Two of a Kind (33 page)

“You're moving?
Today?
” Christina was so shocked that she forgot she had not spoken to Charlotte in more than five years.

Charlotte turned just as the driver had stopped in front of her house and a pair of brawny young men got out and hurried up the steps. When they passed, she finally said, “Yes, I am.”

“So am I,” said Christina. “I'd say that's an astonishing coincidence.”

“Not really,” said Charlotte. “The Sharmas want to start demolition as soon as possible and so the sooner we're out, the sooner they can get going.”

“Demolition?” Christina was sure she had misheard her. In all her negotiations with Pratyush and the Sharmas no one had said anything
about demolition. “What are you talking about?”

“You mean you really don't know? When the Sharmas bought these three houses, they were planning to tear them down and build a single new structure on the lot.” Charlotte seemed supremely gratified to deliver this news.

The words landed like bombs. “Three houses?” she asked. “What do you mean
three houses
?” Mira Sharma had taken both of Christina's hands in hers, doe eyes misting prettily as she thanked her for selling the house to them. She had gestured to her black-haired daughter and said that she wanted her to grow up right
here
, in this house, on this block. What a snake! What a liar!

“Next to you, of course.”

“Miss Kinney? She would never sell. Never.” Christina heard the desperation in her own voice. But then she was hit with a sickening memory: the foil-wrapped cookies that had remained untouched in front of the older woman's front door. At the time, it had not meant much. Now it meant everything.

“Geraldine Kinney hasn't lived in that house in months; her family put her in a home last November. Hadn't you heard?”

No, Christina had
not
heard. “The Sharmas never said anything about buying three houses,” she said, still refusing to believe Charlotte. “Or demolishing any of them.”

“Well, no, of course not. That would have driven the price up even more. As it was, they paid me a bonus for not mentioning the sale to you.”

They had done the same thing with Christina! “They tricked us—that's what they did,” she said. Her initial shock was swallowed by fury. “They tricked each one of us—you, me, and Miss Kinney.”

“Miss Kinney isn't thinking about her house; her daughter told me she has dementia. And
I'm
pleased as punch with the whole deal. The Sharmas paid me a lot of money and I'm going to buy a studio in Manhattan and a place upstate. There's only one person here who seems to think she's been tricked.” Charlotte's voice oozed with pity and contempt. “And that person is
you
.”

•   •   •

Christina
went back inside and immediately called the lawyer, who said that she had no legal recourse. The houses were not in a landmarked zone, and Geraldine Kinney's family had agreed to the sale, as had Charlotte Bickford. There was nothing preventing the Sharmas from tearing down Christina's house, or the two houses on either side. Christina was the linchpin in the whole deal because her house was at the center—that was why they had offered her so much money. “Mrs. Sharma said she
loved
the house,” Christina said to the lawyer, trying not to cry. “She told me that personally.”

“She may have loved it,” said the lawyer. “But I just got off the phone with her attorney. She loves the idea of the big house she plans to build on the lot even more. She's moving her whole family in—not just her husband and kid, but her sister, brother, and their spouses and kids, her mother,
his
brother—it will be like a village.”

“A village built on my childhood house, my
home
,” Christina replied.

“The Sharmas paid you a lot of money,” the lawyer said. “Well over its market value. You could buy another house in the neighborhood with all that cash.”

“It won't be the same,” she said miserably, and got off the phone so she could surrender herself to the torrent of tears that had been waiting to fall. Then another truck pulled up, beeping and honking at the one that was already loading up Charlotte's furniture. She wiped her eyes furiously with her hands before stepping outside. There was the moving truck she had hired, and when it pulled up with its own crew of brawny young men, she could do nothing but stand aside and let them complete the sorrowful task of emptying out her home.

“I
t's bad enough we had to move,” Jordan said irritably. “When are we going to start
living
here? It's like a warehouse or something.” She was standing by the door, ready to leave for her dance class.

“I know, sweetheart,” Christina said. She had only recently gotten up and was still in her robe. “I've just been . . . busy.”
Also pregnant, exhausted, and wretched.
“It will get done, though. You'll see.”

“I hope so,” Jordan said, and while she did not exactly slam the door, she did not take special care not to let it slam either. Christina flinched slightly from the sound; the pregnancy had made her hypersensitive to loud noises. But Jordan was right. It was like a warehouse in here. Ever since they had moved in a month ago, Christina had been overcome by a crippling lassitude. Oh, she could blame it on being pregnant, but she knew that was only part of it. Her anger at the perfidious Sharmas had been displaced onto the apartment—it was as if she blamed this handful of rooms for what had happened and wanted nothing to do with them. She could not bring herself to unpack, let alone decorate, and the place was still piled with unopened boxes and shrouded furniture.

Today would be different, though. Today she was going to try to make a dent in the chaos. Getting dressed was the first step; brushing and fixing her hair was the next.

She made herself a strong cup of tea—at least the kettle was unpacked—and, perched on a big box, sipped it while she called today's clients to reschedule. Then she called Stephen, who immediately offered to come over and help; he was there within the hour. But once he arrived, whatever slight bit of energy she had summoned seemed to scatter, like beads from a broken necklace.

“So where do you want the love seat?” he asked. “In front of the windows or facing them?”

“I don't really care,” Christina said. “Put it wherever you think best.”

“Christina!” He sounded exasperated. “You have to care.”

“Why should I?” she said. “This place isn't a home.”

“Not until you make it one. Girl, what is wrong with you?” But when he saw the tears, he moved away from the love seat and crouched down next to her. “I know,” he said. “Honey, I do know.”

Christina sniffed and looked around the room. “What do you need?” he asked.

“A handkerchief?”

Stephen smiled. “Just this once,” he said, digging in his pocket for a packet of tissues, “you're going to have to use this.”

She accepted the tissue and blew her nose. “I'm sorry,” she said. “It's the hormones.”

“You'll feel better if you start unpacking some of this stuff. Trust me.” He straightened and walked back to the love seat. “Now, come on, work with me here.”

Sweet Stephen. He was trying so hard. She had him try the love seat in both spots, and in the end, she settled on having it face the windows. The living room had a partial view of Prospect Park; she might as well take advantage of it, even if the vista offered her little pleasure. Next, Stephen put the coffee table in front of the love seat. Obvious, but practical. After the coffee table, Stephen unwrapped and moved another chair, the dining table, and a pair of lamps. Then his phone sounded. When he got off, he said, “I've got to get over to the studio. The shoot's been moved up a little. I hope you don't mind.”

“Of course not,” she said. “I appreciate your coming over at all.”

“I want you to get your groove back so you can come over and give us advice about our new place,” he said as she walked him to the door.

“I'd love that,” she said, and meant it. It was only this place that left her so very cold. She had never cared this little for her surroundings and her apathy was unsettling; without her innate sense of knowing—and caring—what belonged where, she almost didn't know who she was.

When Jordan arrived home later that afternoon, she dropped her bag on the floor, walked straight over to the love seat, and plopped down. “Finally! You did something. It looks
so
much better in here.”

“Do you really think so?” asked Christina.

Jordan studied her. “I do,” she said finally. “Don't you?”

“I don't know,” Christina said. “I can't really bring myself to care.”

“Mom!” Jordan jumped up from the love seat. “Stop—you're scaring me.”

“I'm sorry,” said Christina. “I'm just moody, that's all. It'll pass.”

Jordan looked around at the boxes still stacked against the walls. “Let's unpack some of those,” she said.

“I've done enough for one day.”

“
I'll
do it, then,” Jordan said. “You can just sit here and tell me where stuff goes.”

“You're very sweet but—”

“No
buts
, Mom!” She led Christina to the love seat. “Now, where should I start?”

Without waiting for a reply, she opened the closest carton. “Okay, here's your rolling pin, your juicer, and a whole bunch of cookie cutters. Kitchen, right?” Christina nodded and Jordan went to put everything away. When she returned, she dug out a Pyrex baking pan, an enamel pot, and a clutch of wooden spoons.

“Here. I can put those away.”

“No, I said I would do it. You rest.” For the next hour, Jordan continued to unpack while Christina directed; a wastebasket went in Jordan's room and another in Christina's. Books taken out of their boxes were stacked neatly in piles; throw pillows were plumped and placed.

“That's enough for now,” Christina said, though she had to admit she felt more cheered by this process than she would have imagined. Maybe that was because Jordan was a part of it.

“No way,” Jordan said. “I'm just getting into it.” She walked over to two boxes that had been under some of those that were now unpacked. “What's in these?”

Christina got up to inspect. “I don't know,” she said. “They were in the basement and I didn't have the chance to look through them before we moved.”

“They look
ancient
.” Jordan peeled off the strip of dusty tape and began burrowing. “What's this?” she asked, holding up a man's plaid bathrobe. “Was it my dad's?”

“Let me see,” Christina said. “No, it belonged to your grandfather.” The Pendleton robe, a red and black tartan, was something she had bought for her father's sixtieth birthday. He liked it so much that he wouldn't take it off, and spent the day remarking on how soft and warm it was; that was one of the few times she remembered pleasing him. What else would be in there? A black silk bow tie and cummerbund he'd worn when he'd married her mother, his monogrammed bowling ball bag and a crushed pair of bowling shoes. Also his old
Ellery Queen
magazines and a jacket with a pair of bowling pins appliquéd on the back.

“I've never seen any of this before,” Jordan said.

“That's because I haven't opened it in decades.” Christina turned to the other box; she already had an idea about what was inside and she wasn't entirely sure she was ready to look. But if not now, when? She stripped the tape and found Will's collection of antique maps—many of them gifts from her—the binoculars he'd used on his bird-watching walks, two cameras, and the snow globe he'd been given one Christmas when he was a little boy. Jordan shook it gently and Christina watched the glittering flecks settle down over the tiny house, barn, and pair of horses.

“Can I have this?” Jordan asked. “I don't have anything of his.”

“You have so
much
that was his,” Christina said, eyes filling. “But yes, of course, take it.” When Jordan had taken the snow globe to her room, Christina surveyed the jumble before her: artifacts from the two most significant men in her life. What to do with this accumulation? She had a powerful urge to get rid of it all.

“Mom?” Jordan was back in the room, her arms full. “This is some other stuff I found. I wasn't sure what to do with it. I think it may belong to . . . Andy.”

Christina reached out to take the small bundle. Here was one of Andy's familiar pima cotton shirts, this one pale blue and now somewhat creased. She could see him buttoning it as he headed to his office or the hospital. And she could see him unbuttoning it, more quickly, when they were alone together. Along with the shirt was a baseball cap—was it the one he had worn the day her car broke down and he surprised her with his sweetness and his tact? The last thing in Jordan's haul was a brown silk tie with a tiny allover green design. It was only when she looked more closely that she saw the design was actually made up of tiny artichokes—Andy had an endearing weakness for whimsically patterned ties.

“Are you okay?” Jordan was still standing there; Christina has almost forgotten. She looked again at the shirt. It had touched his body and she wished she could press it to her face and inhale whatever of his scent it might still hold. But she would not do such a thing in front of Jordan.

“I'm fine,” she said. “I'll take care of getting all this back to him.” Andy Stern was a significant man in her life too. He had her father's temper and impatience but also his work ethic and his energy. And he had Will's sweetness and ability to love. He
had
loved her, hadn't he? Did he still? Jordan was still there, watching her. “I've been meaning to ask you something,” she said. “What made you go with him to buy that ring? I thought you despised him.”

“I changed my mind,” Jordan said. “I mean, he did save me.”

“He did,” said Christina. She remembered that day at the hospital and felt the nausea rising up, like the morning sickness had returned.

“I actually kind of miss him,” Jordan was saying.

“You what?” Christina was so surprised, her nausea subsided. “You
miss
him?”

Jordan nodded. “I do. I mean, I never thought of him as my dad, but when we were all together with Oliver and everything, we were kind of like a family.”

“I never thought I would hear you say
that
,” said Christina.

“I know. Weird, huh?” Jordan waited before speaking again. “When the baby is born, you'll let him come visit? I mean, it is his and all.”

“He'll get to see the baby,” Christina said.
And when he does, it's going to tear me apart.

•   •   •

The
next morning, Christina went to see a potential space for her business. When she returned to the apartment—she still could not call it home—she felt energized enough to begin one of her customary prowls, taking inventory, the way she always had. That view of those treetops—so lush and full at the moment—really was nice; she would want to play that up more. But the flat white walls were dull and could use some help. In the kitchen, she decided the black-and-white backsplash tile and checked linoleum floor were not bad; some bright accents would help, though, and she began to visualize a fire-engine red teakettle sitting on the stove. Yes, red would be good—energizing and bold. But when she reached the room in which she had been sleeping, her spirits began to plummet. The walls were bare and the mattress lay on the floor; the Sargent oil sketch, still covered in Bubble Wrap, was next to it. Most of her clothes were in suitcases or boxes and hardly any of them fit her anyway; the few maternity things she'd bought dangled forlornly on wire hangers in the nearly empty closet. The room right next door—billed as a study by the rental agent—would be for the baby. Right now, it was empty.

Jordan's room was a bit more lived in; her daughter had unpacked all her clothes and either hung them in the closet or stored them in the bureau that she had unwrapped and dragged in here by herself. Will's snow globe sat on top of it. Jordan had even knocked some nails in the wall. (Where had she gotten the hammer? As far as Christina knew, it was still buried.) Several pairs of point shoes hung suspended by their pink satin ribbons. The sight made Christina's heart twist; for all her complaining, Jordan was doing a better job of getting adjusted than she was.

A noise caught her attention and she turned: the rabbits. Today they seemed almost ominous, with their black, staring eyes and perpetually twitching ears. She would have been glad to pass them on to a family with a yard, but Jordan said no. In the Carroll Street house, Misha had built a big play area in the basement; there was no room for anything like that here. Jordan didn't seem to think it was so important, but Christina could not stand to see the two creatures cooped up.

She turned her attention elsewhere. Anyone else would consider this a nice apartment, a fine place to live, at least temporarily. So why did it feel like a cage, a prison? She thought of the house she had loved and lost. But it wasn't just the house; it was the people in it who had mattered. Her mother dead too young, and her angry, alcoholic father with whom she'd never properly made peace. Barb. Stephen and Misha, the surrogate family upstairs.

So what did that leave her with now? Jordan and the baby. Andy's baby. She walked back into the bedroom and looked at the mattress. She missed him, in bed and out. Missed him because she loved and needed him. Just as he loved and needed her. Boisterous, strident, generous, and impulsive, he would break down the bars of any cage she ever tried to erect for herself. She had sent him away, though, told him she did not want him. How could she go back to him now? He was probably so angry he wouldn't even see her. Still, she should try, shouldn't she? She
had
to try. She hurried out of the room in search of her phone. When she found it, she hoped she could reach him; she might not have the courage to try again.

“Christina.” His voice was soft with surprise. “Is everything all right?”

“Everything's fine,” she said. “I just wanted to know how you were.”