Two of a Kind (23 page)

He swirled the brandy in its snifter—that was one of those things he'd bought at the estate sale with Christina, months and months ago, before they'd become lovers and she'd begun brainwashing his son. Brainwashing? Whoa. He must be pretty angry to be thinking like that. Hadn't he decorated her tree and enjoyed it? But this was something else. Although he'd never admit it to her, maybe his mother was on to something about Christina—maybe the religious difference counted for more than he knew, and signaled other essential differences: in language, and a way of communicating and being in the world.

He sank slowly into the couch, and directed his gaze outward, toward the river. He couldn't actually see the water, but he knew it was there, black and cold as the sky it reflected. The brandy was good going down—rich, like he was drinking the liquefied wood of a rare violin, with an ever-so-slight afterburn—and the snifter was empty sooner than he realized.
Just a
little more,
he told himself. He poured the refill, resumed his seat on the sofa, and pulled out his phone, ready to make that call. But then he was overcome with a wave—and it really felt like a wave, washing over him with a brandy-fueled heat—of fatigue. He closed his eyes and then the next thing he knew, it was morning, the sky above the river glowing like an apricot, and the sound of the intercom letting him know that Cassie was on her way up.

Jesus. This had never happened to him before. He raced to open the door before she buzzed and then apologized profusely for his unprepared state. “That's okay, Dr. Stern,” she said. “We can skip today and pick up again tomorrow.”

“No, no. Give me ten minutes—no, five. I'll be ready in five. And I'll pay you overtime.”

Despite the rush, he was surprisingly on track during the workout and plowed through the rest of the day. Joanne got Perry on the phone; Perry promised him a few minutes later that afternoon. Otherwise it was a typical Monday morning—a new patient who was single, forty, and a DES daughter besides, another patient who had begun spotting, still another who'd just found out she was carrying twins.

The meeting with Perry was discouraging—he was talking possible blindness and even mild brain damage—and Andy's subsequent visit to the Petrinovics was predictably wrenching. Valentin, a stocky man with a fringe of thinning black hair and a cleft chin that must have driven the ladies wild, wept openly when Andy told him what Perry had said; well, who the hell could blame him? Olga seemed to have shrunk in a mere twenty-four hours; she twisted the diamond ring on her finger round and round in a futile, repetitive gesture.

Andy was wrung out when he left. On his way back to his office, he learned that his last patient of the day had canceled, so he told Joanne he was just going to go home instead. He checked his phone; there were two texts, both from Christina. But he didn't want to respond standing there in the street, not with people hurrying by in both directions and taxis blaring gleefully along the avenue.

Quickly, he walked, shivering, to his apartment—the scarf he was sure he'd find at the hospital never having materialized—and after saying a quick hello to Lucy and ascertaining that, no, Oliver was
still
not home, he shut himself in his study.

“Darling,” she said when she answered. “I've been wondering where you were. I was even a bit worried.”

“Worried?” he said. “You were worried? What about me?”

“Excuse me?” she said. “I'm not following.”

“I was worried about what the hell you're doing to my son,” he burst out. He meant to rein it in, but he couldn't. “I mean helping out at your church is one thing, but when he starts going to the service there . . . I don't like it, Christina. I don't like it at all. Did you think I'd raise my arms and cry hallelujah or whatever the hell it is you say in church? Did you?” He was nearly shouting now; he hated for Lucy to hear.

Christina didn't reply to this, nor did she respond when he finally stopped and was listening to the sounds of his own breathing. It was only then that he realized she was no longer on the line; Christina had hung up on him.

C
hristina sat looking at the cell phone as if she expected it to detonate at any second. Carefully, she set the thing down on the sofa beside her. Andy was wrong. She wasn't trying to convert his son. And she certainly wasn't going to be spoken to that way. When the phone sounded again, she started. If it was Andy, she would not answer. But it was Stephen. “Hey, girlfriend,” he said. “I was calling to see if I could borrow your iron.”

“Of course,” she said. “Though I would have guessed you already own one.”

“As a matter of fact I own two. But one just shorted out and I left the other one in the city. And now I have to iron an organdy dress for a shoot first thing tomorrow morning. Do you have any idea what wrinkled organdy looks like?
Not
a pretty sight.”

“You can have my iron if I can have your ear. Or maybe your shoulder.”

“Bring the iron up; I'll make you a cup of tea. We can talk while I beat this dress into submission.”

Ten minutes later, Christina was delicately blowing on the steaming surface of the cup. “He thinks he can just say anything to me.”

“He's got a temper—that's for sure.” Stephen touched his finger to the tip of the iron and then immediately pulled it away.

“That's an understatement.” She took a sip of the tea.

“So you have to tell him that it upsets you.”

“Shouldn't he understand without my having to spell it out?”

Stephen shook his head. “Honey, it's been a long time since you've been with someone, hasn't it? A
very
long time. You can't just expect him to read your mind. You have to set the limits. Otherwise he won't know what they are.”

“Maybe we're just not right for each other.”

“That's not the tune you were singing as recently as last week. I recall certain words being bandied around like ‘incredible,' and ‘life-changing.'”

“Oh—that,” Christina said, looking down at her tea.

“
That
,” said Stephen, “is what most people live and breathe for.”

“But it's not everything, is it?”

“No. It's just the thing that makes everything else worthwhile.” He bent his head over the dress, a frilly, foamy thing the color of milk.

“I'm not discounting it—”

“Good. Now, when he calls you—”

“What makes you think he's going to call? Maybe he doesn't want to see me anymore either.”

“
When
he calls you,” Stephen continued as if she had not interrupted, “you'll read him the riot act.”

“No, I'm serious. Maybe there
are
too many differences between us.”

“Come on. Didn't you and Will fight?”

“Not like this. I don't think he ever raised his voice to me.”

“Really?” He clearly did not believe her.

“My father
had a temper
, as you so quaintly put it. He'd have too much to drink and start yelling.” Christina felt the familiar dread, just remembering.

“Did he ever hit you?” Stephen asked.

“It always seemed like he might. He once bashed his fist into a wall so hard he needed stitches. My aunt Barb always tried to downplay his ‘moods'—that's what she called them:
your father's moods
—but they terrified me. I used to hide behind the washing machine in the basement when he got started. Once I got wedged in and then couldn't get out. It took more than an hour for them to find me.”

“Poor little Christina!” Stephen said. “You must have been so scared.”

“I was. And I think I fell in love with Will because he was so utterly unlike my father—intellectual, Protestant, gentle. . . .”

“So where does Andy fit in?” asked Stephen.

“Maybe he doesn't.”

Stephen adjusted the dress on the ironing board and began to work on the back. “I see this as a difference in style, not substance. And style is mutable—it can change.”

“I wonder.” She finished her tea and stood up. “Good luck with the organdy. And thanks.”

“Oh, I almost forgot to tell you.” Stephen looked up. “I've noticed this Indian couple hanging around in front of the house—they were here twice.”

“Really?” Christina felt a sudden rush of guilt. She had not told Stephen about the offer on the house; she had not told anyone. “Were they doing anything that seemed suspicious?”

“He was taking pictures with his phone,” Stephen said. “I didn't like it.”

“I don't like it either.” At least
that
much was true. “If I see them, I'll talk to them.” What she did not say was that she planned to call Pratyush Singh and have him tell his clients to stop hanging around her property or she would call the police—she was beginning to feel stalked.

•   •   •

The
next morning, Christina called Pratyush before she even had her coffee. She was planning to leave a message, but to her surprise, he picked up right away. “I'd like you to ask your clients to stop coming by my house,” she began. “They're making me nervous.”

“I'm sure they don't intend to do anything of the kind,” he said smoothly. “Maybe it's hard for them to curb their enthusiasm.”

“Whether they intend to or not, that's what they're doing.” She had rethought the threat about the police. The Sharmas had never trespassed; the street was a public space. And according to the zoning regulations, she wasn't even supposed to be running a decorating business from her house. Best not to invite any scrutiny.

“I'll speak to them,” he said. “But as long as we're talking, I'd like to put something else on the table. If the deal is concluded in the next sixty days, my clients are prepared to add an additional ten percent to the price they've offered.”

Christina paused; that was so much money. “Why,” she asked, “are they willing to pay so much?”

“I told you already—,” he said.

“We both know that what you told me was a fairy tale
,”
she cut in.
“
Mrs. Sharma loves this house;
she wants to raise her children here.
I want you to tell me the real story.”

“Ms. Connelly, you're a businesswoman, aren't you?”

“Yes but—”

“What kind of businesswoman tells a prospective buyer that his price is too high? My clients are offering you the deal of a lifetime and you're questioning their motives? I'd say that wasn't very strategic . . . from a
business
vantage point.” Underneath the unctuous tone was something else, hard and unpleasant.

“Just tell them to stop ogling the merchandise,” she said. “I don't like being pressured.”

“Of course, of course,” he said. Whatever edge she had detected a moment ago was totally and completely gone. “You just think about it. The deal of a lifetime.”

Christina did think about it while she sent out a batch of invoices, answered her e-mails, and checked the Web site—now live and very spiffy in her view—that Oliver had created for her. She was still thinking about it when the bell rang two hours later; she half expected it to be the Sharmas, asking whether they could take a look inside.

Instead, it was an enormous bouquet, every last petal and blossom a snowy or creamy white, delivered by a messenger in a deep green van. Christina lifted the flowers from their nest of deep purple tissue and inhaled. The white lilacs were intoxicating. A small envelope fluttered to the floor. She knelt down to retrieve it and then slid her finger under the flap.

I'm a jerk and a loudmouth. Can you forgive me? Please tell me that you can. I won't have a minute's peace until you do.

Love, Andy

She smiled, a tiny smile. But she did not pick up the phone. Not then, and not for the rest of the day. She was glad that Andy had apologized. Still, she was not ready to make up. Maybe it was unrealistic to think she could replicate the harmony of her life with Will ever again. But that didn't mean she was ready to capitulate so easily.

Later that afternoon, Andy sent her a text message. She did not reply. After a simple dinner—Jordan was in the city, rehearsing—she scanned the television listings for something to watch. The bell rang and she muted the sound. Christina was not expecting anyone; maybe Stephen and Misha had ordered out. But on the stoop stood no polite young deliveryman bearing dumplings. There, collar turned up against the chill, was Andy.

“Can I come in?” he said.

“I was going to call you tomorrow.” She stepped aside to let him enter.

“Really?” He did not sound convinced.

“Really.” After a moment she added, “Let me take your coat.”

He handed it to her and followed her inside, where he sat down and looked around the room, glance settling on the elaborate spray of flowers she had arranged in a large blue and white pitcher. “Did you like them?” he said.

“Very much,” she said.

“Then why—” He shifted around, as if trying to get comfortable.

“Didn't I call to thank you?”

“Or reply to my texts. I've been trying to reach you. It drives me crazy when I can't penetrate that Waspy reserve of yours.”

“It wasn't my Waspy reserve, as you put it.” She did not look at him. “I'm not even a WASP. I'm a Catholic. Or a lapsed one. Will was the WASP. Anyway, I didn't call back because I was upset.”

“I know.”

“And hurt. Your temper . . .”

“I admit it. I explode sometimes. But I didn't think it was such a big deal.”

“It is,” she said. “At least to me.”

“Christina.” He leaned over and grabbed both her hands. “I said I was sorry. I
am
sorry. But if we're going to keep on seeing each other, we'll have to be able to weather worse than this.”

“That's true.” She did not withdraw her hands. “About Oliver, though. I am
not
trying to convert him. How could you even think such a thing?”

“Well, I admit I flew off the handle. But you can understand how I felt—what's he doing in a church? If he's suddenly overcome with spiritual yearnings, why can't he go to a synagogue?”

“Why should he, when you're not there?”

“What?”

“Oliver is going to church because I'm there. Also Robbie, Josh, Lee, Miriam, and Louise. And oh—Summer. Has he told you about her?”

“Who the
hell
—” He stopped himself. “Sorry. Who
are
all those people?”

“People he's met through volunteering. And they are all church members. Can't you see? He's not looking for Jesus. He's looking for a community. A family even.”

He stared at her. “I guess I haven't been so terrific at giving him that.”

“No,” she said. “You haven't.” When she saw how stricken he looked, she added, “Maybe you didn't know how. Maybe it was too hard. Throwing yourself into your work, your patients, was easier.”

“My patients.” It was almost a moan.

“Did something bad happen today?”

“It's happening right now.”

“Tell me,” she said.

“I will. I want to. But Oliver . . . He's so angry with me all the time. And the thing is, I can't tell what the hell for. I give him plenty of money, and lots of latitude. What else does he want?”

“Maybe he's just angry that you're still alive. And his mother isn't.”

“He was
always
closer to her. She did everything. The trips to the playground, the park, the zoo. Helping him with his schoolwork, birthday parties. She knew the names of every kid in his class, all his teachers, what flavor Popsicle, cupcake,
everything
that was his favorite. . . . She”—and his voice cracked a little—“was the
one
. I was always second fiddle.”

“You're angry about that,” she said gently.

“You're right—I am. He's my only son. I'd like to count with him. To matter.” He withdrew one hand—he was still clinging to her—and smoothed back a lock of her hair. His expression softened. “I know what he loves about you,” he said. “Because I love it too.”

“Are you telling me that you love me?”

“Yes,” he said, and leaned over for a long, deep kiss. “I am.”

“I love you too,” she said softly.