“I can’t tell you how grateful I am to you,” he said. “It’s been a tough few years. I appreciate you hanging in with me.”
Taylor met his gaze. “I’ve enjoyed it,” she said. “We’ve had a good run at it.”
“We make a good team,” he said, then, looking down at his lap, he seemed to hesitate for a second before speaking again. “I’ve been thinking about making some changes.”
“What kinds of changes?”
The cabbie swerved to avoid a collision with a car that had cut in front of him, swearing loudly and rapidly in a language Taylor didn’t recognize. The motion caused her to slide across the seat even farther, pressing against Michael hard. He laid his hand on her arm and made no effort to move or ease the pressure.
“I’ve lost touch with so many friends over the years,” he said. “I’ve just been so buried in work. I don’t know that many people in Cleveland anymore. And I need a change.
I’m thinking about moving here, to the city.”
Taylor felt the slightest tension high in her chest, nearly in her throat. The sensation surprised her.
“Well,” she said cautiously. “That would be nice, Michael.”
“I seem to know more people in publishing than anything else these days,” he went on. “And I know the city. I love being here. I’ve always thought that if I could afford it, I’d love to live here.”
She smiled. “And now you can afford it.”
Michael smiled back at her and squeezed her arm. “Yeah,”
he said. “Thanks to you, I can afford it.”
Michael moved his hand down her arm and touched her hand. “Your hands are cold,” he said, his voice low, soft.
“It’s cold tonight,” Taylor said. He took her hand in both of his. His hands were warm, strong. Almost without realizing it, she leaned over and rested her head against his shoulder.
An hour later, Taylor finished off her third and last brandy of the night as Michael stood up and held her coat open for her.
They had stopped off at N’s, a warm, cozy bar that was hip and trendy and yet had somehow managed to remain reasonably civilized, which was no small feat in the never-ending struggle for domination in the Manhattan bar scene. It was narrow and dark, with rich leather couches and candles and soft music playing from speakers discreetly hidden in the corners. They sat and talked and held hands and sipped brandy until they relaxed and fatigue caught up with them.
As Taylor stood up, holding her arm out for her coat, she swayed a bit.
“You okay?” Michael asked, smiling.
“Just tired,” she answered. Then, as her arm went through the sleeve and she spun to put the other in: “Okay, so I’m a little tipsy.”
“Good thing we don’t have too far to go,” Michael said.
He took three twenty-dollar bills out of his pocket and laid them on the table, then picked up Taylor’s briefcase.
“I can take that,” she said.
“Let me. I’m glad to.” He took her arm and led her toward the door. Taylor looked back over her shoulder at the table they’d just left.
“Kind of a big tip, isn’t it?”
Michael smiled. “I’m feeling generous tonight. Besides, we can afford it.”
He pushed the door open and they walked out onto the sidewalk. The sleet had stopped and the cloud cover had passed on, leaving a clear, dark sky above them. The streets were as deserted as Manhattan streets ever get as they turned north toward Grande Street, then walked the two blocks past Broadway to Taylor’s loft. She fumbled for the keys, then got the front door open. She and Michael took the stairs up to her front door. Taylor yawned as she unlocked the three locks and let them in.
Michael went in behind her, crossed the large main room, and set her briefcase down on a glass table in front of the sofa.
“Can I get you anything?” Taylor asked, relocking the front door.
“I’m fine,” he answered, turning to face her in the middle of the room. Taylor tossed her hat and coat on the sofa.
“It’s late,” she said, suppressing another yawn. “Aren’t you sleepy?”
“I guess I’m too …” Michael hesitated. “Too excited, I guess. Maybe too happy, for once.”
Taylor walked over to him. “That’s sweet, Michael.”
“I owe it all to you.”
“I’m just-” Taylor stopped for a moment, looking into his face. Something she saw there made her abdomen tense up, as if in anticipation of something, but she didn’t know what.
Michael brought his arms up and took hold of her arms through her tan silk blouse just below her shoulders. Then he pulled her toward him and kissed her, softly at first, their lips barely brushing, then harder. And he let go of her and wrapped his arms around her whole body, pulling her tightly into him.
Taylor stiffened at first, but as her lips met his and the two began to melt together, she pulled him to her as well, bringing her arms up around him, holding him tightly. Perhaps it was a strange and unpredictable mixture of fatigue, brandy, closeness, and her own loneliness that had caught up with her. Despite herself, her own misgivings and fears, she gave in to an impulse that was sweeter and more powerful than she ever expected it would be.
And when Michael Schiftmann turned, took her hand in his, and began walking toward the black metal spiral staircase leading to the upstairs bedrooms, she followed him.
Taylor Robinson’s head pounded and her ears hurt as she spiraled up out of some dream she was even then losing.
There was a blaring in her head as well; she couldn’t figure out where it was coming from. Her neck hurt and her mouth felt like it was full of dried grass. She moaned and rolled over in the darkness just as the thin line of light under her bathroom door exploded.
“Damn it!” a voice said, as she struggled to remember where she was. “I thought I turned that off!”
Taylor moaned again and started to sit up, but felt the bunched, tangled sheets dragging across her bare skin and stopped. She felt her torso, pulled the sheets tight, and realized she was nude.
A dark form enshrouded in yellow light from the bathroom behind it leaned down next to her and switched the alarm clock off.
“I am so sorry,” the voice said. Taylor squinted and realized it was Michael.
“Wha-” she croaked, startled to find him in her bedroom.
“I thought I turned it off,” he said. He leaned down, smoothed her tangled hair back across her head, then softly kissed her on the cheek.
“Didn’t mean to wake you up,” he said softly. “Go back to sleep.”
“What time is it?”
“Five-fifteen.”
Michael laughed. “No, my dear, to be more accurate, it’s actually the butt crack of dawn. And the limo’ll be here in fifteen minutes. Remember, that little
Taylor groaned again and tried to roll over. “I better get dressed,” she said, still not quite sure where she was.
“Don’t be silly,” he said. “Go back to sleep. Besides, the limo’s taking me directly to Newark after the taping. I’ve got a flight out to Boston, then Minneapolis, remember?”
“Oh, yeah,” she murmured. “Boston, Minneapolis. You sure it’s okay if I don’t go?”
“Of course,” Michael whispered. He rubbed her back, running his hands lightly down the sheet, to her hips, and then squeezing her beneath the sheets.
Taylor began to wake up, and with wakefulness came the memory of the previous evening, which had ended only about three hours earlier. She felt herself reddening again.
