How Could She Read online

  “We’re here for our friend Cyrus’s birthday party.” Rachel pointed across the park and noticed that everyone was gathered around the piñata. “Apparently it’s assault time. We’d better head back.”

  “I’ll say good-bye here. I should go to my thing,” Geraldine said to Rachel. “I’m sorry it’s been too long. Let’s see each soon, for real.” She stepped forward to give Rachel a hug. “And I’ll let you know about the party.”

  “Cool. And we should catch up,” Rachel said, peering over Geraldine’s shoulder at Marina.

  “Seems like you’re pretty caught up,” Geraldine said, and laughed.

  “I’m easy to find,” Marina said. “I’m on anything but Facebook.”

  Rachel sang “Hurry, Hurry, Drive the Fire Truck” to Cleo as they made their way back to the birthday celebration. Once she was inside the Tot Lot, Rachel carefully locked the gate behind her. She took one last glance across the way and saw that Geraldine and Marina were still talking to each other. Geraldine had better hurry up or she’d miss her plan, whatever it was.

  15

  Jesse,

  Hi hi. Sunny here (your sister’s friend, with the flowerpots). I hope this finds you well and that you don’t hate me for leaving you with that art collector at the bar a few weeks ago. I couldn’t tell if you found him amusing or revolting, but he clearly thought the world of you and your mastery of Tupac lyrics. Well done, rap genius.

  I’m writing to ask for your advice. I’ve agreed to do a project for my friend’s gallery. It’s a series of painted wooden picture frames. I’ll be doing the painting, but I need to find somebody who can help me with the construction. It will be a very limited edition, so not too big a time commitment, but I do need someone terrific. If you know of anybody who you think might be willing and able, I’d appreciate any and all ideas.

  Thank you in advance!

  Sunny xx

  * * *

  • • •

  It had been too easy. Not the writing part—words came slowly to Sunny, whose dyslexia had somehow eluded the faculty at Ryerson Hall. But veering her path into Jesse’s had been about as challenging as making an almond-butter sandwich. In her early days in New York, when she still made a living helping execute other people’s visions, her schemes had required a bit more guile and inventiveness. Creative directors who sat in cubicles at branding companies had only so much pull, even ones as pretty as she was. But Sunny had become a master at toying with the desires of others. Jesse had responded exactly as she’d imagined: He wrote back twelve hours later, perfectly respectable for a carpenter whose website was just a landing page and who probably used his computer only to send invoices. Her project “sounded interesting,” he replied, and he was “happy to chat whenever.”

  Last Sunny had heard, her oldest and closest gallerist friend, Servane Klein, was taking a break from her husband and staying in Malmö. So Sunny reached out to Lawrence Irving, a lovely older man who had a space in Chelsea. He specialized in estates but didn’t limit himself to them. Last summer he’d shown miniature landscape drawings by a handful of contemporary artists. Sunny’s piece had sold fastest, and for ninety-five hundred dollars, the highest sum. When Sunny outlined her latest project, Lawrence’s only question was when she would have the pieces ready.

  Now here she was, biking down the streets of Red Hook, her stepdaughter’s strawberry-red knapsack hugging both shoulders. The energy that had been bubbling through her for the past three days quickly propelled her past the derelict buildings and old-timey bourbon shops. It had been some time since Sunny regularly came to Red Hook. The neighborhood seemed more or less unchanged, an oasis of cobblestone streets and community gardens. The area’s only downside was its lack of public transportation, but with a Fairway and a wine shop and even a tiny bookstore, it was essentially custom-built for somebody who could work from home all day. Somebody like Sunny, but with a stronger pirate streak.

  Sunny turned onto Pioneer Street and searched for the address Jesse had given her. She knew she was upon the Collective when she heard Prince’s “I Would Die 4 U” blaring over what sounded like a pack of chain saws. As she came closer, she saw that Jesse’s building was an enormous garage, the double doors raised all the way to expose a pair of banana-yellow industrial fans, taller and mightier than some aircraft. A girl-woman stood outside, talking on the phone and drinking a moss-colored juice. She had on paint-splattered jeans and a leather jacket with a Hillary button the size of an apple. Sunny locked her bike to a metal post across the street and felt her giddiness drop into dread. She cursed her own outfit, a white sweater and a full skirt with X-ray blue roses. It was from Dries and had seemed sort of steampunky when she’d selected it.

  Clutching her helmet protectively against her chest, Sunny slithered into the brick building. The Collective was far bigger than it appeared to be from the outside, extending to the other end of the block. Four or five guys wearing headphones were stationed haphazardly throughout the space, like so many files on a cluttered desktop. One used an electric-pizza-cutter-like tool to shave down a metal sheet, while another, perched atop a ladder, spray-painted an enormous plaster palm tree a blinding silver.

  There was no sign of Jesse. Sunny was considering texting him when a hand suddenly pressed against her shoulder. It took all her self-control not to jump when she saw who it was.

  Jesse was radiant. His cheeks were pink, and his white teeth called to mind a baby shark. “Hey,” he said. “I ran out to get us water.” He held up a black deli bag. “They’re doing construction on the street, and the pipes here are all sketchy.”

  A faint tattoo of arrowheads cutting through a thin blue line ringed his left bicep, and there were none of the coarse hairs that sprouted out of Nick’s shirt. Sunny felt dumb with lust. It wasn’t too late to say the project had just been canceled.

  But Jesse showed her around a little and told her that his workspace was in the back. She followed him into the sawdust haze. His workstation was surprisingly organized, with tools arranged as neatly as her kitchen spices. An early-career seminude Rihanna poster hung—ironically, she supposed—on the wall, and a set of carved wooden pieces were splayed across the table. “I’m making a rocking chair.” He handed her one of the bigger pieces. “Old-growth fir.”

  “It’s beautiful,” she said.

  Jesse nodded and pulled out two stools. “Aren’t those knots bananas? The fir is from this tree farm upstate that’s pretty much the only place I use at this point. The client wants me to stain it super dark, and it kills me.”

  “Don’t do it.” Sunny accepted her bottle of water. “You have to tell the client you won’t.”

  Jesse tore open a bag of pretzels. “I dunno. She’s this rich woman in Connecticut, and she refers all her friends to me.” Sunny felt a flicker of jealousy, then reminded herself she was being crazy. Jesse was a carpenter who was making her a set of frames. That’s all this was.

  “So here we are, Sunny.” Jesse pressed his palms against his thighs and leaned in toward her. “What’s the plan?”

  Sunny pulled her sketches out of her backpack and spread them across the table.

  “Hey,” came a woman’s voice. Sunny looked up and saw the juice drinker from outside. “I’m going to go get lunch. Need anything?”

  Sunny felt discombobulated as she stared at the visitor. She had crazy cheekbones and long limbs and was objectively beautiful, in a way Sunny had never been as a young woman.

  “Have you eaten?” Jesse asked.

  “I’m good,” Sunny said, glancing at her phone to confirm it was way past lunchtime. It was 3:07. She’d suggested meeting in the afternoon, her favorite portion of the day, when all the free-floating stress that pulsed through the city did so less toxically. It hadn’t occurred to her that none of these rules would apply here. She thought of Nick, who was home with a cold and probably watching European soccer and eat
ing the zucchini loaf Sunny had baked that morning.

  “Here’s what I’m thinking,” she said, and began walking Jesse through the plans, telling him about the fairy-tale theme. She felt herself turn serious, a pose she particularly liked to use when she was feeling shy. Jesse could match her intensity, and for the next twenty minutes they spoke about nothing but dimensions and materials and quality. She was starting to truly believe in this project.

  The drawings she’d made were loose and pretty, rendered in black ink and pink and gray oil-paint sticks. There were some doodles on the pages, too, princesses and castles and medieval torture devices that would feature on the pieces. Perhaps she’d gotten a little carried away preparing for this meeting. But it had been more absorbing than the post on her morning rituals she was required to “contribute” (more like donate) to Cassette’s website.

  Sunny’s phone buzzed on the table. It was a text from Nick.

  We confirmed for Santorini?

  Their marriage had been less fraught of late, for all the wrong reasons. Sunny’s mind was occupied, and he didn’t seem to notice. She made them seasonal soups and salads, and they sat eating them in near silence at the kitchen table. He seemed not at all unhappy and not at all aware of her emotional whereabouts, which didn’t exactly do wonders for her respect for him.

  Sunny looked up and saw that Jesse had registered everything.

  “My husband,” Sunny felt compelled to say. “An old friend of Nick’s has a family place on Corfu, and he invited us to visit for August. I was supposed to figure out plane tickets, but I’m dragging my feet.”

  “Sounds terrible.”

  Sunny gave a light laugh. “Fernando is sort of the last person you’d want to be stuck on an island with.”

  “You should do it,” Jesse said. “Greece is paradise. Even if the Elysian fields are made up.”

  Sunny raised her eyebrows. “Have you been?”

  “No, but I studied classics in college. I still read the Iliad every few years.” The corners of his mouth tugged upward. “Thanks for looking so surprised.”

  “I didn’t—” Sunny started, feeling flushed. “I never read the Iliad. I hear it’s epic.” Sunny waited a beat. “That was a joke. Epic?”

  Jesse granted her a smile. Not a fill-the-space smile but the kind that told Sunny she was definitely all right by him. She looked away, even though doing so betrayed her nerves. They went back to discussing the project, and Sunny dropped in that Nick would be gone for much of May. It didn’t come out sounding brazen, but something in Jesse’s expression told her he wasn’t unhappy to hear this. Maybe she needed to do this to save her marriage. She forced herself to look Jesse squarely in the eye. What would Rachel do if she knew where Sunny was? Thank God they had other things to text about. Apparently Peter had taken Geraldine on a romantic double-decker bus ride on his trip to New York. Sunny still didn’t know what to think about that.

  “You got any plans this Saturday, MacLeod? My parents are organizing an outing to L&B Spumoni Gardens. We do a pizza party every year around my birthday.”

  Sunny smiled. “I love pizza parties.” She also loved the way he’d said her name and wished he’d do it again and again.

  “It’s super casual. I’m sure Rachel would love to have you there. She and I usually go dancing afterward. She likes this cheesy Russian lounge called Visions on Fort Hamilton.”

  “You definitely don’t want to see me dance.” Sunny was beginning to suspect that Jesse liked her, too, and she didn’t know what to do with all this potential for recklessness.

  “Sure we do.” He tilted his head and watched her.

  She honestly didn’t know what to say. Everything was becoming so confusing. What had she even come here for? Certainly not to make work. She’d put herself in front of Jesse like an offering and never stopped to ask what she would do if he indicated a desire to accept it. What an idiot, letting herself become so wrapped up in getting the optics perfect. And now he was sending signals but using a code nobody had taught her. All she was sure of was that whatever she felt, it was real, and it scared her.

  And so she did what any grown-up woman with a decent husband and a lovely home and a terrible urge to blow it all to pieces would do: She rose from her chair and pretended she had somewhere else to be and ran the hell away.

  16

  Geraldine was on her rooftop chatting with Rachel and their former boss, Edward Simonov, whose visit to New York coincided with Geraldine and Jeremy’s Summer Awakening. The party wasn’t exactly packed, but that’s only because the apartment’s terrace ran the length of the entire block.

  “Sheryl with her siestas.” Ed’s chest vibrated with laughter. “I’ll never forget the time she came to the lineup meeting with the keyboard imprint on her forehead. You’ve got to respect a woman who isn’t afraid to take a nap at her cubicle.”

  “She was always hungover, wasn’t she?” Rachel said. “I didn’t get it at the time—I just thought she was vitamin-deficient. What happened to Sheryl anyway, G?”

  “No idea.” Geraldine sighed. She should have known better than to tell Ed to swing by the party. He’d called her a couple days ago to let her know he was going to be in town for a reunion. Edward had been a visiting fellow at Columbia’s journalism school—for only a year, when Geraldine and Rachel were still in diapers. He’d studied under William Shawn, and a few of his classmates were now “Timesmen,” as he was prone to reminding those who would listen.

  Much as Geraldine liked Ed, who’d been Province’s editor in chief, his presence at her party blurred the line between past and present. The fantasy that she’d been kneading in her mind all week was that of Rachel and Sunny dropping by and seeing her inhabit her new existence with vibrancy and grace. She wanted them to meet her new contacts and friends, or at least recognize that she had them. That wasn’t her primary reason for inviting the pair, of course, but it had kept her spirits high as she’d sorted out wine cases and crudités in the days before. Geraldine scanned the crowd. Her friend Sylvie had said she’d be there “on the dot,” but was nowhere to be seen.

  Fifty or so people milled about, and conversation had long ago risen from hum to wild babel. The evening sky glowed majestically, and the air stood still. Sunny was on the rooftop’s north end, nearly at Canal Street, looking as though lit from within. She was talking to Jeremy and Christian the yogurt kingpin. Geraldine wondered if Sunny would begrudge her for borrowing from her cabinet of acquaintances. Probably not. How could Sunny possibly keep track of all her cabinets?

  Geraldine caught the eye of her downstairs neighbor Kiki and waved. “There’s the wonderful Kiki,” she told her group. “She’s this divorce lawyer who lives on the third floor. And that’s Veronica Hayward,” she said, pointing beyond Kiki’s shoulder. “She’s an editor at New York.” Geraldine had written her vulva post for Veronica and was working on a new batch of ideas to send to her.

  “I thought she just got laid off,” Rachel said. Geraldine watched Ed smile knowingly. His world was nothing but layoffs, like a tree shedding leaves. Geraldine could feel herself tense. She had not spent the better part of the past week putting this party together to bemoan the state of a terminally ill industry.

  “I don’t think so. We emailed yesterday,” Geraldine said, trying to keep her impatience from coloring her voice.

  Rachel was studying the crowd, in her cravenly anthropological way. A moment later Geraldine watched Rachel’s eyes light up and Ed’s face stiffen at the sight of Sunny coming toward them.

  “Happy housewarming,” Sunny said. She had on a white tunicky thing, and Rachel was wearing a slate-gray tank dress. The two stood close together, reminding Geraldine of a pair of salt and pepper shakers. “What a perfect night to be up here, among the lanterns and lemon trees,” Sunny said.

  “All Geraldine’s doing,” Jeremy said, inserting himself into their conversation. Gera
ldine smiled at him, grateful for the recognition. She’d purchased the trees and dragged them in herself, rather than pay the delivery fee.

  “I hear you have the domestic goddess sleeping beneath my painting?” Sunny said, grinning up at Jeremy.

  “You’re in the room with all of Jeremy’s toys?” Rachel said.

  “We cleared it out a bit,” Geraldine said. She was surprised Rachel hadn’t already nosed around the apartment. She’d set everything up for Rachel and Sunny’s benefit: her work papers, a tasting menu from the River Café pop-up on Kenmare, and a notebook page with “Tues = Deadline!” all in fake disarray on her desk.

  “Ed Simonov,” Ed said, extending a rough-skinned hand to Jeremy.

  “Oh, sorry,” Geraldine said. “Ed, this is Jeremy, my generous roommate. And Jeremy, Ed is my old boss.” An expression of confusion came to Jeremy’s face. “He was the editor in chief,” Geraldine supplied before she had to hear Peter’s name.

  “He’s all of our old boss,” Sunny said.

  “Nobody could ever boss you around, Sunny,” Ed said with a cool tilt of the chin. Geraldine remembered how he’d never liked Sunny, and that was back when he made five times as much money as she did. Sunny disliked Ed just as much, if not more. He’d been the one to let her go.

  “What brings you here, Ed?” Sunny smiled, unfazed.

  “Columbia’s j-school reunion,” he answered. “Even if I can’t work in real journalism anymore, I can still stand for it.”

  After being on the wrong side of one too many magazine cutbacks, Ed now ran the communications department for the Canadian Teachers’ Federation. He was dressed more or less the same as ever, in sneakers and a worn-out madras shirt. His dark hair had moved slightly back on his forehead, and he’d switched over to laceless Converses, which depressed Geraldine for reasons she couldn’t totally understand.