Molly sat that afternoon with Traci Mack at a table in Midnight Espresso, an Upper West Side coffee shop on Columbus Avenue. Behind the counter two women were serving coffee from complex steel urns, near a rack of upside-down bottles of colorful flavorings for lattes and cappuccinos. Alongside the counter was a display of gourmet coffee beans for sale, ground or whole, in white six-ounce bags. August heat had infiltrated the coffee shop with the frequent opening and closing of the door, and the scent of brewed coffee permeated the warm air. Several customers stood at the bar sipping coffee, while others sat at tables.
Molly and Traci were at a small table near the door. Traci’s black leather attache case, with another ten copyedited chapters of Architects of Desire inside, was leaning against the curved wooden legs of her chair. She was wearing one of her sacklike black dresses, this time with a silver pin on it resembling a chalked outline of a body. A gift from her mystery author, she’d told Molly.
She wiped frothed cream from her upper lip, put down her cappuccino, and looked at Molly. “So what’s new with you and the ex?”
Molly told her.
Traci stared at her in surprise. “You’re kidding! She’s actually moving into the same building?”
Molly gazed down despondently at her caffe latte, as if it were a crystal ball that had disappointed her. “She’s probably already moved in by now,” she said, “cooking up poison recipes on the stove.”
Traci sat back in her chair. “Hmm. Your attitude’s changed since the last time we met.”
“Well, the circumstances have changed.”
“What’s David say about this?” Traci asked.
Molly looked up at her. “A situation, he calls it. We’re just going to have to live with it.”
“It would be an understatement to say you seem less than happy about that.”
“Because it seems there’s nothing I can do about it.”
“You could move,” Traci suggested. Another sip of cappuccino, another wiping away of the white foam mustache with the back of her curved forefinger.
“I’m afraid not,” Molly said. “We’ve got our own lease, and it runs for another six months.” She gazed out the poster-cluttered window at New York suffering in the relentless heat, then sighed and took a sip of her latte. “Maybe I’m making too much of it. You know how Manhattan apartment buildings are-neighbors exist in the cocoons of their lives and hardly ever see each other. Maybe it’ll all work out.”
Traci raised a hand and toyed with the silver pin. “It doesn’t work out in the mystery novel I’m editing.”
Molly found herself getting irritated. “Life doesn’t always imitate art,” she said defensively. “David and I have a strong marriage.”
“Sure, I know that, Mol. But do you want it tested this way?”
“I’ve thought about that,” Molly said, “and I have to admit, I shouldn’t be afraid of being tested. David and I love each other, we’ve got Michael, and whatever was between David and Deirdre is over. That’s why they divorced.”
“You sound as if you’re trying to persuade yourself.”
Molly made a helpless gesture with both hands. “I have no choice other than to believe that’s the way it is. Besides, I told you Deirdre’s romantically involved with Craig Chumley.”
“All true enough,” Traci said. “But on the other hand, men are men.”
“Jesus!” Molly said in disgust. “You sound like one of those gynocentric feminists.”
Traci was unflappable. “Just speaking from experience.” She sipped again at her cappuccino. “What’s this Chumley guy look like?”
Molly thought about that. Chumley certainly wasn’t a standout and was difficult to describe. Of course she’d only seen him in work clothes, and behind a cardboard box. “Average-looking,” she said. “Maybe even dorky-looking. Tall with thinning brown hair, a little overweight in the wrong places. In his mid-forties, I’d guess.”
Traci cocked her head to the side. “Odd that the woman you describe would glom on to somebody like that, even if he is near her age.”
“What are you getting at?” Molly asked.
“Maybe she’s using him.”
“Oh, she’s probably wearing him out!”
Traci laughed. “That’s not exactly what I had in mind, though you might well be right. Hell, I’m pushing forty and I wish I had somebody to wear out.”
Molly sat frowning. She found she wasn’t at all comforted by having confided in Traci. She should have known better than to tell her everything.
Traci leaned forward with her elbows on the table, her wrists bent and her fingers laced off center so they were diagonally twined. “Don’t look so severe, Mol. I’m interested in your dilemma. As a friend.”
“It doesn’t help,” Molly said, “to have your friends predicting doom.”
“I’m not predicting it, Mol. In fact, I’m hoping like hell this mess all works out for you, however that’s possible.” She suddenly raised her head and sniffed, like an animal testing the wind. “What’s that perfume you’re wearing?”
“Is it overpowering the scent of the coffee?” Molly asked. “I was distracted this morning and put it on twice. It’s Oscar.”
“De La Renta or Madison?”
Molly made herself smile. Traci’s humor could crush you if you let it. “Very funny. David likes it.”
Traci lifted her tall cappuccino mug. “Then for God’s sake, keep wearing it.” After she’d taken a sip of coffee and replaced her mug on the table, she said, “I almost forgot, a woman phoned Link today and asked for you. I told her you sometimes did work for us but you were freelance and didn’t have an office there.”
“She leave a name?”
“Darlene, I think it was.”
“Did you give her my phone number?”
“No, I thought you might not want me to do that.”
“Could have been an editing job.”
“If it was, she’ll figure out a way to get in touch.” Traci grinned. “Anyway, right now we don’t want to share you.”
Molly ran a fingernail back and forth on the table, thinking. “I’m sure I don’t know any Darlene.”
Traci shrugged dismissively. “Well, she knows you.”