How Could She Page 8

  “I’m good, but”—Sunny’s eyes went beseeching—“would you mind getting yours to go? I have to pick something up, and I just remembered it’s Friday. The place closes early. We can walk and talk?”

  Rachel said that was fine. It wasn’t until she’d been waiting in line for a good three minutes that she realized Sunny hadn’t even bothered to explain what errand was urgent enough to disrupt their plan to stay indoors. As she eyed the café’s drinks menu, which featured something called a Lotus Latte, Rachel’s thoughts zoomed back in time. Flying Lotus was a Thai place around the corner from her first sublet in Toronto. The food wasn’t too greasy, and it was popular with solo diners, which Rachel appreciated. The hostess always seated them together, at a row of two-top tables in the rear that functioned as a parking lot for the widowed and the recently divorced. Though she was several decades younger than the other lone wolves, Rachel was going through a breakup of her own. She’d been the one to end things with Joshua, by moving to another country, though he wouldn’t let go so easily and continued to place tearful long-distance phone calls.

  Rachel had been contentedly losing herself in a paperback of Nora Ephron’s old columns when she saw her co-workers. Across the dining room, Geraldine and Sunny were laughing, their seats nearly touching. Geraldine was the prettier of the two, classically speaking anyway. Sunny was cute, with her bright brown eyes and preternaturally clean tennis shoes. Something about her reminded Rachel of a baby panda. Rachel shimmied out of her seat and made her approach.

  “What are you doing here?” Geraldine’s tone was happy, thankfully.

  “This is my spot,” Rachel replied. “Back there in the VIP section.” She turned to point at the wall of shame, though a couple of loud men had come to occupy one of the tables so her sad-sack quarantine theory wouldn’t make sense to them.

  “Want to sit with us?” Geraldine said. An expression of what might have been violation flashed on Sunny’s face, but then she spoke. “We’re nearly done, and we’re going to get a nightcap,” she told Rachel, who felt herself ease.

  Half an hour later, they took a taxi to Bloodhorse, a rowdy Queen West establishment that was all dark wood and exposed red lightbulbs. Sunny tilted her head toward the back of the room, and a man with rockabilly sideburns came out from behind the bar and removed a Reserved sign from a corner booth. He whispered something to Sunny that made her laugh and whisper something in response.

  While the three of them waited in the booth for drinks, Rachel told them about Joshua’s recent threat to come up and visit.

  “Trouble is, he’s hot,” Geraldine told Sunny. “I saw a picture.”

  Sunny flicked her eyes at Rachel, who detected a frisson of dislike. Rachel shifted to interview mode, as she was wont to do whenever somebody made her feel nervous.

  “All my life, pretty much,” Sunny responded to a question about how long she’d been in Toronto. She reached over the table, dipped her pinkie in the candle’s hot wax. “I grew up in Hamilton, and then I came here to go to OCAD.”

  “Ontario College of Art and Design,” Geraldine supplied. “Most of the Group of Seven came out of there.”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Rachel said. “I’m sorry. My mother’s an art teacher, so my thing growing up was hating art. Not that I actually hated it, I’ve just always been more of a ‘word person.’ . . .”

  Sunny gave a slow blink and stretched her swan neck. “I have to go to the washroom,” she addressed Geraldine, and slipped out of sight.

  “How badly did I offend her?” Rachel asked Geraldine twenty minutes later, when Sunny still hadn’t returned.

  “She probably went out to the patio,” Geraldine said, not answering Rachel’s question.

  “Without telling us?”

  “Don’t take it personally. She just likes who she likes.”

  “That’s the fucking definition of personal,” Rachel said.

  Geraldine smiled unsurely, and the hurt Rachel had been trying to contain ballooned in her chest.

  “Really, I wouldn’t worry about her,” Geraldine said. “She can be unpredictable. I’ll still be your friend.”

  Now, latte obtained, Rachel returned to the table with her paper cup. A vague feeling of victory ran through her. She had cracked the nut of Sunny, all these years later. “There’s something I have to tell you,” she said. Sunny looked up, her expression one of interest swirled with wariness. “I have a Tom Thomson poster in Cleo’s room,” Rachel said. Sunny looked confused. “Remember that night we went out for drinks with Geraldine and I’d never heard of the Group of Seven? I was so embarrassed. I bought a book—I still have it. So thank you for setting me straight.” Rachel smiled meaningfully; Sunny simply said that Canadian art could be so funny and started to gather up her belongings.

  “You’re not going to believe this,” Rachel said when they were outside, wind ripping from all directions. “I got an email from Geraldine right while I was coming to see you. It’s like she has some sixth sense.”

  “Maybe she does.” Sunny lightly placed her hand on Rachel’s elbow and steered her around the corner, onto Greenwich Avenue. “Did you tell her you were meeting me?”

  “No, I didn’t write back. I’ve barely been in touch with her at all.”

  “It’s fine either way, so long as we get our stories straight,” Sunny said. “She actually just wrote to me, too.”

  “Also asking you to look into getting her a job at Cassette?”

  “Is that something she wants to do?” Sunny waited for Rachel to give a shrug. “Wow—imagine that! She wrote to me about the apartment. She’s decided to move out for good. It’s technically my apartment, so I get to deal with relinquishing it or finding another subletter.” Sunny clenched her jaw. “I’d ask Nick to deal with it, but it wouldn’t be fair to my landlord. She’s got to be eighty years old, and Nick gets super aggressive when it comes to real estate.”

  Rachel couldn’t fault Geraldine for wanting to leave Toronto. It was a fine city, but it lacked an essential electricity. In all her time there, Rachel had witnessed people arguing on the street exactly once, outside Club Monaco on Bloor Street. She’d stopped and stared, feasting on the public acrimony, water in the Canadian desert. Rachel realized Sunny was watching her, waiting for her to say something. “Did Geraldine tell you about Peter?” Rachel asked.

  Sunny stopped in midstep. Apparently Geraldine had not. “What about him?” she asked.

  Rachel tried to recall the exact wording of Geraldine’s note. “It’s like you called it,” she said. “He broke their covenant of silence. He came up to her at some event in the park and tried to get her to go for coffee with him.”

  “She said no?” Sunny waited for Rachel to nod. “Good. He’d only discard her again. That would kill her.”

  “He practically already did kill her. . . .” Rachel trailed off. It was so sad, the way Geraldine’s childhood, pocked as it was with solitude and deprivation, had programmed her to think that she needed somebody who could lift her into a realm where she’d be taken care of. She mistook safety for love. Geraldine’s father, Bruce, was a onetime junior-ice-hockey phenomenon who drank too much and sold restaurant equipment. He spent most of his time on the road and left his family when Geraldine was three. Rachel had seen Bruce’s scraggly handwriting once, on a card. “Happy Christmas! Merry birthday, G. Love, Your Pa.” It was the “Your” that struck Rachel—as if he needed to remind Geraldine who he was. Was it any wonder Geraldine had been so certain that a man like Peter was out of her league and nearly ran herself into the ground trying not to lose him? Yes, he was eligible in his high-thread-count way, but a man who lacked a center of his own could not possibly provide one for somebody else.

  “Peter scares me,” Sunny said. “You don’t know him like I do.”

  Rachel studied Sunny as she cast her eyes up at the sky. “Can I ask yo
u something? Did you and Peter ever . . . ?” Rachel couldn’t bring herself to complete the question.

  “God, no,” Sunny said. “We were just close friends.”

  Rachel felt nothing but acute admiration. There was no question in Rachel’s mind that Sunny was lying. What was more remarkable than Sunny’s acting skills were her powers of self-conviction. In order to move through the world so gracefully, Rachel figured, Sunny believed the stories she spun about herself. “Are you still close friends?”

  Sunny shook her head. “Only theoretically.”

  “If you have his ear,” Rachel said, “can’t you tell him to leave her alone?”

  Sunny pshawed. “Peter? He doesn’t listen. I honestly don’t think he knows how to. All I can do—all we can do—is give Geraldine the support she needs to move on before she caves in. I introduced her to a friend of mine, but that doesn’t seem to be working.”

  “Gus?” Rachel said. “He sounds like a royal asshole.”

  “He’s always been sweet to me.” Sunny lifted her chin. “I should have thought it through more carefully. At least Geraldine knows that backsliding with Peter is not an option.”

  “She’s finally open to growing up,” Rachel said.

  “And Peter isn’t having it,” Sunny tutted.

  “That guy is such a slug,” Rachel said. Most of the wealthy men she knew moved fast, all impulse and hunger. Peter was different, prone to brooding and projecting his feelings onto any available surface. When she’d first met him and he’d told her all about his issues with his overbearing father, she’d been charmed. This was true generosity of spirit, she had believed. Rachel now understood that he simply used his angst and supposed suffering—because, really, did that man know suffering?—to his advantage. It was emotional honesty at its most dishonest.

  “I’m optimistic, too. Something has definitely shifted within Geraldine,” Sunny confirmed, sliding in closer and absentmindedly linking her arm in Rachel’s. Rachel waited for Sunny to realize her mistake, yet a third of a block later Sunny was still holding on.

  “But I worry,” Rachel said. “Not just about Peter but everything. What if the world isn’t as open to Geraldine as we’d hope?” Now her voice became quieter. “I feel terrible saying this, especially after how long I’ve encouraged her to get back on her feet, but now I have this sinking feeling about her whole New York plan. Things have changed since the last time she was knocking on doors, right?”

  “I don’t know.” Sunny frowned. “She’s definitely changed, though. She’s deeper—and weirder.”

  “And ballsier. She pretty much asked me if I would give her Ceri’s email.”

  Sunny looked taken aback. “Really? Did you give it to her?”

  “No. It’s not that I didn’t want to, but it’s hard to imagine Ceri responding warmly to Geraldine.”

  “Definitely, Ceri would sniff out her weakness. I think the only person who can help Geraldine is somebody who loves her. I’m praying this Barb thing comes through.”

  Rachel moaned. “Barb is useless. She was able to get Geraldine the opportunity to slave over an ideas memo. And that was that.”

  Sunny shook her head. “Geraldine should know better than to give things away for free.”

  “Here’s an idea,” Rachel said. “Why don’t I introduce her to Elinda, in HR?”

  “The one with the silver bob?” Sunny sounded incredulous. “She’s always such a bitch to me.”

  “She’s just super corporate,” Rachel said. “Even if she can’t do anything for Geraldine, she would be polite to her. And it would make Geraldine feel good to know that people are having her in and that we’re looking out for her.”

  “I’ve certainly tried to be good to her,” Sunny said. “I barely charged her anything in rent. I hardly made any money on the deal. I hope she understands what it’s going to cost to live anywhere else.”

  “What are we going to do?” Being helpful was something Rachel took pride in—so long as she wasn’t too helpful. There was only so much good luck to go around, after all, and only so much space in her heart.

  “I don’t know.” Sunny looked up at the sky as if for an answer.

  When they reached Sunny’s destination, an old-fashioned dry cleaners, Rachel waited outside and watched through the window as the woman behind the counter came out to hug Sunny before handing over an enormous brown paper bag. There appeared to be no exchange of money.

  “Thank you so much for letting me do this,” Sunny said when she came back outside. “Nick’s old friend Laird is coming in this weekend, and there was a mysterious rip in the guest duvet. Nick’s daughter, Agnes, has a thing for scissors.”

  “Better that than cutting herself,” Rachel said, then instantly realized how weird this must have sounded. “Sorry, cutting is a big thing in the YA world.” Rachel felt mist on her nose and pulled her hood over her hair. “I should head back.”

  “Not yet.” Sunny reached out for Rachel’s elbow. “You did not schlep into Manhattan to watch me run errands. There’s this new Viennese bakery on Bethune. They have these pastries that are made with cardamom and ground hazelnuts. Tell me you eat nuts.”

  “Okay,” Rachel said after a moment. She’d eat only a few bites, quickly, and bring the rest home to her daughter.

  9

  Mrs. Wang has decided to be nice and let us break the lease,” Sunny told Geraldine. She was feeling less than nice herself. Tracking down her aged landlord had been more of an ordeal than she’d foreseen, and now she had to relay all the information to Geraldine, who would do her part to prolong the exchange. If Nick didn’t keep an eagle eye on their finances, Sunny would just have absorbed the cost of letting the apartment sit empty an extra few months. “She says May first is fine with her, as long as you help her find a new tenant.”

  “Sure, I can get the word out,” Geraldine said. She was speaking from work, in a near whisper.

  “No, I think what she means is she wants you to line up the tenant,” Sunny clarified. “Mrs. Wang doesn’t like real-estate agents. I doubt she even has a computer. We still have over a month—it should be fine.” Geraldine was being particularly exhausting. She didn’t even have a plan besides putting her belongings in storage and showing up in New York. Sunny imagined Geraldine floating out of a Wednesday matinee of Hello, Dolly!, her hazel eyes adjusting to the splintering sunlight, the rest of her day utterly unaccounted for. Every time Sunny started to imagine what Geraldine would be expecting of her, an antsy feeling came over her.

  “She got an iPad,” Geraldine said, a little louder now. “One time I came up to bring her her mail and she was watching a video of Lady Di playing the piano.”

  “Do you think you can find someone?” Sunny said abruptly.

  “Yes. I mean I’ll try. It’s such a lovely apartment, and so reasonable, it shouldn’t be a problem.”

  “No, I don’t think it should.” Sunny thought of the old neighborhood, with its low-slung buildings and secret alleyways. There was nothing like it in New York. There was a Laundromat in a Victorian storefront that held Friday-night socialist talks. Sunny and Geraldine had attended one, on a lark. The lecturer, a sixty-something draft dodger in a Hawaiian shirt, had taken a shine to Geraldine, who had asked a question about globalization. A handwritten four-page letter addressed to “Glorious Geraldine” had arrived at the Province office the following week.

  “What about your stuff?” Geraldine asked Sunny.

  Sunny hadn’t even thought about this aspect of Geraldine’s move until now. She tried to picture the apartment, with its fleur-de-lis wallpaper and faint aroma of disintegrating cork. “There’s your beautiful bureau, and the pantry still has all those storage containers of Province issues,” Geraldine reminded her. “You must want them, right?”

  Sunny remembered a few of her favorite covers. There was one with Harry Potter and a maple-le
af-shaped scar. Another, for a Valentine’s Day issue, featured a photograph of a rising Montreal chef and his girlfriend having a two-person dance party in Sunny’s apartment, twisting in their bare feet on top of her antique steamer trunk. Insane to think that Sunny had once lived like a grad student, making cakes in scratched-up pans and playing records on an old turntable she’d bought on eBay. She used to have Geraldine and Peter over for “picnic-style” dinners that were no more than some merlot and a baguette and triple-crème cheese.

  The three ate out often, too. They would go for steak at the French bistro near Margaret Atwood’s house and often went to Terroni for late dinners after the magazine’s Tuesday-night close. Sunny and Geraldine had plenty of dinners without Peter, too. Once she was dating Peter, Geraldine had access to an entirely new level of office gossip, but Sunny was just as riveted by Geraldine’s stories about her upbringing—the disappearing father, the collection agencies, the mother who stashed Geraldine away at her grandparents’ house in Thunder Bay over holidays and summers. It was all Dickensian, thrillingly so.

  One winter night Sunny had been waxing her upper lip when Geraldine called sounding frantic, saying she’d discovered a damning receipt. A three-hundred-dollar sushi dinner that had ended just before midnight, over a weekend when Peter was supposedly visiting his parents at their cottage. Sunny and Geraldine had met for drinks at a Portuguese bar near Sunny’s place, and though Geraldine had cried and cried, she’d pulled Sunny aside at work the next day and told her that everything was fine. “Better than fine.” Peter had explained that his brother was having marital difficulties and he’d taken him out for a rant. Geraldine shared that they had a night of sex that Geraldine could only describe as “mostly vertical.”

  “You want the magazines, don’t you?” Geraldine repeated into the phone.

  “I already have my favorites,” Sunny muttered. “You can just recycle whatever’s left.”