November was far too early for carolers, but given the preservation of historic detail on this stretch, I could almost hear a group of girls singing at the corner, see their buttoned up boots, long, layered skirts, thick velvet coats, and matching fur muffs.
As St. Luke’s curved, turning into Bruce’s street, Leroy, it crossed the line — and so did I. With a few steps, I was no longer in the officially designated historic district. This particular area of the West Village was not considered protected.
Inappropriate demolitions, alterations, or new construction could legally occur at the whim of the property owner. The Greenwich Village Society for Historic Preservation, founded in 1980 to safeguard the architectural heritage and cultural history of the Village, had been working to change this, and extend the historic district protections.
My steps slowed as I neared the address Bruce had given me. The house was a charming Federal-style with two full stories above ground, topped by dormer windows, indicating a usable attic. Basement windows were also visible below the short flight of railed steps leading to the high stoop and shiny green front door. To the left of that entrance, at street level, was a rustic little door of rough wood. Directly above that small door was a small window.
“The horse walk,” I murmured aloud, watching my warm breath create a pearl gray cloud in the frosty air. I didn’t see this feature too often, but this home was archetypal Federal just as Bruce had said. The horse walk was simply a secondary entrance that provided access to a rear yard — during the 1800s, there would have been a stable in the back or even a second, rear lot house.
Clearly, this property was a choice one, and even though it was beyond the historic boundary, it certainly appeared to deserve landmark status.
I stood for I don’t know how long, watching the snow fall on the place, enjoying the refined simplicity of its lines, the straightforward elegance of its faded bricks and newly painted white-framed windows, and I could almost see it becoming a home — each wide ledge displaying a flower box in summer, a single candle in winter, a wreath on the door every year at Christmas.
Suddenly, the brass lamp fixtures flanking the house’s entrance came brightly to life and the green front door opened.
The light from inside created a silhouette of the man standing in the doorway. The dark shape moved forward, peering onto the sidewalk from the stoop above me.
“Joy?” called Bruce sharply. “Is that you?”
“It’s me,” I called back. His mistake was understandable, given my attire — the same bulky bright yellow and black parka he’d seen Joy wearing earlier today. I even had the hood up.
“Oh, thank God,” said Bruce after hearing my voice. He stepped forward and descended the snow-covered steps. I could see him more clearly now. He wore faded jeans, a black cableknit fisherman’s sweater with a crew neck, and steel-toed workboots. God, he looked good.
He stopped in front of me. “For a second there, I was worried something was wrong and you sent Joy to tell me,” he said softly. “What’s with the pregnant bee parka?”
I shrugged. “I just couldn’t take the whining anymore — hell hath no complaint like a daughter forced to look uncool — so I simply swapped her winter coat for mine.”
He smiled. “And you don’t care how you look, I take it?”
“It’s a very warm coat, thank you very much. And it’s really not that silly, is it?”
“Not if you like honey.”
“In that case, you give me no choice.” I bent down, scooped up a handful of wet snow, and made a big, icy ball.
Bruce folded his arms across his black sweater and raised an eyebrow. “You’re not actually thinking of throwing that at me.”
“Try me.”
“A snowball fight is a serious step, Ms. Cosi.”
“Just make one more crack about this coat. I dare you.”
“Only if you give me a peek at your stinger.”
I cocked my arm. “You’ve got three seconds.”
Bruce turned and beat it up the stairs. I let fly, nailing him right in the back of the neck.
“Ow! Damn, that’s cold!”
I laughed, walking up the steps to join him. “Never underestimate a former softball player’s ability to hit her target.”
He was laughing by now, too — and a little bit darkly, but I didn’t suspect why.
“Come on in, then…and get that arctic gear off,” he said.
I unzipped and unhooded as he closed the door — and then, from behind, he struck.
I never saw it coming.
He rubbed the icy ball against my cheek first, then dropped it right down the back of my sweater.
“Bastard! Ahhhh! That’s cold!”
“Yes, it is, and I should know,” he said with a laugh as I jumped around his foyer.
“How the hell did you manage that?” I demanded.
“I scooped snow off the outside handrail as I was coming in. Never underestimate a man who knows how to improvise.”
I managed to tear off my coat and lift my sweater enough to get the half-melted lump out. Bruce was still laughing — until he noticed what I was wearing beneath the puffy yellow parka.
Suddenly, he stopped laughing.
I hadn’t worn the outfit in years. The little red plaid woolen skirt had been hemmed to fall about mid-thigh. (Longer than the dancers in a Britney Spears video, hopefully, but short enough to show some leg.) Black ribbed, winter-weight tights, knee-high black leather boots, and a form-fitting sweater with pearl buttons and a daring décolleté completed the (admittedly) cheeky ensemble.
Being petite sometimes felt like a disadvantage in a town laced with Amazonian fashion models and long, lean dancers. On the other hand, Matt once told me that most men weren’t into height necessarily. What they were after was a shapely form, and my petite size and small waist did seem to call attention to the size of my breasts, which, despite my height, were not by any measure small. When I wanted to, my shape was easy to hide under large blouses and oversized T-shirts. But tonight, with Bruce, I didn’t want to hide. More than ever now, I needed to know how he really felt about me.
With one brief, burning look of naked attraction, Bruce wiped out any guesswork on my part. I no longer had to wonder whether the man would notice my figure and like it, whether he was truly physically attracted to me. One searing look said it all.
“
Damn. Why did he have to use that word? On the slow walk down, I had tried to forget my anxieties, that oppressive feeling of guilt for talking too much in front of Quinn. Now all I could think about was Quinn’s suspect list — and how to get Bruce off it.
“Clare? What’s wrong? Are you feeling all right?”
“Sure. I…uh…” I put my hands to my cheeks, which I didn’t doubt had gone pale. “I’m probably a little chilled from the walk, that’s all.”
“Let me get you warmed up then.” He smiled, put his hand around my waist, and led me down the hall.
The place was clearly still under interior renovation. Drop cloths, ladders, and construction materials cluttered the scuffed hall floor. In the back, beyond the stairs to the second floor, I glimpsed part of the kitchen and saw it was a complete mess with peeling, old wallpaper and dirty tile. He guided me through a doorway to the right and I found myself entering a long, rectangular space. This room was devoid of any furniture — but it was obviously finished. The vast wood floor was highly polished, the walls and moldings carefully restored, and the crowning achievement had to be the fireplace.
“I’ve got furniture in the master bedroom upstairs, but nowhere else,” he explained. “So I thought we’d have a little winter picnic.”
“It’s charming,” I said, and meant it. He’d laid a thick futon flat on the floor, in front of the fire. Big velvet and embroidered pillows were piled in a crescent shape on top. He sat me down in the arch of the crescent, wrapped a
