joseph A. Poncelli.”

“Excellent,” Philip said, chewing a bite of Pahd Thai discretely.

“When he called to see if we received the fax, he told me we’ll have something in writing from the Planning Commission giving you authorization to proceed with the retrofitting project.”

“Very excellent,” Philip nodded into the phone. “Looks like we’re good to go, then.”

“It sure does, boss.”

“Well, thanks for staying there till it came through. You need to go home and get some sleep,” Philip advised her.

“Home? Sleep? What are those?”

“You’ll get your reward, I promise,” Philip assured her.

“Oh, you know the money doesn’t mean anything. I only do this because I’m an incurable masochist,” she said with a laugh.

“It’ll get easier, I swear. Well, go get yourself something to eat, on me,” he said before exchanging goodnights. Philip put down his cell phone and picked up a Shu Mai with his fingers, eating it while he stared out into space.

“You look tired, Daddy,” Caitlin said, battling two wooden skewers as she fought both sides of an invisible war. Hearing her say that, Philip could feel the skin around his eye sockets sag and his vision blur.

“Yeah, Daddy had a tough day, Pumpkin,” he said, trying to sit up straighter.

“What happened?” she asked, her eyes big with concern.

“Oh, just a lot of stuff. I had a lot of people to meet with about fixing The Phoenix.”

“Are you really going to fix it?”

“Looks that way.”

“That’s good, right?”

“It’s very good, sweetheart. When the building is fixed, all the people who used to live there will get to move back in again, so everyone’s going to be happy.” Caitlin’s rapturous expression surprised him.

“So you won’t have to go to jail?” she asked timidly.

“No, of course not,” Philip said, appalled that she had been harboring such concerns. “Where did you ever get an idea like that?” Caitlin shrugged off the question, fearing she might get in trouble.

“Did someone tell you I was going to have to go to jail?” Philip pressed her. It made his blood boil to think there were people in this world who could make such a callous and libelous remark to a child. He had feared the possible repercussions of all the negative press coverage, yet he vainly hoped the mean-spirited gossip would not reach her at school. It grieved him to find out how heartless people could be.

“Who was it, honey? I would really like to know,” he said, implying she would not scolded if she spilled the beans.

“Mommy,” she said so softly, Philip could barely understand her at first.

“Mommy? Why would she say something like that?” he asked, trying to keep the outrage out of his voice. Another shrug. A snort of exasperation escaped him, but he smiled quickly to cover it.

“Did she say that I was going to jail because of the problem with The Phoenix?” Caitlin nodded and her eyes clouded over. Philip’s heart nearly broke in two. “Oh, ha ha ha,” he laughed with contrived joviality. “You didn’t really believe that?” he asked. Caitlin nodded, her lower lip quivering. “Mommy was just joking.”

“No she wasn’t,” Caitlin bellowed, her face turning red and crumpling as the tears started streaming from her eyes.

“There, now—no reason to cry,” Philip cooed, as he lifted her up and sat her on his lap. “I’m sure she was just saying that as a figure of speech,” he tried to reassure her, kissing the top of her head, which had become hot in her distressed state.

“A what?” Caitlin snuffled as she looked at him quizzically.

“A figure of speech? Well, that’s when you say something for effect even though it’s not really true.” Philip saw by her puzzled expression this explanation wasn’t going to cut it.

“It’s like if someone were to tell me that the Mets were going to win the World Series again, and I told them, ‘Yeah, when pigs fly.’” Caitlin giggled at the thought of pigs flying.

“See what I’m saying? We know that pigs will never fly, just like Mommy knows that I am never going to go to jail. See, does that make sense now?” Philip asked, grateful that Caitlin was still young enough to buy such weak reasoning. She nodded her head, somewhat reluctantly. Philip cinched the deal by giving her a good tickle.

“No—stop, Daddy!” she squealed. Philip let her loose and she flopped happily back to her seat. “So you really don’t have to go to jail?” she asked one more time for clarity.

“Absolutely, positively not,” Philip said adamantly.

“Good,” Caitlin replied, grabbing a Phad Thai noodle with her fingers and sucking it into her mouth in one fluid slurp.

“Hey, not with your fingers!” Philip reminded her. Caitlin uttered a sharp laugh like a magpie’s call, clearly relieved of her earlier anxiety. Philip watched her, his heart so full it ached. At the same time, he felt a hatred and contempt of Marianne, the likes of which he had never experienced.

She’ll get hers in the end, he told himself, willing his mind away from the subject. To humor Caitlin, and to distract himself, he took two of the wooden skewers and stuck them in his mouth the way Caitlin had at the Chinese restaurant. She watched with a growing grin on her face as Philip wiggled the sticks with his lips. She quickly joined in, and they made ridiculous faces at each other until they were laughing so hard they couldn’t keep the sticks in place.

“I miss Priscilla,” Caitlin said.

“I do too,” Philip admitted, carefully laying his skewers down side by side. He folded his arms and sat starring at the sticks, his mind wandering off again.

“Are we going to Florida to see her?”

“Ah…sure.”

“When?”

“I don’t know. We’ll have to wait and see.”

“Wait for what?” Caitlin persisted.

“We’re going to have to wait for an invitation, that’s what,” Philip said, setting the remains of their feast on the counter by the sink. He scooped her up without warning and carried her down the hall.

“But now it’s time for your bath, missy,” he said swinging her over his back, earning a delighted squeal for the ambushing. He deposited her in front of the bathroom and told her to run and get her pajamas. He started the water and watched as the tub filled, occasionally testing and modifying the temperature. Caitlin returned, PJ’s in hand, his signal to leave so she could get undressed.

She’s growing up so fast, Philip thought as he closed the door behind him.

“Daddy…?”

“Yes?” Philip answered, his face close to the door.

“I wish I could be with you all the time,” she said.

“I know, sweetheart—me too. But I’ve got to go to work and you’ve got to go to school…”

“I mean after school. At night.”

“But you like spending time with Mommy, too, don’t you?” he asked through the door.

“I’d rather be with you all the time,” she said after a brief pause. Philip stared at the door pensively.

“Well, maybe we can work something out where we can be together more often,” he said.

“You promise?” she asked, her voice tinged with excitement, sounding so close, he could tell she was pressed up next to the door, hanging on his every word.

“I promise to try, how’s that?”

“Okay,” she said, satisfied by his answer. He heard the sloshing of water as she climbed into the tub.

“Don’t stay in there too long—you’ll get wrinkly like a pickle,” he warned.

“I won’t,” she said, sloshing gaily about.

“And try to keep some of the water in the tub this time, okay?” Caitlin laughed gleefully, a sure sign that the floor was going to need mopping when she was through.

Philip cleaned up the dinner mess while Caitlin bathed, or at least got good and wet. These simple domestic chores turned his mind to the fact that, things changing the way they were, he was going to need to make more permanent living arrangements. He had imposed on his friends’ generosity far too long already.

At least now they would not have to combat the stigma of giving charity to a public pariah. His reputation would be restored and they could bask in the nobility of having stood by a friend when he was down and out. He was beginning to feel that, after an unduly long hiatus, his side of the earth was finally coming back into the sun’s glowing rays.

As far as housing options went, he had various, one of which was buying out any disenchanted Phoenix Tower owners. Suddenly, a rather wicked ploy occurred to him. It was so effective and so simple, it made him laugh. Caitlin called out to him, ready for him to tuck her in and read her a story. He stashed the idea away for safekeeping and went to perform his fatherly duties.

Later that evening, after a relaxing shower, he took a seat on the balcony and enjoyed the cool night air. He had so many things on his mind, so many pressing details regarding The Phoenix, plus the sudden flip of power in the divorce drama. It was a while before he remembered his brilliant solution for his housing dilemma.

He savored his scotch while he savored the twist that would surely send Marianne into a conniption fit. If this didn’t push her into settling their divorce his way, he’d be shocked.

Surprise would be the key to pulling it off. He could feed Martin particular clues about his intent, but only enough to put a certain amount of fear in both of them. Right now, just the thought that he wanted to reconcile their marriage probably had Marianne pacing the floor, firing epithets in every direction. He wished he could be there to see that! He was itching to find out what their next move would be.

But all in good time. He had plenty of real issues to keep his mind engaged until the showdown. He got up, got undressed and collapsed in his bed. He slept more fitfully than he had in ages.

Thirty-Eight

“Relax, you look stunning,” Tobias said, pausing to let Priscilla walk into the club ahead of him. It was true; she did look great in her new finery, but she also looked nervous, as though she half expected someone to come and reclaim the clothes off her back. She was a real-life Cinderella, though she had to be the glummest one in history.

It was hard for Tobias to feel much sympathy for her though, having plunked down a wad and a half on a good starter wardrobe: four dresses, two for day and two for evening, plus accessories. Of course, he couldn’t bring the cost up without making her feel more miserable. She was so on edge as it was, any hint that he was less than pleased with her display of gratitude might send her running off into the night.

They should have stayed in the hotel, like he had originally wanted to. After the thrill of watching her try on clothes and spending money like a Rockefeller, the pursuit of nightlife without the trial of recognition was becoming tedious, to say nothing of anti-climatic.

Once past the initial gatekeepers, Tobias had to allow the floor manager to schmooze him in order to get a private table without reservations. Tobias made nice, though he had to grit his teeth to get through it, and they were rewarded with a booth on the upper level, with good views of the happenings below, and little exposure on their end.

Once seated, Priscilla loosened up some. This was not exactly the scene she had hoped for when she told Tobias she felt like getting out. She was starting to understand that going out for a walk and grabbing a hamburger was not a pleasure so easily accessible to someone of Tobias Jordan’s celebrity.

In order to “get out,” he had to spend a small fortune to properly clothe her, then hire a car and scope out various locations to find the one that seemed most conducive to both entertaining and protecting the big star. At least it looked like they had found a place that might meet those requirements.

“Hungry?” Tobias asked, giving the small leather-bound menu a quick perusal. The food wasn’t the main attraction here, but they covered most the bases.

“I could definitely eat,” Priscilla answered, taking the proffered list from his hand. “What are you going to have?” she asked, more as a conversation starter than a matter of curiosity.

“Probably a burger and onion rings. Or maybe the snails and a butter-leaf salad. I don’t know, caviar sounds pretty tempting, too. What do you think? Anything strike your fancy?”

“I think I’ll go with your first choice,” she said, laying the menu down.

“What do you feel like drinking? How does champagne sound?”

“Uh, fine,” Priscilla said. A beer actually sounded better, but she wasn’t sure they even served such a lowly beverage at this ultra-fine, ultra chic place. She had never heard of Mojo’s, but apparently anybody who counted had.

Though she felt like an imposter parading around in her designer duds, she was grateful not to be wearing her old garb. Everyone in there looked as though they had stepped out of a fashion magazine, right down to their snotty attitudes. She picked up the matches and studied the logo before slipping them into her improbably small leopard-print evening clutch. It provided barely enough room for a comb, lipstick and a couple of fifties. The book of matches made it bulge inelegantly.

“This place isn’t so bad,” Tobias confided, once the manager had taken their orders. “At least it’s fairly anonymous. I like a place I can get lost in,” he shouted over the sudden increase in volume. They both craned their necks in the direction of the commotion, but were unable to see what all the fuss was about.

“Probably some movie star,” Tobias decided, grateful for the arrival of the champagne. Even though it wasn’t a beer, Priscilla had to admit that holding a glass of expensive bubbles did give her a certain charge. She felt more sophisticated and less of a phony once she had sipped her way through the first glass.

“That’s the spirit,” Tobias commended her, refilling both their glasses. “You know, I feel like caviar after all. How does that sound?” Repugnant, Priscilla thought, but kept her commentary to herself.

“None for me, but you go for it,” she said, amazed at his capacity for spending money. The only selection listed on the menu was Beluga at $125 an ounce. Tobias flagged down a waiter and ordered two ounces.

The music was loud enough to make conversation a chore, and the sights were interesting enough to keep them both entertained without the compulsion to share their opinions. Occasionally something funny or outrageous would catch their eyes and they communicated their shared views through arched eyebrows or a tap of the foot under the table.

The food came and Priscilla went at her burger like it was her last. Tobias, on the other hand, paid little attention to his escargot and virtually ignored his salad, but he savored the caviar and tried to convert Priscilla to the appreciation of high-priced fish eggs.

All and all, it wasn’t such a bad way to pass the night, she decided as Tobias divvied up the last of the champagne. She was feeling relaxed enough to venture off to the ladies’ room, but Tobias, either out of latent chivalry or fear that she might skip out of him, insisted on escorting her. Had he known what he was walking into, he would have crawled under the table and stayed there until closing time.

“I’ll wait for you out here,” he said, before ducking into the gents. He knew whatever it was that women did in the restroom always took five times longer than their male counterparts.

What he hadn’t counted on was Priscilla’s sudden insecurity upon entering a veritable den of judgmental females. She was in and out of there almost as fast as Tobias, plenty long enough to witness the lively exchange between Tobias and a tall, lanky guy, too good looking to not be famous. She hung back and watched the scene unfold from a safe distance, noting the look of mild surprise and trepidation on Tobias’s face as the young hunk nearly crushed him with a bear hug.

“Tobias!” Winston cried out, smothering Tobias affectionately.

“Winston,” Tobias croaked. The odds were all in favor of him having his pretty, petulant sister in tow. He caught a glimpse of her as she rounded the corner, champagne glass in hand, laughing gaily about something. Her hilarity came to an abrupt halt as she laid eyes on her wayward lover.

“Hey, hey, hey,” Winston said, grabbing his sibling by the wrist as she turned on her heels. “You two need to kiss and make up,” the misguided youth pronounced, bringing them face-to-face to sort out their rift.

“I’m not speaking to him,” Simone spat, eyeing Tobias with sheer contempt.

“Winston, I’m afraid this isn’t a problem that can be mended with a kiss,” Tobias said, wanting to keep their reunion brief.

“You are such a son-of-a-bitch, Tobias!” Simone shrieked, obviously feeling more passionate about their split than he was.

“Calm down, Simone,” Tobias said, not liking the attention they were starting to attract. It was then he noticed Priscilla standing across the hallway, observing their tête-à-tête with an amused look on her face.

“Don’t tell me to calm down, God damn you! I wished I’d never laid eyes on you, you heartless old bastard.”

“Simone, please—we don’t need to be giving everyone a free show,” Tobias said condescendingly. “We all know you’re the queen of dramatic outbursts. No need to constantly prove it.” Even optimistic, stoned-out Winston saw the error in this tactic.

“Ooh,” he winced, just as Simone emptied the contents of her glass on Tobias’s face.

“Fuck you, Tobias!” she said, as she stormed into the ladies’ room for a good cry.

“Dude, that was not a cool scene,” Winston said grievously. Tobias gave the beautiful airhead one last dismayed glance before retrieving his date.

“Let’s get out of here,” he said under his breath. Priscilla merely smiled and let him propel her through the crowd. She couldn’t help but notice that the lion’s share of attention wasn’t falling on them, but the striking pair they had left behind.

“She got you pretty good,” Priscilla said, as she watched Tobias’s vain attempt to dry his shirt with the chauffeur’s handkerchief. “She could have at least ordered something better than the house swill,” Tobias complained as he took a whiff of himself. Priscilla found the whole incident quite hilarious.

“I’m glad you’re getting such a kick out of my calamity,” he said peevishly.

Priscilla laughed. “It’s hardly a calamity,” she replied. “And from where I was standing, something tells me you had it coming.”

“Oh thanks, thanks for the moral support,” Tobias sputtered indignantly.

“Somehow I don’t think this had anything to do with morals,” she quipped.

“Aren’t we the clever one,” Tobias said, fanning his shirt. “Stop the car,” he told the driver. “Feel like getting some air? I can’t stand the smell of myself any longer.” They got out and Tobias sent the driver to wait for them a few blocks up the road.

“Hope you can walk in those,” he said, looking doubtfully at the sexy but impractical footwear he had purchased only hours ago.

“When my feet give out, you’ll just have to carry me.” Tobias didn’t seem to find this funny. He was having trouble finding the humor in anything at the moment. It didn’t help that Priscilla took his predicament so lightly. If she had been jealous or hurt, he would’ve had grounds for defending himself. Without the need to make justifications, he found he had no defense, and therefore nothing to say for himself.

“See why I don’t really like going out?” he said.

Priscilla didn’t care for the accusatory tone in his voice. “Yes, I can see why. This town must be a virtual minefield of jilted lovers for you.”

Tobias stopped in his tracks. “Is that the kind of sympathy I can expect from you?” he cried out.

Priscilla regarded him curiously. “Yes. And that’s all the sympathy you deserve. If you’ve been generous to me in the hopes of laying claim to blind sympathy and support, then you can have everything back, except what I’ve eaten.” Priscilla’s dander was up now, but she was still firmly in control of her emotions. She was over guilt complexes, she happily discovered. She may owe Tobias something, but it probably wasn’t anything he could use.

“Okay, you’re right. I’m being as silly as the girls I date—present company excepted. This wasn’t what I had in mind for our big night on the town,” he said, a rare hint of humility in his words.

“We didn’t need to do anything fancy. We could have slunk off to some anonymous hole and had a burger and a couple of drinks, or gone to a movie, or just walked around for a while. And all those things you bought me were totally unnecessary. I don’t even want to know what you spent. I just needed something clean to go out in public in.”

Having Priscilla point out the folly in the only thing he felt good about doing that day made him feel even more morose.

“You know, maybe it isn’t as hard to blend in with the crowd in places where no one’s expecting to see someone famous. If you stayed away from all the chichi joints and affected a low-profile, you might slip everyone’s attention.”

“What did you have in mind?” Tobias asked.

“I don’t know, just a non-descript sort of place, like an Irish pub or something low-brow.”

“Like that place?” An establishment fitting her description came into view as they crossed the street. “O’Malley’s Irish Pub? Sounds pedestrian enough. Want to check out your theory?”

Priscilla, feeling put on the spot, equivocated. “It was just an idea,” she said, backpedaling.

“No, it was a good idea. C’mon, let’s have a pint,” he said.

The first test of anonymity came at the entrance, where a cluster of working-class partiers was loitering. The pair of them generated plenty of curious looks, but not because anyone recognized Tobias.

“You might be on to something,” he said as he scouted out the room. There was one vacant seat at the middle of the bar, on which he installed Priscilla while he sought the attention of one of the bartenders.

“What’ll you have?” a burly barkeep in a tight white polo shirt asked. Tobias ordered two Harp’s lager on tap.

“So far, so good,” he whispered into Priscilla’s ear. Already, she could sense a change in his disposition. As he relaxed so did she. The bartender set the laughably large beers down and made change for Tobias’s fifty.

“Cheers,” Priscilla offered, lifting her beer with both hands. They touched glasses, awkwardly, and set about the laborious task of draining them.

“Bottoms up,” Tobias said with a comical wink. A laughing fit in the making was interrupted by a shrill voice uncomfortably close. Priscilla froze, pint glass midair.

“Sammy!” the voice called out again, this time more plaintively.

“Oh no,” Priscilla said under her breath, turning toward Tobias in hopes that Rochelle would give up. No such luck.

“Sammy—I thought that was you,” the buxom blond said, wedging a shoulder between Priscilla and Tobias. Priscilla could tell at first glance Rochelle was already liquored to the gills.

“Rochelle,” Priscilla acknowledged with feigned surprise, as she swiveled around on the barstool in an effort to shield Tobias from Rochelle’s low-rent charm.

“I didn’t know you came here,” Rochelle said, teetering on unsteady legs. “Who’s your friend? Hi, I’m Rochelle,” she said to Tobias, hand extended daintily in his direction. “I’m a friend of Sammy’s. Hey, I know who you are!” Tobias shot Priscilla an anxious look, which she deflected nervously. “You’re Tammy Lynn Castro’s cousin Ralph,” Rochelle said, pointing a finger at him knowingly.

“Sorry, wrong guy,” Tobias said, turning his attention back to his beer.

“Are you sure? You’re a dead ringer for him,” Rochelle insisted.

“He’s definitely not the guy you’re thinking of,” Priscilla informed her. Rochelle seemed to take offense to the fact that not only was Tobias not Ralph Castro, he wasn’t very friendly either.

“Who is he, then?” she asked.

“Just a…a friend.”

“He’s kinda cute,” Rochelle admitted grudgingly. Without warning, the synapses in Rochelle’s intoxicated brain finally caught up with reality. “Hey, I’m really mad at you, Sammy,” she said, her body language switching from sloppy drunk to pugilistic nemesis. Priscilla sensed trouble immediately.

“Hey, why don’t we go outside,” she suggested, trying to talk Rochelle down.

“I’m not going anywhere with you,” Rochelle replied, shaking Priscilla’s hand from her arm. “You’re a double-crossing bitch, that’s what you are,” Rochelle fired. Priscilla sunk back onto her barstool, expecting the worst. “And I think maybe your friend should know what a lousy back-stabbing traitor you are.”

“This is about Matthew, isn’t it?” Priscilla guessed.

“Yes, it is. How could you, Sammy? I loved that guy. I told you I did. And he felt the same way about me until you came along. I confided in you and what do you do—you run off and sleep with him the moment I turned my back.”

There was so much fiction in what Rochelle believed to be true, correcting her point by point would’ve taken all night. All Priscilla cared about at this juncture was getting out of there in one piece.

“What do you think about someone who would do something so low?” Rochelle asked of Tobias, who looked at the two of them askance.

“All right, that was a cold-blooded thing to do and I’m sorry,” Priscilla said, giving Tobias the signal to make their exit. “Sorry, Rochelle. We’ve got to go,” she said, pushing the teary-eyed lush out of their way.

“Wait, I’m not done! You have no idea how much you hurt—” The rest of Rochelle’s tirade was lost in the din as they made their way to the door.

“What?” Priscilla said defensively.

“Oh, nothing,” Tobias said, chuckling to himself.

“Shut up.”

“Oh, so my affairs are fair game but yours aren’t?” he countered. Priscilla sulked, arms holding the flimsy silk shawl around her shoulders ineffectually. “Looks like neither one of us can go anywhere in this town without the past creeping up,” he said, unable to suppress a laugh. “You stole her guy? That must’ve been hard.”

Priscilla couldn’t help but crack a smile. “It didn’t happen the way she described it.”

“I see.”

“Oh, let’s just go back to the hotel, where it’s safe,” Priscilla said gloomily. She should’ve gotten out of town when she had the chance.

Thirty-Nine

Philip looked at the caller ID on his cell phone before answering it. Martin Fink. What a surprise. Who else would be calling at quarter to seven? Philip let it ring several times before answering, just to let Martin sweat it out a little longer.

“Philip Glessner,” he said, as if he hadn’t known the caller’s identity.

“Philip, it’s Martin.”

“Martin, hi. I wasn’t expecting to hear from you until next week,” Philip said, taking his cup of coffee over to the window of his makeshift home office. Another glorious day in the making, he thought, watching the last hint of pink fade from the clouds.

“Yeah, well, the other side finally came to their senses and realized they had a lost cause and settled out of court,” Martin lied, giving himself a nice pat on the back in the process.

“That’s good. So, you’ll be coming back sooner?”

“Flew in last night,” Martin said. Philip smiled at the news. He had a feeling the lovebirds would be cutting their rendezvous short after listening to his message. “You never returned any of my calls yesterday. I left half a dozen messages to call me ASAP.”

“Sorry, Martin. Yesterday was quite an eventful day. Besides, I thought you’d be out of town the rest of the week…”

“Well, I’m back, and I’ve already had a few intense exchanges with Michelson. I really wish you hadn’t called him before we spoke,” Martin said in his most aggrieved tone.

“Like I said in the voicemail, I just wanted to stop the meter. I can only imagine what sort of bill he’s going to present us with.” Philip listened to the long sigh and weighty pause that followed. It was interesting to observe just how effective his strategy had been. He had never been able to reach Martin by phone any earlier than 9 a.m., for one thing. Nor he had ever witnessed Martin at a loss for words.

“Philip, first of all, let me congratulate you on The Phoenix. I really hope that works out for you—”

“No more than I do, I can assure you,” Philip interjected.

“Yes, I’m sure. But—”

“And it will work out. The Phoenix will be restored to its former soundness. In a couple of weeks, it’ll be like the collapse never happened.”

“Good. I’m thrilled to hear it. But I don’t think you should be so optimistic about your marriage. You seem to be equating the downfall of the building with the downfall of your marriage, and I’m afraid you might be wrong about that.”

Philip smiled. He couldn’t wait to hear the arguments against reconciliation, from both him and Marianne. They had a very narrow road to tread, thanks to their deceptions. “Is that so? Are you saying you know something that I don’t?” Philip challenged him.

“Only what I’ve heard from Michelson, who is getting it straight from his client’s mouth. Apparently Marianne has no desire to reconcile with you, regardless of The Phoenix’s turnaround. She says that she’s ‘moved on,’ quote unquote.”

“Martin, I know Marianne. This whole business with The Phoenix was very distressful for her. She’ll be willing to reconcile once I have a chance to sit down and explain everything to her. Maybe you were right, maybe I should’ve waited to tell Michelson after Marianne got back into town. Getting the news secondhand from that shyster—whose best interest is not being served if we stay married—was probably a tactical error on my part,” Philip humbly admitted. “But after we have a chance to talk, face-to-face, she’ll be more amenable, I’m sure of it.”

“Philip, I’m sorry—you’re not taking my meaning here. Per Michelson, she will not meet with you alone, face-to-face, the way you envision it. She absolutely refuses to do it, according to him.”

“Wait until she gets back to town, Martin. I can reason—”

“She’s back. She got back last night. She was so distressed by your change of heart—”

“My change of heart? Is that how she sees this? Like I’m acting on a whim?”

“She sees it as a double-cross, actually. You agreed to a settlement, and before the ink’s dry, you change your mind. She thinks you’re intentionally trying to torment her. I can see how this would be upsetting for her,” Martin said. Philip could hardly keep from laughing.

“It’s not like that, Martin. The reason for our breakup will soon be a thing of the past. There is no reason for us to get divorced, not the reason she gave anyway. I mean, unless she’s got some ulterior agenda…”

“Oh, I seriously doubt that Marianne is being anything but ingenuous here.”

“Okay, fine. If that’s the case, then we can sort this out.”

Another deep sigh on Martin’s end. “Phil, we’re going in circles here. She does not want to work things out with you,” Martin said in an exaggerated cadence, as if he were speaking to a particularly dense client.

“Well, where does that leave us, then? I don’t want to get divorced, period. I want to work things out. I want a chance to talk to my wife, in private, the way married couples do.”

“Then you’re going to have to take the first step of meeting with her and Michelson and me. Then you can take it from there. But you’ve got to get to first base before you start thinking of a home run.”

Philip pulled the phone away from his ear to glare at it. He was glad he wouldn’t have to listen to Martin’s patronizing platitudes much longer. “Okay, what do you suggest?”

“I suggest we meet at my office at ten o’clock. I’ll clear my calendar and we’ll pound away until we get somewhere.”

Philip let the reference to clearing his calendar slide. Martin had planned on being away with his wife, therefore he had no appointments to cancel. What a pompous bastard, forever trying to puff himself up. How could Marianne stand his company? Go figure, Philip thought sourly. “All right, I can be there.”

“Great. I’ll confirm with Michelson. And Phil, keep an open mind, okay? It’s better to approach these kinds of situations in the spirit of compromise rather than being dead set on one outcome. You’ll find it’ll work out better in the long run,” his solicitor advised him. Yeah, for whom? Philip almost let slip.

“Okay, Martin. I’ll do my best.”

Philip sat in the chair closest to Martin’s desk, awaiting the arrival of Marianne and her attorney. Martin had excused himself from the room, no doubt to intercept his lover and review strategies.

Since all the conference rooms were booked, Philip found himself staring at Martin’s personal effects, including pictures of Laura and the kids, Charlton and Bernice—as if having the last name Fink wasn’t bad enough. But they were children; they shouldn’t be expected to account for their father’s crimes. And Laura was a nice enough woman, all in all. She certainly didn’t deserve to have a cheating, lying scoundrel for a husband. What a shock all this would be to her.

But maybe not. If Marianne didn’t come away from the divorce with the windfall she was anticipating, it might taint the feelings she had for Martin, or vice versa. Maybe this weird alliance would fizzle before it destroyed another family. In any event, somebody’s plans were about to be altered.

Martin held the door open as Marianne and Lou Michelson entered the room, the first looking pained by emotional agony, the latter looking like he was out for a pound of flesh. Martin sheepishly followed them in and closed the door.

“Okay, I suppose there’s no need for formalities. We all know what my client wants,” Martin began. His apologetic tone set Philip’s teeth on edge. He couldn’t have found a more ambivalent advocate if he tried. Good thing he’s not representing me in a capital case, he thought, shifting in his chair as Michelson tried to bore a hole through his skull with his penetrating stare. Naturally, he was the first to attack.

“As I said on the phone Martin, this sudden, desperate ploy for reconciliation is out of the question. The time for that kind of approach is long past,” Lou said, as if his was the final word on the Glessners’ marital status.

“I’d like to hear that from my wife, if you don’t mind,” Philip said, his eyes fixed on Marianne, who was steadfastly avoiding any eye contact with her estranged husband.

“We don’t need to play games like that,” Michelson interjected. “I’m her attorney—I’m paid to handle this divorce.”

“There isn’t going to be any divorce, Lou. This is neither a ploy nor a game,” Philip said calmly, finally earning an embittered glare from Marianne.

Martin fidgeted nervously as he tried to find neutral ground to stand on. “What my client means is that he would like to exhaust the idea of reconciliation before anything is finalized,” he said, watering down Philip’s initiative.

“We agreed to meet with you in order to put this notion to rest, once and for all. In order for a couple to reconcile, there needs to be a desire to do so on both sides.”

“I disagree, Lou. I think if one spouse has enough love and desire, he or she can eventually break down the resistance in the other,” Philip said. Marianne looked at her lawyer askance, as if sending him an S.O.S.

“Look, what I’m purposing is that we have a trial reunion—I’ll move back in and we can go to family counseling and work through the impasse we’ve come to. When you think about it, it’s really not such a radical idea.”

“You want to move back in with Marianne, the woman who says she has no affection for you anymore?” Michelson asked incredulously. Marianne gripped her handbag tighter, as if she were hanging on for life and liberty.

“I never heard her say anything of the kind,” Philip said, putting Marianne on the spot. All eyes turned to her, waiting for her to set the record straight.

“I don’t see any point of dragging this out any further, Philip,” Marianne said.

“I do,” Philip countered. “There is one very important point—our daughter. I think we owe it to her to try and work this out.” Marianne grimaced, this time in Martin’s direction. As if picking up on some telepathic directive from her paramour, she found the appropriate argument.

“It is precisely Caitlin that I’m most concerned for. I believe it is far more damaging for a child to be brought up in a home without love, than it is to divide his or her time between parents,” she said, sounding as if this spontaneous theory was in fact the crux of her case.

“Well, again we disagree, but that doesn’t worry me. I believe love conquers all, and in time you and I will be happy and as much in love as we were before our troubles started,” Philip said serenely.

His insistence in reuniting was starting to get under Marianne’s skin. She held her tongue at first, with difficulty, while waiting for her lawyer or her lover to come to her rescue. Neither seemed equipped to do so.

“You don’t honestly expect to move back in with me, do you?” she finally snapped.

“Yes, I do, and why not? It’s my home, too.” Marianne, exasperated, turned to Michelson. “Do something,” she hissed under her breath.

“My client refuses to reconcile, and that’s that. We will proceed with the divorce as agreed,” he said, standing to emphasize the finality of the decision.

“Sit down,” Philip said, languidly shifting in his chair. “We’re not through here.” As there was no hysteria or desperation in Philip’s tone, Michelson was forced to sit back down.

“Okay, Marianne—I’ve tried to take the high road here, but if you insist on taking a hard line against reconciliation, I’m afraid you leave me no choice but to formally contest this divorce.”

“What do you mean?” Martin asked, a question completely out of keeping with his role in this drama. Both Philip and Michelson regarded him with surprise.

“What I mean, Martin, since you and I have had little time to go over contingency plans, is that I will go before a judge and contest the grounds on which this divorce was filed. Because of the guilt I felt at having to put my family through the humiliation of a public scandal, I willingly agreed to be sued for divorce, allowing Marianne to be the plaintiff in the matter.

“As we now know, the building that caused us such personal disgrace will now be saved, thereby eliminating the sense of guilt spawned by a desire to protect my family. In other words, I’m not willing to roll over on this one, Marianne.

“I’m going to fight this divorce. I’ll go into court and explain to the judge how willing I am to make our marriage work. What do you think he’s going to say to that? Hmmm? Without cause on your part, I think he’s going to grant time for counseling, don’t you? And if you don’t like living in the same house as me, then you’ll have to be the one who moves out,” Philip said, smiling at her, sending her the distinct message that he meant every word he said.

“Wait a second here,” Michelson said, holding up his hands as if to stop some outrageous buffoonery. “Last I remember, we had all worked out the details of a fair and equitable divorce settlement. Now, a week later, you’re back here threatening to reconcile. I smell a rat,” he said, narrowing his gaze at Philip. “A rat disguised as a caring husband.” Philip smirked, but he didn’t lose his temper the way Lou had hoped.

“I think I’ve made my position clear,” he said. “Oh, except for this: if you want a divorce, Marianne, then I’ll be the plaintiff, and I’ll be suing you for divorce and sole custody of Caitlin.”

“You have got to be joking!” Marianne cried, jumping up out of her seat. Michelson stood, leveling a look of priggish contempt at Philip.

“We’ll have no part of this charade,” he scowled. “You’re going to have to face us in court, Fink,” he said, turning to escort his client away from this vile company.

“You know, I think I forgot to mention that if I wanted to sue for divorce and custody of our child, I have the grounds on which to do so,” Philip said placidly from his seat next to Martin’s familial photographs. This got Marianne’s attention. Martin’s, too.

“Now what are you on about?” Marianne asked, her eyes flashing hatefully.

“Let’s just say that if you and your attorney don’t sit down and adjust your attitudes, I can walk out of this room this minute and find myself other legal representation and sue you for infidelity,” he said.

A dead stillness filled the room. Marianne stared at Philip, her mind frantically searching for a breach in her discretion. Philip saw the light of realization as she hit on the source of Philip’s intelligence. His eyes surveyed the faces of the two attorneys as they separately pieced together the basis of Philip’s threats. Michelson started to speak, his tongue slightly ahead of his brain. He glanced at Marianne then Martin, and decided to cancel his remark.

“I’m going to give you and your client fifteen minutes to think about this,” Philip said, as he stood up. He gave Martin a look that the attorney couldn’t quite decipher. He left the room, followed seconds later by the man whose job it was to represent his interests.

“Phil,” he said, shuffling to catch up.

“Let me just say this, Martin, so that we understand each other clearly. I’m not sure of the exact names, but there have to be laws on the books that prohibit the kind of acts you’ve committed while under my hire. I’m thinking along the lines of conflict of interest, breach of trust, fraternizing with the adversary…things of that nature.”

“That would kill my wife,” Martin croaked hoarsely.

“What—the part about being unfaithful, or the part about being disbarred?” There was a lump in Martin’s throat that refused to go up or down. Philip could actually feel the painfulness of it. “Here are the terms: she moves out, I get full legal custody of Caitlin, and her settlement is two million dollars, period.” Martin blanched.

“What about alimony and child support?” Philip paused as he pretended to consider this.

“Since I will have full custody of Caitlin—with generous visitation rights for Marianne—there will be no child support. As for alimony, four thousand a month, terminating in five years, unless she remarries first.”

“Four thousand for five years?” Martin squeaked. “She’ll never go for it.”

Philip shrugged as if to say it wasn’t his problem. “You’ve got twelve minutes left,” he said.

Forty

Priscilla raised herself up on her elbow and looked across Tobias’s sleeping body. The clock read 4:08, yet it felt like she had been lying awake for days. She folded back the sheet and eased out of bed without disturbing her fellow occupant and found her way to the living room in the dark. She switched on a table lamp, temporarily blinding herself.

Once her eyes adjusted, she canvassed the room for the notebooks she had sold to Tobias. She found them neatly boxed and bagged under a hall table, apparently in some sort of order. She flipped through book after book until she came across what she was hunting for.

Quietly, she tore out a few blank pages and put the notebooks back the way she had found them, all except one. She went to the piano, searching for Tobias’s pen. She then sat cross-legged on the floor, using the sofa as a backrest.

Though she had ample verses piled up in her head waiting for release—like water in a backed up sink—now, with pen in hand, she didn’t know where to begin. Writing may have been the craving that propelled her out of bed in the middle of the night, but there were bigger issues praying on her mind than pent-up creativity.

If she had any sense, she’d pack up and head out of there before Tobias woke up. She’d never had an affair so quick to heat up and so quick to fizzle. Of course, that was her take. For all she knew, Tobias could still be as enchanted with her as ever. But her feelings toward him had most definitely cooled.

She couldn’t say what exactly had put her off, but she supposed finding out he wasn’t the man she had imagined all these years was the main cause. It was odd, too, because they had a real connection—very easy and natural. But music was really their only common ground. Finding out his words did not reflect the spirit of the man devalued much of what she had admired about him, and left her feeling vaguely swindled.

Priscilla bit her lip as she doodled the word ‘connection’ repeatedly. She thought about their brief history together, remarkably short considering how much ground they had covered. There were moments when she’d felt herself sinking deeper and deeper into the danger zone with him. She could still feel the thrill of them.

How does a spell like the one he cast on her lift so suddenly? She recalled the scene at the club, the jilted lover dousing him with champagne and running off in a fit of heartache. She could read Tobias’s thoughts as clearly as if they’d been printed on his skin: people come into his life and they leave. There was never any reason to mourn their departure, for someone else would always appear to take their place.

Brody Haversham might be the one exception to that philosophy, but it hadn’t assured him any better treatment from Tobias. To say Tobias was selfish was like saying coyotes were cruel and unfeeling. They are, of course, but that’s their nature. Instead of hunger and the need for survival dictating his every move, Tobias had the cumbersome burden of extraordinary talent to pamper and coax.

Trying to pretend it didn’t exist for many years had burned a hole inside him, which had festered and produced a dangerous self-loathing. It was almost impossible to be so disdainful of others without being doubly disdainful of one’s self.

Even though their time together had been mostly lighthearted and exciting, Priscilla could feel the unease below Tobias’s surface. If she was with him in a week’s time, she was sure he’d become surly and indifferent toward her. It would be impossible to avoid letting him down in some way.

You put a warp on me

Now no one else fits

You’ve made your claim

But I know you won’t commit

If time meant nothing

And souls could grow anew

I would surrender both

Without ever feeling blue

I’d make my bargain

Cross my heart and hope to die

Let you do what you will

And never say goodbye

But my heart’s a silly fool

I can’t trust it where you’re concerned

As soon as I’d hand it over to you

You’d make sure that it was burned

I’ll let my head lead me on this one

Hop that train for out of town

If there’s fifteen-hundred miles between us

Perhaps I won’t feel I’ve let you down

They say a man has only one master

In your case that master is you

What you call your consuming passion

Is entirely up to you

In any event, the time has come

And I must say goodbye

I’ll disappear in a puff of smoke

And not give you one last try

When I look back upon this time

I don’t believe I touched your heart

Will you ever look back at me?

Will you forget me once we part?

Though I’ve never been one for betting

I think it’s pretty safe to say

I’ll end up like so many memories

That the tide will wash away

Priscilla drew a deep breath and kept writing. Her words uncorked wouldn’t stop flowing until she had gotten them all out on paper. Twenty years of these musings had become a burdensome load to cart around and protect, but the act of writing was no different in its vitality than the blood coursing through her veins.

As she continued to write, she realized an emotional growth spurt had occurred without her knowing it.

Casting long shadows, we run across hilltops/ Chasing the day with the onset of night/ A pocket in time, we wrap up this memory/ Making a wish, then holding it tight

Tobias’s shortcomings were far less glaring than the quirks, handicaps and flaws exhibited by the former men in her life—Brawny, Ryan, and all the rest. Yet they were so vividly apparent to her, she knew she wouldn’t stay with him for long.

This was a stark contrast to her former modus operendi. How many months and years she wasted with those other men! Had she not reached this pinnacle of insight when she had, she would’ve surely tagged along with Tobias until his humiliating rejections finally broke down her remarkable resilience.

She drew a deep breath and let it seep out of her. She was grateful she’d never gone down the path of unrequited love like the girl she’d seen at the club. She wouldn’t have wanted to be in her designer shoes for anything. She rubbed her blistered toes as she reflected on her good fortune.

She didn’t know when her amusing interlude with Tobias would end, but mentally she had already crossed the finish line. She was in the safety zone now, immune to his unique charms. It was a shame he wasn’t made of different cloth, for there were aspects to him that made her weak in the knees. She would never find another man who’d put her lyrics to music, for one thing.

And yet, if Tobias had been the sort of man whose heart and mind were accessible, he wouldn’t have been available to her anyway. The good ones were seldom on the market for long. She yawned and rested her head against the sofa, as she let the memories of Tobias slip out of her mind.

Priscilla opened her eyes to daylight. The sound of Tobias padding around the room had woken her. She watched him for a moment as he stood by the window looking at the day. In incremental movements, she sat up. She had been sleeping on the sofa, but she couldn’t remember climbing up there. The rustling of paper as she endeavored to right herself caught Tobias’s attention.

“Hi there,” he said, coming toward her. “When did you come out here?”

“I don’t know,” Priscilla said, sitting up, a piece of paper stuck to her cheek. She looked down to find the others floating onto the floor. She peeled off the damp page while trying to corral the rest with her feet. Tobias laughed as he realized what had driven her from his bed.

“…this place, this piece…what does that say?” he said, trying to decipher the ink marks on her face. Reflexively, she rubbed her cheek, smearing the words into a blue streak. “I guess I’ll just have to read the original later,” he said, giving her head an affectionate ruffle.

“Want me to order some breakfast? I’m absolutely famished. I guess I really didn’t eat much yesterday,” he said, patting his flattened stomach. “Or would you rather go out and get something?” Priscilla sat there and blinked at the sun-filled room. Tobias’s chipper mood confused her.

“Uh…I need to take a shower,” she said, looking down at the minute stubble on her bare legs.

“Okay, I’ll order room service, then. What would you like?”

“Coffee,” she said, her voice hesitant and low.

“Anything else?” he said, looking at her over the menu.

“Um…a biscuit?”

“A biscuit? Well, that sounds homey enough. I don’t know if they serve biscuits…”

“An English muffin, then.”

“Okay, I’ll get it ordered while you take your shower. We’ve got to get on the stick—we’ve got to take you shopping today. See, I didn’t forget,” Tobias said, smiling like he was about to burst with happiness. “Go on, this won’t take long.”

Priscilla obeyed, staggering down the hallway on legs made shaky from lack of sleep. As she stood under the showerhead, she thought back to her revelations of a few short hours ago and wondered if she had judged Tobias unfairly. To look at him, one would think he was love’s greatest success story: the man transformed by his feelings for another human being. In her compromised mental state, she couldn’t tell which assessment of him was correct.

“How come you’ve never written any love songs?” Priscilla asked as they rode the elevator down to the lobby.

“You don’t know that I haven’t,” Tobias replied.

“Okay, why haven’t you ever recorded any love songs?” she rephrased. She knew the words to every song he had recorded by heart, and not one of them resembled a love song in any fashion.

“Just never felt like it,” Tobias answered. She regarded him skeptically out of the corner of her eye.

“I don’t believe you’ve never written any,” she challenged him. Tobias tilted his head, neither confirming nor denying her assertion.

“I can’t claim to have read everything in those notebooks of yours, but I don’t recall finding any mention of love’s slings and arrows,” he countered. “I did read a few very lovely passages that sounded like the author was on an endorphin high. But to your credit there was nothing soppy or overly sweet about them.”

Priscilla scrutinized him silently while she determined whether or not he was tipping his hand. Like a machine, her brain scanned line after line of his lyrics, with no red flags. Maybe it just wasn’t in him to put his most vulnerable feelings into words. Or maybe he never had any.

“Have you ever been in love?” she asked as the elevator door opened.

“Oh no,” Tobias said, shepherding her out of the car. “It’s too early in the day for true confessions.” Priscilla felt a hot wave of shame wash over her. Why did I ask him that? she berated herself. It’s not like I care. Aggravated with herself, she sulked while Tobias attended to business at the front desk. He rejoined her and handed her a key to his room.

“Just in case you bolt out of the store without me,” he said with a wink.

One second later, he caught sight of Marvin Stacks, yet another person he had been studiously avoiding. His first impulse was to duck into the nearest doorway, but he didn’t want to have to explain his strange behavior to Priscilla, who would invariably think he was ditching another ex-lover. His only hope was to try to out-walk Marvin.

To this end, he turned his body in such a way to shield both Priscilla and himself, talking in hushed tones as he navigated her across the lobby. Unfortunately for him, his tactic failed to work. Marvin was on him like a heat-seeking missile.

“Tobias!” he called out, taking long strides on his stilt-like legs in an effort to catch up with his client.

“So, where should we hit first?” Tobias asked, pretending he didn’t hear Marvin’s appeals.

“That guy’s calling you,” Priscilla pointed out, slowing their progress as she craned her neck around.

“Probably a fan,” Tobias said, all but pushing Priscilla toward the revolving door.

“Tobias. I’ve been trying to get hold of you for days,” Marvin huffed, eyeing Priscilla curiously.

“Oh Marvin, hi. What a coincidence running into you here,” Tobias said with feigned nonchalance. “We were just passing through.”

“I need to speak to you, Tobias. It’s urgent,” Marvin said, zero humor in his voice. “Alone, preferably.” Tobias’s smile faded as the three stared each other down. He started to make excuses, but Priscilla preempted him.

“You go ahead. I’d rather do this alone anyway, if you don’t mind.” Tobias stood there, unable to argue with her in front of his business manager. He knew Marvin wouldn’t track him down to give him good news, so he didn’t want her around to hear what he had to say. The only thing he could do was let her go by herself. He discreetly reached for his wallet, but Priscilla’s hand on his arm stopped him.

“I’ll see you later,” she said to him, giving him a cautious smile.

“Yeah, I’ll meet you back here,” Tobias said as nonchalantly as possible. He watched her as she passed through the revolving door and out into the sunlight.

“Beautiful weather we’ve been having,” he said to Marvin, a man who would have been hard-pressed to describe the conditions he just stepped out of, be it snow, sleet or sunshine.

“Is there somewhere we can talk?” he said, letting the weather report pass without comment. Tobias glanced around the lobby, searching for a nice, darkened corner. He didn’t think it wise to take the disgruntled moneyman up to his extravagant digs in his current frame of mind. Finding what he was looking for, he led Marvin to a secluded spot, conveniently sheltered by two towering ficus trees.

“Coffee?” Tobias asked hospitably. “I’ll buy.” Marvin shook his head, all business. “Okay, what’s on your mind, as if I didn’t know,” he said, positioning himself on the settee as if Marvin’s mission was nothing but a bore to him.

“You need to generate liquidity, Tobias. I don’t know if you bother to keep any running tally of your monthly expenses, but you’ve far exceeded what you’ve taken in these past few months.”

“What about the cushion?”

“What cushion? The remodel blew through that weeks ago.” Tobias’s jaw dropped.

“That’s impossible. There was over half a million dollars in that account,” he stammered, a ripple of nausea churning his stomach. There was no way Monique could have possibly burned through that much money on the limited amount of remodeling and redecorating she had done, no matter what outrageous prices that crook Smythie had charged her.

On top of the queasiness, a jackhammer of doubt began to throb. “So, if that’s all gone, where’s the money been coming from?” Tobias asked. Marvin’s smug smile showed appreciation of Tobias’s sudden interest in his own finances.

“As of April 19th, it’s all been borrowed against your principle in your money market account, at a rate of one over prime.” He let this reality sink in for a moment.

“Why would I want to borrow against my own money?” Tobias asked, as if regarded the notion as an act of fiscal stupidity. “I never authorized that,” his tone suspicious and accusatory.

“You didn’t, but Monique did. As she has the authority as a signatory on all your accounts, I assumed she was doing it at your behest. I know how you dislike dealing with financial matters,” Marvin added, having a go at Tobias.

“How much has she borrowed?”

“As of yesterday, she’s borrowed twenty-five percent against the principle.”

“Twenty-five percent?” Tobias’s color had gone from blotchy red to a sickly green.

“Do you need some water?” Marvin asked solicitously.

“How much are we talking about?” Tobias croaked weakly.

“Three million.” Tobias nearly went limp. “The bank’s called the margin. They need a principle reduction or they’re going to have to liquidate some of your holdings.” Tobias buried his head in his hands.

“Let me get you something to drink,” Marvin said, alarmed by the way Tobias was taking the news. In the back of his mind, he had suspected Tobias was the one behind the outrageous expenditures. Now that he thought about it, it had been Monique’s subtle hints that had led him to believe this. Tobias tugged at his sleeve, lowering him back down to his level.

“Why didn’t you tell me about this?” he asked, clearly aggrieved by the seeming complicity to financially ruin him.

“I tried. I couldn’t get hold of you anywhere. I left messages…lots of them.” Marvin was now beginning to feel a certain culpability, a feeling he didn’t enjoy. “Honestly, Tobias, I thought she was acting on your directive. After a while, I started to get uneasy, which is why I tried to contact you…”

“How’d you find me?” Tobias asked, the realization of being located belatedly occurring to him.

“Through the hotel charges. I contacted American Express and got a printout of your recent charges.”

“You didn’t let Monique know, did you?” Tobias asked, becoming more anxious.

“No, of course not…I just got the information myself…Where’re you going?”

“I have a few things to sort out with my wife.”

“What about the margin call?” Marvin reminded him.

“You’re my business manager—you deal with it,” Tobias said before vanishing through the revolving door.

Forty-One

Priscilla read through the first page of the New York Times the way a starving person would gobble down a cheeseburger and an order of fries. It had only been three days since she picked up a paper, yet she felt as if she had been cut off from the world for months.

Not until she passed through the hotel’s revolving door did she realize how oppressive her voluntary confinement with Tobias had been. From the moment she stepped out of the Amsterdam Hotel, she began to breathe easier. She felt almost giddy with freedom as she sat sipping her coffee and reconnecting with her lifelong habits of reading newspapers and scribbling in her notebook.

It made her heart beat erratically to think just how narrow her escape had been. If that man hadn’t shown up, she and Tobias would have been skulking around department stores for the better part of the day, only to flee to the refuge of his spacious prison afterwards. It was a lifestyle that made her cringe with apprehension. How ironic it was that the famous often had to do without the greatest privilege of all: the liberty to come and go as you please.

She took a sip of her coffee while she turned the page. As stimulating as even the dullest items seemed to her, there was an article halfway through the first section of the paper that really got her blood pumping.

There, at the top of the page was a photograph of Philip standing in front of The Phoenix, his expression confident and resolute. Architect Takes Bold Measures to Save His Building, the headline proclaimed. The rest of the article didn’t tell her more than she already knew, except that the restoration would be completed by the end of the following week.

“Everyone who bought in The Phoenix will be able to return to their homes as soon as the city signs off on the stability of the retrofitting. This building will be completely sound once the caissons constructed with faulty admixture are replaced. I’m staking my reputation on it,” Philip was quoted as saying.

The reporter went on to say that the procedure being used to jack up the structure and reconstruct the caissons was virtually unheard of in this country, but it had been practiced in Europe for over a decade with tremendous results.

Good for you, Phil, Priscilla silently congratulated him. She studied the photo, looking for hints of the personality she knew. Examining the photo so intently made her wistful. She missed his alter ego. She wondered if the Phil she knew had been assimilated by the old one now that his career was back on track.

She figured that was probably the case. She always suspected his visits to Frank’s were an escape from his troubles, a brief interlude, a mindless way to distract himself until things got better. She turned the page and read on.

She managed to read through most of the second and third sections of the paper, but nothing penetrated as her eyes moved across the words. She was too distracted by thoughts of Phil. Without giving herself a chance to change her mind, she gathered her things and left the coffee bar and headed for Glessner & Associates.

Philip put his signature on the last of the settlement agreement documents and stuffed them back in the pouch they came in. He called for the receptionist to take the package to the special courier who had been waiting while he reviewed the changes made before he left Martin’s office only four hours earlier. When Marianne agreed to his demands so quickly, he ran with the ball and made his offer contingent on receiving the finalized agreement no later than three o’clock. It had arrived at 2:30.

All of this should have made Philip a happy man, but the truth was he felt hollow and numb. There was so much to be ecstatic about: the rehabilitation of The Phoenix and sole discretionary custody of Caitlin. Yet he found there was no joy in losing a wife, even if that wife had been insincere and conniving.

He got up and went over to the photos covering his walls, many of which contained Marianne. He would have to replace those, as he would not be able to stand the constant reminders of his failure to make his marriage work. He supposed it had worked for a while—sixteen years, to be exact.

Of course, the high point of their union had been the birth of his daughter, but he could not look back and see his time with Marianne as anything but gratifying. She had been a good wife to him, in most respects, but he now doubted his efforts as a husband.

Perhaps that was the gist of the problem right there: he had seen her just as a wife, not as an independent woman with an identity of her own. She had been an adornment to his life, a badge, something to show off and be proud of. No wonder she left him. The fact that she was willing to settle for relatively little only underscored her desire to be rid of him.

Philip took a deep breath and let it wheeze out of him. He had never seen himself as a bad man. In fact, he had always taken pains to be generous, kind and fair. Yet he had energetically discarded his principles and jumped into the fray with Martin and Marianne as soon as he found out what they were up to. He had bested them at their own game, come out with the winning hand, but he still felt like the loser.

Not that losing Marianne was really so devastating; she was, in the end, a shallow woman whose values differed greatly from his own. But because he didn’t have a vengeful heart, he found it impossible to enjoy his retribution. He was a single man now, and for all intents and purposes, a single parent. This was not how he had envisioned his life would play out.

He went back to his desk and trained his focus on the work before him. Since the article had appeared in the Times, the phones had been ringing off the hook. He had received over sixty calls and emails since eight a.m., most of which offered congratulations and votes of confidence. Even the mayor called to give him kudos for his triumph.

Philip chuckled as he reminded himself that everyone loves a winner. There’s never any lack of support when you’re riding high, he acknowledged as he began the task of replying to his good wishes. He was so engrossed in the task at hand, he didn’t realize Priscilla had entered the room until she spoke.

“Looks like you’re back on top again,” she said, causing Philip to jump halfway out of his chair.

“Priscilla!” he exclaimed, as one of the receptionists chased her down, miffed and embarrassed that she had snuck into the boss’s office unannounced.

“It’s all right—she’s a friend of mine,” Philip said, calling off his guard dog.

“I guess your stock has gone up,” Priscilla commented as the girl left the room. “There’s definitely a change in your operations.

“Yeah, there’s been an abrupt about-face around here. I think everyone employed here actually knows who I am,” Philip joked. “Have a seat,” he said, slowly lowering himself back into his chair. Seeing the look of unabashed hope on his face made Priscilla question the soundness of her visit. “I’m surprised to see you back so soon. Surprised and happy,” he added, a grin spreading from ear to ear.

“I haven’t left yet,” Priscilla admitted, dampening Philip’s spirits slightly.

“Hope you’re going tell me you’ve come to your senses and changed your mind about going,” he said, unable to keep the optimism out of his voice.

“No, I had some unfinished business to attend to,” she answered. The way she said it sent an unspoken signal to Philip loud and clear. He had obviously not been the unfinished business she was alluding to. “I’m leaving this evening, come hell or high water.”

“I see. Well, that’s good,” Philip said magnanimously.

“I read the story about you in today’s paper and I just wanted to deliver my congratulations personally, before I took off.”

“Thank you. That means a lot to me. But you know I really owe this all to you,” he said. Priscilla waved his praise away.

“You give me too much credit,” she insisted. Philip’s look told her to stop being so modest. “Well, glad I could be of some help, especially after all you’ve done for me.”

“Me? What have I done?” Philip said, not realizing his over-generous tips had amounted to anything of substance.

“More than you’ll know,” Priscilla said, a teasing smile on her face.

“Well, if that’s the case, I’m proud and honored I was able to help.” An awkward silence ensued, while each tried to figure out what to say next.

“How’s the divorce progressing?” Priscilla asked.

“There’ve been some surprising developments on that front, too,” Philip replied. Priscilla cocked her head, wondering if this meant his wife had a change of heart now that he was riding high again.

“You seem happy—that must mean the surprises were good,” she said. “Does this mean you and your wife will be getting back together?”

“No,” Philip said flatly. “My wife and I are history. Let’s just say something came to light which gave me a certain advantage in our negotiations.”

“Ah, I see,” Priscilla said, though she could only guess at what had tipped the scales in his favor. If he saw it as good news, that was all she needed to hear.

“Everything worked out much better than I had hoped,” Philip mused, taking stock of his victory, more positively this time. “I’m even moving back into my own house.

“Congratulations again.”

“Thank you.”

“Does this mean you’ll have more time with Caitlin?”

“It does indeed.” They shared a grin as Priscilla got a better idea of Philip’s good fortune.

“How is the junior architect?”

“Wonderful. She doesn’t know yet that I’m moving back in with her.”

“How do you think she’s going to feel about her mother moving out? She is moving out, I take it.”

“Yes, and I think Caitlin’s going to be okay with the change in living arrangements. Oh, I almost forgot,” he said, reaching for his briefcase. “I have orders to mail this to you once I get your address.” He removed a folded drawing and handed it to Priscilla. She opened it and turned it right side up.

“Oh, this is great!” she said, chuckling at the depiction of the artist in a bathing suit standing on a beach, with what looked like a colorful inner tube around her waste. “Is this you on the boat?”

“That would be me, the great white sailor.”

“What’s the thing in the tree? It looks like a green dog.”

“That’s an alligator,” Philip said, peering across the desk at the drawing.

“An alligator, in a tree?”

“Yeah, I think she got a little confused from watching the nature channel, with the halfway submerged trees in the swamps.”

“That’s cute,” Priscilla said. “Guess I better get on down to Florida. Looks like she’s chomping at the bit to go there.”

“Actually, I think she’d be even happier if you stayed here,” Philip said slyly, making one last attempt to persuade her to change her mind. Priscilla laid the drawing on the desk.

“Thank her for me,” she said, ignoring his ploy. “Maybe this summer you two can come down for a visit. I don’t have any idea what kind of accommodations I’ll have, but you’re more than welcome to stay with me if I have the room.” The expression on Philip’s face was so touched and hurt and vulnerable all at once, she had to turn her eyes away.

“Well, I should be going,” she said, retrieving Caitlin’s drawing. “You’re a very busy man these days.”

“Never too busy for you,” he said warmly. Priscilla smiled self-consciously. She didn’t understand why, but saying goodbye to Philip this time struck her as being terribly difficult. He came around to her side of the desk and walked her out to the reception area.

“Now, I realize you’ll have job offers galore,” he said, making Priscilla scoff, “but if you should ever find yourself missing the crowds, concrete and the extremes in weather, I want you to know you’ll always have a job here, doing whatever you want.”

“Thank you, that’s quite generous of you. But you seem to be forgetting my key talent is loading hot plates of food up and down my arms.”

“You’ve got more potential than you realize,” Philip said somberly. Without another word, he leaned down and kissed her on the cheek, then left her standing alone in his lobby. She stood there for a moment, perplexed by Philip and her life in general. She swallowed hard and made her way out.

Forty-Two

Tobias opened his front door, relieved to find Monique hadn’t changed the locks. As far as he could see, all the lights were on, but other than that, there was no sign anyone was about. He checked the kitchen: no sign of Lilliana there, or in the dining room. Strange, it wasn’t her day off.

He moved down the hallway, horrified once again by what Monique and her cheeky accomplice had done to his home. No one in the living room, which was understandable. A person had to be blind to withstand décor that atrocious. He proceeded toward the master suite expectantly, the nagging suspicion he would find his wife and her decorator en flagrante growing with every step.

He crept up to the doorway and peered in. Nothing. In fact, aside from the unmade bed, there was no evidence that the room had ever been occupied. Sensing the worst, Tobias charged through the room, into the dressing room and the adjoining bathroom. Everything was gone.

“That horrible bitch,” he spat, exasperated by her treachery. Quickly, he ran through the rest of the apartment, noting on his way that all the artwork of any value had been replaced by hideously ugly pieces, the sight of which almost made him sick.

Room after room, it was the same. The good stuff was gone, substituted by utter crap, things that could have come out of the bad art department of a secondhand store. He was further galled to realize his money had been spent to make this insulting gesture. It was an outrage.

His first inclination was to call the police. Monique had absconded with three million dollars and who knew how much in valuable works of art. So what if she was his wife? That didn’t give her the right to rob him blind.

Tobias sunk down on the foot of a guest bed, completely defeated. He couldn’t call the authorities. Monique had legal access to everything she had run off with, access he had given her to make his life easier. Like his life had been so tough. No, he couldn’t call anyone. He had no recourse, so why expose himself to public censure. Oh, Christ—what the hell was happening to his life?

As he sat there, the whole picture became clear. As divorcing Monique was the second course of action that came to mind, it didn’t take long for him to follow this line of thinking to its inevitable conclusion. And this is where Monique had trumped him. Even in his defeated state, he had to appreciate the cunningness of her plan.

Had he divorced her prior to launching her scheme, she would have been given a fraction of the three-plus million she had managed to siphon off, per their prenuptial agreement. By stealing the money and possessions right from under his nose—legally—she had not only made out like a bandit, but she also gotten him back for all the ways he had done her wrong, a list that was undoubtedly limitless.

Making his apartment unlivable and unsalable had been her coup de grace, the crowning “fuck you.” Now he would have to spend more money to undo the damage she had joyfully inflicted on one of his prime assets.

Tobias threw himself backwards on the bed and stared up at the freshly painted orange ceiling. Did he even want to live in this place again? He had always loved this apartment, but seeing it nightmarishly altered had dampened his feelings for it. It was like seeing a previously gorgeous woman violently disfigured; it just didn’t inspire a sense of desire anymore.

While he was on that train of thought, he had to ask himself if he even wanted to stay in New York any longer. What was here for him now? His sham of a marriage had ended, his affair with Simone had gone the way of all his affairs, and Brody—he shuddered at the thought of having to face him again.

He was a shit, there were no two ways about it. He’d be lucky if he only got what he deserved. The kind of crimes against human decency he had committed should, by nature, call for triple retribution. If he had any sense, he’d put this place on the market, as is, take his losses and get the hell out of town while the getting was good.

In the midst of his loathsome self-discovery, one bright spot shone through. Priscilla. There was one good thing he could hang his hat on, one relationship where he had actually conducted himself like a gentleman. With her he had been generous, thoughtful, even inspired. He didn’t know what it was, but she was the one woman who could coax the good out of him.

And here was another bright spot: now that Monique was out of the picture, he was free to be with Priscilla any way he chose. Maybe he could have this place completely remodeled, erasing all traces of Monique, and they could make it their home.

That thought cheered him enough to get up and survey the full extent of what needed to be done in order to make the place livable. He could change Monique’s office into a sanctuary for Priscilla, a place she could sit and write her lyrics to her heart’s content. And he’d be right down the hall, in his studio, working on material they had collaborated on. It could be exactly the fresh start he needed to recharge his creativity.

Working with Brody had been counter-productive; all he gained out of their false starts was a sense of trying to go backwards in time. That kind of wishful thinking never produces good results. He was a forward-thinking man, always had been. Their reunion had been a farce, spurred on by Monique, probably just to distract him from his home life and his finances long enough to plot his undoing.

She may have taken his money and his art and stripped him of a decent place to live, but she hadn’t taken the things that meant the most to him, not by a long shot. He still had his talent—wandering and temperamental as it was, but ultimately accessible. And he had Priscilla. With assets like those, he couldn’t lose.

He made his way to the enormous living room windows, careful to avoid looking at the room itself, and stood looking out at his expansive views. This was the real reason he had bought the place. The prestigious address and the spacious floor plan paled when compared to the feeling he got when he gazed out over the park and the city beyond.

Oddly enough, as he stood there he found the view did not stir him the way it used to. Maybe he was over this phase of his life. Maybe it would be better to make a clean break from everything in his past. As he gazed at the sea of treetops, he imagined gliding through the Everglades, Priscilla at his side.

Florida really did have a lot to offer: year-round sunshine, beautiful and secluded beaches, easy lifestyle. He could sell this place and buy a compound down there where they could live like royalty.

Just thinking about it filled him with hope as fresh as an ocean breeze. A melody drifted in on that breeze, and words were close behind. He flew to his studio, anxious to catch the song before it drifted back out.

You asked me about love

There’s so little that I know

Hadn’t ever caught the feeling

Hadn’t ever felt it grow

You asked me why I never sang of it

I wouldn’t have had a clue

Didn’t know the face of love

Till I caught sight of you

Funny to find out now

It was in me all along

So here it is

Here’s your love song.

Forty-Three

Priscilla was reluctant to use her key, though knocking on the door would have seemed more foolish. She called out Tobias’s name, with no response. She checked his room and all the rest with no sign of him anywhere. The place was tidy; obviously the maid had been there already. Maybe Tobias had gone out to let her do her job. Chances were he hadn’t gone far, phobic as he was of being in public.

She sat down on one of the sofas to think. Had he been there, she didn’t know what she would’ve said to him. She hated to think she would’ve fallen right in step with him again, throwing her own plans straight out the window, but chances are that’s exactly what would’ve happened. It was much better it worked out this way. Now she’d have time to marshal her convictions and give it to him straight without wavering.

“Tobias, I’ve had a great time with you these past few days, but it’s time for me to get moving. I want get down to Florida and start my new life…no, that’s sounds stupid. Okay—Tobias, hanging out with you has been amazing, but I’ve got to get out of this town…lame.” Priscilla threw her head back against the sofa, at a loss for what to say. Maybe something will come to me while I get my stuff together, she decided.

Though packing was a sound idea, confronting the objects in her room came with their own dilemmas. The clothes she had in her bag when first shanghaied by Tobias where now too dirty to wear, and there was nothing appealing about dragging unclean clothing across the country.

On the other hand, the outfits Tobias had bought weren’t really her. They were far too fancy and formal for the lifestyle she envisioned down in Key West. What opportunities would she have for wearing a skimpy designer dress? None.

Besides, taking all that loot just didn’t seem right, especially after what he must’ve paid for it. She laid it all out on the bed where he could find it. Maybe he could return everything and get his money back, or pass it on to another size six, though that wasn’t his usual type.

Now that she had eliminated virtually all her clothes, except the denim skirt and white shirt she was wearing, packing didn’t take a whole lot of time. It also didn’t leave her with many options. Was she really going to wear the same tired outfit all the way to Florida? She was feeling far too muddled to answer practical questions like that.

The truth was she didn’t exactly feel up to making any decisions, large or small. As she stood blindly staring at her few toiletries, notebooks and other odds and ends, she was suddenly seized with the desire to flee. She stuffed everything into her bag and made a beeline for the door.

She was within inches of it when she came to an abrupt halt. She couldn’t stand the thought of leaving without saying goodbye. Yet, if she waited for him to return, she might as well surrender to the idea of staying. But she couldn’t bear the thought of that, either. Making a clean getaway was her only hope. She’d at least have to leave him a note.

She dragged herself back into the living room and sat down at the piano. She pulled out a notebook, ripped out a sheet and just looked at it, unable to put pen to paper. She made a couple ineffectual attempts at saying goodbye, both of which she balled up and tossed out of sight. She so wanted to get up and run out of there, but she owed him some sort of farewell. She tried another approach.

There’s a place I’ve longed to go

That never sees sleet, let alone snow

A place so warm and clean and bright

I’d ride a train all day and night

But everyone who knows where I’m bound

Is quick to point out pitfalls profound

It’s as if they believe Florida the gates of hell

Not even one soul has wished me well

And all the people say…

Don’t you know it’s crazy down there

Illegal drugs and corruption in the air

There are Haitians on rafts, hurricanes by the dozens

Cockroaches with wings and mosquitoes always buzzin’

Me, I think they’re all just jealous

Else why are they all so overzealous

To keep me here, where I don’t want to be

I’ll hop that train, I’ll set myself free

And all the people say…

Look out girl, the criminals run loose

It’s not all beaches and fresh orange juice

Every manner of reptile runs free as they please

I’ve heard they’ve even got gators in the trees

I don’t care, let them all say…

Look out girl, there’re gators in the trees

Look out girl, there’re gators in the trees

Priscilla put the pen down on top of the page and slid off the piano bench. It was not a standard goodbye, but she thought Tobias would appreciate it. She laid her plastic key card next to the song and left his suite as quick as a thief.

Forty-Four

Priscilla took her ticket from the clerk and collected her change. She had almost an hour to kill before boarding. Butterflies were ballroom dancing in her stomach, making the thought of food impossible. She purchased the latest edition of The New York Post and a couple magazines, but she was too restless for reading.

Her mind was going in fifty different directions, all of which gave her acute apprehension. She imagined herself as an escaped criminal dragging a ball and chain, literally yards from freedom. The closer she got, the more desperate she felt.

She tried to soothe her anxiety with thoughts of balmy breezes and low-key attitudes, sunshine and bright blue skies, but the more she attempted to visualize Florida, the more counterfeit and cartoon-like it became. The negative hype she had received from both Phil and Tobias rang in her ears.

But worse than that were her own doubts concerning this drastic relocation plan. What did she really think she was going to do down there? Take up surfing, become a deckhand, lay on the beach all day until her money ran out? No, she would get nervous the second she stepped off the train and run to the nearest bar, restaurant, or diner in search of employment.

The only thing about her life that she’d be changing was the venue. All the quirks, phobias and myths that had plagued her all her life would remain intact. No doubt she would add a few bad habits to her list, like laziness and sloth.

What was there for her to do in the Sunshine State? She couldn’t sightsee indefinitely. She’d have to come up with some sort of plan for her future. But she’d be doing it in a place that couldn’t possibly offer her more inspiration than New York City—what did Philip call it, the Capital of the World.

Someone had accused her of running away—either Phil or Tobias, she couldn’t remember which. As different as these two men were, they were brothers under the skin where the subject of her moving to Florida was concerned. It made her smile to think how vehemently opposed they both were to her going.

Being independent and cocky, she had been urged onward by their appeals for her to stay. What did either of them know about being Priscilla Vanderpool, loser extraordinaire?

Her throat constricted painfully as an innocent truth hit home. This exodus to Florida was nothing more than a futile attempt to outrun her bad luck. From the age of ten, she had been cursed, doomed to be ungrounded forever.

This feeling only grew as she got older. Now it was her sole religion, the solitary principle that steered her life: she was destined to lose anything she attached her heart to. She had lost her parents, her cat Otis, her Uncle Bob. After that, she learned to not invest her heart and aim too high—keep her sights on those who would never mean anything to her. And what had she gotten? Losers, just like she imagined herself to be.

She glanced nervously about as she discretely wiped tears from the corners of her eyes. Why did this have to come up now? Couldn’t it have waited until I got on the train? she asked herself angrily, embarrassed by this moment of insight.

If what she was thinking was true, she had been solely responsible for the course her life had taken—not the underachieving boyfriends, not the mean-spirited bosses or the dead-end jobs. It was her own view of herself that had dictated her path.

As confirmation of this theory, she remembered Tobias questioning why she didn’t learn music. She had spent twenty-plus years penning lyrics, yet she wouldn’t give herself the chance to possess a whole talent. She preferred, consciously or not, to remain in a state of frustration, doubting her self-worth, keeping herself tied to failure.

Her bottom lip trembled and she bolted off the bench, practically running to the restroom. She found an empty stall and let the dam burst. She cried hard for about a minute until the absurdity of bawling her head off in another bathroom struck her as hilariously funny. Maybe it was time for a change of scenery; she was starting to become tiresome in her habits.

She had a good, wet laugh, blew her nose and made her exit, refreshed and rejuvenated by her purge. Now that she understood what motivated her, surely she would be ready to make a fresh start anywhere she landed.

An announcement went out over the P.A. system that her train was ready for boarding. She moved along with the crush of fellow travelers she had managed to overlook while she killed time. The sight of the Florida-bound folks would’ve given her further ammunition against her choice in destination, if she had paid them any mind.

There was nothing wrong with them as people; they just weren’t her kind of people, that’s all. She had nothing in common with her countrymen at heart, and that was precisely why she made such a good New Yorker. She was semi-maladjusted, semi-malcontent, a little arrogant and snobbish, and thoroughly bullish about her adopted hometown.

She stepped out of line, letting the colorful backpacks and tropical prints slowly ebb past her. Florida was not the answer. But God help her, she didn’t know what was.

She stood on the platform watching as the train pulled out of the station. She felt as empty and directionless as a corked bottle at sea. She could end up on any shore, yet she felt almost rooted to the ground where she stood.

If she had truly abandoned everything in her life—possessions as well as beliefs—then she was a blank slate. All she had to do was make the first mark. It would all grow from there of its own accord.

But how to make that first mark? She was too frightened to even think about it. Taking action would require answering a question she had never faced before, namely, what did she want from her life?

In a blinding moment of clarity, she saw what her next move should be. Funny how long it had taken her to reach the conclusion that was right in front of her face all along.

Scarcely able to breathe, with knees wobbling, she walked zombie-like to the nearest phone booth. She fished the business card out of her bag, and with shaking hands, she pounded out Philip’s cell phone number. She held her finger above the hook, ready to disconnect if she lost her nerve.

“Philip Glessner,” he said. Priscilla held her breath, her throat closed tight in fear, while she summoned every ounce of strength in her body and soul. “This is Philip Glessner,” he repeated.

“Is this the same Philip Glessner who had a job opening this afternoon?” Priscilla asked. She could hear Philip’s breathing over the din of station traffic.

“As a matter of fact, it is,” he replied.

“Good. I think I might have just the person for you.”

Golden State

A Novel

By Cynthia Hamilton

Copyright 2010

All Rights Reserved

One

“Carly, put that magazine back,” the distracted shopper barked before resuming her phone conversation. Roxanne’s gaze roved warily from the scraggily child with a penchant for tabloid rag sheets to her unruly little brothers, one of whom was kicking the front of Roxanne’s checkout stand for all he was worth. The other boy, a toddler no more than two, was seated in the front of the cart, eying Roxanne with menacing glee as he chomped on a grape-flavored candy stick, wrapper and all.

As if suddenly tuning into the scene in front of her, the woman yanked the candy out of the boy’s hand and thrust it at Roxanne, who reached for it with the tips of her forefinger and thumb. She passed what was left of the wrapper over the scanner and handed it back to the woman, who in turn stuck it in the mouth of her squalling child.

“The total comes to one-forty-eight seventy,” Roxanne said, her tone flat and hard, as she rubbed sanitizer on her hands, killing time while she waited for the customer to get her act to together.

“Wait—I’ve got coupons for the milk and the diapers,” the woman said. “Hey, I’m going to have to call you back,” she said, digging through her purse with one hand as she ended her call. “Who put this in here?” she asked her children, as she snatched a box of chocolate-flavored cereal from the bagger.

“Joey did it,” the girl chimed happily.

“Did not.”

“Liar!”

“I don’t want this,” the frazzled mom said, handing the cereal and the coupons to Roxanne. “Take it off the bill,” she snapped, as if Roxanne were somehow responsible for this oversight. Roxanne’s mouth opened, a scathing reproach for the woman’s horrendous lack of parenting skills dying to be let loose, when the toddler leaned over and spewed a copious quantity of purple vomit down the side of Roxanne’s check stand.

“Oh, Jesus,” Roxanne groaned, watching in horror as the barf seeped toward the conveyer belt. “Clean up on check stand six!” she bellowed. She immediately repeated the May-Day call, her agitation pushing her to the brink of her self-control. “I need somebody over here now, goddammit!” Daniel, the assistant manager, was already behind her as she turned to abandon ship.

“Where are you going?” he asked, as she pushed past him.

“I’m taking my break,” Roxanne called out over her shoulder.

“Now? But what about your customers?” Daniel asked of Roxanne’s retreating figure, his voice verging on panic as he quickly assessed the mess and the long line of impatient shoppers. Roxanne clapped her hands over her ears to block out Daniel’s protests and quickened her pace.

Stationed at her customary perch on the steps of the loading dock, Roxanne reached into the pocket of her ValuWise smock for her cigarettes. She held one between her lips as she shook another one free from the pack. She drew hard on the unlit cigarette; a desperate attempt to satisfy her craving. She exhaled deeply out the side of her mouth, as though she were actually releasing a large plume of smoke.

The pantomime had the desired effect, nonetheless. She immediately felt calmer, calm enough to enjoy the ritualistic shredding of the second cigarette. She gently tore at the paper, tearing it in a rough spiral as the tobacco fell in clumps on her lap.

She had long given up smoking—per the judge’s orders—but she couldn’t kick the habit of cigarettes. Not only did they provide the smoker the addictive nicotine fix, they were also a most valuable prop. Nothing can convey the same attitude of self-assurance and indifference than lighting and smoking a cigarette.

As her mind wandered, Roxanne considered all the ways to light a cigarette: with a book of matches, a lighter, a Lucifer match struck on the bottom of a boot—cowboy, motorcycle, stiletto-heel patent leather. Then there was the act of lighting one for someone else—extending a match or lighter; lighting it and passing it on; lighting two at once and passing one on. And the way it was smoked: harried and self-absorbed; serenely and oblivious to everyone and everything; absent-mindedly as if you didn’t even realize you had one lit.

Naturally, what was set on fire had to be put out. Roxanne’s mind swam with all the pleasant visions of stubbing out cigarettes in heavy glass ashtrays, soda cans, the ever-disappearing sand-filled stands, once as common as trash cans. Stubbing them out angrily, distractedly, hastily. Dropping them to the ground and grinding them with your heel. Was there any better way to show the fates you don’t give a damn, Roxanne mused as she tore the filter into fine strips and let them float away on the breeze.

“I figured I’d find you out here,” Daniel said from the doorway. “I should write you up for abandoning your register in the middle of a shift. Your break isn’t scheduled for another hour,” he said, hands on hips, his face stony with indignation. “Not that you give a damn, but that woman threatened to complain to Stan. She said you were very rude to her and used obscene language in front of her kids.”

Roxanne brushed the tobacco off her pants, but didn’t make a move to stand up. “The little cretin puked all over my check stand,” she said, her annoyance palpable. “And she has the nerve to complain about me?” Roxanne took the cigarette she had been using as a pacifier and began dismantling it in the same fashion as the first one.

“Well? Aren’t you going to apologize?”

“For what?”

“For abandoning your register…for leaving me to clean up that mess.”

Roxanne almost laughed as she got to her feet, expelling another pile of cigarette remains as she stood up. “Daniel, I don’t think it says anywhere in my job description I have to clean up baby vomit,” she said as she came face to face with her superior.

“That’s not the point—”

“What’s the point, then?”

“You were rude to a customer.”

Roxanne snorted disdainfully. “Do you realize what’s going on here? You’re reprimanding me for my lack of graciousness after some out-to-lunch mother let’s her kid eat candy wrappers and wretch all over the place. Are you for real?” she asked spitefully as she pushed past him.

Daniel’s jaw dropped in disbelief. “Roxanne,” he called out plaintively, taking long strides to catch up with her before she reentered the store. “Look,” he said, as she glared at his hand on her arm, “I know you need this job, so I’m telling you this for your own good. Stan is not as forgiving as I am. He’ll can you if he gets one more complaint.”

Roxanne huffed indignantly but realized Daniel was right; she did need her job, miserable as it was. But admitting that to herself only made her feel more out of sorts. She also knew the only reason she was still employed at ValuWise was because of Daniel’s futile crush on her. Those two admissions left her feeling mean-spirited and a tad guilty.

“Okay—I’m sorry, Daniel. I’ll bite through my tongue before I use profanity while on ValuWise property ever again. Swear to Christ,” she said, holding up her hand as a testament to her oath. “But I must insist that a ‘No Hurling’ sign be posted at my register.” Daniel’s face—only moments ago looking hopeful—dropped at her irreverent suggestion.

“That’s not funny, Roxanne,” he whined piteously, completely missing the humor of her remark.

“I know. Nothing around here is,” she said sullenly, as she pushed through the swinging steel doors and out onto the store floor.

“It says it right here in black and white—‘Pop singer in love triangle with Mom,’” the twenty-something intoned loudly into her cell phone. Roxanne gritted her teeth while visions of pitching the chick’s phone across the store played out in her head.

“Fifty-eight ninety-two,” Roxanne said, as she began dropping groceries in plastic bags.

“Oh, this too,” the customer said, handing the tabloid to Roxanne. Why are purchases the last thing on their minds? she asked herself as she ran it across the scanner and shoved it into the bag holding chicken parts, secretly hoping for leakage.

“Sixty-one twelve,” she said, displaying a mere hint of her impatience as she waited for the customer to dredge the crumpled bills from the pocket of her jeans. Roxanne smoothed each one out as she waited for another to appear. It’d be a lot easier if you PUT DOWN THE PHONE! she thought, wearing a pinched smile to hide her rancor. She snatched the last bill and made the woman’s change, then left her to gather her own bags, as she perfunctorily began scanning the next shopper’s purchases.

Another blabbermouth, Roxanne noted with distaste. She wondered idly why Stan Kemplehoff was so fanatical about the cordiality of his employees; there hadn’t been a person in her line all day who seemed to notice her existence. She could be a robot or even stark naked for all they knew. Even the ones who parroted back her salutations did so in the same disinterested fashion in which they were served.

Let’s face it, she rationalized, none of us wants to be here. Except for this one, she amended as she observed her latest customer, chatting it up with the couple behind her as though she were at some kind of social event.

“And I see you’re expecting,” the dyed blonde cooed, indicating the young woman’s protruding belly. The couple blushed and smiled in unison, a sight that made Roxanne grimace. “How exciting! Is this your first?” A double nod. “That’s just wonderful! Have you been in this area long?”

“Three years,” the young father-to-be answered.

“Delightful. And you own your own home?” the blonde asked slyly. With that last question, Roxanne knew in a nanosecond what this woman was up to. She might as well have been wearing a flashing neon sign around her neck, though once Roxanne looked her over, it was obvious enough without one. There was just something about the hair, nails and jewelry—especially in combination with the business suit.

“Well, we’re working on that, too,” the pregnant woman answered, with a self-conscious giggle.

“Splendid. Are you working with anyone?” the realtor asked, already digging for her cards without waiting for a reply. Roxanne watched on in mild disbelief as the woman closed in on her prey.

“My name’s Lois Bronsen, by the way. I work for ShoreSide Realty,” she said, her voice dripping sweetness, as she slipped one of her business cards into each of their hands. “I’ve helped dozens—maybe hundreds—of first-time buyers realize their dream of home ownership.” The couple mumbled politely as they studied the cards in their hands.

“Your total comes to one-twenty forty-six,” Roxanne said, pushing the last of the items toward the bagger.

“Oh, here’s my ValuWise card,” Lois Bronsen said, feigning regret for not paying attention. Roxanne took the card and swiped it through the customer keypad and handed it back to the realtor.

“One eleven thirty-five. You need to enter your pin number,” Roxanne directed, taking the opportunity to wipe off her scanner while her chatty patron dithered around like she’d never done this before. Only forty-one minutes till quitting time, Roxanne consoled herself, hoping she could make it through her shift without getting fired or losing her mind.

“You’re a homeowner, aren’t you…Roxanne?” the diehard agent asked, craning to read Roxanne’s nametag. “I know I’ve seen you in here many times,” Lois said, as she replaced her discount card and retrieved another business card in one fluid motion. “They hire the nicest people here. That’s why I always shop at this store,” she told the couple.

“Here’s my card. If you ever need to buy or sell, I’d be more than happy to assist you,” she said, thrusting it at Roxanne, who took it, mistaking it for the woman’s credit card.

“Thanks…but how will you be paying, Lois?” Roxanne asked. She glanced down at the card while Lois flipped through her wallet.

“Silly me! I got so caught up in our nice conversation, I forgot what I was doing!” she said, handing the card to Roxanne, instead of swiping it as she should have. Roxanne let out a resigned sigh and turned the keypad in her direction.

“I know it’s my job, but I never get tired of talking about real estate and homeownership. Even in these uncertain times, I still think it’s the most important investment a person can make.” Roxanne handed the woman her credit card and receipt, then tuned her out as she began checking the pregnant couple’s goods.

Once her shift was finally over, Roxanne wanted nothing more than to flee ValuWise as fast as her feet would carry her. But unfortunately, she was out of certain necessities—like toilet paper, coffee and cigarettes—so she was forced to grab a cart and join the throng of afternoon shoppers.

She raced down the aisles, weaving through the dawdling customers, pausing only momentarily to decide which of the white wines on sale was actually potable. She chose one and put it in the front of her cart, flipping up the plastic flap to keep the bottle from slipping out. As she did so, she was assailed by the second realtor of the day, this one smiling at her from the plastic placard—to her mind, one of the cheesiest forms of advertising ever invented.

God, they’re everywhere, she lamented, as she recalled Lois Whats-her-name. Though she thought real estate agents ranked a close second behind used-car salesmen when it came to pushiness, she also knew that many of them made huge amounts of money. It wouldn’t surprise her if that Lois woman was one of the top agents in the area. The jewelry that flashed on every speck of bare skin was no cheap imitation. The woman was diamond central. Everything about her said she had money to burn, yet the woman was a complete ditz when it came to the simplest tasks, like purchasing groceries.

Go figure, Roxanne groused silently, as she loaded her items onto the conveyer belt, nodding in solidarity to one of her fellow checkers. It was a living, their fleeting glance seemed to say, though there were moments when that was small consolation.

Two

Roxanne kicked open the front door of her condo with her left foot and struggled toward the kitchen table, grocery bags threatening to slip from her grasp. She dropped them haphazardly and made a dash for the bathroom. She stayed there longer than necessary, luxuriating in the fact that she was finally sitting down.

“Free at last,” she said out loud, reveling in the fact that she could sit there all night if she wanted to. Not only was this the beginning of two days off, Connor was with his father for another five nights. It was almost as good as winning the lottery, to her burnt-out frame of mind.

Only thing that could make it better was a glass of Blue Swan chardonnay—where do they get these names?—and a conciliatory cigarette or two. Of course, a new job would be nice, she thought as she opened the wine. She poured a glassful and snagged the newspaper from the grocery bag, idly planning to peruse the want ads, if she could muster the fortitude.

“Actually winning the lottery would be even better,” she decided as she forced her work shoes off the hard way, without benefit of untying them first. She took a swig of wine, recoiling as it assaulted her tongue.

“Yipes,” she gasped, seizing the bottle for closer examination. Well, what do you want for 3.99? She took another sip, more cautiously this time, and discovered if she bypassed the front taste buds and sent it straight to the back of her tongue, it wasn’t quite as offensive. A few more sips confirmed her theory, and also improved her outlook noticeably. She was almost feeling like a human being again.

“Oh, God—I’m not a human being anymore,” she groaned. “I’m a ValuWise drone with an attitude problem.” Disgusted by this revelation, Roxanne relocated herself and her assorted paraphernalia to the sofa, where she’d be more comfortable should she slip into a depression. She added her cell phone to the arsenal, just in case she had the need for contact with the outside world. For the meantime, she pacified herself alternately with the suspect chardonnay and an unlit cigarette.

As she was down to her last cigarette, she had the foresight to bring the fresh carton along with her. With the cigarette dangling from her lips, she tore open the carton, marveling at the ever-increasing cost of her not-quite-so-nasty habit.

“I could save a lot of money if I could cut back on these things,” she said to her living room at large, belatedly seeing the irony in such a ridiculous admission. A laughing fit came on as a low gurgle, building as the absurdity of spending a couple hundred dollars a month on cigarettes she didn’t even smoke hit home.

She toppled sideways to the sofa, her psychological crutch dropping to the floor as she convulsed with laughter. “Oh my God!” she yelped, her sides hurting, but still at the mercy of the preposterous realization.

When she thought she had laughed herself out, she leaned over and searched for the fallen cigarette, now more mindful of the cost of her strange indulgence. She smoothed the paper and wiped the filter on her sleeve. But when she stuck it in her mouth, the silliness of what she was doing struck her anew. Her shoulders shook as she tried to control her laughter. But it was no use. She laughed so hard the second time, tears trickled down the sides of her face. She had just gotten a grip on herself again when the phone rang, making her jump.

“Hello?” she said on the second ring.

“Hey, what are you doing?” Andrea asked. Roxanne took a swallow of wine and reclined against the sofa before answering.

“Berating myself for being such a fool,” she replied, catching herself as she held the cigarette to her lips. A weak titter escaped her throat as she flung it across the room, saving herself from another laughing fit.

“Are you all right? You sound funny.”

“I am funny.”

Andrea was silent as she tried to assess her friend’s strange behavior. “You got somebody there?” she asked, putting Connor’s absence together with Roxanne’s two days off.

“In your dreams. In my dreams,” Roxanne said, reaching automatically for another cigarette. Now truly aggrieved by her weird compulsion, she smashed the offending cigarette against her forehead and let the ruins fall down her front. “Are you doing anything right now?”

“Just calling to see what you’re doing.”

“Good—let’s go do something. I’m going to go crazy if I sit here any longer.”

Roxanne parked her car around the corner from The Lazy Dog, Andrea’s favorite first stop after work, the sole reason being it was two doors down from her salon, a geographical glitch as far as Roxanne was concerned. There were a least half a dozen decent watering holes within a four block radius of The Cutting Edge, but Andrea used her aching feet as an excuse for favoring the coffee house-slash-wine bar.

Everything about this place bugged Roxanne: the worn, low-slung leather sofas that were meant to be the epitome of comfort, but weren’t; the gloomy atmosphere, not helped in the least by the loaner “art” looming ominously on the walls; the young, insipid staff that fluctuated from spaced-out airheads to pretentious wine-wizard-wannabes.

In Roxanne’s opinion, the establishment’s over-reaching ambition of trying to appeal to both those craving stimulants and those needing a nerve-settling glass of wine had given it a multiple-personality disorder.

Roxanne stepped cautiously around the sprawled-out golden retriever—the company’s namesake—and pushed her way past the potted ficus trees to join her friend at her usual spot at the wine bar.

“Hey,” Andrea said, as she traded her empty glass for a new one.

“Hi. Looks like you’ve got a head start on me,” Roxanne said, reaching for the laminated list of wines by the glass.

“Yeah, well, you sounded like you already had a pretty good start on me when I talked to you, so I thought I better get caught up,” Andrea said, her broad grin indicating Roxanne was the one who had some catching up to do.

“What are you drinking?” she asked.

“A cabernet-something. What’s this called again?” Andrea asked the waiter.

“It’s a 2004 cabernet franc from Sycamore Peak,” the young snob informed her in his smoothly professional tone. “Lighter and more approachable than the traditional cabernet, balanced without being weak.” Roxanne drew back, amazed that anyone could take a simple glass of wine so seriously.

“It’s a cabernet franc,” Andrea relayed unnecessarily.

“Is it any good?” Roxanne asked, deliberately ignoring their attendant.

“Yeah, it’s pretty good. Try it.” Roxanne took a sip. It was a little jarring after the bargain white wine, but she figured in the long run she’d be much better off.

“I’ll have the same,” Roxanne said, after getting their server’s attention again. Apparently, her lack of wine reverence had put him off.

“Let’s go sit on that free sofa over there,” Roxanne suggested, not being in the mood for temperamental employees. She’d had enough of that with her own self already. Andrea collected her things and followed in her friend’s wake. She was barely able to carve out enough room to sit, as Roxanne had claimed the lion’s share for herself.

“Comfortable?” Andrea asked sarcastically. She underscored her point by unloading her purse and jacket on an adjacent chair.

“It’ll do for now,” Roxanne said from her nearly supine position.

“If you want, I can go sit somewhere else,” Andrea cracked.

“No, you’re fine.” Roxanne stretched lavishly, feigning more comfort than she actually felt. After shifting this way and that, she finally gave up and reached for her purse. No sooner had she placed a cigarette between her lips, did she have not one, but two Lazy Dog employees rushing to warn her off.

“Sorry, this is a smoke-free environment,” a girl from the espresso bar said, trying to be both assertive and polite.

“See the ‘No Smoking’ signs?” the second girl asked snidely, a tray of used coffee cups in one hand, the other braced on her hip.

Roxanne eyed them both with an amused smirk. “Don’t worry,” she said nonchalantly, “I’m not going to light it.” The two defenders of the “smoke-free environment” looked unconvinced.

“See? No matches,” Roxanne said, holding up her empty hands as proof of her harmless intentions.

Andrea viewed the unfolding drama with only mild concern. She knew that in Roxanne’s current frame of mind she was likely to blow a gasket over the smallest issue. On the other hand, Andrea wasn’t opposed to a little early-evening entertainment. Roxanne could come up with some pretty energetic displays of righteous indignation when provoked.

Andrea sat back, quietly smiling, as she waited for the next salvo. She didn’t have long to wait. Roxanne took an imaginary drag off her unlit cigarette, and exhaled extravagantly.

Andrea was starting to have second thoughts; the girl with the tray could’ve easily doubled as a bouncer at a biker bar, with her impressive array of tattoos and improbable body piercings. Not only was she looking as if she could use a good brawl, the idiotic confrontation was starting to attract the attention of other employees and curious customers. Andrea was half-afraid the girl might have a reputation to defend.

Roxanne remained unfazed. “See?” she said, unperturbed at having to explain the obvious. “No smoke. No matches, no smoke—no smoking,” she concluded triumphantly.

The air—smoke-free or not—seemed to quiver with tension. The large girl glared at her, no doubt evaluating the most viable plans of attack. After some internal debate, she resigned herself to an insipid threat.

“If I see one wisp of smoke, I’m calling the cops,” she said in a low, menacing growl as she glided passed the troublesome patrons. A smile of ornery delight spread across Roxanne’s face.

“You’re lucky she didn’t rip you limb from limb just for the hell of it,” Andrea said, taking advantage of Roxanne’s change in posture in order to claim a decent share of the sofa for herself.

“Give me one of those,” she added, kicking her shoes to the floor and tucking her legs underneath her. Roxanne was happy to oblige. Even though the employees had returned to their usual duties, several customers continued to watch on with concern.

With an audience to play to, Andrea and Roxanne hammed it up like a couple of incorrigible teenagers. They stifled their giggles and puffed on their unlit cigarettes like two nicotine junkies in the throes of withdrawal. But this kind of charade only went so far with grown women at the end of a trying day, and soon Roxanne’s smug pleasure faded back to her former glumness.

“What is it?” Andrea asked when she realized Roxanne had dropped out of the pantomime. Roxanne shrugged petulantly, requiring further prodding.

“Did something happen at work?” Andrea tried again.

Roxanne rolled her eyes. “Don’t even ask.”

Andrea was happy to let that line of inquiry slide, for she was far more familiar with the perils and pitfalls of grocery store cashiering than she needed to be.

“I’ve got to get another job,” Roxanne declared, tearing at the end of her cigarette, slowly. As the tobacco began to trickle onto her lap, she realized she had no proper receptacle for the mess she was about to create. Not that she should care if she left a trail of tobacco debris in her wake, certainly not after the treatment she’d just received. She may have her faults, but she was no slob—not in public, anyway.

She spied an empty cappuccino cup on a neighboring table, and got up to retrieve it. As there happened to be an abandoned newspaper next to it, she snagged that as well. She sat down, partially torn cigarette dangling from her lips as she flipped to the want ads.

“You crack me up,” Andrea observed, glass of cabernet in one hand, unlit cigarette in the other. Roxanne gave her a questioning, sidelong glance. “You squint even though you’re not really exhaling,” she said with a deriding chirp. Roxanne let out a pained sigh, but realizing it was true, she was unable to pretend she was offended. She needlessly ground her cigarette in the bottom of the cup, and divided the classifieds in two parts.

“Help me find a new job,” she said, shoving half the section at her companion.

“You’re serious?” Andrea asked. This wasn’t the first time Roxanne had made discontented noises about her employment.

“Yeah, I’m serious. If I stay at ValuWise much longer, I’ll either end up in prison or at the end of a noose.”

If Roxanne’s mood hadn’t been so black, Andrea would’ve written off her prophesy as benign hyperbole. But there was a hint of desperation on Roxanne’s face as she scanned the want ads that Andrea had never witnessed in her intrepid friend before. She ran her finger down the columns, not sure what she was supposed to be looking for.

“Jeeze—nothing but real estate ads,” Andrea said, as her eyes ran down each column. “Some of these people are hilarious—‘Let me make your dreams of home ownership come true.’ ‘Looking to buy or sell—I’m the one!’ ‘Experience makes it happen!’ Wait, here’s something—‘Make two thousand a week, part time,’” she announced hopefully.

“Yeah, right. I guess we’d all being doing it if it were that easy.”

“I wonder what kind of hustle it is,” Andrea mused.

“I don’t know. Why don’t you call and find out,” Roxanne suggested dismissively, her mind on more pressing matters.

“I think I will,” Andrea said, reaching for her cell phone. Roxanne eyed her skeptically as she turned the page. After listening for a few seconds, Andrea laughed and hung up and redialed.

“You’ve got to hear this,” she said, thrusting the phone at Roxanne.

“Are you looking for the job opportunity of a lifetime? Are you fearless, uninhibited, and motivated? Do you have moxie? Do you look great in a swimsuit?” the recorded message said. “If the answers to these questions are yes, you may be the perfect candidate for a host or hostess position at Pink’s House of Bods.” Roxanne snorted and handed Andrea’s phone back to her.

“Figures,” she said, resuming her perusal of the paper.

“Ah…here’s a good one—‘$1,000 Sign-On Bonus,’ she said, baiting Roxanne, who was interested enough to lower her newspaper. ‘Want to make a difference?? Become a school bus driver! No experience necessary!’ Ha ha,” Andrea laughed.

“Oh, yeah—that’s right up my alley.”

“They’re looking for waitresses at Skip’s Hawaiian Paradise.”

“You’re really not being any help at all,” Roxanne said.

“Well, maybe if you tell me exactly what kind of job you’re looking for…”

“I don’t know,” Roxanne admitted, tossing her paper aside in disgust.

“Hey, why don’t you go to Beauty College and come work for me.”

“You must be joking.”

“No, I’m not,” Andrea said, slightly offended. “What’s wrong with cutting hair for a living?” she asked defensively.

“There’s nothing wrong with it, if you don’t mind touching other people’s hair, which I would not want to do.”

“You make it sound dirty or something.”

“I don’t want to get that close to anyone. I’m sort of like not a people person. Don’t you understand—my whole problem is I’ve had it with humanity. In fact, you could say that I’ve lost my humanity. That’s what working too closely with the public will do to you.”

“Well, it hasn’t done that to me,” Andrea said, her mood suddenly becoming somber.

“You’re different than I am. Most people are, I guess. I just…I just need a change.”

“I can see that,” Andrea said, pouting. It surprised Roxanne she was taking her admission so personally.

“Look, thanks for your job offer and your undying support,” Roxanne said, reaching for Andrea’s discarded paper. She too had difficulty finding the want ads due to the copious quantity of real estate advertisements. She scanned the faces, idly curious if the agent who was in her line that day was pictured.

Halfway down the page, the same photo shown on Lois Bronsen’s business card leapt out at her, with the italicized caption reading, “Top 5 Percentile in the Country.” Roxanne stared at the ad in disbelief. That bimbo? she thought to herself. That woman’s dumber than dirt.

“Maybe I should sell real estate,” she mused out loud. Andrea’s cackle of surprise was not the kind of response she was looking for.

“That was a joke, right?” Roxanne’s glowering expression said otherwise. “You’re serious.” Andrea mulled this extraordinary idea over for a minute. “I’m sorry, but I cannot see you selling real estate,” she said flatly, washing the thought away with a hearty slug of wine.

“Why not?” Though Roxanne had made the remark half in jest, her pride required her to challenge Andrea’s out-of-hand dismissal.

“I had a woman in my line today—a realtor—who was so dimwitted, she couldn’t figure out how to slide her card through the keypad. And here she is, ‘Top 5 Percentile in the Country.’ If an ignoramus like her can pull down a couple hundred grand a year, why couldn’t I?”

“Because you’re not an ignoramus?” Andrea offered.

“They can’t all be stupid,” Roxanne grumbled, surveying the page for proof of intelligence. Problem was, there was no way to determine from a thumb-size photo whether a person was intelligent or not. “They’re professionals. Selling real estate is a profession,” she insisted.

“Are you trying to convince yourself or me?”

“What do you have against realtors?” Roxanne demanded.

“You must’ve had a horrible day. Why are you being so defensive? You’re the one who called that woman an ignoramus. What’s your problem? Be a realtor—what do I care?” Andrea said, reaching for her ringing cell phone. She and Roxanne exchanged petulant glances before Andrea diverted her attention to the incoming call.

“Hi, honey—what’s going on?” she purred into the phone, further darkening Roxanne’s mood. Rub my nose in the fact that you’ve got a honey and I don’t, she thought sourly, hating herself for feeling so out of sorts.

“Jim wants to know if we want to join him at Pete’s,” Andrea said, handing over her phone. The scene played out in Roxanne’s mind, the way it had a dozen times before: hanging out in the dingy pool hall, drinking beers and fending off lowlifes, while Andrea and Jim groped each other in the corner.

“I think I’ll pass. I’m obviously not very good company tonight,” she said, digging in her purse for her wallet.

“Jim, hang on a sec, okay? We don’t have to go over there—we can go somewhere else and I’ll catch up with Jim later,” Andrea said.

‘No, you go ahead. I’m really bushed,” Roxanne said, tossing a twenty on the table.

“Let me call you back,” Andrea said to Jim. “Why don’t we go grab a bite to eat, then see what you feel like doing,” she suggested.

“No, you go be with your honey. We’ll talk to tomorrow,” Roxanne said, reaching over to give her friend a quick hug.

“Are you sure? You don’t really seem yourself tonight.”

“I wish I weren’t,” Roxanne said with sarcastic smirk. “I’m all right—don’t give me that look.”

“You’ll call me tomorrow?” Andrea asked.

“It’s the only thing on my agenda,” Roxanne quipped lightly, before forging her way out through the ficus jungle.

Three

Roxanne switched on the living room lights, immediately regretting her decision to come back home so early. She wasn’t ready to face the long hours till bedtime alone with her nagging doubts and self-recriminations. She wished Conner were home, then she was glad he wasn’t. She wouldn’t want him to see her in such a black mood. But maybe if he were there, she’d suck it in and try to act cheerful for his sake. Oh, what does it matter, she asked herself morosely, as she stared at the refrigerator shelves with unseeing eyes.

“What am I doing here?” she asked out loud, willing herself to focus on the task at hand. Not finding anything of interest food-wise, she settled for a lite beer, twisting the cap off as she headed back into the living room.

Well, at least I get to sleep in the bed again tonight, she tried to console herself, as she clicked on the television and ran through the channels. She was just about to turn it off when something caught her attention two stations back. She clicked the down button twice and caught the last few seconds of a commercial by a local real estate agency.

She studied the smiling faces of the agents and their satisfied clients intently, as if she’d never seen such an advertisement before. The commercial ended and a game show came back on. She switched off the TV and stared at the blank screen.

What would be wrong with trying to sell real estate? Why couldn’t I do it? she asked herself, remembering Andrea’s look of astonishment at the mention of such a thing. She looked around at her one-bedroom condo, with its cheap finishes and paper-thin walls, the garage sale furniture and the worn carpet. Did she really have to spend the rest of her days working at ValuWise and coming home to this? Did she really want to sleep on the sofa bed every other week until Conner left home?

One of the reasons she hadn’t sought out any romantic involvements was because of her cramped, shabby quarters. The thought of having to confine her available nights to the weeks when Conner was with his father turned her off to the idea of dating altogether. Besides, this place was depressing. It was enough to scare off any guy, no matter how interested.

She wouldn’t blame Conner if he came back to her one day and told her he wanted to live at his dad’s house permanently, perish the thought. Hell, she’d live there if she could. Five bedrooms, four baths, entertainment room, pool, gorgeous kitchen. Leave it to Derek to become successful after they divorced. If she had only known his latent entrepreneurial instincts were going to kick in, she would’ve stuck it out another couple of years. Instead, she was living paycheck to paycheck, never scraping together enough to get ahead.

As she sat there, she was seized by a bold aspiration. She went into the bedroom and started up Conner’s computer. As she waited for it to boot, she mentally went through the paces: search real estate schools; find out how much they cost and how long it would take to do the course; find out about the test and other requirements. She was going to at least see if there was any reason she shouldn’t become a real estate agent.

Searching for schools was easy; trying to tell the good from the not-so-good was a different story. She scanned the listings on the first page before going back to the top and clicking on the most reasonable-sounding outfit. After searching through the whole site, she still couldn’t find out what the program cost. She exited that site and perused the others on offer.

Several made price the main issue. $175; that seemed justifiable. One site boasted a passing rate of more than four out of five. More than four out of five—what was that, nine out of ten? Nineteen out of twenty? Couldn’t they just say that? Every other word she read made her feel like she was treading in shark-infested waters. Another course was offered for $99, full money-back guarantee. That seemed to be a big selling point with most of the sites. Another for $79. Too cheap, she thought. She clicked on the $99 site.

“Take the test after six to eight weeks of study…streaming online classes…pass the test or your money back guaranteed…” she read out loud. The next column, the $129 course, also included DVD’s. The third program they offered included all of the above, plus books and study guide. The gold package, a mere $199, included the Principles Course, which was mandatory in order to get your license. How sneaky, she thought: $99 would guarantee that you passed the test, but only the $199 package would get you licensed. She backed out of the site and clicked on another.

After half an hour of comparing sales pitches, she started having serious misgivings about the integrity and reliability of such enterprises. Were they all just a hustle, like weight-loss schemes? Or could she reasonably expect to obtain a real estate license after forking over the dough and studying their courses?

And for that matter, what were the chances she could pass the test, money back guarantee or not? Maybe I’m too stupid, she worried until she recalled that Lois Bronsen had obviously passed the test. If she could do it, there was hope for anyone.

She was trying to figure out which site seemed the most bona fide, when she happened to glance at the top of page. Her wavering optimism took another hit when she realized her search had come back with over a million matches. She stared at the number in disbelief. 1,680,000—could that be right? Well, it did seem like every other person sold real estate. She let out a low whistle and reevaluated her chances once again.

Well, there are a lot of people in California, she rationalized. To make her argument, she tried another search, this time bringing up California census figures. An estimated 36,457,495 people lived in her crowded state as of 2007. At the same time, there were over 13 million residences. Okay, that’s a lot of homes. Now, if I could find out how many real estate agents there are…

Another search lead her to a discovery she wasn’t prepared for: as of June 2008, there were 500,053 real estate licensees in the state of California. As if that statistic wasn’t mind-boggling enough, the article went on to explain that an average of 155 new licenses were issued every day, 365 days a year. 44,000 new licensees a year.

Roxanne flinched as though she had been slapped. She read the information again to make sure she wasn’t hallucinating. She hit the red X to close the internet, and shut down, case closed. As she watched the screen go black, she marveled at her stupidity.

What was I thinking, she berated herself. At that moment, becoming a real estate agent seemed about as viable a career move as becoming the next porno queen.

Four

Roxanne silently threatened her unreliable vehicle before turning the key in the ignition one last time. Nothing. She swore unrestrainedly as she dredged her cell phone out of her purse. Six thirty-nine; the staff meeting was starting in six minutes. She hated to do it, but she had no choice. She put in a distress call to her unfaltering friend.

“Hello?” Andrea croaked, her voice thick with sleep.

“Andie, it’s me. I know it’s early, but I need help.”

“What’s wrong?” Andrea asked, propping herself into a half-upright position. She was alarmed; Roxanne seldom used her nickname. Jim rolled over and kissed her on the elbow before getting out of bed. Whatever the call was about, he was certain there would be no before-work nookie in the cards today.

“It’s my car. It won’t start again.” Andrea gave Jim a frustrated glance over her shoulder, as she kicked off the sheet and swung her feet to the floor.

“That piece of crap? When are you going to get yourself a decent vehicle?” she groused. Roxanne pursed her lips, knowing she had to expect a certain amount of grief for the rude awakening.

“It’s on the top of my ‘Lottery Winnings to Do List,’” she replied, trying to keep the acid out of her tone.

“Where is she?” Jim asked, pulling on his pants.

“Where are you?”

“At home, in my parking slot. We’ve got a staff meeting that starts at quarter to seven.”

“She’s at home,” Andrea said, hand over the receiver. “She has a meeting at ValuWise at quarter to seven.”

“Well, she won’t make that, but I can give her a lift,” Jim said, buttoning his work shirt.

“Really?”

“Sure,” Jim said, reaching for his shoes under the bed.

“You are an angel,” Andrea said, blowing him a kiss. “Jim’s going to come and get you,” she reported to her stranded compadre. Though it was not exactly the solution she had been hoping for, Roxanne offered her sincere thanks.

“You know where she lives, right?” Andrea called out to Jim, who was pouring himself a to-go cup of coffee. He nodded. “Just look for that maroon bucket-of-bolts she calls a car. You can’t miss it—it’s the ugliest car in town,” she added for Roxanne’s benefit.

“Think you need a new starter,” Jim announced, lowering the hood and gently slamming it closed. Roxanne groaned, as much for the added tardiness Jim’s chivalrous time-wasting gesture was creating as for the expense of a new starter.

“What do you think a new one will cost me,” she asked, as she eagerly hoisted herself into the passenger side of Jim’s diesel truck.

“Not that much—hundred and fifty, maybe. But it’s the labor that gets expensive.”

Roxanne let out a defeated sigh. She had a momentary flash of driving her car through the front of ValuWise, freeing herself of both car and job in one fluid stroke.

“But I’ve got a buddy, owns a garage, probably give you a deal,” Jim was saying. Roxanne didn’t care for the expression on his face or the tone of his voice.

“I think I need to look for another car,” Roxanne said dismissively, turning her attention out the window.

“Well, you still might be in luck,” Jim continued, undeterred. “I’ve got another buddy who deals in cars—what you call ‘pre-owned’ automobiles. He might be able to help you out,” he said, his Good Samaritanship making him beam with pleasure.

“You sure have a lot of buddies,” Roxanne said dryly. This remark made Jim smile broadly.

“What can I say?” he demurred with a modest shrug. Roxanne hazarded another glance at her watch, not caring if Jim took the inference. “I’ll have you there in a jiffy,” he said, nonplussed by her heavy hint. “Missed you at Pete’s the other night,” he added casually.

“Yeah, well…can’t say there’s a whole lot for me to do there, seeing as how I can’t shoot pool worth a damn.”

“I could teach you,” Jim offered. Roxanne smirked and turned away for a second.

“Besides, it’s not like you’d really notice if I were there or not,” she said.

“Are you jealous?” Jim cooed arrogantly. The insinuation was enough to make Roxanne queasy.

“Hardly,” she replied, wondering if she was going to have to bail before they reached her place of employment. Jim began whistling a nameless tune as he turned the corner, throwing a sly glance at Roxanne.

“Jim, it was beyond gallant of you to come and get me, but let’s get this out in the open before anyone starts getting the wrong idea. I don’t have a secret crush on you, the main reason being you’re dating my best friend. So, for Andrea’s sake, let’s just keep our relationship on the straight and narrow, okay?”

“Andrea doesn’t have to know,” Jim suggested with a revolting leer.

“Are you kidding me?” Roxanne scowled. “Do you really think I’d stoop so low as to cheat on a friend like that?” she spat, her indignation flaring.

“Relax,” Jim said condescendingly, as he pulled up in front of ValuWise, “I’m just having you on. Where’s your sense of humor? Must’ve left it in that shit bucket you call a car,” he said out of sheer meanness.

“Thanks for the ride. You’re a real prince,” Roxanne said, wriggling down from his macho crew cab.

“De nada,” Jim said, sending her off with one last smarmy grin.

“What’s this?” Roxanne whispered to Daniel, slipping into the vacant chair next to him as inconspicuously as possible.

“A type of score card,” Daniel whispered back. “I’ll explain later,” he said, furtively eyeing his boss.

“Ms. Platt, so glad you could squeeze us into your busy schedule,” Stan Kemplehoff intoned loudly, his surly wit eliciting a couple chuckles from his pet stooges.

“My car wouldn’t start,” Roxanne said in her defense. “I had to call a friend to bring me here.”

“Uh-huh,” Stan replied, as if bored to the verge of suicide by her troubles. “Daniel, bring her up to speed on the new forms, if you’d be so kind. Okay, six fifty-nine—let’s get those doors opened,” he said with all the pomp and authority of the commander-in-chief.

“What is this?” Roxanne repeated to Daniel, as everyone filed past them on route to their various stations. But an explanation was hardly necessary; a cursory glance said it all. Stan, in his maniacal zeal for attaining supreme customer service from his underlings, had evidently gone to the trouble and expense of having slips printed, each customized with the employee’s name, for grading the cashiers.

“Is this for real?” she asked before Daniel could get a word out. Her face looked stricken as she read the form out loud. “‘Hi, my name is Roxanne Platt’…oh, really…is this legal? ‘Please let me know how I can better serve to you by taking a minute to evaluate my service today. Thank you and I look forward to seeing you at ValuWise again soon!’ Has Stan lost his mind?”

“Um…,” was all Daniel could manage to get out before Roxanne continued her rant.

“‘Please check one…Did I greet you in a friendly and courteous manner? YES NO. Did I ask your preference of plastic or paper? YES NO. Did I ask if you found everything you were looking for? Did I ask if you had any coupons? Did I thank you for shopping with us at ValuWise and wish you a good day?’ You have got to be kidding me!” Roxanne nearly shrieked, as she ripped the top sheet off and crumpled it into a ball, tossing it ineffectually at the trash can across the room.

“He is not serious. Tell me he’s not serious,” she demanded of Daniel, who retrieved the wadded paper from the floor.

“He’s serious, and don’t be throwing these away. They’ve got your name on them,” Daniel warned, tucking it into his back pocket.

“What is the point of all this?” Daniel encircled his arm around her back in a shepherding manner, in hopes of getting her to work before Stan started crawling all over his case.

“The point of all this is to strengthen our customer service—”

“Yeah, but what’s he going to do with these? Is he going to sit around and read them and keep some sort of running tab?”

Daniel swallowed hard. “Actually, all the yes’s and no’s will be tallied for each checker, and at the end of every month, each checker will learn whether he or she has more credits or demerits…and raises, bonuses, vacation days, etc. will be earned according to the score…”

“Don’t tell me anymore now. I’ll lose it before I ever get started,” Roxanne said weakly. She took her daily side chore list from her cubbyhole and tried to focus on her job.

“I’ll just put these on check stand four…” Daniel said, regarding Roxanne from behind with a growing sense of dismay. She walked straight passed him without even a hint that she had heard what he said.

As deodorant and toothpaste were her restocking assignments during the hour before she was to man her register, she headed to the personal hygiene aisle and grappled with the mind-numbing task of counting boxes and canisters. After about twenty minutes of this tedious toil, she returned to the warehouse portion of the store and began collecting the items she needed to fill the shelves with odor-eliminating goods.

All throughout her duties, her mind continued to grapple with Stan Kemplehoff’s latest scheme to humiliate and control his employees. It stuck in her craw like a thorn that couldn’t be excised. The thought of having to parrot out all those gratuitous questions, questions that were only occasionally helpful, filled her with a resounding sense of dread.

The vision of what she was about to embark on nearly paralyzed her with rage. This was nothing but an evil plot to get her to quit, she was certain of it. He had been gunning for her for as long as he’d been manager at their location. He probably figured that firing her would cost the company extra unemployment tax assessments. And being the company guy that he was, he had found a way to rid himself of Roxanne’s less than tolerable presence, and at the same time, protect his beloved ValuWise Corporation.

“There you are,” Daniel said, tracking her down in the nether regions of the store room. “Look, I was hoping to go over the score card business with you before you started checking…”

“Didn’t we already do that?” Roxanne asked, hand to her forehead to quell the headache that was building rapidly.

“Well, yes—except for the part about how to distribute the score cards and where the customers are supposed to fill them out.” Roxanne winced. Surely this was a nightmare. “You hand them their receipts and any change, then hand them the sheet and ask them to fill it out on the box at the end of the checkout counter—there’s like a ballot box on each check stand now…” Daniel said, clearly embarrassed by his role in this charade.

“Okay…I got it. Here’s your receipt, here’s your score card—please fill it out, blah blah blah, have a nice day…do you need any help out,” Roxanne droned in a sing-song parody.

“Right,” Daniel said sheepishly. “And there’s a pen tied to each box—”

“Of course there is!” Roxanne said with mock enthusiasm, indicating with a caustic sneer that she had all the instruction she could stand on the subject.

“If you have any questions…” Daniel said, his voice trailing off as Roxanne trudged around the corner.

“Is there anything else today?” Roxanne asked, in what she hoped was a cheerful chirp. It sounded to her own ears like the last chirp of a dying parakeet. The customer answered perfunctorily, his mind engaged in the task of finalizing his transaction.

“You saved three dollars and fifty-two cents,” Roxanne informed him as she handed him his receipt. “And sir, if you could take a moment…” but the man was gone like a shot. She placed the unused score sheet on top of the pad and began checking the next customer’s groceries. She was working out a plan in her head to tear off the sheets before she gave the customer the receipt, when she belatedly realized she had not promptly greeted the woman now standing in front of her.

“Oh hello! How are you today? Did find everything okay? Great, great. Would you like paper or plastic? Kelsey, this lady would like paper in plastic. Any coupons today? Do you have a ValuWise card? Alright, your total comes to sixty-five dollars even. Would you like some help out? Five dollars is your change…and your receipt, and if you wouldn’t mind grading my service today, here’s a form with a few quick questions on it, if you’d be so kind…oh, and thank you for shopping at ValuWise and come see us again soon.”

Roxanne heaved a brief sigh before engaging the next person in her line in the same meddlesome banter. She watched out of the corner of her eye as the last woman tried to read Stan’s form while balancing her two bags of groceries. Roxanne was about ready for a nervous breakdown. All this pressure to behave as though she were some kind of wind-up doll from Supermarket Hell was starting to make her feel crazy.

“Where does this go?” the woman asked, holding her folded slip in the air, clearly agitated by the inconvenience.

“Right on the left side there…” The woman shoved it in, regrouped her purchases and headed for the exit without a backwards glance. Everything about her walk said she was extremely put off by this new layer of customer participation.

“I said paper,” the current customer said coldly. It took a couple of beats for Roxanne to catch her drift.

“She said paper,” Roxanne repeated to Kelsey, her mentally-impaired box girl of the day. They both scurried to switch out the plastic bags for paper, colliding occasionally in their obsequious efforts.

“Is that all today?” Roxanne asked, trying to slip back into her scripted routine.

“Yes,” the woman said, holding her hand out for her receipt.

“You saved a dollar-nineteen,” Roxanne said, as she placed the receipt and the score sheet in the woman’s hand.

“I don’t have time for this,” the woman said, letting the piece of paper float to the counter.

“I understand,” Roxanne said, wadding the sheet and tossing it in the trash. “Do you need help out?”

“No.”

“Thank you for shopping at ValuWise and have a good…” Roxanne stared at the retreating woman with her mouth hanging slack.

“These are meant to be filled out by your customers, not thrown in the trash,” Stan whispered in his spooky good father voice, while he smiled at the patrons lined up at check stand four. He had an uncanny ability to materialize at the most inopportune times.

“Jee—you scared me,” Roxanne said with a start. “Um…she said she was in a hurry…” Roxanne watched in disbelief as Stan bent down and removed the discarded score sheet from the trash. Out of reflex, she began to scan the next order, racking her brain for the proper opening line.

“Hello, how are you today?” she began.

“See me in my office after your break,” Stan whispered sweetly. Roxanne nodded dutifully, her cheeks flushed with both humiliation and anger. Her breathing was fast and hard.

Let him fire me—I don’t give a damn, she was thinking while blindly working her way through customer after customer. If he was going to can her, what was the point of twisting herself in knots trying to play kiss-ass to a never-ending line of folks who couldn’t be less interested in ValuWise’s new martial politeness campaign?

At the first opportunity, she seized Daniel’s attention.

“How are you doing?” he asked, giving Kelsey a hand with the bagging.

“Plastic,” Roxanne corrected him.

“Right,” Daniel said, smiling awkwardly at the young mother with the newborn in a body sling.

“I’m about a millisecond away from losing my mind,” Roxanne said beneath her breath, a faux smile plastered across her face.

“Your break is in thirty minutes,” Daniel replied discreetly.

“I can’t wait that long,” Roxanne informed him, staring him straight in the eye lest he miss the seriousness of what she was saying.

“I’ll see what I can do…” Daniel tried to dash away, supposedly with her request as his utmost priority, but Roxanne held him in place by his sleeve.

“Daniel…do not leave me here. I…need…a…break…NOW.” Daniel’s expression said he had gotten the message loud and clear this time. He took a key from his pocket and inserted it into the register. He canceled out Roxanne’s access and keyed in his own. “Go, I’ve got it.”

Daniel wasn’t thrilled by the position Roxanne had put him in, but the look on her face was one he’d never seen before. She seemed scared and vulnerable, a combination in her that gave him a cold chill down his spine.

Roxanne stood on the back steps of the warehouse, gulping breaths of air as she searched for her keys. She found them and began to automatically scan the lot for her car as she descended to the employee parking lot. It wasn’t until she reached the bottom step that she realized she didn’t have a car to go to. Her miserable piece of crap was at home, stubbornly fixed to its parking space. She sank to the steps, as listlessly as if she had been poured there.

It had been so long since she had cried, she idly wondered why her cheeks were wet. She swiped roughly at the rivulets, sniffing hard as she fought back a powerful wave of self-pity.

“Goddamnsonofabitch,” she swore for openers. That felt good enough to encourage more creative curses. The more she swore, the less she felt like crying and the more she felt like punching someone in the face, namely Stan Kemplehoff. Maybe Andrea’s cocky boyfriend, too.

She let loose a few more inspired epithets, then reached for her cell phone. She called Andrea’s salon, only to get the auto-attendant. She thought of trying her cell number, but checking her watch, figured she was in busy at work on someone’s head. She continued to stare at her cell phone, willing it to come up with some useful suggestions. It remained mute and uncooperative.

“What am I going to do?” she said in an uncharacteristic whimper. “I have no car and almost no job, and zero options. Oh, my God—I hate my life!” Her gaze rose to the tarmac, but no further. She was feeling so dispirited, she couldn’t even bring herself to mutilate a few cigarettes. Finally, out of her dreary reverie came an inspiration. Within seconds, she had her ex-husband on the line.

“What’s up—I’m about to go into a meeting,” he said without preamble. Ah Derek—always Mr. Impatient.

“I’ve got a problem,” Roxanne said, willing to skip the small talk and cut to the chase if he was. “My car’s dead. It’s the starter or something.” Derek missed a beat, as he attempted to figure out how this was a problem that concerned him.

“Have it towed to the garage and get it fixed,” he said, as if the conundrum was simple enough for a child to solve. In fact, it made so much sense, it took Roxanne aback momentarily.

“Well, I could do that Derek, but that’s easier said than done. I’m at work, I have no way of getting home or getting back to work tomorrow—”

“Okay, so you need a car. Rent one until yours is fixed.” Roxanne gritted her teeth and tried not to let her ill feelings show.

“Derek, I can’t afford to rent a car or have mine fixed. Besides, you know as well as I do that’s probably a waste of money. The car is fifteen years old. What’s the point of putting three hundred into a car that’s only worth about seven?”

“What do you want me to do, Roxanne?” Here it came, the grudging persecution act. Poor old Derek Platt, being forced to endure the eternal burden of having once said “I do” to her.

“I don’t know, Derek… Maybe I’m hoping you’ll loan me the money to buy a new car—a new used car, I mean.” Derek exhaled audibly, switching the phone to his other ear, a tell-tale sign that he was about to lose his equanimity, what little he possessed when it came to dealing with her. “Hello?”

“Why are you asking me?”

“Because you’re the only one I can ask.”

“Ask your parents,” he said, throwing the first dagger. Only a person once in possession of total trust could know how to place the point so accurately.

“You know that’s not an option,” she said, acknowledging he’d hit a nerve.

“They would be the most logical people to hit up for a loan,” he said, giving the blade a twist.

“Derek, they’d just as soon see me lose my home than help me out financially.” This was only a marginal exaggeration. Harold and Daphne Burrows firmly and unflinchingly believed in never making loans or monetary gifts to their children, unless it was solely for educational purposes. A perfect example of this was her brother, Wes, on whom they had spent a sizable fortune for Harvard Medical School. Two other siblings both graduated from UC schools, which was no cheap ticket, either.

Roxanne was the only scholastic underachiever in a family which prided itself on higher education. For that reason alone, Roxanne sometimes felt they owed at least a little something for letting them off the hook. Like maybe the price of a “pre-owned” car. Derek had a point, but she wasn’t going to let him know that.

“That still doesn’t mean I should have to loan you the money,” he protested.

“You need to not think about it as lending me money, when in reality I need a car just as much for Connor’s sake as I do for any other reason,” she argued.

“Roxanne—I’ve got to go. They’re waiting for me.”

“Will you at least think about it? Derek…? Derek?” Roxanne glared at the disconnected screen on her phone. “Asshole,” she mouthed, as she flicked the phone closed. Well, so much for that idea. She was going to have to come up with something, though, or she’d be hoofing it home after work.

“Oh, crap!” she exclaimed, jumping to her feet as she realized she hadn’t clocked out before her impromptu break. Plus, her fifteen minutes of freedom were up, which meant she had an assignation with Stan the Slave Driver, most likely so he could give her her walking papers.

She scrambled up the steps, wracking her brain for plausible excuses for her many and varied transgressions. She didn’t have much time for rumination; she ran into Stan as soon as she burst through the loading dock door. She smiled reflexively as her armpits stung with perspiration. Her smile froze and faded as Stan curled his finger in a sinister, beckoning way.

Roxanne passed into Stan’s office, her chest thudding despite her desire for nonchalance. There was a hint of the menace that was to follow in the way he sharply closed the door behind her. She took a seat as directed, determined to take whatever he was going to brow-beat her with in stride. She sat lightly in the chair, tentative and wary, almost forgetting to breathe while she waited for Stan to let loose on her.

Being prone to dramatic displays of authority, Stan took his time, doing his best to unnerve his prey before attacking. Roxanne studied him as he studied her, his hands wrapped around the armrests of his chair, his posture slightly cocked, as if he might pounce at any moment.

After the stare-down that resulted in a draw, Stan turned his attention to the manila file folder on his desk, the contents of which he undoubtedly knew by heart. Nevertheless, he leafed through the pages with mock-absorption, glancing up at her occasionally.

Alright, already—let’s get this over with, for God’s sake, Roxanne thought, her jaw set defensively, her fingers drumming a beat on her leg, her annoyance building by the second.

“So…” Stan began. The mere sound of his condescending voice made her cringe. “You’ve been here a long time, Roxanne—twelve, thirteen years?”

“Thirteen,” she dutifully answered.

“There are a couple things about your file that caught my attention. You’ve seen your share of managers come and go, haven’t you?”

“More than I can count,” Roxanne confirmed with a breezy smile. Stan chewed his tongue methodically as he considered her response.

“The first anomaly is that, in all those thirteen years, you’ve failed to be promoted.”

Roxanne shrugged indifferently. “I’m not the managerial type,” she said. “I guess I just don’t like to boss other people around.”

Stan took the insinuation with a predictably incensed smirk. He regarded her coldly before continuing his long-winded appraisal of her. “Nor, curiously—and here’s the thing I find really interesting,” he said, leaning into his work with evident malice, “nor have you ever been cited for any misconduct or insubordination.” Stan let this statement hang threateningly in the air. Is he asking me or telling me? Roxanne wondered.

“That’s right,” she finally said, hoping to get the inquisition moving along.

“Am I to conclude, then, that you’ve decided to only butt heads with me?” The question seemed so ludicrous, Roxanne almost laughed.

“I didn’t decide anything like—”

“…because not one of your other managers had anything derogatory to say about you.” This line of reasoning left Roxanne grappling for comprehension.

“Uh…I don’t know what to say… I’ve never had any problems with any other managers before…”

“So you admit, then, that you do have a problem with me,” Stan declared, delivering his coup d’ grace with all the vigor of trial attorney who’s picked up the scent of blood.

“I don’t have a problem with you, Stan—other than the fact you make a career out of riding my case,” Roxanne replied. By this point, she had lost any trepidation about losing her job and was calculating what her unemployment checks might net her.

“See? See…? This is exactly the kind of disrespectful attitude I’m talking about!” Stan bellowed, leaping out of his chair to wag his finger in her face.

Roxanne’s mouth dropped in amazement. The guy was losing his grip right in front of her. She stiffened in her chair, worried for a moment he might strike her. But seeing him flip his lid had given her the upper hand, though Stan did not seem to fully realize this yet.

“This is the kind of insubordination and lack of respect that leads to widespread disobedience! Your bad attitude toward me can and will affect the entire staff,” he continued to rage.

“Stan,” Roxanne replied calmly, “I think you’re being rather paranoid. I don’t have a problem with you, and I don’t incite the rest of the employees against you. I just come to work, do my job, and leave. That’s it, that’s all. I’m just a working mom trying to support myself and my son,” she said, piety and earnestness written all over her features.

“I don’t think you understand the effect your attitude has on your fellow workers. I don’t think you even realize how bad your attitude is,” Stan said, resuming his seat, falsely believing he was still in control of the situation.

“Stan, are you firing me? Because if you are, you need a reason, a real reason. By law, you really can’t fire me just because you think I’m out to undermine your authority. You need some sort of proof, some incident to back up your accusations.”

By now, Stan was starting to catch on. Though Roxanne hadn’t come out and said it yet, Stan got the distinct impression Roxanne had more than a passing familiarity with labor law.

“Are you threatening to sue?” he blurted out. Roxanne smiled. “Is that what this is all about?”

“You tell me, Stan. You’re the one who called this meeting. I don’t have a problem with you or ValuWise,” she lied. “I just want to do my job, get paid and be left alone. So, you tell me—am I going to be able to continue doing that, or is this going to become an…issue?” Stan stared her down, his eyes blazing with contempt and a flicker of fear.

“Consider this a warning, Ms. Platt,” he said, as he grabbed his pen and began to document this altercation. “It’s in writing now, so don’t push your luck,” he hissed

Roxanne pursed her lips to keep her tongue inside her head. Nothing wrong with a clean victory, she decided, though she knew for certain she had to walk a very straight line from now on. “Are we done?” she asked sweetly, as she rose to leave.

“You can go now. But a word to the wise, Roxanne—you want to play hardball with the big boys, you better watch your back.” Roxanne rolled her eyes heavenward as she trudged back to the relative sanity of her check stand.

Five

Roxanne executed one final kicking leg-lift before collapsing flat-out on the carpet. She lay there, mouth hanging open as she panted, until she could no longer stand the sound of the instructor’s impossibly energetic commands. She rolled back onto her side and slithered to the coffee table, where she seized the remote control and switched off the DVD.

That Pilates guy is a maniac, she thought as she sprawled out again and stared at her dingy ceiling, idly counting the number of daddy longlegs that thought enough of her shabby condo to call it home. At least the sadistic exercises had taken her mind off work and other quandaries, namely what to do about her car. But acknowledging this brought them both back to the forefront of her mind, where they pirouetted in unison, taunting her inability to reckon with them.

“Okay, I still have a job—for the time being anyway.” She struggled to her feet and made for the sofa, grabbing her cigarettes along the way. She sat back, thoroughly spent, grateful she had forced herself through forty-five minutes of grueling self-abuse. It did make her feel virtuous, at least on one level.

She pulled two cigarettes from the pack and stuck one in her mouth, letting out a huge sigh as she did so. The other one she rubbed between her fingers, loosening the tobacco and watching it trickle to her lap, a sight she found highly satisfying, for reasons she could not explain.

She wanted to call Connor before he sat down to dinner with Derek and his new wife, Lana. But she also wanted to enjoy these few fleeting moments of contentment while they lasted. As much as she loved her son, talking to him on the phone when he was at his dad’s always made her feel oddly disconnected from him, as if he were on the other side of the planet and not merely six miles away.

But she couldn’t blame him for seeming so distant; the duality of his life must be less than desirable. When he was with Derek, he had everything a seven-year-old boy could want: his own room, his own TV and computer and oodles of games, a big house, nice neighborhood to play in.

Still, he didn’t have the same kind of closeness with his dad as he had with her. He once asked if she could come along when Derek came to get him. He loved being with her, but it had to be like Cinderella after the ball. She did what she could to make it up to him, but it was comparable to substituting an algebra book for a trip to the video arcade.

Roxanne took in her surroundings, wondering how she could make them more cheerful and inviting. I could paint the place again—something a little brighter, she mused half-heartedly. But she didn’t really feel like painting. What she really wanted to do was put a “for sale” sign in the window and walk away. She let this lofty notion linger in her head, savoring the power she only dreamed she could possess.

“Why can’t I change my life?” she asked herself. Instead of the myriad of usual excuses, Roxanne found a germ of possibility edging its way around the periphery of her mind. That germ was leftover from the other day, when she briefly and absurdly entertained the idea of pursuing a career in real estate.

“A career in Real Estate. A career in Real Estate.” The words lingered on her tongue like something sweet and foreign, like Crêpes Suzettes or baklava. The phrase also brought up images of herself she barely recognized, visions of speaking with authority to people who hung on her every word. Giddy visions of gazing upon her first commission check. Dreamy visions of giving ValuWise a single-finger salute goodbye.

This last mental visual was enough to get her off the sofa in search of the morning paper. She found it in the trash, mottled with brown dampness from the coffee filter. She retrieved the section she was looking for and dropped the rest back in the wastebasket, along with the two cigarettes. She was on a mission now. No time for useless props.

She began scanning the real estate ads as she took a seat at the table. From what she could determine, homes in her area ranged from $350,000 for a two-bedroom starter condo, to a million-plus for a house on the ocean or one of the marinas. Without taking her eyes off the paper, she retrieved the calculator from the junk drawer and punched in a few hypothetical scenarios.

Taking a rough average figure of $700,000 and multiplying that by six percent… Whew—forty-two thousand bucks! But that was the gross commission. She knew enough about real estate to know the six percent was split if two different companies were involved… Twenty-one thousand. If the agent got sixty percent of that… Twelve-thousand six hundred.

Not bad, not bad at all. And that was just one sale. If she could do a minimum of four sales a year… Fifty grand. She could live on that. Heck, three measly sales a year would net her what she was making at ValuWise. And she wouldn’t have Stan Kemplehoff breathing down her neck, just waiting for her to commit some infraction of his Gestapo-esque rules.

Without hesitating, she booted Conner’s computer and quickly retraced her steps from the other night. After a few minutes of comparison, she settled on Elite Real Estate School. She filled in her information, and right before she clicked on ‘submit,’ gave her pessimistic side a chance to dissuade her.

For starters, it was two hundred and seventy-five bucks that she didn’t have. Whatever she could beg or borrow had to go to fixing her miserable wreck of an automobile. Okay, she couldn’t afford it. But she couldn’t ignore the fact that her days as a checker were numbered. She was beyond burnt-out. If she didn’t find another line of work—and soon—she’d end up in the rubber room. So…it was immaterial that she didn’t have the money. She’d just have to get it, somehow, some way.

Then there was the matter of suitability. After all, this sudden desire to sell real estate was a dramatic departure for her. What made her think she possessed the aptitude for that kind of work? She’d always shied away from sales, just as she shied away from salespersons. Could she really see herself talking up the good points of a place that lacked real merit, like her own dump for instance? Hmmm…that was a challenge. Good starter condo for first-time homebuyers, centralized location, large sunny patio. Piece of cake, she thought, as she clicked on the submit button.

The thrill of initiating such a profound change in her life made her tingle all over. Besides, real estate companies train you before turning you loose on the world, she tried to convince herself. She pushed away from the computer; it was done. No turning back now.

As she wandered toward the kitchen, she entertained images of what the process would be like, what it would feel like to show clients homes for sale. This thought stopped her dead in her tracks. Show clients around in what? A car that didn’t run? A car that virtually screamed LOSER from twenty paces? Everyone knew a real estate agent had to have a great-looking car to impress clients. The better the car, the more successful the agent. Everybody knew that.

Damn, I forgot that one tiny detail, she thought miserably as she sank onto the sofa. Her stomach flip-flopped as the reality of wasting two hundred and seventy-five bucks set in. She blindly reached for her cigarettes, but even as she did so, she knew fake-smoking wasn’t going to cut it this time.

She staggered to the kitchen and tore through her junk drawer until she located a matchbook. She took a long, anxiety-calming drag and exhaled as she made her way out to the patio. She perched herself on one of the cheap resin chairs, once white, now streaked the color of nougat, caked with dead leaves and dirt.

After a few more drags, she chided herself for her impulsive stupidity. But by the time she was finished with the first cigarette, she had grown weary of self-abasement. Despite the setback, her tenuous optimism began to once again flicker and flare. Changing her life wouldn’t be easy, but keeping with the status quo was not an option. Neither was not buying a new car. It was unthinkable to live in California without a car. It simply wasn’t done. There had to be a solution, somewhere; she just had to find it.

With another amazing burst of clarity, she hit on the answer. It was so foolproof, she laughed out loud. She stubbed out the cigarette on the deck and practically skipped to the phone, making a mental list of all her upcoming expenses. She cleared her throat and donned her sunniest outlook, as she prepared to make the first sales pitch of her new career.

Six

As the taxi carried her to her assignation, Roxanne rehearsed her appeal for financial aid. Had it been solely for the purchase of a new car, she would’ve never wasted the cab fare. But she suddenly saw her situation in a new light, and she was determined to bilk it for all it was worth. After all, $275 was a drop on the mortarboard compared to what her folks had dished out on her four siblings in the education department. She did not think it was at all presumptuous to include in her request $7,000 for a ‘pre-owned’ automobile and another five hundred for proper real estate-pedaling attire. It was a heck of a deal, she would tell them, a one-time, up-front disbursement that would provide their youngest child with a fresh start and a means to the financial freedom she longed for.

With this zippy mantra on her lips, she paid the cab driver and got out. It wasn’t until she was standing at the foot of the driveway that she realized the unbroken line of cars parked along the curb in front of her parents’ house belonged not to the neighbors, but to three of her four of kith and kin. Damn, another oversight.

At first she had the paranoid thought that in the space of time it took her to shower, put on her makeup, dress and get over there, her parents had sounded the call for reinforcements. But she realized this would’ve been unnecessary, seeing as how—their assorted degrees notwithstanding—there was no other place on the planet Felicity, Bronte and Lloyd would rather spend their free time than at the bosom of their learned parents. The fact that Wes lived on the East Coast was the sole reason he wasn’t in on the love-fest.

Roxanne took several deep breaths and forcibly restrained the hand which had automatically begun probing her purse for cigarettes and matches. “Keep focused, keep focused, keep focused,” she chanted as she climbed the walkway to the front door of the seventies stucco faux-Mediterranean, two-story house, badly in need of some updating. Should I knock or should I just go in? She knocked.

As soon as her knuckles hit the door, two small mongrel dogs began barking feverishly as they raced for, and eventually slammed into, the glass panels on either side of the door.

“Damn mutts,” Lloyd said, as he held the spastic dogs at bay with his foot while cracking the door open barely wide enough for Roxanne to slip through. Lloyd, glasses riding down on his nose, his hair alternately spiked and flattened from sleep, customary tome dangling from one hand, took the cigarette from his mouth with his free hand and kissed his baby sister on the cheek.

“Everyone’s in the living room,” he said unnecessarily, for where else would they be? Perhaps twice a year they all mounted sufficient interest and energy to venture outside for a rousing game of croquet. But other than that, mother and father, two sons and daughter occupied their own particular space, be it sofa, chair or window seat, as much a part of the fixtures as the peeling grass cloth.

“Whiskey! Buff! Stop that infernal barking!” Harold Burrows shouted, rising out of his chair to give his command more emphasis. To Roxanne’s surprise, this worked, and the two flea-infested mixed breeds resumed their stations at the patriarch’s side, where they immediately recommenced the never-ending chore of chewing and clawing themselves.

“Roxanne’s here,” Lloyd announced, also unnecessarily, to the rest of the clan.

“Hello, darling,” her mother said, standing to receive her daughter in the wings of her pink pleated muumuu. Despite the casualness of her attire, Daphne Burrows’s face was perfectly made up, as was her silvery-white hair, swept up and back and held in place with an enamel inlay comb, naturally of the same color in her tent-slash-dress.

“Hey, Rox,” Bronte said from one of the two sofas that flanked the floor-to-ceiling white brick fireplace. He reminded Roxanne of a grown-up version of Conner when he was engrossed in one of his games.

“Give your sister a proper hello,” Harold admonished in his upper-class British accent, a cherished remnant from decades ago. If anyone wanted to be unkind, they could say this characteristic was merely a cultivated affectation. And they would be justified in saying so, seeing as Harold Burrows hadn’t lived in Jolly Old England since his mid-twenties. Nor was he the spawn of English parents, though he was born in London, a fact he mentioned as often as his sense of propriety would permit.

“Just a sec,” Bronte said, as he typed furiously away at his laptop keyboard. Roxanne bent over and gave her brother’s head a kiss, regretting it as soon as his hair goo began stinging her lips.

“Hi Sis,” Felicity said, rising out of her seat without taking her eyes off the trade magazine she was engrossed in. She did manage to refocus her attention long enough to give her sister a halfhearted hug before turning back to her preferred reality.

“Sit down, dear,” Harold said, after giving his daughter a warm embrace. Roxanne glanced around. What space wasn’t taken up on the sofas by her brother and sister was hopelessly laden with every imaginable form of reading material.

“Bronte, make some room for your sister,” Harold said, lending a hand by shifting one stack to the coffee table. Bronte grudgingly pulled a stack towards himself as he slid closer to the other arm of the sofa. Not once did his eyes stray from the computer screen.

“There you go, dear,” Harold said, repositioning himself in his wingback chair which stood directly in front of the seldom-used fireplace. Roxanne liked to think of it as his throne. Smiling munificently, he re-unbuttoned his jacket and smoothed down his ancient Cambridge tie.

“You’re looking very well, Roxanne,” he said, though Roxanne wasn’t sure if he really thought so. “Isn’t she, dear?” he asked of his wife.

“Yes, very, darling. Would you like a cookie, Roxanne?” Daphne asked, standing to extend the silver platter containing a variety of cheap butter cookies, the kind nearly every supermarket whipped out on a daily basis, ValuWise being no exception. As Roxanne waved the tray away, she regretted not having brought some token gift along. Her parents were great fans of token gifts.

“Oh, shoot!”

“What is it, dear?” Harold asked in alarm.

“Nothing. I had a bottle of wine for you, but I left it in the taxi.”

“Oh, gracious! Perhaps you can ring the taxi company and have them drop it by,” Daphne tentatively suggested. Roxanne pursed her lips.

“Umm, it probably got snatched by the next fare,” she said gravely. “It was a really good bottle of wine,” she added wistfully.

“Well, it won’t hurt to give the taxi company a call,” Daphne said, once more levitating out of her chair.

“I’ll call, Mom,” Roxanne said, grabbing her bag as she headed for the kitchen. Once she passed through the swinging slatted doors separating the dining area from the kitchen, she went through the charade of looking up the number in the phone book, making sure she accentuated every little noise of the process.

While one hand was thus engaged, the other sought out cigarettes and matches from the bottom of her purse. She allowed herself three quick drags before faking a call to Speedy Cab. She puffed generously between inquiries, then ran what was left of the cigarette under the faucet to extinguish it before tossing it in the trash. Strictly speaking, this whole act was unnecessary, for smoking was not a taboo vice in the Burrows household. But Roxanne’s confidence was flagging, and she needed this ruse to give herself a chance to regroup.

“Stay focused, stay focused, stay focused,” she repeated as she popped a breath mint into her mouth. Don’t let them throw you off balance, she cautioned herself, trying to play down the presence of her siblings. They’re so self-involved, they won’t pay any attention to what you’re saying anyway.

“Well? Any luck?” Harold asked expectantly as Roxanne returned to the living room. She frowned her disappointment.

“No. I’m sorry,” she said, retaking her seat near her father.

“Oh, that’s a shame, darling. But I guess honesty and integrity are just too much to hope for, in this day and age,” her mother said, picking up her needlework as an antidote to the downfall of humanity.

“It is a pity,” Harold agreed with a sad shake of his head. “But don’t let it trouble you, dear. It’s the thought that counts.”

“Thanks, Daddy,” Roxanne said sweetly, wondering how many bad karma points she was racking up with this shameless deception. “I’ll bring a replacement next time.”

“Don’t give it another thought,” Harold said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “So…what was it you wanted to talk to us about?” he asked, giving his youngest the benefit of his undivided attention.

“Well…” Roxanne began, her eyes wandering to the distracted faces of Felicity, Bronte and Lloyd. Satisfied she could make her appeal without any kibitzing from them, she gave it her best shot. “…as you know, I’ve been pretty unhappy working at ValuWise…for quite a long time now.” This statement elicited raised eyebrows from both parents, as neither of them could understand how she let a “temporary” position as a checker become her life’s work.

“My new boss, Stan Kemplehoff, is driving me batty…but I won’t bore you with the details.” Judging from their expressions, her parents were relieved by their daughter’s discretion. “So…I’ve been trying to figure out what I want to do with the rest of my life. And after giving it a lot of thought, I think I’ve found something that really interests me,” she said, looking back and forth from her mother and father expectantly.

But as she did, she discovered that this dramatic buildup had caught the attention of the others as well. Now all five heads were turned her direction, all ten eyes zeroing in on her, waiting for the big announcement.

“That’s fabulous news, dear! We’re all very excited for you. So, tell us—what have you decided to do ‘with the rest of your life?’” Harold inquired grandly. Roxanne took a deep breath, a forced smile stuck to her lips, as she surveyed the room. Suddenly, the plausibility of what she was trying to accomplish seemed extremely dubious. She had serious doubts that she was actress enough to finesse her decidedly hair-brained strategy.

“Tell us, Roxanne—we’re all ears,” Felicity said, as she laid the magazine across her lap and folded her arms in a challenging fashion. Her brothers also looked especially keen to hear this revelation.

“I’ve decided to become a real estate agent,” Roxanne said, with as much dignity as she could hold together. Barks of delighted derision assailed her as soon as the words left her tongue.

“You? A real-a-tard?” Bronte cried out gleefully.

“You’ve never sold anything but Girl Scout Cookies in your life,” Felicity happily reminded her.

“That’s our Roxanne—leaping into an industry during its worst crisis in history,” Lloyd obligingly pointed out.

Roxanne was stunned into silence. She knew their attendance hadn’t boded well for her, yet she was shocked by the enthusiasm with which her brothers and sister ripped her decision to shreds.

“Now, everyone—let’s give Roxanne the benefit of the doubt,” Harold said, holding up his hands to quell the abuse. “If she’s made the decision to become an estates agent, I’m sure she has her reasons.”

“Dad, what makes her think she has what it takes to be a real-a-tard?” Bronte asked peevishly.

“Stop calling it that,” Roxanne snapped.

“Bronte!” Harold scolded his son.

“That’s one of her words,” Bronte replied defensively, leveling a mocking smirk at his sister.

“Daddy, can we discuss this in private?” Roxanne asked, standing abruptly.

“That’s not necessary, Roxanne,” Daphne said. “You are free to say anything you wish without censure in this household, and I want your brothers and sister to remember that. So, sit down, darling, and explain this decision of yours to us so that we might understand it.” Daphne let her gaze hover over her offspring while she let her message sink in.

“Go on, dear,” Harold said encouragingly.

“Well, that’s it, really. I’ve done my research and found a course that seems practical and offers a money-back guarantee—”

“That’s handy,” Felicity said under her breath.

“…and I can complete the course and take my exam in five or six weeks.”

“What’s the guarantee cover, passing the exam or earning a living?” Bronte asked.

“Let’s say you do pass the course, then what?” Lloyd asked, his normally placid face positively glowing with malice.

“Then I become a licensed real estate agent and start looking for a company to work for. What?”

“I know you’re not one for keeping up with current affairs, but haven’t you heard anything about what’s happening in the real estate arena these days?”

“For your information, Lloyd, I do read the papers and I do know what’s going on in the ‘real estate arena.’ But this is California—it’s one of the most desirable places in the country to live. And there are many reasons for that—the climate, the access to beaches, deserts, mountains, the lifestyle. California’s the Golden State. Everyone who doesn’t live here fantasizes about it at some time or other. We may be experiencing a down market, but it’s only a matter of time before the situation will stabilize,” Roxanne concluded, hoping the others found her assertions more convincing than she did.

“Looks like you’ve got the spiel down, but as Felicity pointed out, you have virtually no sales experience,” Lloyd rebuked her.

“Forget experience—what about aptitude. I’d say she’s the least likely candidate for real estate sales I’ve ever come across,” Bronte fired off.

“Why do you say that?” Roxanne demanded. Bronte waved the question away, as if it were too obvious to require an explanation. “Is it because you think the only worthwhile pursuits involve selfless devotion and the willingness to work for a salary only modestly above the poverty level?”

This barb drew astonished gasps from her parents, jeers from Lloyd and Felicity, and a stoic leer from Brother Bronte. Working as a crisis counselor at youth shelter afforded Bronte not only a pitifully small pay check, but a gold star, halo and all the rest. In other words, Saintly Bronte was beyond reproach. Never mind that he held two master’s degrees—one in psychology, the other in English—each costing in the neighborhood of a hundred grand a piece. Why should anyone expect him to make a decent living?

“There are more noble endeavors in life than just going for the almighty buck,” Bronte replied with pious condescension.

“Funny how what you do for a living is noble, yet the fact that I work hard to support myself and my son is somehow less than noble. How does that add up?”

“Really, Roxanne—are you saying that Derek doesn’t provide child support?” Felicity asked caustically.

“That doesn’t change the fact that I have to work to pay the bills. And you’re wrong if you think his support covers all of Conner’s expenses. Sure, we may be getting by—barely—but is it really wrong to want more than that for myself and my son?” Roxanne challenged.

As passionate as her argument was, she knew she was making it before the Communist Republic of Burrowstan, where youth counselor and librarian were positions held in the highest esteem. And even though Lloyd was a web designer and IT coordinator for a small T-shirt manufacturer, he too made a ridiculously low wage. Roxanne was by far the biggest bread winner out of the siblings present, an achievement that earned her virtually no points, simply because she was a lowly checker, and—sin of all sins—she had no education beyond high school.

“It takes months and months for new agents to close their first deal, and usually it’s what they refer to a ‘DNA’ deal, meaning it involves a family member or close friend. They figure each agent has two ‘DNA’ deals in them and that’s about it. And as you have so helpfully pointed out, your family is pretty much a dry well, unless of course you can talk Mom and Dad into selling this house and moving into a seniors’ condo,” Felicity said snidely. Roxanne glared at her silently; she knew better than to play into her sister’s hands. “Besides, most new licensees get out of the business within the first year,” Felicity concluded in her usual know-it-all fashion.

If this had been a baseball game, Felicity’s enlightening statistics would have been the equivalent of a bases-loaded home run in the ninth inning. From the expressions on everyone’s faces, Roxanne knew she was not the odds-on favorite in this match up. She let her sister gloat for a moment before presenting her rejoinder.

“If everyone in the world approached their aspirations by compiling all the reasons why they couldn’t succeed and letting that pile of negatives be the deciding factor, how far would we get in life? Debating is a great way to explore an idea, but for some people, that’s where the action ends. After all, it’s a lot easier to pooh-pooh a dream than it is to go out and actually make it happen.” Roxanne glanced at each of them, gauging how this had registered. Her siblings seemed to have lost a measure of their smug superiority, and her parents looked positively delighted.

“Well said, Roxanne,” Harold congratulated her, uncrossing and re-crossing his legs in a tacit sign of approval. “So, tell us dear—and don’t let the peanut gallery dissuade you this time—what exactly is your plan?”

“Study the course, take the test, pass—hopefully—apply for my license and set up interviews,” she said. The faint hint of excitement in her voice was irritating enough to send her siblings back to their previous pursuits, at least superficially.

“And will you continue to work at ValuWise?” her mother asked.

“Oh, sure…at least until I have a position lined up. I mean, I still have to bring home a pay check.”

“So, does that mean you will keep working as a cashier until you close a sale?” Harold asked. Roxanne chewed the inside of her lip while she considered his question. She hadn’t worked that part of the scenario out yet. It didn’t help her thought processes any to discover Felicity was now staring at her with predatory zeal.

“Well…” Roxanne faltered.

“I do think your sister made a good point about the ‘down-time’ between starting out in real estate and receiving your first commission check,” Harold added.

“Of course, agents don’t usually get paid the first month they start, but if I decided I wanted to be a nurse—or let’s make it easier—a teacher, I’d have to have at least four years of college, plus whatever the requirements are for teaching credentials, before I would receive any pay.”

“That’s true,” Daphne said, looking up from her needlepoint.

“Besides,” Roxanne continued, her confidence returning, “there’d be no way I could go to school fulltime, work fulltime and be a mother fulltime.”

“Part-time,” Felicity corrected her from behind her magazine.

“There are other vocations that don’t require several years of college,” Lloyd said sagely from his window seat. “Like Bronte said, selling real estate is the last thing I picture you doing.”

“Really?” Roxanne countered. “And why is that?”

“For one thing, I’ve never once heard you speak kindly of the profession, which is why I find this sudden craze so puzzling.”

“That’s true, dear—you’ve never shown any interest in it before, not to my knowledge, anyway,” Harold pragmatically agreed, entreating his daughter to bear proof of her longing.

Now all three siblings had their antennae up, ready to pounce on Roxanne’s slightest equivocation. This put her in an uncomfortable spot, as she herself had no clue why she was suddenly fixated on being a real estate agent.

“In my opinion, you could do a lot better,” Lloyd added, before sticking his nose back in his five-pound book. “After all, I can’t think of a less educated, overpaid group of people on the planet,” he said, turning the page and reading on without bothering to glance her way. As opposed to over-educated, underpaid people like you, Felicity and Bronte, Roxanne thought, though she judiciously kept such comparisons to herself.

“You are certainly entitled to your opinions, Lloyd, but all your sarcastic remarks won’t deter me. I wish I could make you all understand why I want to try my hand at selling real estate, but I guess all I can say is that I find the idea stimulating—exciting, even. Unlike you, I do have the desire to make some decent money, to get ahead instead of just treading water, to stop punching a clock every day. I want to succeed. I want to shake hands with my clients and hand them the keys to their new home. I want to make people’s dreams come true!”

Despite all the startled faces in the room, no one was more shocked by Roxanne’s affirmation than she was. Where had that come from? she wondered, as goose bumps rippled her flesh. Had working at ValuWise for thirteen years completely derailed her mind?

She had never had the slightest desire to sell real estate or rub elbows with those who did. Now she was practically frothing at the mouth to convince her family it was her fondest ambition. Worse still, they were starting to believe her. Was she really that desperate to quit her job?

Yes, she was that desperate. So desperate, in fact, she would prefer anything to her current circumstances. So, yes, she could throw pride and dignity aside, pull up her sleeves and fight for listings, point out the many benefits of homeownership, and drive clients around in the often endless pursuit of the perfect home. Oops…the driving part was still an issue.

Judging from the look of stunned approval on her parents’ faces, now was the time to close on the question of financial assistance.

“Our apologies for doubting your commitment, Roxanne,” Harold began. “We’ll support your decision any way we can.”

“Does that mean I can count on your help with expenses?” Roxanne asked in her most polished, professional tone.

“Expenses?” Harold replied.

“The course is a bargain at $275. And that includes the cost of the exam. But it doesn’t include the $165 the Department of Real Estate charges for the actual license.” Harold nodded methodically. $440. That was certainly the cheapest educational expense he’d seen in decades.

“Sounds quite reasonable,” he mused.

“There are other expenses to be considered…”

“Such as…?”

“I need a new car,” Roxanne stated bluntly.

“A new car?” Felicity echoed incredulously. “Well, that goes for me, too.”

“Me three,” Bronte said, as he banged away on his keyboard. Lloyd raised his hand, not wanting to be left out of the car giveaway.

“Yours runs, mine doesn’t,” Roxanne informed her cheeky sister. “That’s why I had to take a cab over here.”

The light dawned for Harold and Daphne in unison; after all the talk about the wine left in the taxi, the fact that she had not driven over in her own car had utterly escaped them.

“The starter’s shot. It’ll cost me more to fix it than it’s worth,” Roxanne explained to her muddled parents.

“But a new car…” Harold hesitated.

“A used car. ‘Pre-owned,’ but new to me. I think I can find something good for eight or nine thousand,”

“Nine thousand?” Felicity cried out.

“Come on, Felicity—that’s less than the cost of one semester at UCLA. Or have you conveniently forgotten?”

“I earned a degree with that money.”

“Fat lot of good it’s done you,” Roxanne shot back.

“That’s enough!” Harold bellowed, slamming his fist on the arm of his chair, startling his family. “We will have none of this petty bickering. Roxanne came to us, her parents, with an appeal for help. You will all kindly remember that we’ve always taken your desires to better yourselves seriously. And if any of you find it difficult to keep your comments constructive, you can leave the room.”

The Burrows children all stared at their patriarch with awed alarm. They hadn’t seen an outburst like that in so many years, none of them could actually remember one. Felicity put down her magazine and grabbed her tattered canvas satchel.

“I’ve got to be going,” she claimed, before bidding everyone a hasty goodbye. “Good luck, Roxanne,” she said, though her wish bore a distinct lack of sincerity. “Don’t take any overpriced listings,” she cautioned.

“Thanks, Felicity. Don’t let any overdue books slide,” Roxanne replied with the same lack of sisterly love. Felicity hitched her bag up onto her shoulder and stomped out of the room.

Once she was gone, the over-all mood in the room lightened. Neither of her brothers seemed remotely interested in sabotaging Roxanne’s agenda anymore. Both went on with their activities as if no family feud had just rocked their peaceful world. Other than Lloyd relocating to Felicity’s vacated position on the sofa, nobody said or did anything.

Roxanne picked up a butter cookie and nibbled at it thoughtfully. Now felt like a good time to let her parents digest her request. Her mother set her needlework aside and helped herself to a cookie, too.

“Would you like a glass of iced tea, Roxanne?” she asked, daintily wiping a yellow crumb from the corner of her mouth.

“No thanks, Mom. I’m fine.”

“So, you’ve given this real estate idea a lot of thought,” Harold said pensively.

“Yes, Daddy, I have.”

“And it’s something you can actually envision yourself sticking to?”

“Sticking to things isn’t really my problem,” Roxanne replied. Harold took her point.

“And you think you can make a go of it?” Daphne asked.

“I think I can, Mom. I don’t know why, but I feel really excited and optimistic about this. It’s been a long time since I’ve felt this way about anything,” she confessed, wondering if it were the truth or just another ruse to get what she wanted. It made her feel a little shaky to realize she was truly excited by the prospect of making a career in real estate. Wow—can I actually do this? The possibility frightened her more than anything else.

“Then I believe you can do it too, darling,” her mother said admiringly. “Let me get my checkbook.”

Other books by Cynthia Hamilton

Lucky at Love

When journalist Allison Tyler-Wilcox meets the seven-time divorced, mule-breeder Jake Sorenson at a wedding, her professional radar goes off. To understand why some people are compulsively attracted to the idea of marriage, Allison travels to Jake’s ranch in rural Oregon, where he turns her notions of life, love and marriage upside-down.

Golden State

Roxanne Platt is not perfect; she’s a heroine with foibles. But she knows there’s got to be more to life than scanning groceries. As she scours the Classifieds, she is struck by the almost endless real estate ads. Recalling an agent who’d been in her checkout line—short on sense and long on enthusiasm—she wonders why she couldn’t enjoy the same success as Lois Bronsen—top 5% in the country. She boldly takes the plunge into the character-ridden world of real estate, disregarding all cautioning about the state of the economy and the record foreclosures.

Once Upon a Lyme…

A true story of a mysterious illness that stumped a parade of doctors, and the newfound discipline of writing that became the unexpected by-product of years of misdiagnoses. Once Upon a Lyme… chronicles the search for the cause of a long list of symptoms, the eventual diagnosis, the arduous quest for a cure, and the creative outlet that helped the author through it all.