The Vanishing Year (5 page)

“Are the society pages boring you?” I teased, poking the air in his direction with my spoon.

He sat back, crossing his arms. “Yes, God yes. Sometimes it's all I can do to stay awake.” He scratched at the back of his neck, realizing his admission. “Not that your, uh, event wasn't spectacular. And I met you and you've been great, but . . .”

I laughed, letting him off the hook. “I get it. So many rich people, so little time?”

“I live in a studio in the East Village. I mean, the lean months can be a special form of torture.”

I have a vision of my mother, Evelyn, dignified in her starched hotel uniform, adorably cinched at the waist, pirouetting in the kitchen, leaving for a night shift, while sixteen-year-old me licked peanut butter off a spoon. Evelyn worked as a housekeeper by day and a hotel maid by night or early morning, depending on her shift. Despite her patchwork jobs, we still struggled to make ends meet.

We'd laughed at our poverty then, called it “creative financing,” collecting dented cans of creamed corn that we'd eat over toast. That changed when she got sick the first time, it no longer felt as adventurous. It felt precarious, dancing on the edge of a razor blade. There were real consequences to poverty, I learned.

I remember lean months.

A waitress appears, her heavy blue-lidded eyes darting back and forth between our single cups of coffee. I can see her calculating the tip and trying not to roll her eyes. Cash pays the tab, over my protest. “So let me help you.” He bites his lip. He seems very into the idea.

“We'll see, okay? Write the story, see what you come up with. Will you send it to me before you run it?” I am concerned about the pictures. I realize the pictures combined with my admission of being from San Francisco could sink me. I haven't been this stupid in years. Not at least since that
New York
magazine
feature photo, with me hiding in the corner, but still somehow with a maniacal rictus grin.

While I don't think I'm actively being pursued, the idea of hiding is long ingrained, the thought of going back claws at the back of my throat.

“Yeah, of course.”

We stand to leave together. Out of the corner of my eye, I see his hand hovering lightly above my back, guiding me out.
Men and their shows of chivalry.
He opens the door for me and I step out into the busy sidewalk. The sun is gleaming and I squint, fishing around in my pocketbook for sunglasses.

“Call me when you have the article written. I really loved the photos, Cash. You're a talented photographer.” I pause then because I'm being sincere and his smile is wide, a faint flush in his cheeks from the compliment. He walks with me to the corner, where I will go uptown and he will head downtown, to his office.

The white
walk
sign blinks and I step off the curb. The roar of an engine is the only sound I hear; the voices of the crowd are muted. I look up and freeze. A car is careening through the intersection, its headlights bouncing as the car hits a pothole. My feet are solid lead blocks, glued to the pavement. Suddenly, something hits me hard and I feel myself tumble through the air. I scream and close my eyes, my fingers losing their grip on my purse strap. When I open my eyes, Cash is breathing hard on the ground next to me, a sheen of sweat on his forehead, his eyes wildly scanning the intersection. The car—in retrospect it was a gray sedan, glinting in the sunlight—is nowhere around.

“It turned left!” Someone from the crowd points to the alley.

“Did you get a plate number?” Cash shouts back before scrambling up and running halfway down the street in the direction the car turned. He decidedly gives up, jogging back to me. I sit up. My shoulder burns where it hit the pavement.

“What the hell was that?” Someone says.

A slight Hispanic man is crossing the intersection, wiping his hands on his white apron. He's left his food cart across the street and his eyes are wild.

“That car, miss.” He is breathless and nervous. “Are you
all right? He saved your life.” He gestures toward Cash, who is preoccupied, looking up and down the street.

I nod and stand up, half-embarrassed, and force a laugh. “They must have been drunk.”

“Ah, no miss. That was no drunk. He was parked, you see. Right there.” He points to his peanut cart. “Across from me. For an hour or more. When you cross the street, he gun the engine.”

“What do you mean? Like he was trying to hit us?” Cash stands, belligerent with his hands on his hips, ready for a fight with the unknown driver.

“Not you, sir, you headed the other way.” He shrugged apologetically and pointed to me. “He was after her.”

CHAPTER
5

The idea of going home to my apartment just to sit there holds no appeal. Cash hadn't wanted to leave me, but no one had a license plate number. A small crowd had gathered and someone patted me on the shoulder, meant as comfort, I suppose. There wasn't anything anyone could do and I had doubts that the car had really been after me. It seemed too random, too surreal. I figured it more likely that the driver had simply been careless or distracted, realized he was late, and in a panic ran a red light. I shooed Cash back to his office to write his piece. Reluctantly, he began his walk downtown but kept glancing back in my direction.

I walk uptown on Sixth Avenue, all twenty-two blocks, and stand uncertainly outside the glass and mirror front of La Fleur d'Elise. Even with the hike uptown my heart is still thundering from the near miss.

It's been awhile since I've been back—almost a year—and my cheeks flush. I picture Lydia in the back room, prepping and cutting, and Elisa in the front, relaying celebrity gossip through the propped-open industrial steel door. La Fleur is primarily an event florist. Designer to the stars.
Elisa has long held one of the top spots for floral design in the city.

I shake my hands at my sides and wriggle my shoulders to loosen them up.
This is a completely terrible idea.
But I have nowhere else to go. I have half a mind to just turn around and go home, or duck into a boutique,
anything.
I stare at the sea of taxis, a yellow tide, and my eyes glaze over. The decision is made for me.

“Well, well, look what the cat dragged in.” Lydia is standing in the doorway, her arms folded over her chest and her feet crossed at the ankles. Something glitters on her eyebrow.

“Is that a new piercing?” I squint at her and give her a friendly smile. I hope it works.

“Is that Armani?” She juts her chin at me. I hold my hands up, palms out. Her black spiky hair is tipped with blue. Long, dangling earrings. Black leather and lace get-up. Possibly fishnet stockings under a long black gauze skirt. Red lipstick curled around blinding white teeth. We used to sit on that stoop and smoke cigarette after cigarette.

She steps back, holds open the door. Her head jerks toward the front room. I walk through the door, and she bumps me with her shoulder.

The shop is bursting with color and I'm nostalgic. The front shop, small and exclusive, is open by appointment only. Castoffs and leftover blooms are sold to small corporate banquets or private clientele.

“The library looked incredible the other night. Thank you.” I dip my head, avert my eyes.

“Thank Javi, he did the designs, not me.” She walks ahead of me, waves me back into the back room, which looks typically chaotic. “He's not here, though, although he'll be sorry he missed you.”

Sorry like a hawk,
I think.

Steel buckets of blooms littered with cuttings and flowers
that had been deemed “not quite perfect,” although that to any passerby would look magnificent on the dining room table. I pick up a long-stem peach rose, fingering a single nicked and browning petal. There are more rejects than usual, which can only mean one thing.

“Wedding this weekend?” I gather a few velvety irises, their stamens a stark tiger orange against the deep purple backdrop.

“It's the Slattery wedding.” Lydia is at the prep table clipping manically, her metal shears clattering on the stainless steel table. “We can't do too much until Wednesday but some of the heartier types can be prepped now.”

I watched her splice stems on a bias with a knife, turn leaves back, and shape greenery. If I close my eyes I can imagine I still work here—Lydia and me side by side clipping and cutting with identically bandaged thumbs. I twirl my wedding band around my ring finger.

Landing the Slattery wedding is impressive. Mikael Slattery has been in the top half of the Ten Most Eligible Bachelors list for almost a decade. I'd seen him with a leggy brunette at receptions and parties with Henry. I forgot her name.
Natalie? Natasha?
Ah, Nadine something.

I resist the urge to touch one of the wayward blooms, position it back into place, suggest that the vibrant orange could be highlighted by peach, not yellow. These were the arguments of old Zoe and Lydia. We are new people, with a new friendship. If she'll have me back.

“So, where you been, Zo?” She gives me a smirk and the corner of her scarlet mouth tips up. “I called you.”

“Yeah, I know.” The event book is laying on the worktop and I flip through it. The pages are outlined with design ideas, colors, and specifications. I know in the front there is a bio of the bride and groom but I don't read it. “Where's Elisa?” I ask.

“She has a class this morning.”

I glance at the clock. It is noon. Elisa teaches workshops at the New York School of Floral Design. A teaching day means she won't be back until after two. At least that's how it used to be. I reach out and cover Lydia's hand, which is tugging on a rose leaflet. Her knuckles feel rough under my palm. She falters and curses, dropping the stem; a thick drop of blood blooms on her thumb. An amateur mistake.

I rip off a paper towel and hand it to her. “Let's get lunch.”

•  •  •

We walk the two blocks to Sam's, and Lydia tends to her thumb like it's a surgical incision. She inspects it and wraps it, squeezes it, unwraps it, pushes out a thick bead of blood.

The café looks the same—warm browns and covered wall to wall in art. Bright frames, with shocks of color. Mosaic tables and iron chairs. The sounds of soft, jazzy saxophone float through the air. Sam is parked behind the counter. His prematurely gray hair has grown out, but he's wearing a T-shirt I actually recognize, despite how long it's been since I've been here.

“Zoe!” He jumps up with his arms out and I awkwardly hug him across the countertop, the cash register between us, pressed against my shoulder. “The usual?” He gives me a wink and I laugh and nod. I watch him add caramel and milk to a large cardboard cup. Lydia says something right as he flips on the froth machine. She motions to a table and we sit.

“Stop being mad at me,” I say, too loudly, just as the whir of the cappuccino maker dies down. I can handle Lydia's moods, her temper tantrums, snarled comebacks, and caustic sarcasm, but her silence has always killed me. Lydia is gifted in silence—her stone walls stretch out, echoing and cold like a glacial plain.

Her face cracks a smile. She has laugh lines around her mouth that are new. “You always cave.”

Sam brings us coffee and a plate of baked goods—baguettes and Brie, croissants with cranberry jelly. We butter in silence.

“I'm not mad at you. I miss you. Is that so bad?” She avoids eye contact. Lydia doesn't “do” sentimental. I don't know what to say. We've never been Hallmark-card friends.

“No. That's not bad. I miss you, too.” I want to tell her everything. Molly and Gunther. The car. Cash. Henry. It floods my mouth, gathers right behind my teeth. I swallow.

“So what gives? Is this really the first time I've seen you in almost a year?” She pushes Brie and croissant into her mouth and I drop my baguette onto the plate, my appetite waning.

“No. I saw you,” I squint my eyes and look up at the ceiling, “in January. At the Peterses' baby shower.” I snap my fingers, triumphant.

She hangs her mouth open. “That was accidental. We did the arrangements. You were a guest. And it was awkward as hell.”

“I didn't think it was awkward,” I lie, then offer feebly, “You looked great. So did Javi. You all did.”

“We used to live together, see each other every day. I get when you get married, you can't stay chained to me all the livelong day. But a year . . . I mean, come
on.
I've called you. I
still
call you.”

“I know.” I cross my legs and my knee hits the table. Coffee splotches on my wrist. “Besides, we've chatted. It's not like I've ignored you. We've just been . . . busy.”

“Bullshit.”

I bite my cheek to keep from smiling. In a world where every other person seems to have a hidden agenda or unfathomable motivations, I miss Lydia.

She doesn't wait for me to answer. “So what gives, why now?”

“I just need you back in my life. I'm sorry. Is that enough?”

She flicks her fingers, casting crumbs in my direction, and shrugs. “Probably. How's 'Enry 'Iggins?”

I ignore the jibe. “He's a lot . . . busier. I'm alone a lot. Do you think Elisa would let me, I don't know, volunteer once in a while?” I say the last part in a rush.

“Where? At the shop?” Her eyes grow wide, the diamond stud winking in her eyebrow.

“Yeah? Dumb idea, maybe.” I fiddle with my fork, depressing my fingertip along the tines until it hurts.

“I'm sure she would. Are you okay?”

“I miss just being here. I miss the smell, the thrill of designing, you. I even miss
her
ridiculous demands.”

“Two coffees, one hot, one cold. Seven napkins, please.” Lydia's voice pitches an affected French accent that mimics Elisa's and we exchange smiles. “Why are you alone?”

“Because Henry's busy. He works seven days a week. Our apartment is huge. I feel like a marble in a jar. I need something to
do.
I feel useless.”

“You have your charity, right?”

“Yeah, I do. The benefit was incredible.” I smile at the memory and she clucks a sound of mocking approval. “But, I can't do it all the time. Every day.”

“Will Henry let you?”

I try to pretend this is a ridiculous question.
Will he let me?
As though this is 1955. I roll my eyes. But I don't answer.

“Ha, you won't tell him.” Her voice is flat. “Seriously, Zo? What kind of marriage is it where—”

“You act like he's abusive.” I push my plate away and it clatters against the table. Lydia doesn't understand relationships, the give-and-take, she never has. I think of the parade of men, tall, short, thin, stocky. She didn't subscribe to any particular “type.” She consumed men, devoured them, until she was their world. As soon as any of them ever asked anything of her—to change in any way, even if just to be around
them more, maybe not work twelve to fourteen hours at a flower shop, because, let's face it, we weren't saving lives—she'd be gone. And if asked, she'd reduce them to nothing with a little sideways twitch of her nose, like they'd never existed.
Oh, Carl.
Eye roll. Simply because they wanted her too much. It was exhausting.

“No, I just think he likes to be in control.”

I push down a flash of anger. “Lydia, stop. He's protective. He has a right to be. He's been traumatized by his past.” I lower my voice. “He was married before but she died in a car accident.”

She clamps her mouth shut in a thin line. She wants to ask details, I can tell, but she doesn't. Good thing, because I don't know any. He still has nightmares about it, kicking the sheets and shouting her name in his sleep.
Tara.

Sam hovers near the cream and sugar counter, feet from our table. He fiddles with all the lids, stacking them one way, then the other, and when he can't seem to find a reason to be there any longer, he turns and heads back to the kitchen. The music volume drops to a barely audible level.

“We had so much fun in that crap apartment in Hoboken,” I say. I remember the cramped quarters, only a hanging sheet separating our beds, a thin guise of privacy in anticipation of all the single activities that were sure to come. By the second week, we'd tied it back against the wall, tacked with kitchen twine and a pushpin. The apartment contained only a living room, big enough for a single plaid monstrosity of a couch that we dragged in from street pickup, and a kitchenette fit for a child.

“Hey, did you ever find Carolyn?” She cocks her head to the side, her eyes brightening. When I met Henry, I was immersed in the search. Lydia and I had scoured newspapers from San Francisco, Internet websites on adoption, even cold-called some long-lost aunt of Evelyn's. Lydia was
a perfect companion, her lust for mystery and her creativity propelled me long after I might have given up. We never found anything. Lydia knows about my adoption, but not about Mick.

And only Mick knows what I did to Evelyn.

Then I got caught up with Henry and gave up. My earlier conversation with Cash echoes back to me. I shake my head. “I haven't looked again, isn't that weird? I sort of just forgot. I still think about it sometimes, but not enough to actually do anything about it.”

I'm suddenly struck with the need to have a biological connection to someone, an unbreakable tether that might keep me from flying away in Henry's wind.

Two conversations about my mothers in one day is enough to cause panic.

Sam appears at my elbow, brandishing chocolates. We each take one. The candy coats my tongue, sweet and feathery. Decadent. He wisps away, leaving a trail of Polo in his wake.

“I can help you look.”

I shrug and flit my fingers at her. She leans back and folds her arms across her chest.

“You're just so fucking different, now.” She says this as though it isn't a matter of opinion and is also no big deal. “What is that, silk?” She touches the sleeve of my blouse with her pinkie. I yank my arm away, involuntarily. I hate being scrutinized, studied. I've lived so long feigning normality, invisibility, I forget how it is to be conspicuous. With Lydia, suddenly, I feel conspicuous—uncomfortable in my own silk blouse. “Your hair is all one color. And it's so damn long.”

This is true. I've gotten compliments about my hair from strangers in public. The short, angled, punk bob I kept when Lydia and I lived together has grown into a thick chestnut
mane that flows just to my shoulders. I don't say it's because Henry likes it to tickle his face when I slide on top of him.