Two of a Kind (19 page)

Christina stared at the phone. Maybe she had called the wrong number. She tried again, punching in the numbers very carefully. The message was the same. On the bottom of the card was Derrick's cell phone number written in pencil. Fighting the rapidly rising tide of panic, she tried that number as well. There was a ringing and then someone picked up!

“Derrick, it's Christina,” she said in a rush. “I hope you're not angry at me, but I was worried—”

“Derrick?” said an unfamiliar voice. “Derrick no here.”

“But this was Derrick's number,” she said. “Derrick Blascoe.”

“No Derrick,” said the voice, which had a thick accent of some kind. “Derrick no.”

“Maybe you know something about where he is—,” she began, but the person on the other end clicked off. She stared at the phone for a few seconds. Then she went in search of her coat.

It wasn't cold outside and Christina walked so quickly that by the time she reached Derrick's place on Union Street, she was sweating. The workshop occupied the ground floor; there was a metal gate that covered the window. Well, that didn't mean anything one way or the other. It was the night before a holiday weekend; of course it was closed. She stepped back and crossed the street so she could look up. The windows on the second floor were dark, but again, that signified nothing. Maybe Derrick was out of town. She crossed back over and moved to the doorway. There was an intercom with the names of all the tenants. Christina looked for his name amid the others, and that was when she saw it: the freshly exposed space where his name had been—and now was no longer.

A
t ten minutes to eight the next morning, Oliver stood in front of the Old First Reformed Church on the corner of Seventh Avenue and Carroll Street in Brooklyn. His fists were jammed into his pockets and the hood of his sweatshirt covered his blond curls, but he was still cold. It was early; he had left himself plenty of time to get here from the Upper East Side. He wasn't sorry Andy couldn't make it. He'd had an emergency—his kick-ass celeb patient, Xiomara, had cramping or something and he'd rushed off to the hospital to deal. Oliver imagined his dad really got off on his power—not only could he bring babies into the world; he could also keep them from getting here ahead of schedule. Whatever. He was just glad the universe had cut him a break.

The door opened. A giant of a guy with a frizzy red beard and a perfectly weathered Elvis Costello T-shirt looked him over. “Are you waiting for dinner? Because it won't be ready for a while. But you can come in and get warm if you want.”

“Actually, I'm waiting for Christina Connelly. I'm going to be, like, helping out.” This guy thought Oliver was one of the
homeless
people they were going to serve later on? How hilarious was
that
?

“You're with Chrissy?” Red Beard cracked a big smile. “Well, come on in. No point in freezing your buns off out there.” So Oliver followed him inside. Red Beard lumbered along ahead, past wooden pews, stained-glass windows, and a wooden cross hanging up on the wall. When they got to the kitchen, Red Beard stopped. “This is where all the action is today. Chrissy will be here any minute. You might as well put on an apron and I can introduce you to everyone.” He indicated a stack of aprons piled haphazardly on a counter.

Oliver nodded, looking around. The kitchen was twice the size of the living room in his apartment, with worn linoleum floors and banged-up-looking cabinets. A guy at one of the two deep sinks was washing what looked like a mountain of cranberries, two other guys were hauling in a ginormous basket of sweet potatoes, and by the windows, two women and a girl were spooning globs of pumpkin mush into pie tins lined with dough.

Something about the girl made Oliver look again. She was around his age, and everything about her seemed round: big, brown eyes, full face, boobs that strained against her apron, round, plump ass that poked out from the other side of it. Even her glossy brown hair, braided and wound around her head, made a circular shape. When she smiled, which seemed to be about every five seconds, dimples appeared in her cheeks. She must have sensed him staring, because she looked up from what she was doing and smiled again, this time right at him. Before he could walk over to her, Christina came rushing in.

“Sorry, sorry, sorry!” she said, shaking some drops from her hair. It must have started raining. “I didn't mean to be so late. But I see Robbie found you and brought you inside.” Oliver looked over at Red Beard; so that was his name. The girl had gone back to the pies.

“Hey, Chrissy!” Robbie said, and engulfed her in a giant hug. Oliver watched as Christina deftly extricated herself from the guy's massive embrace.

“Come with me,” she said, linking arms with Oliver while simultaneously undoing the buttons on her soft gray coat. She looked kind of wrung out, like she hadn't slept, and he wondered whether she was sick or something. “This is Josh,” she said, indicating the shorter of the men. “And this is Lee.” Lee gave Oliver a slow wave, and Josh gave him a smile.

Oliver watched as Christina moved off to the other end of the kitchen, plucking an apron from the pile as she went. He wanted to ask her whether she was okay, but Josh was showing him where the knives were and Lee was telling him what he had to do. And maybe this wasn't the best place to talk anyway. He'd catch her later. He soon became so engrossed in the chore of preparing the sweet potatoes—snip off the ends, prick with a fork, and wrap groups of three or four in foil—that he didn't notice Jordan until she was right next to him.

“Hey,” she said, smoothing back her hair in its tight bun. She wore jeans and a black turtleneck sweater; her hair was perfectly smooth already.

“What's up?” He hadn't seen her since the day they had run into each other over the summer, but he'd friended her on Facebook. Instead of a profile picture, she'd posted a shot of ballet shoes. They were made of pink satin, but they were in lousy shape, toes frayed, stained, and crushed.

“Nothing really,” she said. “You're helping out here today?”

“Your mom asked me to.”

“That sounds like my mom,” she said. “She wants everybody in the
circle
.”

Then Christina called Jordan's name and she went off to another part of the kitchen. He finished with the potatoes and moved on to stirring the cranberry sauce, whipping cream for the pies, and basting the turkeys—there were four of them—that Robbie had hoisted into the ovens. The girl with the braids came over to say hi; she said her name was Summer.

“That's a cool name,” he said. “It fits you.” Up close she was even prettier.

“You think?”

“Yeah, I do.” He wanted to say that she reminded him of all kinds of summery things—waxy, pink blossoms on a branch, dark cherries dangling from their stems, plums bursting their skin—but thought she'd think he was weird.

“Thanks,” she said. “What's your name?”

“Oliver.” He hoped he could hang out with her some more today. The rain outside had stopped and the sun shone in the windows above the stove, weakly at first, but then brighter. The kitchen grew warm; the various smells—turkey, pie, potatoes—from the oven were amazing. Someone put on music; it was nothing he recognized, but he liked the jazzy sound. Soon people started singing along—Robbie, those guys Josh and Lee, Summer, a woman named Miriam, and another one named Louise. Christina came over to where he stood by the sink, scrubbing a pan. Her cheeks were flushed and her apron was speckled with grease. “How are you doing?” she asked.

“Great,” he said. “This is fun. I'm glad you asked me.”

“We host a dinner here once a month,” she said. “We always need help.”

“You mean you do all this”—he gestured around him—“every month?”

“Not turkey; turkey's just for Thanksgiving and Christmas. Easter we do lamb. The rest of the time we rotate. Chili or stew—something like that.”

Around one o'clock everything was winding down. Summer said she had to go but told him to text her. The food was pretty much cooked. Oliver helped Jordan and Louise set the tables in the meeting room upstairs. The table coverings and napkins were paper; everything else was plastic. But Christina had brought bags of pinecones, acorns, and gourds, and she was busy arranging them into centerpieces. “They look nice,” he said. “Really nice.”

People were standing at the doors now. People in really shabby clothes, holding steaming plates with both hands. They had been served their food down in the kitchen and were now coming up here to eat it. “Is it okay to sit down?” asked a tiny, wrinkled woman whose hair looked like Brillo.

“Of course it is,” Christina said, stepping away from the table.

Oliver stepped back too, and stood alongside Christina as the guests began to file in. Some of them had crammed bags looped around their wrists; others wheeled suitcases behind them. One guy had a shopping cart with a wood board across the top; he used the board like a tray. The faces Oliver saw were old and young, black, Hispanic, Asian, and white. A few scowled and a few seemed to have no expression at all. One guy was talking to himself. He sounded angry. Also loud. “I told them not to ask me again,” he said. “I
told
them.”

Oliver noticed that people began to move away from him. His wispy beard was matted and he was pulling anxiously on the ends. “Why are they asking me this again?” he pleaded. “Why?” He walked over to the woman with the Brillo hair. “Is it because of
you
?” he said menacingly. “Did you tell them to do it?” The woman shrank back. “I know you did it!” He was shouting. “It was you, it was!” He spun around, arms flailing. A hand glanced off Brillo lady's shoulder and she uttered a little shriek.

“Now, Matt, you know Claudia wouldn't do anything to hurt you.” Robbie appeared at the man's side and took him gently by the elbow. “No one here would hurt you. We're your friends, remember?” Matt looked like he wanted to carve a piece out of Robbie, but then Lee materialized at his other side and the two men led Matt off, talking to him softly. Oliver noticed that Christina was standing next to him.

“Is that guy okay?” he asked.

“Not exactly. But Robbie and Lee know how to handle him.”

Oliver watched as Robbie sat down with Matt, leaning over the table and talking earnestly to him. Lee had brought over two plates of food and was putting them down.

The sun, brighter now, shone in through the big windows.

The sight of these people patiently filing in cracked something open in Oliver, something he had not known was shut so tightly until this second. These past few weeks, he'd gotten up, gotten dressed, and aimlessly bounced through the hours like a pinball. But today was different. He looked down at his hands, which were raw from scrubbing all those pans. There was a cut on his left index finger from where a knife had slipped; Louise had given him a Buzz Lightyear Band-Aid she had in her purse and Buzz's face was wrapped around his finger.

Everyone was eating now. Lee moved between tables, pouring cider from a gallon jug. Louise had a basket of hot rolls and was distributing those. People were spearing their turkey, biting into their Brussels sprouts, getting cranberry sauce on their chins or the fronts of their shirts. They were eating, drinking, taking in the food that he'd helped provide. Even the crazy dude had a place at the table. Was there anything more important? Anything, like, more real? Christina said that the church members made a meal once a month. He could come back again. Come back and help. Looking around at the guests in the room, he felt as full as if he'd been at the table with them. His father had said, over and over, that he couldn't just sit around; he had to apply himself to something. Well, he'd just figured out what that something was.
This is it,
he wanted to tell his father.
This is what I'm going to
do.

C
hristina waited in the Riverside Drive lobby while Andy gave their names to the doorman. Although she had hoped for a more intimate way to celebrate her birthday, Andy felt obliged to put in an appearance at the annual Hanukkah party thrown by one of his colleagues at the hospital. “We'll have our own private party later,” he said. “I've booked a room at the Carlyle.” She had to admit that sounded nice.

Riding up in the elevator, he gave her hand a little squeeze. “You'll like the Gottliebs,” he said. “They're terrific people.” Christina said nothing. Most everyone there would know one another and many of them were successful doctors at Andy's hospital.
Jewish
doctors. It seemed natural that such a crew would be Andy's friends as well as colleagues; it wasn't like he had time to be cultivating indie filmmakers or aspiring opera singers. How they would respond to a decidedly non-Jewish interior designer from Brooklyn remained to be seen. At least she was confident about her dress, a secondhand Chanel made of plum-colored velvet and piped with black grosgrain ribbon.

“Andy!” Bill Gottlieb, their host, was at the door of the sprawling apartment clapping Andy on the back. “Come on and have a drink!”

“Bill, this is Christina Connelly,” Andy said. Christina extended her hand as Bill looked her up and down. There was a brief, loaded silence and then Bill turned to Andy. “Where have you been keeping her?” he said. Christina smiled in relief and allowed Andy to lead her into the room.

Bill gave her coat to a maid, made noises about her dress, and then was distracted by the arrival of another couple. Andy snagged them each a glass of wine from the waiter who was circling the room with a tray. Christina sipped her drink as Andy led her around the living room, introducing her to one colleague after another. Most of the names blended into one another—Hershkowitz, Meyerson, Schaffer, Shengold, Kornblatt, Klotz, Shapiro, and the noticeable outcasts, Ko and Sullivan. The women mostly wore short cocktail dresses and lots of jewelry, though she did notice a gaunt woman with a pixie cut in a pair of flowing silk palazzo pants.

Christina shook hands and smiled but did not attempt to join the noisy group gathered around their host. One of the guests was telling a joke that had something to do with a young woman's breasts; the punch line was, “Of course they're mine; I paid for them!” Although Andy laughed, Christina backed away and turned her focus to the room, which was less the product of intentional decoration than one of organic evolution. One wall was covered, floor to ceiling, with bookshelves. An upright piano dominated another. An oil portrait of two little girls hung next to a series of framed black-and-white photographs; the portrait made her think of the Sargent painting and of Derrick, who had mysteriously disappeared. But she would not let her worry about him ruin her evening, and she forced herself to focus on the wall's other painting, which was all stick figures and primary colors—the work, no doubt, of a beloved child. The furniture was an eclectic mix—a chesterfield sofa, assorted club and wing chairs, a marble-topped coffee table. The rugs too were a hodgepodge—kilims, Persians, and one that might have been an Aubusson. Even with its imperfections, there was something so pleasing about a room like this; it had a soul. She walked over to the windows in the living room. Though it was dark outside, she could make out a view of the Hudson River, and beyond that, the Palisades.

Another burst of laughter erupted behind her, but she had no desire to be in on the joke. This seemed like a raucous crowd, not her sort of people at all. But as Andy had promised, they would have their own private celebration later on. Ida was spending the night at Andy's apartment with Oliver, and Jordan was with Alexis, so they had the whole evening—and next morning—together. She planned to wear the peach satin nightgown Andy had given her for her birthday—just thinking about it excited her.

Christina turned away from the window and wandered into the dining room. A long table in the middle of the room offered a staggering assortment of food and the sideboard held platters of sweets. Directly above were shelves crammed with decorative porcelain and china. Christina went straight over to see them better. A stunning collection of yellowware bowls far surpassed her own. There were also pieces of Bennington, with its distinctive splatter glaze, as well as Rockingham, with the drippy brown glaze that resembled maple syrup. Her gaze traveled over sleek and surprisingly modern-looking white ironstone pitchers, iridescent lusterware creamers, and cookie jars shaped, respectively, like an owl, a pelican, and the face of a clown. What an assortment; whoever had assembled them had a great eye.

“So you like the tchotchkes too?”

Christina turned to see an elegant woman with a gray pageboy and a cluster of amber beads gleaming on the front of her black dress.

“Excuse me?” Christina did not know what she was talking about.

“Tchotchkes? Bric-a-brac?”

“I certainly do,” Christina said, enlightened now. “This is your collection?”

“It's more of a work in progress. I'm always looking for the next big find. Whenever I bring home a new piece, Bill says, ‘Jane, not again.' In the end, he always indulges me, though.”

“It's like an addiction, isn't it? The collecting, I mean.”

“Or an obsession.”

“A magnificent obsession,” Christina said.

“Exactly! For some of us, it's not about stuff. It's about the hunt. And the hunt is just a portal to the past.”

“I know what you mean,” Christina said, warming to her. It would be fun to go “hunting” with this woman.

The woman smiled. “I'm sorry—I didn't even introduce myself. I'm Jane Gottlieb.”

“I assumed,” said Christina. Jane must have been elsewhere when she and Andy came in.

“And you are . . . ?”

“Christina Connelly; I came with Andy Stern.”

“Oh, you're Andy's new lady friend!” Jane seemed delighted. “I can't tell you how glad we are to meet you. We've known Andy for years and when Rachel died . . .” She paused. “Well, let's just say it was a bad patch. So we were thrilled when he told us he was bringing you tonight.”

“Are you a doctor too?” asked Christina.

“Lord, no! I couldn't stomach the sight of blood; even getting an injection makes me woozy. The thought of administering one . . . No, I'm in public relations and marketing. I have my own firm. And you?”

When Christina told her, Jane said, “Didn't you do Angelica Silverstein's apartment?”

“I did,” said Christina.

“I adore her place; you did a fabulous job!” Jane reached out to touch the arm of the woman in the palazzo pants. “Flora,
this
is the decorator who did Angelica Silverstein's place.” For the next twenty minutes, Christina felt quite the star; it seemed that her work had been noticed—and admired—more widely than she knew. One of the more flashily dressed women in the group—strapless red satin, triple strand of pearls, four-inch red patent leather heels—asked for her card. The woman studied it and then extended her hand. “Ginny Valentine. Pleased to meet you.”

“Are you
that
Ginny Valentine? The ballerina?”

“Former ballerina, but yes, that's me.”

“I can't tell you how thrilled I am to meet you! I've seen you in so many things—
The Four Temperaments
,
Concerto Barocco
—”

“You do know your Balanchine, don't you?” said Ginny.

“I'm a balletomane from way back,” Christina said. “And my daughter's studying at SAB now; she's fifteen. Wait until she hears I've met you!”

“Fifteen!” breathed Ginny. “Oh, to be fifteen again, and have it all ahead of you—instead of behind.”

“What's your connection to the host?” Christina asked. Obviously she wasn't a doctor.

“My husband works at the hospital. I'm the token ‘artist' in the room. Or retired artist anyway.” She tipped her head back to finish the wine in her glass. “How about you? You're not one of them either.”

“I'm with Andy Stern,” said Christina. She couldn't decide whether Ginny sounded wistful, bitter, or both. But dancers had short careers and Ginny Valentine's had been longer and more illustrious than most. Was this the best Jordan could hope for?

“Ah, Andy,” said Ginny. She signaled to a waiter for a refill. “He treated me, you know.”

“I didn't, actually.”

“Oh yes. I had a couple of miscarriages and everyone said,
If you want a baby,
he's the one who can help
you.
”

“I see.” Andy had never mentioned that a former ballerina from the NYCB had been his patient. But then, he was very discreet, even protective of the women he saw.

“He was . . . magnificent,” said Ginny. The waiter had poured her a refill and she began to make her way through it quickly. “But it was no use. I was just too old and I kept losing them, one after the other. I decided to stop trying.” She drained the glass.

“I'm sorry,” murmured Christina. How sad. She could imagine Andy as having been . . . magnificent . . . even if Ginny had not ended up with a baby.

“Don't be! I would have made a terrible mother anyway. I had my career and it was a damned good one. You don't get to have everything, do you? No one does.” She looked steadily at Christina. “Didn't you say you had a daughter at SAB? What if I give you an autograph for her? Do you think she'd like that? What's her name?” Without waiting for a reply, Ginny set down her glass and rummaged through her red satin evening purse for a pen; she wrote her name with a bold flourish on a paper cocktail napkin and handed it to Christina just as the other guests began filing into the room.

Christina spotted Jane as she made her way toward the brass menorah on the sideboard; Christina had been so busy first admiring her collections and then talking to Ginny that she hadn't noticed it before. It was a beautiful, singular-looking object, ornately worked with a pair of lions flanking either end. Christina guessed it was from the early nineteenth or even late eighteenth century. Jane Gottlieb knew her—what was the word?—
tchotchkes
. Right now, she was saying a prayer as she lit each candle and when all eight were ablaze, the effect was dazzling.

Then covers came off the chafing dishes and people began lining up to fill their plates. Christina saw carved meat and a noodle dish—brisket and kugel according to Andy. A group of waiters began filing in, each with a silver tray held aloft. They carried platters of something that looked fried and golden. “Latkes—potato pancakes,” said Andy.

“Oh—right,” she said. She had never actually tasted one. When she did, it was delicious—the contrast of the salty pancake and the sweet applesauce was just perfect.

“We'll have dinner here but dessert back at the hotel,” Andy said. “How does that sound?”

“Lovely,” she said, thinking of the peach nightgown. “But I'm going to have one more pancake. They are
so
good.” She signaled to the waiter, who approached with the tray. Someone must have bumped him from behind, though, because suddenly, the tray was upended and Christina was covered in a cascade of latkes.

“Oh no!” she cried. She could feel the warmth of the oily latkes through her dress and she prayed the velvet would not stain.

“Jesus, that's the second time your dress gets ruined when you're with me,” Andy said, brushing the latkes to the floor, where the mortified waiter, babbling apologies, knelt to clean them up.

“What happened?” Jane Gottlieb hurried over. “Are you all right?”

“Perfectly fine,” Christina said with a smile. “I hope this doesn't deplete your latke supply, though.”

“Aren't you a dear!” Jane exclaimed. “Of course I'll pay for the cleaning of your dress; I'll even replace it!”

“I'm sure that won't be necessary,” Christina said. She did not want to tell Jane—or anyone else—that one of the latkes had actually slipped down the scoop neck of the Chanel and was now lodged somewhere between the bottom of her bra and the top of her slip. “But I'd love to wash up; can you point me toward the bathroom?”

Once safely behind the closed door, Christina fished out the offending latke. Now what? There was a painted tin wastebasket—empty of course—in one corner; it seemed somehow wrong to deposit the latke there. So she broke it into tiny pieces and flushed it down the toilet. When she emerged, Andy and Jane were waiting.

“Everything all right?” said Jane anxiously.

“Just fine—you can't even see a mark on the dress.” She hoped this was true; velvet spotted
so
easily.

“Well, there's still the smell. You'll have it cleaned and send the bill to me.”

“Don't worry about it,” Christina said. “No harm done.”

Jane turned to Andy. “This one is a keeper!”

After dinner, the guests meandered back into the living room, where Bill sat down at the piano. Christina was not familiar with most of the music—folk songs, some in Yiddish—but she had to love Bill, pounding the keys with abandon as the guests sang along.

It wasn't until they had said their good-byes and were out on the street that Christina told Andy about the latke in her dress. He started to laugh and then she laughed too—it really was funny. “Thanks for being such a good sport,” he said. “It means a lot to me that the Gottliebs like you.”

“I like them,” Christina said. “Maybe we'll all have dinner together sometime.” She did not mention Ginny Valentine but experienced a private rush of, what—pleasure? Pride even?—when she remembered her praise. Could this night, and others like it, become familiar parts of her life's pattern? She reached for Andy's hand and held it tightly; at this moment, she ardently hoped so.