“The movers been there?”
“And left. Thanks for recommending them. They were terrific. They didn’t dent or scratch anything.”
“And they’re very decorative, aren’t they?”
“I have to say yes.”
“Was the big blond one there? Lars whatever?”
“Yeah. Lars Svenson.”
“He come on to you?”
“Somewhat. He an actor or something?”
“Nope, just a hunk with a line of bullshit. A friend of mine went out with him after he helped move her into an apartment a few months ago.”
“Oh? She give you any reports?”
“Haven’t seen her. She left the city. I heard she got a movie part in Europe in one of those erotic coming-of- age flicks. She’s bi.”
“Bisexual?”
“No, bilingual. But she must have been more than satisfied with Lars in any language.”
“Must have been,” Claire said, laughing.
“Anyway, you’re serious about someone, right?”
“Right. Jubal Day. He’s an actor.”
“Ah! Played in Metabolism in the Village last year?”
“Same Jubal Day.”
“Then I can see why you’re serious. What’s he doing now?”
“ Metabolism ’s touring. He’s in Kansas City.”
“Too bad he can’t be with you. Well, if you need anything, Claire, give me a call.”
“I will. And thanks again, Maddy.”
“So be happy and get back to nesting.”
Claire replaced the phone in her purse and did just that. She continued her rounds of the apartment, touching, adjusting, rearranging, feeling very domestic.
She was feeling that way more and more-domestic. It was strange. Maddy had used the word nesting. Birds did that, made a nest, a home. Homemaking. That was what was on Claire’s mind these days, and there was a deep pleasure in it.
She wondered what was wrong with her.
She realized suddenly that in the excitement of moving, she’d forgotten to check the box downstairs to see if the postal service had started mail delivery at her new address.
At first, when she stood in the tiled lobby and opened the brass mailbox beneath her apartment number, Claire thought she might as well not have bothered. The box was empty except for yet another offer to open a new charge account, and a coupon for free pizza delivery.
Then she noticed the letter-size white envelope scrunched up against the side of the box.
In the envelope was her second major stroke of luck.
It was a gracefully handwritten letter from Aunt Em, her favorite relative, who lived in Maine. The letter was creased and folded around a check.
After Claire had e-mailed the good news about taking over one of the most important roles on Broadway, Aunt Em e-mailed back that she was sending Claire a congratulatory gift. And here it was. Enough money to do what Claire had often told her was one of her fondest desires-hiring a professional decorator. Aunt Em’s generous check was the perfect gift, with the new apartment.
Claire thought about calling Maddy back and sharing her good news, then decided against it. Maddy thought about little beyond dancing. Her idea of a well-decorated apartment was one with more than one place to sit.
Which, Claire had to admit, was maybe the reason why Maddy was one of the most frequently employed dance gypsies in New York.
Claire liked Maddy, but she’d always thought a human being should have more than one interest.
She was pretty sure she’d locked the apartment door behind her, so she left the lobby to go outside and walk to the Duane Reade drugstore two blocks down, where she could buy a nice thank-you card for Aunt Em.
It was a beautiful warm day, sunny, so that even the curbside plastic trash bags glistened with reflected light like jewels set along the avenue. Maybe it was only her mood, but people on the sidewalk seemed less preoccupied, more tuned in to the world and happier.
Sometimes, Claire thought, life could be just about perfect.
Also surprising.
5
Pearl lay in bed in her crummy fourth-floor walk-up, staring at the cracked ceiling that needed paint like the rest of the place.
She’d bought decorating supplies last month after renting the apartment six months ago-colonial white latex flat paint with matching glossy enamel. Also brushes, scrapers, rollers, paint trays, plastic drop cloths, even some kind of sponge contraption for trimming corners and around window and door frames. She had everything she needed other than enthusiasm. And time.
Things kept getting in the way, like murders, rapes, robberies, occupying most of her hours and demanding most of her energy.
So the painting supplies all sat in a narrow, shelfless closet in the hall, waiting to be used. Pearl hadn’t looked at them in weeks.
The Job, her job, where was it going? She knew where everyone, including her, thought it was going, since the evening she’d had the run-in with that asshole Egan.
She’d been off duty and had gone into the Meermont Hotel to use the ladies’ room, such facilities being rare and precious in Manhattan. To reach the restrooms she had to walk through the Meermont’s softly lit, oak-paneled lounge, and she’d heard her name called.
When she’d stopped and turned, there was Captain Vincent Egan seated on the end stool at the long bar.
She’d smiled, wanting to move on, desperately having to relieve herself. But she couldn’t ignore or be brusque to the man who commanded her precinct, and who in many ways controlled her future.
“Captain Egan! Hello!” She feigned surprise and pleasure convincingly, she thought, while managing not to stand with her legs crossed.
Maybe she’d been too convincing. Egan slid his bulky, bullnecked self down off his bar stool and advanced on her. Seeing his unsteadiness, looking into his somewhat glazed blue eyes, she realized with a shock he was drunk.
“You undercover?” he had asked, moving close to her so she could smell that he’d been drinking bourbon and plenty of it. She glanced over at his glass on the bar. An on-the-rocks glass, empty but for half-melted ice. “If you’re undercover,” Egan slurred at her, “you really shouldn’t have addreshed me as captain.”
And I really have to go to the bathroom. “I know that, sir. I’m not undercover. I’m between shifts, on my way to meet someone for dinner, and just stopped in to use the ladies’ room.”
She saw his eyes gain focus and travel up and down her body. She was wearing a sweater, skirt, and navy high heels. The sweater might be too tight. Pearl had dressed up for the man she was meeting, an assistant DA she’d struck up a conversation with in court. She didn’t see much hope that anything might come of the dinner, but still she had to try. Or so she told herself.
Egan had been swaying this way and that, as if he were on the deck of a ship, while he’d stared at her chest. “I’ve never sheen you sho dolled up.”
Uh-oh. He was loaded, all right. She’d heard right the first time; he was slurring his words.
“I’ve never sheen you sho attractive.”
You’ve never seen me piddle in public.
