The view from Irene Delamond’s window had never failed to please her; indeed, to her mind, the expanse of Central Park spread out beneath her made her feel as if she were living in the far reaches of some charmingly bucolic county rather than in the throbbing heart of one of the busiest cities in the world. That, of course, was what made the apartment she shared with her sister Lavinia so perfect. It was high enough up so she could easily see into the park; indeed, during the winter months she could actually glimpse the buildings lining Fifth Avenue on the far side through the skeletal branches of the trees. But its location on the third floor was still low enough that for three seasons only the new skyscrapers over on Second and Third were visible, and if she ignored those (and Irene was quite capable of ignoring anything she chose) she could imagine that the city wasn’t surrounding her at all, but lay far beyond the forest outside her window. Of course, to perfect the illusion, Irene had to refrain from looking down into the street directly beneath her, but that was simple — the rooms were large, and it was merely a matter of staying back from the glass a sufficient distance to allow nothing to intrude upon her vista of nearly unbroken parkland.
And at night, one simply closed one’s drapes.
This morning, though, was so perfect that the sunlight had drawn Irene to the glass like a moth to a bare light bulb, and even though the window hadn’t been opened in years, she was almost tempted to try to lift the heavy casement and let the morning air in.
Almost, but not quite.
As far as Irene was concerned, fresh air was fine in its place, but its place was definitely outside the confines of the Rockwell. Still, this morning it might actually be pleasant to undo the latch and raise the window, except she knew perfectly well that the latch wouldn’t undo, nor would the window raise; not without removing the layers of paint from the last three redecorations the apartment had been through. Three, at any rate, that Irene and Lavinia admitted to remembering. There had been a couple of more remodels, but they had been done in fashions that had proved to be nothing more than fads, and Irene had as easily shut them out of her mind as she shut the city out of her vision. But this morning she found herself not only gazing out at the park, but at the street below.
A few minutes ago she had seen a little family going into the park: a woman, with her son and daughter. The moment Irene had first spotted them she had begun playing her little game of trying to figure out where they might be going and what they might be doing. She had watched them as they’d made their way down the sidewalk across the street, watched as the little boy kept glancing over at the building. She’d kept watching as they turned onto the path leading into the park and started down toward the Tavern on the Green. But surely they weren’t going to the restaurant this early? Was it even open? But they hadn’t been dressed for a restaurant. The boy was wearing jeans and a baseball jersey.
A baseball jersey! Of course! They were going to the baseball diamonds down near the playground.
And now here came Anthony Fleming.
He was dressed almost perfectly, as always: gray flannel trousers, a pale blue shirt, and a navy-blue blazer with just the slightest hint of a bright red handkerchief peeping out of its pocket. It was the fact that he was wearing no necktie that forced Irene to qualify the perfection of his dress. Of course, Anthony was very stylish, which Irene appreciated, but there were certain styles that she really wished would pass.
One of them was open-throated shirts on men. On a few men, she supposed they could actually be attractive. But all too many males of the species accomplished little more than displaying a thick patch of decidedly unattractive chest hair tangled around vulgar gold chains. That was something Irene could definitely do without. Not that she had any objection to flesh itself — it was the hair she disliked. There had been times in her life — and she hoped there would still be times yet to come — when she had certainly indulged in the physical pleasures of life. But aesthetics were important, which was one of the reasons Irene admired Anthony Fleming. Even from where she stood, she could tell that there was no unsightly hair protruding from
But while his grief may not have been evident in his clothes, certainly Irene could see a heaviness in his step, a seeming tiredness in his whole being. But it had been months now since the loss of Lenore, and even though she knew some of the neighbors might not approve, to Irene the proper thing was obvious. Anthony Fleming was a man, and if there was one thing Irene had come to understand over the long decades of her life, it was that men could not do without women. The reverse, of course, was not true at all; most women — and Irene certainly counted herself among them — could do very well without a man. Not that she had anything against them, per se. It was simply that it had been her experience that for the most part, men simply weren’t worth the effort. They expected a great deal of support, both physical and emotional, and seemed to think that a few moments a week of sexual gratification should suffice to keep a woman happy. Irene knew that not to be true, and had long ago decided that affairs were one thing; as long as a man performed to her standards, and pleased her more than he did not, then a relationship could be perfectly comfortable. But marriage was another story entirely. From her observations — and she had had ample opportunity to observe — women nearly always got the short end of the marital stick. They made a home, did the cooking (or at least hired the chef, then tried to keep him from stealing more than his fair share), organized the social life, and did their best to remain attractive long after the man’s hair had fallen out while his stomach had grown. But men seemed utterly unable to do without the attentions of a good woman, and Anthony Fleming seemed to be no exception. So, since Irene had neither the interest nor the intention of filling the void in her neighbor’s life herself, the least she could do was set about finding someone who could.
As if sensing her eyes on him, Anthony looked up, spotted her, and waved.
Then, as he stepped through the front door of the Rockwell, she left the window, went to the phone, and dialed the number of the doorman’s booth. “Tell Mr. Fleming not to go up,” she instructed. “I shall be down in a few moments.”
She looked in on her sister, who was still asleep, then put on a light poplin coat in her favorite shade of purple. Picking a walking stick from the umbrella stand by the front door, she left her apartment, not bothering even to lock the door, let alone bolt it. In all the considerable number of years she’d lived in the Rockwell, she’d never had reason to lock her door, and saw no reason to begin now. The elevator, sent up from the lobby by Rodney, clanked to a stop just as she arrived at its gate, and she slid the accordion gate open, stepped inside, re-closed the gate, and reached for the button that would send her to the lobby. But then she suddenly changed her mind, and went up four floors instead. She left the door of the cage open, and walked down the hall to Max and Alicia Albion’s door. Alicia answered almost instantly, and the worry in her eyes was enough to tell Irene what she’d come to find out. “Rebecca’s no better?” she asked. Rebecca Mayhew was the foster child Max and Alicia had taken in four years ago, a tiny waif of a child who had looked far less than her eight years. “It’s just that she’s never been fed properly,” Alicia had assured Irene when the older woman had asked if there was something wrong with the child. Irene hadn’t quite believed her, since Alicia’s response to any problem invariably involved food. But in Rebecca’s case, it appeared Alicia was right, for as time went by, the girl had managed to grow and fill out, without ballooning the way Alicia and Max had. But over the last few weeks the child had begun looking tired, and not only Irene, but some of the other neighbors started to worry about her. “I was hoping maybe she’d be feeling good enough to go to the park with me.”
Alicia shook her head. “Dr. Humphries is coming — that’s who I thought you were. Maybe another day?”
“Of course,” Irene assured her. “Give Rebecca my love, and tell her I might just bake up something special for her tomorrow.” Returning to the elevator, she pressed the button for the lobby. As the elevator rattled toward the ground floor through the shaft created by the staircase that wound all the way to the top of the eight-story building, Irene balefully eyed the panel of buttons that had several years ago displaced Willie from his job operating the elevator. Since her neighbors had voted to make the elevator self-service, she’d never quite felt safe. In the pre-button days, she’d always known that if anything went wrong, Willie would take care of it. But what would she do now? Call down to Rodney, who would come up the stairs, chat with her, but have no idea what to do? Well, perhaps it wouldn’t happen.
More likely, she decided darkly, it would. Then, as the elevator rattled safely to a stop and released her from its cage, she put the thought out of her mind. “You’re taking me for a walk,” she announced to Anthony Fleming, who was looking at her with a bemused expression that told her he probably wouldn’t argue with her. “It’s a beautiful day, and it would be a shame to waste it.”
“And suppose I had other plans?” Fleming asked, putting on a severe expression that Irene saw through in an instant.
“Then you would cancel them,” she announced. “How much older than you do you think I am?”
Fleming shrugged noncommittally. “A few years.”
