Hush

a hunch, she turned left, crossing the street.

A few doors up the dark, canyon-like street she saw by the numbers that her guess had been right. Number 78 turned out to be a quarter of the way up the block, an unassuming twelve-or thirteen-story building that might have once held small factories on each floor before being converted into apartments when SoHo became fashionable to live in. The exterior was sooty with age, as if they still burned coal in New York. There was a small vestibule and beyond that, behind a locked door, was a nondescript lobby with no doorman. She looked behind her and glimpsed people walking along Spring Street. But Crosby was deserted.

As soon as she stepped inside the vestibule and saw the intercom panel, she let out a groan. She’d never asked Keaton for an apartment number. He was probably subletting and his name wouldn’t be on the buzzer. Her eyes raced down the two rows of buttons. To her relief, she spotted his name next to PH2.

“Hi there,” he answered after she’d pressed the button. “Come on up. Penthouse 2. On twelve.”

The buzzer sounded, nearly making her jump. She pushed the door and stepped inside the lobby. One wall was mirrored, which made the space seem bigger than it was, and she glanced at her reflection. Her cheeks were less flushed but still pink. I’m really going to do this, she thought. She felt nervous but also nearly drunk with anticipation. It had been ages since she’d felt seductive or yearned for-or charged with desire.

She half-expected music to be playing (please don’t let it be Barry White, she prayed), but when Keaton answered the door of his apartment-smiling, his jacket off and shirtsleeves rolled-it was absolutely silent behind him.

“I was beginning to worry that you’d opted for a creme brulee instead of an after-dinner drink with me,” he said. He was teasing her, she knew. He was the kind of guy who would never be bested by a creme brulee. He accepted her coat and she followed him into the apartment.

The place was beyond anything she could have predicted from the lobby down below-a double-height loft with open living, dining, and kitchen areas, all decorated in whites and beiges. A staircase led up to a bookcase-lined mezzanine. And, most spectacular of all: a large terrace beyond French doors. There were a few soft lights on out there and she could see teak tables and chairs, a couple of chaise longues, and several box trees.

“This is fantastic,” she said. “You must be subletting, right?” As she set her purse down at the far end of a creamy white sofa, she noticed the hallway that shot off to the left, most likely to the bedroom. Her heart knocked against her chest.

“No, I actually bought it six months ago-I knew I was coming back to New York one way or another. What would you like to drink? I’ve got white wine chilled. Or would you prefer cognac?”

“Cognac sounds good,” she said.

Keaton laid her trench coat across the arm of the sofa and walked to the kitchen area. While he had his back to her, Lake surveyed the space. Though it was still sparsely decorated, there were a few stunning pieces. On one wall was a striking abstract painting of a man with an elongated head. She stepped closer. Below it was a sleek side table with a primitive wooden bowl sitting on top. She glanced inside the bowl. Nestled at the bottom were a few coins and an ATM slip. Also a business card from a woman named Ashley Triffin, an event planner. And a scrap of paper with the name Melanie Turnbull scrawled on it. Well, she thought, I knew he was a player.

“Here you go,” Keaton said, walking up with their drinks. As she accepted the glass, she saw that his arms were tan, muscular, and covered with hair so light it looked like it had been bleached by sunlight. “Why don’t we go out to the terrace?”

He opened one of the French doors and motioned her outside. The view was mainly north-to a dazzling, glittering midtown, endless rooftops and wooden water tanks. All set against a blue-black sky. She could hear the faint hum of traffic twelve stories below and the sporadic blare of a car horn.

“I feel like I’m looking at Oz,” she said as a soft breeze lifted the back of her hair. “It seems almost unreal.”

“I’ve practically lived out here this summer,” he said. “One night I even dragged a sleeping bag onto a lounge chair and slept here.”

“Is that safe? I mean, it is the middle of Manhattan.”

“There’s no access from anywhere but my apartment-though I guess Spider-Man could reach it.”

She smiled and walked over to the outside wall, peering over.

“You’re not afraid of heights, are you?” he asked. She smelled his musky cologne as he came up slowly behind her.

“No,” she said. “Not heights.”

“Ahh, but something?”

“A crazy little phobia. Not what you’d expect.” She couldn’t believe she was going to confess it. But she felt reckless with him.

“So you’re true to your name, then? Still waters run deep.”

“I don’t know how deep it is.” She took a sip of her cognac. “I have this weird fear of clowns.”

“Clowns?” he said, looking intrigued. “Does that mean you’ve never taken your kids to Ringling Brothers’ circus?”

“Correct… But how do you know I have kids?”

“I overheard you say something about one of them to Maggie. I’m just guessing you have more than one.”

“I’ve got two, actually. They’re at sleepaway camp this month.”

“And a husband?”

Had he asked her up here not knowing the answer to that?

“We…ended things a few months ago.” She turned it over to him. “You don’t have kids, do you?”

“No kids. I was married briefly in my thirties, though, to another doctor. Commuter marriage. Probably doomed from the start.”

“And does it take as long as they say to recover? To feel like you haven’t been flattened by a car?”

She regretted her comment instantly. The last thing she wanted was for things to turn heavy.

“Is that how it’s made you feel?” Keaton asked.

“Well, in the very beginning, yes,” she said, trying to sound breezy now. “But it’s been about four months, and these days there are moments when I feel really good, happy.”

“Because of? Evenings spent chatting with eminent fertility experts like Dr. Levin?”

“Well…more because of being on my own again. Not having to answer to anyone. Getting all the crumbs I want in the bed.”

She couldn’t believe she’d said the word bed. How transparent, she thought. The blood went rushing to her cheeks again.

“Sounds good,” he said, holding her eyes in the dim light. “And you’ll see that things will only get better from here.”

“That’s nice to know,” she replied. Was he saying tonight things would only get better? She felt as if her whole body was on the verge of trembling uncontrollably.

And then he leaned down and kissed her, softly at first, and then stronger, his full mouth seeming to envelop her. A rush of desire went through her as fast as the snap of a whip. It almost hurt when he pulled away.

“If I promise to provide a bag of chips or something else nice and crumbly, can I take you to bed, then?” he asked.

It seemed like such a slick line, endless variations of it used before on other women, but she didn’t give a damn.

“Yes,” she said. “But the chips aren’t necessary.”

He kissed her again and this time he slipped his tongue into her mouth. He placed his hands at her waist and pulled her toward him. She relaxed into his body and wondered if he could feel how fast her heart was beating.

“Let’s go inside,” he whispered.

He guided her through the door, and took a minute to flip off the lights on the terrace and all but one light in the great room.

His bedroom was spare, Zenlike. He stopped in the middle of the room and untied the halter of her dress, then unzipped it and let it drop in a puddle on the floor. She stepped out of the dress and flicked off her sandals.

“You’re beautiful,” he said. That was something she hadn’t been sure she’d ever hear again.