The Night, The Day (9 page)

chapter 13

M
artin Rosen looked into his
daughter’s eyes and found not even a hint of weariness. It was well past her bedtime, and still she appeared ready for a full day’s play. It hurt him to put her to sleep at moments like this. He never seemed to have enough time with her. But it was late, and he had somewhere to be.

“Will you be home soon?” she asked, touching his face.

“Not too late, but hopefully you’ll be fast asleep by then.” He took her hand and kissed it. “Jamilla’s downstairs. She’ll be up in a few minutes to check on you.”

She looked at him in silence.

“Okay, princess?” he asked.

“Okay, Daddy.”

He kissed her lips, her cheek, and her forehead. Kissing her was addictive. He then tucked in her blanket. “Snug enough?”

“Yes,” she answered, turning over on her side, a final sign of surrender to the inevitability of sleep.

It amazed him each time he saw the way she could transform herself so suddenly from fully charged to absolute fatigue. It was a common behavior in children, he knew, but watching it happen was something else. He smiled widely, leaned over and kissed her again. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Daddy,” she said, already half-unconscious.

Martin Rosen watched Cheryl Manning come through the door of the restaurant, and was hit with a sudden moment of clarity. He had been waiting at the bar about five minutes, nursing his Glenlivet, contemplating what he was getting into. And now he understood that he was exactly where he wanted to be. Their eyes connected, and he watched her move through the crowd, his jitters intensifying as she drew nearer.

“Hi,” she said, offering her hand.

“Hello,” he reacted, reaching out. It felt good to make contact.

“I’m glad you called.”

“So am I.”

The room was noisy, another typical night at Millie’s Place, but somehow their voices managed to resonate above the fanfare.

Dutiful bartender, Steve, appeared. “What’ll it be for the lady?” he asked.

Martin looked at her. “Merlot?” he asked.

She nodded.

Martin gave the order to Steve, who seemed unable to hide his amusement.

“Good of you to remember,” Cheryl said, while Steve shuffled off to prepare the drink.

Martin smiled.

“What?” she asked.

“Nothing, really.”

“Oh, come now. That little smirk of yours surely means something.”

“It’s nothing, I assure you.”

“So we’re going to keep secrets?” she asked.

“I hope not.”

“Then what were you thinking?”

“Okay,” he said, seeming a bit embarrassed. “It’s the way you speak.”

Her eyes asked for clarification.

“The British thing.”

“What about the
British thing
?”

He sensed himself ambushed. Her breath smelled delicious, as did whatever fragrance she was wearing, and her smile was about as dangerous as they come. “When you say certain things, like, ‘Good of you to remember,’ it sounds sort of… nice.”

“Nice? You mean you like the
British thing
?”

“Yes, I like it.” Hesitation. “I like it a lot.”

“See now, that wasn’t so hard, was it?” she asked.

“No.”

“It was a first.”

He looked at her, not quite getting her point.

“Your first compliment,” she explained.

“I suppose it was.”

“I hope there will be more.”

“I’m sure there will be.”

Steve brought her drink and the hostess came to show them to their table. Martin had requested the back room, the most private section of the restaurant. The hostess seated them, handed them menus and offered the usual salutations, though neither of them paid much attention. Their minds were fixated on each other.

“You really like this place,” Cheryl said, looking around.

“I’m used to it.”

“You like things that you’re used to?”

“Familiarity has its benefits.”

“And its disadvantages.”

“Those too.”

The busboy placed a basket of goodies on the table – flatbreads, mini corn, bran muffins, pumpernickel, onion rolls – and filled their glasses with ice water. Martin noticed that the fellow couldn’t stop looking at Cheryl, but it didn’t bother him. He figured that most of the men in the place were probably doing the same.

He opened his menu, feeling a bit anxious about the flow of things. “So, what will it be?”

“What do you suggest?” she asked, her menu still closed.

“The night we met, I had the veal Marsala, it was quite good.”

“Then veal Marsala it is,” she said.

“Are you usually this easy?” His better sense had already told him that she probably wasn’t.

“That depends on what it is we’re talking about.”

“I’ll bet it does.”

The waiter approached, rambled through a list of specials, and took their orders.

“He didn’t know you,” Cheryl said, regarding the waiter.

“Not everybody does.”

“But this is your place.”

“He must be new.”

“I’ll bet, aside from this place, that a lot of people know you.”

“What makes you think so?”

She pondered before answering. “I have a confession to make.”

His eyes suggested she continue.

“I checked up on you.”

He’d expected something like this. She knew what he did, where he worked and lived. “And what did you learn?”

“A lot, actually. It was easy. As I said, you’re pretty well known. I should have recognized your name right away. I do read the
New York Times
Book Review.”

“So, if you didn’t recognize my name, how exactly did you find all this out?”

“A phone call.”

“To whom?” He had to admit, he enjoyed the way she made him probe, and he knew she liked it too.

“Well, I used a little trickery, but I suppose it’s okay.”

“Trickery?”

“The state psychological society. I phoned them and told some very nice, chatty old lady that I was looking for a psychologist and had received your name from my doctor. I was calling to make sure you were legit. Without even looking you up, she just started laughing and said, ‘Oh, Dr. Rosen is quite renowned,’ and all that. I thanked her. She wished me well in therapy.”

Martin was impressed and somewhat uneasy.

“You’re upset?” she asked.

“I wouldn’t go as far to say that I’m
upset
, but you could have asked
me
.”

“You’re right, I should have. It was a violation of your privacy, I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” he said, his tone softening. “It’s public information anyway, and I suppose a single woman in New York these days has to take every precaution.”

“It’s no excuse, but thanks for understanding.”

Silence.

“So, how does it feel to be a best-selling author?” she asked.

“That would take an entire night and then some to describe.”

“I’m not going anywhere, are you?”

I suppose not,
he mused, sipping what remained of his Scotch.

She listened attentively as he complained about the grind, the speaking engagements, signings, et cetera. With the exception of his recent gig in Chicago, he had managed to keep it all local so he could be home with Elizabeth. And of course, there was his practice, his concern that the time and energy demanded by his celebrity was detracting from the quality of his work with patients.

“You’re very dedicated,” she observed.

“I try to do a decent job.”

“Do you enjoy it?”

“Sometimes. Now, what about you?”

“What about me?”

“Do you like working in PR?”

“Sometimes.”

He smiled.

“It’s very competitive,” she said. “Stressful, and hard for a woman to get ahead. I guess it’s like everything else.”

“I’ll bet you do okay for yourself.”

“I work hard.”

“Any interesting accounts?”

“Not really. A few household appliance companies, charitable organizations and things like that.”

“I’ve read that your firm does a lot of work for the Israeli government.”

“Yes,” she responded. “Jacob Lipton, as you know, is a Holocaust survivor, and quite committed to helping Israel. They do seem to need good PR these days, but I’m not involved in any of that.”

He detected a slight tension in her voice. “Everything okay?”

“Yes,” she said. “I just get a little uptight when I think about work. It really is a pressure cooker, you know?”

“Household appliances and charitable organizations?”

“You would be surprised. In PR, everything is high stress.”

Martin left it alone. The last thing he wanted was to make her uncomfortable.

The waiter brought their entrees.

Dan Gifford sipped his decaf, marveling at how the world was changing. Sitting in Starbucks on Austin Street in the heart of Queens, adjacent to the new Barnes & Noble superstore, watching the people, he appreciated the recent innovation of cafes in bookstores and wondered what was coming next. He also wondered where Bobby Marcus was. The cop was already twenty minutes late for their meeting.

A young woman smiled at him from another table. She was definitely cute, and in his previous life, he would have managed all the right moves. But these were sober days, demanding what Dr. Rosen had coined “sober behavior.” This girl would be easy, like a drink. Getting his wife and kid back was another story. He smiled politely and turned toward the door as Bobby Marcus entered.

Marcus approached him. “Sorry I’m late. Got caught in an argument with the captain about spending too much time chasing ghosts for what he thinks is your paranoia.”

Gifford ignored the gibe. Tension between the cops and the DA was an old story. “Got anything yet?”

“Still nothing.”

“Yeah, well, you can stop chasing down the car, make the captain happy. I have another idea, a little dangerous, but a shortcut to what we need.”

“I’m listening.”

“Know anyone in the Nassau County PD?”

“Maybe.”

Cheryl took Martin’s arm as they left the restaurant and began strolling down Middle Neck Road. It was another balmy September night.

As they approached her building, she turned to him and touched his cheek. “Thank you for a wonderful evening.”

“Thank
you
,” he responded.

He wasn’t disappointed about not being invited up to her place; he was quite content leaving the evening exactly where it was. He was pretty sure that his desire for her was mutual, but he guessed that she too would just as soon save it for another time. “I hope we do this again,” he said.

“So do I,” she replied.

Realizing how badly he wanted to kiss her, he inched his head closer, his movements ordained by a force beyond his control. He softly touched his lips to hers and felt her bring her arms around him. And as his mouth opened, allowing their tongues to meet, he found himself being drawn to a place from which he knew there was no turning back.

It lasted less than a minute, though it seemed much longer, and in the end, he had to force himself to call it a night. Again, he watched her walk away into the building before he turned and went on his way. But this time, he left with neither wonderment nor confusion. He was at last certain in one thing: he could live again.