Riverside Park (3 page)

Jack swore he still loved her more than anyone. Since there
still were so many women coming and going, Cassy could not see how this could be true. She did not say the same to him, though, that she loved him best. Because she didn't. She was very much in love with someone else, but that relationship was fraught with obstacles of its own. Still, it was wonderful to love and be loved.

Somehow Cassy was going to have to figure all of this out.

THE PRETTY GIRL
lived in their building and came and went at odd hours. Amanda knew this because their eight-month-old precious accident, Grace, was cutting her teeth and sometimes in the wee hours Amanda would take her down to the lobby so she could talk to the concierge and the night security man while walking the baby back and forth, patting her little back. (It was best, Amanda had found, to let the children's nanny, Madame Moliere, sleep through the night so she could get their two older children—Emily, age ten, and Teddy, age eight—organized in the morning.)

Grace had begun to fret at three-thirty in the morning on Thanksgiving, and since Amanda's parents and Howard's mother were staying with them, Amanda had quickly thrown on slacks and a sweater to scoop Grace up and pay a visit to the lobby. About fifteen minutes later a cab had pulled up to the entrance of the building and the pretty girl had come
stumbling out of it. She had been rather astonishingly drunk. She was not as tall as Amanda, but taller than average, and had lovely dark brown hair. She also had a sleek body that only a girl in her twenties can possess. The girl had sworn under her breath as she banged her shoulder on the doorway, but did so in a manner that told Amanda the pretty girl was both well-spoken and probably well-educated.

Of course, if the girl lived in their building Amanda knew she must be a young woman of means.

The pretty girl had then almost collided with Amanda and Grace. She had reeled back, her large brown eyes trying to focus. She had looked at the baby and then back at Amanda. “You're always stuck with the kids,” she'd said. “You should make Howard do more.”

The night security guard, who was an off-duty NYPD police officer (who once showed Amanda's son the derringer he carried in his boot), had stepped forward to say he would see the girl upstairs to her apartment. Just as the elevator doors were closing, Amanda had heard the girl say, “Thank God I don't have any kids.”

Amanda didn't speak of it—the fact that the pretty girl evidently knew her husband on a first-name basis—until they had returned from the Thanksgiving Day Parade and she and Howard were in the kitchen trying to pull things together for dinner.

“That must have been Celia,” Howard said, squinting through the blast of oven heat, trying to see the meat thermometer.

“Celia who?” Amanda asked.

“Honey, I can't read this thing.”

“Rosanne thinks we should sneak in a turkey with a whatchamacallit,” she said, looking over his shoulder into the
oven, careful to hold her hair back. She still wore hers long, basically because her husband liked it that way. (Sometimes when Amanda turned around on the street or in a store she could see the surprise in people's eyes that she was forty-four and not twenty-four. She had such beautiful hair still.)

“Fresh-killed turkeys from Ohio don't come with whatchamacallits.”

“I know, darling,” she said. “I think Rosanne meant that, when your mother isn't looking, we should just switch turkeys.”

“But then it wouldn't taste awful and she'd know it wasn't the one she brought and then she'll start crying.”

This was not the first time they had discussed the mysterious fresh-killed turkey Mrs. Stewart insisted on bringing with her from Ohio every year, or the meat thermometer she extracted from wads of tissue paper as though it were an irreplaceable heirloom. But Amanda felt bad for Mrs. Stewart, who was a widow and lonely, and wanted to make her mother-in-law's visits as pleasant as possible.

“Well, it is Thanksgiving,” she murmured. “We can do it once a year.”

Howard muttered something and used a dish towel to shove the turkey back into the oven and slam the door. “Okay, it's done.”

“How can you be sure?”

“Amanda, we go through this—”

“Please just cut into it, Howard. We don't want to poison anybody.”

They looked at each other and started to laugh. Howard slung the dish towel over his shoulder and moved over to Amanda, sliding his hands around her waist. “You must be exhausted.”

“I am tired,” she admitted, resting her head on his shoulder as he pulled her closer. She used to have such a narrow waist it was hard for Amanda to let Howard feel what she was carrying around now. She had been watching what she ate and exercised like a mad woman, but after Grace she could not seem to pull herself together like she had after Emily and Teddy. “How do you know this Celia?” she asked quietly from his shoulder.

“That girl? She's a bartender at Captain Cook's.”

“A bartender?” Amanda raised her head to look at him.

“Once in a while I'll stop in and have a burger. And watch a game.”

Amanda walked over to retrieve the kettle, fill it with water and put it on a burner. She needed to warm the silver serving dishes with hot water before filling them. (She had inherited the silver from her grandmother and it made Amanda's mother happy to see her using it.) “I didn't realize you frequented bars while we were away.”

“Oh, that's me all right,” Howard said, “in the bars, day and night. We're talking maybe once in a blue moon, Amanda. It does get a little lonely around here sometimes.”

Amanda did not point out how, as a literary agent, and a very successful literary agent at that (president of Hillings & Stewart), Howard was inundated with people, phone calls and e-mail all day long. And when he did not have some professional soiree at night to attend, he always told her all he wanted to do was go home and collapse. He never said, “I'm lonely so I'm going to a bar.”

Their living arrangement was becoming an increasingly unhappy situation for Amanda. After 9/11 Emily and Teddy were frightened of tall buildings, airplanes, staircases, fires and
crowds. Like so many families, the Stewarts had gone into counseling with the children, but neither parent could bear the idea of not doing everything they could to make their children feel safer. So Howard found a gorgeous house and property in Woodbury, Connecticut, and after some discussion, Amanda and the children moved out there. Before this, it had never occurred to either one of the Stewarts that they would ever live anywhere but in their beloved adopted hometown of Manhattan.

The children were enrolled in school, and Howard hoped that when Emily and Teddy were older they would attend Taft as day students. There was a wonderful horse farm next to them, Daffodil Hill, where Amanda boarded a horse for herself and a pony for the children. Madame Moliere lived with them as well (the house was huge), so that Amanda could still get some work in on a book she was under contract to write, about the court of Catherine the Great. Howard tried to come out on Thursday nights and go back into the city on Monday mornings. Amanda would bring the children into New York at the slightest excuse; she did not want them to be afraid of the place their parents loved above all others, Manhattan, and more specifically, the neighborhood of Riverside Park.

Howard grew up in Ohio, where his father had a landscaping business, and Amanda grew up in Syracuse, where her parents were still both professors at Syracuse University. Howard had attended Duke and then book publishing lured him to Manhattan; Amanda attended Amherst and her (closet) gay husband had dragged her to Manhattan.

Howard's first wife had money, so he had not been pressed to make a lot of money while he worked his way up at Gardiner & Grayson to become an editor. He quit his job around the
same time that his marriage broke up, started a literary agency, and had never looked back. It was with great pride that Howard had bought the Woodbury property on his own; Amanda knew her husband still considered this apartment as belonging to her, and that Howard wished as a family they did not still rely so heavily on the trust fund Amanda's grandmother had left her. The money Amanda had earned (and still earned) from her first book, a biography of Catherine the Great, was different, Howard said.

Amanda was extremely proud of Howard. Men liked his well-defined masculinity and sharp, well-educated mind, and women liked his curly hair, beautiful manners, deeply expressive eyes and easy smile. And while Howard appeared to be every inch the sophisticated New Yorker, he was, at heart, still a boy from the Midwest who loved life.

The Stewarts had come a long way in their marriage. Certainly Amanda had. When she had met her future husband she could scarcely leave the neighborhood. She had suffered a complete nervous breakdown in her first marriage and had retreated into her work and this apartment. Besides her parents, there had only been two people who she trusted enough to let in. One was her housekeeper, Rosanne DiSantos, and the second, her elderly friend Mrs. Emma Goldblum, who would come for high tea. They were still very near and dear to her, and were, in fact, present this day at the Stewarts' Thanksgiving dinner. If anyone had told Amanda that someday she would be running after three children, driving everyone all over hell and high water in a Lincoln Navigator and volunteering for The Parents and Teachers Organization in the Connecticut suburbs, she would have told them surely they were mad.

But that was exactly what she was doing.

Of course, had anyone told her she would ever agree to live apart from Howard for at least four days a week she would have said, “Never!” And lately it was more like six or seven days apart and getting worse.

“You can do whatever you like while we're away,” Amanda said to Howard, trying to sound carefree. “I trust you completely.”

Howard looked at her from across the kitchen. “Ditto, my dear.”

Amanda only wished she knew why that pretty girl who called her husband by his first name kept parading around in her head.

 

Dinner finally reached the dining room table, and given the unusual collection of people they were entertaining went off rather well. Conversation with Amanda's parents, the professors Miller, could be difficult to follow when Mother got lost in life's metaphors and Papa wandered through lost civilizations, which is to say, to speak in their respective fields of English and history. Mother Stewart tended to talk about soap operas, so Amanda's older friend, Mrs. Goldblum, could help out a little there. There were Emily and Teddy, of course; Grace snoozing in her carrier; Madame Moliere, and Miklov, the assistant director of the children's soccer league in Connecticut. He was from the Czech Republic and the children called him Mickey-Luck. Also present were Rosanne DiSantos, no longer a housekeeper but a hospital LPN, Rosanne's beau, Randy, a detective in the Bronx, and Rosanne's seventeen-year-old son, Jason, who had to leave dinner early to go to work at Captain Cook's. Amanda walked Jason to the door.

“The tips are really, really good on Thanksgiving,” he explained. Amanda had known this strapping young man since
he was two years old. He was attending Bronx Poly Sci, hoping for early acceptance to the University of Pennsylvania to study engineering.

“Will Celia be bartending today?” Amanda casually asked.

Jason's head jerked in her direction. “You know Celia?”

“She lives in our building.”

“Oh. Um, yeah, I guess she'll be working,” Jason said, his face ringing with red.

Amanda returned to the dining room wondering if Jason was sweet on Celia or if he knew something about Celia he didn't want Amanda to know. Like the fact that Howard went there while she and the children were in Connecticut.

Amanda had never entertained uncomfortable thoughts like these until Grace was born. She didn't care what anybody said; carrying a third child at forty-three had almost finished her. Unlike her first two pregnancies, with Grace she'd been chronically tired and ill. She had also grown immensely heavy and the birth had been difficult, ending in an emergency cesarean. Mercifully Grace was fine, and after a few weeks, Amanda started feeling better. Physically anyway.

Most of the weight was off now, but Amanda's hormones—or
something
—were still out of whack. Her considerable sex drive seemed to have utterly vanished. And there was no way, not with how well her husband knew her, that she could pretend otherwise. And she knew this hurt Howard's feelings, that whatever sex life they could manage at this point was so one-sided.

Dinner flowed into dessert.

“Mickey-Luck's going to play us tomorrow,” Teddy told Rosanne.

“He's going to play you for a fool?” Rosanne kidded.

“No, in soccer!” Teddy said, laughing.

“Is that your real name?” Mrs. Goldblum asked the soccer coach. “Mickey-Luck?”

“Miklov,” he answered.

“Miklov,”Mrs. Goldblum rehearsed.

“I've got a new recipe for it,” Mother Stewart told Mrs. Goldblum. “Hot or cold, it makes no difference, it's wonderful meat loaf. Just ask Howard.”

“With soccer and riding and music lessons,” Amanda's mother was saying, “I'm beginning to wonder when these children have an opportunity to play.”

“I told you I didn't like the play,” Amanda's father said.

“Do you watch
All My Children?
” Mother Stewart asked Mrs. Goldblum.

“I watch all the children,” Madame Moliere answered in her heavily accented English.