Twenty minutes later, she was standing outside the address Patsy had scribbled on a sticky note for her. It was indeed only a few blocks away from her apartment on Columbia Road, but it had a very different feel. Where her street was clearly “city,” this was what she’d call “suburban-urban”: strollers and tricycles on front porches on a tree-lined street. The building itself was a white four-story brick structure separated by a courtyard from another building, its mirror image. The linoleum floor in the foyer was dirty and ripped up around the edges. All the names on the mailbox cards were written in different inks, by different hands, and most of them had been scratched out so many times there was no room to write the current occupants’ names. Pru looked at the dirty linoleum, the lack of a chandelier. Her first thought was, No. Absolutely not.
But when she stepped inside the apartment, she drew in a breath. There were big windows overlooking the courtyard and the building on the other side, just like in Jimmy Stewart’s apartment in Rear Window. The view was crisscrossed by the fire escape, which gave it a soundly urban look. There were hardwood floors, high ceilings, crown molding. Two huge rooms upon entering—the living room giving way via pocket doors to a formal dining room.
The kitchen was small, as with all city kitchens, but it had an additional, walk-in pantry with built-in shelves. Patsy had followed her into the kitchen, and gestured to the dark, ornate handles on the kitchen cupboards, saying, “As you see, the kitchen is decorated in ‘early conquistador.’”
Pru ventured farther down the long hallway: yes, three bedrooms, unbelievably, for only a hundred dollars a month more than she was paying now for her one. True, one of the bedrooms was little more than a closet. But it was perfect for a child. Annali, who loved small spaces, had already claimed the little room as hers, and was twirling around in it, her arms thrown open wide.
As soon as she stepped out on the deck, she knew it was hers. Rather, theirs. It wasn’t much to look at now, in the winter. The deck was only big enough for a table and a few chairs, but it was clear that the building’s residents did most of their living outside. The other balconies were decorated with potted plants and twinkly strands of lights. Pru imagined sitting on the deck on summer mornings, drinking her coffee. Having dinners with tea lights lit all around the railings. It was worth giving up her beloved bird’s-eye view of the city, her bay window seat, her immaculate parquet floors, for a little bit of outside space in the middle of the city. She thought of her hike in the woods with John, that quiet, that fresh air. After that, she’d intended to become more outdoorsy. “The indoorsy type,” that’s what John had said about her. She still smiled, thinking of it.
“And they’ll let us have the pets,” Patsy was saying, standing at her elbow. “As long as they’re small. They didn’t say anything about bad behavior.”
SHE GAVE A CHECK TO PATSY TO SECURE THE APARTMENT, then dashed to Union Station for her train. She was pushing through the cars of the crowded Metroliner, looking for a seat, when she ran into Elliott Barstow, mystery crime novelist (clink clunk). He moved over and she took the seat next to him. A major publisher was interested in the series and he was going to New York to talk about a contract. His suit was rumpled, and when he looked at her, it was through glasses that were smeary. Pru wanted to take them off his face and wipe them with the square of silk that she carried in her purse for her own glasses.
“I can’t believe it,” he said, clutching a dirty, torn envelope with a coffee ring on it. “I’ve been working on this for so long. You know, I haven’t had a meal out in six years.” He was trembling with excitement.
Pru dug in her briefcase and found a blue plastic sleeve she’d brought along for her travel receipts. She gave it to Elliott, who discarded the soiled envelope and slipped the pages of his manuscript inside.
“Thanks,” he said, twisting the string closed around the circular clasp. “Do you think it’ll help?”
“It can’t hurt,” she said. “You’re going to be great, you know.”
“You’re so nice, Pru. Will you have dinner with me, after we get back? My treat,” he added.
“I’d love to,” she said. A year ago, she would have seen a good fixer-upper in Elliott Barstow. Replace the glasses, get him to the gym, read his books and tell him how great they were—but after thinking about it for a moment she said, “Is it okay if it’s not a date?”
“Sure,” he said. “But don’t expect me to sleep with you.”
“Okay,” she said, laughing.
PRU WAS TELLING KATE ABOUT RUDY FISCH, AND KATE was laughing so hard that she couldn’t breathe. Kate had pale blond hair in a sort of Tuesday Weld up-do and a slight lisp, which Pru adored. She wore one of what she called her “party frocks,” a little yellow swirly number from the fifties. Whenever they were together they instantly became twelve years old again. Kate was easy to set off, and watching Kate laugh always made Pru laugh, too. In high school they annoyed their other friends when they got this way, giddy and boisterous and falling all over each other. Pru was now telling Kate how, in addition to his weekly Fresh Fields order, Rudy had recently gotten into the habit of asking Pru to stop at the health food store on Columbia Road for things like stevia and amino acid spray.
“What can I say to the poor guy?” Pru had said to Kate. “I mean, he stays home all day, grinding his own nut
