Anne is thinking seriously about single motherhood as her cab struggles through traffic. The weekend with Kayla was rejuvenating: room-service meals, silly television shows, long talks-and a chance to gain some perspective on the situation with Charles. Divorce would be a big fat mess, of course, and Anne hates the thought of giving up, just hates it. But she’ll be damned if she’ll let Charles take her and her child down with him. He wasn’t at the apartment this morning when she went home to change for work, and it was obvious he’d been living in his office; the room was littered with tangled blankets, take-out food containers, and empty bottles of Scotch. The cab runs a light and a horn blares and she instinctively grabs the door handle-someone has stuck a wad of fresh chewing gum under it.
For about six months she’s been thinking of moving her company downtown, creating a twenty-first-century workplace that would generate a lot of press and a lot of prestige for Anne Turner Inc. A real estate agent called to let her know about two adjoining warehouses with a large hidden courtyard between them. Anne was intrigued. An architect she’s interested in, a young Italian woman who’s creating a stir with her ravishing lofts and Silicon Alley offices, is going to look at the properties with her. Anne has to be at the Hilton in an hour, really should have scheduled this at another time, but she wants her days to be jammed beyond reason.
Anne hops out of the cab in frustration and walks the last six blocks. The buildings are in the far West Twenties, near the Hudson River. The architect and the real estate agent are standing out front. The agent is an older man, tweedy and reserved. Gabriella, the architect, is pulled together in that uniquely Milanese way-belted black cashmere coat, black hair in a striking geometric cut-all postmodern cool.
The agent leads them through the two vacant buildings, with vast open floors and fantastic old mullioned windows that look out at the river and New Jersey beyond. The courtyard is a junk heap but has the kind of potential that thrills Anne. She imagines it as a garden, an unexpected oasis for her staff, with shade trees and rushing water.
The tour over, the three of them stand in front of the building.
“Why don’t you let your imagination go crazy, and call me next week,” Anne says to Gabriella.
Gabriella nods and lights a cigarette. She looks up at the buildings. “Fantastic.”
“I’m sorry I have to run,” Anne says.
“I am embarrassed,” Gabriella says with a charming smile. She pulls out an Italian edition of Life and Liberty. “Your husband’s work, it means so much to me. I found this first edition. If he would sign it, please?”
The day is humid and still, the world covered with low clouds; at the end of the street the river is wide and gray. Anne hears children’s voices from the corner playground. She looks down at Charles’s book, runs her hand over the jacket. How old was she when she first read Life and Liberty and was so transported by it? For a moment she thinks she might cry.
“I know he’ll be happy to sign this. I’ll messenger it down to you by the end of the week,” Anne says. Then she steps off the curb and hails a taxi.
Anne pushes through the Hilton’s revolving doors and strides up the moving escalator to the ballroom. She’s late for the luncheon-considered skipping it, but it’s important-for the Children’s Defense Fund. She wrote them a check, but wants to be here in person, to feel like a part of the work they do, to connect. And to be seen. It’s very important for her to be seen these days, for people to know she’s out there doing her job, that everything is fine.
As she crosses the mezzanine she runs into Nina Bradley.
The two women stand looking at each other across all the years, all the dinners, all the laughs. Anne always thought of Nina as an extension of Charles in some funny way-the two of them were so close, almost like siblings.
“I’m so sorry,” Anne says.
“You have nothing to apologize for.”
“Thank you. You’re very generous.”
Nina smiles-beautiful Nina. “I need some time, Anne.” Then she starts into the ballroom.
Anne doesn’t want to lose her. There are few people whose opinion she trusts more.
“Nina?” she calls. Nina turns and Anne lowers her voice: “His new book, is it really that good?”
Nina looks at Anne for a long moment. “Yes,” she says.
And then she walks away.
Anne stands there in the cold expanse and a chill runs up her neck. She heads into the ballroom, hoping she’ll be able to sit still through the lunch.