Out of Grief (4 page)

“Well…” He looked away from me to serve the next customer.

“Well, what?”

“There’s kind of a pool.”

“You mean a bet?”

He filled the next two orders waiting for me to let it go, and when I didn’t, he finally said, “It’s about which team you play for.”

“Is my class that boring?”

“No, not at all. We do it with all the new professors.”

“Good to know.” I downed my drink and ordered another one before placing a large bill in the tip jar.

I spotted Kat in the corner with her Marilyn, putting the moves on. I wasn’t really sure why I’d even agreed to this; it was hardly my idea of a good time. I was going to tell Kat I would call it a night. I was certain she would have a companion to accompany her home. I felt my phone buzzing in my pocket. It was a text from Quinn. I wished that didn’t make my heart skip, but it did, every damned time it.

—just saw a great movie, wish you were here to talk about it—

I found a table near the windows, back toward the Temple and away from the crowd, and set my drink down.

—At a costume gala with Kat. Would love to be anywhere else—
I texted back.

— Costume, huh? What you wearing? —

Mind out of the gutter, mind out of the gutter. I flipped through the pics that Kat and I had taken earlier and sent her one with the simple word
—guess? —

— Poe. Interesting choice. How’s Kat? —

— Off chatting up some blonde dressed as Marilyn, no less.—

— Left you all by yourself again, didn’t she? —

— Used to it by now. Not a problem. —

— If I was there, I could be your Annabel Lee. —

She was kidding right? Or did she know? Why not just Annabel Lee? Why
MY
Annabel Lee? The lines of the poem ran through my head.

And neither the angels in Heaven above

Nor the demons down under the sea

Can ever dissever my soul from the soul

Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;

I took another sip of Jameson, and tried to think of the right reply.
You are my Annabel Lee
seemed inappropriate, albeit true.

“What are you doing in the corner over here?” Kat cooed into my ear, snapping me out of my thoughts.

I quickly tucked the phone in my pocket. “Nothing. Just giving you your
space.
”

“Turns out Marilyn is in a long term relationship with a rather large gentleman.”

“Ah, the great Katarina shot down.”

“You really shouldn’t mock me, when I know for a fact you were probably over here texting Quinn.”

“What do you know?”

“Really?” She put her hand out. “Give me the phone.”

“No.”

“I rest my case.”

“Without proof?”

“The proof is in your pocket. The fact that you won’t show it to me, just means I’m right.”

I hated that she knew me so well. “Do you win all your cases with circumstantial evidence, counselor?”

“No, that I do with my brains and my charm.” She flashed her pearly whites at me. “So, I saw some people we know over there by the bar. Let’s go say hi, and try to have a nice time.”

There would be time to text later, and after all, Kat had made a sizeable donation to be here tonight. The least I could do was try to look like I was having a good time.

***

It was after midnight when Kat finally dropped me off at my apartment. I was in desperate need of a shower and some real food. Fortunately, my neighbor Marta had given me some leftover mac and cheese that I could heat up properly while I showered.

I sat down on my couch with the bowl of mac and cheese, ready to watch an old movie, when I heard my phone chime with a text. I figured Kat was home safe and sound, but when I looked at the phone, I saw,

—you still awake? —

And I remembered I’d left Quinn hanging. I checked the phone and found an earlier text.

— Okay, guess you must be off doing something with Kat now. Enjoy. —

—Yes. Just got in a little while ago. —

— Did you have a nice time? —

— Got to see some old friends and catch up. All in all pretty nice evening. What did you do? —

— Went to a movie with one of Steven’s friends. Not a good idea. —

—Why not a good idea? —

— He put the moves on me. —

The thought made me want to find the son of a bitch and beat him senseless.

— Are you okay? WTF? It’s barely been five months. —

— I know. I told him basically just that, and I might have accidently on purpose kneed him in the crotch. —

— Way to go, Dirty Harry. —

— He turned purple. Took a cab home. —

— I’m sorry you had to go through that. —

— Not your fault. —

— Still sorry. —

—At least the movie was good. —

—I’m surprised you went out so soon. —

—Testing a theory. —

—A theory? —

—Yeah. A theory. —

—Are you going to share? —

—Not yet. Maybe after I get some more data. —

—Be vague, why don’t you? —

— You’ll be the first to
know. Once I know. Sleep well
.—

—
You too.
—

Sleep well? Who was she kidding? How could I sleep well wondering what I’d be the first to know?

Chapter Eleven

My neighbor Marta was on the elevator when I got home the next evening. She was a stout older woman, with salt and pepper hair pulled back into a bun. As usual, her grocery bags were overflowing and she was trying to juggle them. Oddly enough, I had met Marta when I moved in to my building. Some boys were harassing her on her way home from the grocery store, and I made them stop. From that point on, she had become like a grandmother to me.

“Nikki.” She smiled at me. “You are just in time to try the new recipe I have been working on.”

“Why don’t you have them deliver?” I asked, snatching two of the bags out of her hand.

“Why pay for delivery when I have two perfectly good feet?”

“What if I pay for delivery for you? You feed me enough, it’s the least I could do.”

“You keep your money, Nikki. I am happy to have the company.”

Every time Marta opened the door to her home, it was a magical sight. I always thought it looked like a Victorian pop up book exploded in a press office. Colorful trinkets covered every available surface, with little space for anything else. Her walls were covered with signed headshots of actors, from her time working at Photoplay magazine in the 50s, all neatly done in simple black frames and butted up against one another.

As always, her apartment smelled heavenly from all the herbs she used in her cooking. It was the smell of a spice shop; only today there was a hint of chocolate in the air as well.

After I helped her put the groceries away, she said, “Run upstairs and change, and I will have dinner on the table when you get back.”

“Are you sure you don’t want any help?”

“You know the deal. I cook, you do the dishes. Now go.”

***

Dinner was Osso Bucco over a bed of orzo, and a fresh garden salad with her homemade salad dressing. My taste buds died and went to heaven every time this woman cooked. It was a wonder I hadn’t gained weight with the way she fed me.

“As usual, Marta, you outdid yourself. I can’t believe you’ve never made that before.”

“My mother used to say—if you can read, you can cook.”

“No, I think there’s a little bit of magic involved when you cook.”

“You are a charmer, Nikki. I don’t understand why some woman hasn’t scooped you up yet.”

“You and me, both, Marta,” I said, filling the dishwasher.

“I wish my Caroline liked women.”

Caroline was Marta’s only daughter. She was a lovely young woman married to her career as an Ob-Gyn.

“I don’t know, Marta; I think she probably sees enough lady parts in a day. At the end of the day, that is a lot to compete with.”

“You are so fresh.” She pinched my cheek as she walked by me to get plates for dessert.

“Hey,” I protested. “What did I say about that cheek pinching thing?”

“But they are such adorable cheeks.”

“And what sinful concoction have you whipped up for dessert?”

“Your favorite. Chocolate cream pie.”

“You are too good to me,” I said, taking the plate heaped with a generous portion of pie covered in fresh whipped cream. “You know, Marta, it’s too bad YOU aren’t young- er …”

She laughed. “Ah, Nikki, I would be a handful for you.” She sat down across from me and patted my hand. “What about this Quinn of yours? Are you sure there is no hope?”

I took a bite of pie and let the chocolate slide around on my tongue before swallowing. “I wish there was, Marta. I wish there was.”

“I see in your eyes how this tortures you. This is not good for a heart, Nikki, to pine for something you cannot have.”

“Aren’t all writers tortured?”

“No. Betty Comden was a delight. She and her writing partner Adolph Green were always very happy.”

“Yes, but they wrote musicals, Marta.”

“And you write romance. Funny, isn’t it? You write such passionate stories with happy endings, but you cannot find yours.”

“That’s going to cost you another piece of pie, old lady.”

She laughed, and I did too. We both knew I was leaving with the remainder of the pie, and a plate to heat up for dinner tomorrow.

Chapter Twelve

I could be caught occasionally in a Barnes and Noble if there were no other choices, but I loved the independent bookstore. And The Strand, on 12
^th
and Broadway, was the last survivor of almost fifty bookstores that had once been “Book Row” in New York, running from Union Square to Astor Place. Just the thought of all those bookstores made me yearn to be back in quieter days, before machines took over our lives. So I would always arrive early to one of my events and wander through the shelves of books and merchandise. Anonymity was a good thing. Being able to still wander about without people scrambling for your autograph was priceless, and also ironic, since that was why I was there that night.

My colleague turned friend, Harrison Montgomery, and I were to talk for an hour on crafting the Queer romance. Perhaps it was lack of a real relationship that made it easy for both of us to fantasize and write such rich and wonderful ones. I was hoping we could avoid discussing our lack of love lives. When it was over at eight, we would sign books, and then sneak away for dinner at Extra Virgin (Harrison’s choice, just for the name alone), where we would be able to truly catch up on things.

I picked up a denim blue onesie with the words “future author” and an ink quill silkscreened on it and thought about Quinn’s baby. The gift was a no brainer; it would amuse Quinn to no end, and what baby wouldn’t look adorable in that? I found myself drifting to the children’s books, wondering what it would have been like if I had actually stayed. I’m sure reading to the baby would have been one of the things on my ‘to do’ list. I knew for a fact that Quinn loved my voice, and would often times have me read aloud to her, even well into our teens. I know it had irked her mother to find us lying on Quinn’s bed, me with a book in hand reading one of our assigned books aloud, and Quinn with her head tucked on my shoulder.

“Do all lesbians feel the need to breed now?” Harrison drawled in my ear. His thick southern accent and whiskey-soaked voice were his trademarks.

“Oh, please,” I said, turning around to give him a hug. “Like you all aren’t out looking for a good womb to incubate your baby in.”

My cheek bumped against his boney shoulder as he crushed me to him. “So, you ready for this?”

“Should be easy. You, me, the bookstore staff, a couple of patrons.”

“Please, child; those twelve people who bought my last novel will be here.”

“Let’s do this, so we can start drinking,” I said, following him to the spot designated for events. When I saw that there were definitely more than twelve people corralled into chairs waiting for us, I wished we had already started drinking.

He squeezed my hand. “You’ll be fine. Besides,” he said as he bumped my shoulder, “we all know they’re here to see me.”

I laughed, and he seemed pleased to have broken my tension.

The Saturday we had spent prepping for our talk paid off. We were able to craft questions for each other that were interesting for the audience, and leave a small amount of time for questions. What I lacked in charisma, Harrison definitely made up for, and the hour flew by in no time.

It was a lovely night, so the walk over to the restaurant was nice, and the menu boasted enough fish for me to go back every night for two weeks to try all of them. I settled on the Prosciutto-Wrapped Monkfish, just because I rarely saw monkfish on a menu. Harrison, true to nature, had the steak, and insisted that we both have the signature “Extra Virgin” martinis. One sip of the ridiculously sweet drink was enough for me, but he was more than happy to take mine, and allowed me to order a simple dirty martini. I think the vanilla bean crème brûlée took me over the edge from sated to stuffed. We walked back uptown for a while and parted company at 34
^th
Street so he could hop the train to Queens, and I could take a cab to Sugar Hill.