The Miles Between Us Page 12

  And New York itself was different then. The West Village had been a little darker, a little edgier, in those days before gentrification took over, pushing out all but the wealthiest of residents—or those with rent-controlled apartments. Drugs, prostitution, and crime had been, if not rampant, at least more visible. She barely recognized the neighborhood these days, with its new restaurants and bars on every corner, its expanded green space, the older buildings that had been rehabbed.

  Except, of course, for Freddy Wong’s building. Freddy was a likable guy. Personable, always smiling. He was also colossally tightfisted. The kind of man her parents had always referred to as a skinflint. Freddy himself would undoubtedly call it being frugal, but in truth, he was a miser to his core, a man who’d never spent a penny he could find an excuse to hold onto.

  Shabby was too kind a word for the building. It looked tired and depressed. The big red and yellow sign that hung over the restaurant entrance was cracked and faded, the plate-glass window at the front streaked and smeared with decades of city dirt and auto exhaust. The second-story windows still sat blank and expressionless, like a face with no eyebrows. She was certain the apartment was empty. And she knew Freddy still owned the place, because she’d looked up the number in the yellow pages, called it, and asked for him. She’d hung up before he answered, because what was she supposed to say to him over the phone? He might not even remember her. Much easier to show up in person. He’d always liked her. Chances were good that in person, she could sweet-talk him into giving her the key and letting her inside.

  She stood there, uncertainty gluing her to the sidewalk, while in her stroller, Emma babbled contentedly. Her heart fluttered, and her pulse gave a little skip. Was she sure she was ready for this? It was a step she couldn’t undo. Like a sight that couldn’t be unseen, or words that couldn’t be unspoken, taking a step back into her past couldn’t be untaken.

  Casey inhaled a deep breath to steady herself, steeled herself and, hands tightly gripping her daughter’s stroller, she wrestled it off the curb and stepped into the street.

  And her cell phone rang.

  She stopped, pulled it from her purse and looked at it. Recognizing the number, she debated whether or not to answer. If she told him where she was, she would never hear the end of it. If she lied, he’d know. He always knew when she was lying.

  The phone continue to ring. Muttering under her breath, she wrenched Emma’s stroller back up onto the sidewalk and answered the phone. “Hey,” she said, sounding a little breathless to her own ears.

  “Hey. I’m sorry I sounded like I was in the middle of some top-secret CIA operation when you called. I had a couple of bigwig record execs here, checking on the progress of their wonder boy.”

  “And were they impressed with his progress?”

  “Impressed enough to take him to lunch.”

  Mildly outraged, she said, “Without you? His producer?”

  “I’m not somebody they have to wine and dine. He’s the goose that laid the golden egg. I’m nothing more than hired help.”

  “They have expense accounts. And you’re certainly more than hired help. You’re the one responsible for his progress. I would be highly insulted if I were you.”

  “I don’t care enough to be insulted. Besides, it means I have a couple hours free to have lunch with my gorgeous wife. And that trumps insulted any day.”

  Still holding the phone, she raised her eyes to the apartment across the street. Those blank windows, that browless face, seemed to mock her. A sudden gust of wind blew a strand of hair into her face, and she reached up and shoved it behind her ear. She’d already disappointed him once recently, when she’d taken the girls to Coney Island; she didn’t have the heart to do it again. Not even if it meant her trip down memory lane would have to be postponed.

  “Babe?” he said.

  “Sorry. I got sidetracked. I’m a little out of the way right now, but Emmy and I can catch a cab and meet you somewhere.”

  “How about the Hard Rock Cafe? Paige has never been, and she’s itching to check it out.”

  “A little touristy, and there’ll probably be a wait, but I suppose there’s a certain coolness factor involved for a teenager. She can go home and tell her friends she ate there.”

  “That’s what I figured. You game?”

  “I’m game. I’ll flag down a cab, and we’ll meet you there. Snag a table, because you’ll almost certainly get there ahead of me.”

  She ended the call, took a last, long look at the apartment windows. This probably wasn’t the right time, anyway. How was she supposed to maneuver the stroller up those stairs? If she left it on the street, somebody might steal it. And who knew how sanitary the building was? When she’d lived here, the place had been overrun with cockroaches. No matter how much she cleaned and sprayed, the roaches had considered themselves the tenants of note, while she and Rob and Danny had been nothing more than squatters. Once or twice a year, Freddy had paid for an exterminator. The rest of the time, she was on her own. If the place had been sitting empty for any length of time, she didn’t want to think about what might be in there, and she didn’t want to expose Emma to anything dirty or toxic. Better that she should come alone, another time, when Rob was at work and Paige could stay with Emma and nobody would question her whereabouts.

  But she’d so wanted to get in today, had emotionally prepared herself for whatever demons she was about to face. Now, she’d have to prepare herself again. Although this had been a spur-of-the-moment decision, she’d known, somewhere inside her, that she would do this. She’d known it ever since she rounded that corner with Paige and saw that Wong’s was still here, still in business.

  And she’d been ready to do it now.

  But there would be other chances, times that were more appropriate. Today, she would have lunch with her husband. Priorities were priorities, and Rob came first. Their relationship was a little rocky right now. She needed to find a way to mend it, needed to slap some good, strong mortar on the chinks between the bricks.

  So she wheeled the stroller between two parked cars and flagged down a cab. As she settled herself and Emma into the back seat, she took a few calming breaths and arranged her face in a serene expression. There was no point in making Rob suspicious. This wasn’t something she could talk about with him. He wouldn’t understand, and she wasn’t up to being badgered. She needed to face her demons alone. Later on down the road, when things were better between them, she would share it with him.

  But not now. Not today. Today, she would wear her game face, interact with her husband, and tell herself that disappointment wasn’t a heavy weight in her chest.

  * * *

  She made it through lunch without any bloodletting. The music was loud, the atmosphere playful and friendly, the food acceptable. Paige dropped her customary “Been there, done that” attitude long enough to enjoy the novelty, Emma gnawed happily on her sister’s French fries, and Rob only studied her quizzically once or twice. When he asked where she’d been when he called, she flashed him a rueful smile and said, “We were headed to the World Trade Center. But we can always do it another day.”

  He arched his eyebrows, but didn’t question her further. She wanted to exhale a sigh of relief, but knew it was far too soon to be relieved. Rob had this uncanny ability to see right through her, and if he suspected she was lying to him, he would never confront her in the presence of the girls. He’d wait until they were alone, and then, operating under the well-intentioned belief that it was for her own good, he’d badger her until she caved. It was the way he operated. She adored him, but had to admit that sometimes he was a little overprotective. He’d been that way with her for as long as she’d known him. A time or two, it had saved her from disaster. More often, it made her crazy. Normally, she had no trouble handling him. Underneath the tough-love exterior, the man was a marshmallow. There was a sweetness to him that shone through in his eyes, his smile. Yes, he had a temper, but it generally surfaced only when some
thing, or someone, hurt somebody he loved. Or when she was doing something so incredibly stupid that she was in danger of hurting herself. How could you argue with a man like that?

  Still, it was a relief when the meal was over and she was no longer under his eagle-eyed scrutiny. She kissed him goodbye, then killed a little time with the girls in the gift shop. Paige picked out a classic white Hard Rock Cafe New York tee, and Casey chose a tiny pink and white My First Hard Rock Cafe tee for Emma.

  And they hit the street.

  At midsummer, the height of tourist season, the streets swarmed with people carrying expensive cameras and gawking at the tall buildings. She hadn’t seen this much polyester since the disco era. After leaving the air-conditioned coolness of the Hard Rock, she found the humidity stifling. It flattened her hair and left Emma fussy. She’d lived through heat waves in New York, and compared to some she remembered, this was pretty tame. But the humidity added to the discomfort she already felt in the midst of all these people. The locals, always in a hurry, shoved past without so much as an “excuse me,” while tourists stood in colorful clusters and blocked the sidewalks.

  Her grip firm on the stroller and Paige at her elbow, Casey moved steadily in the direction of Times Square. Her long-legged husband, who could cover twelve city blocks in the blink of an eye, was undoubtedly already back at work. While she, vertically challenged and pushing a heavy baby stroller, would take much longer to cover that kind of territory.

  Her senses on hyper-alert, she moved with the crowd, gradually becoming aware of the child half a block ahead. Five years old. Hair the color of honey that fell in soft waves to her waist. Pink sneakers, pink shorts, a yellow tee shirt. A walk she would recognize anywhere, a chubby little hand that held tightly to the woman walking by her side.

  Katie.

  The buzzing began in her ears, spread to her extremities. It was impossible. The rational side of her knew that her daughter had been dead for eight years, that even if Katie were still alive, she would be a teenager now. But her heart refused to accept the truth, refuting the evidence she’d seen with her own eyes. BELOVED DAUGHTER. Katie.

  Katie, Katie, Katie.

  “Stay with Emma,” she said to Paige, and took off down the sidewalk at a brisk pace, winding in and out between people, losing sight of the girl, searching frantically, finding her again. She knew the child wasn’t Katie, couldn’t be Katie, but still, she had to be sure. Had to see with her own eyes. She reached the end of the block. The light changed, and she raced across the intersection, brakes squawking and horns blaring as she danced in and out of traffic, breathing hard, her lungs aching from the thick, soupy air. Mere feet away, she reached out a hand to grab the child by the shoulder. The little girl, perhaps sensing her presence, turned around and smiled at her.

  Brown eyes. Narrow cheekbones. Pretty smile.

  She looked nothing like Katie.

  Casey stopped dead, hand still stretched out, grasping emptiness. The mother turned, met her eyes, and undoubtedly saw the crazy there, for she yanked her daughter’s arm and herded her away from the lunatic who’d tried to snatch her away on a busy Manhattan sidewalk in the broad light of day. She turned back once, scowled, and disappeared into the crowd.

  Her heart hammering, Casey stood, her chest aching from her mad dash, adrenalin racing through her veins as she slammed up against a hard wall of Truth: Katie wasn’t coming back.

  Ever.

  The gaping hole inside her widened. Teetering at the edge of it, her arms crossed and her eyes filling with tears, she wondered, frantically, whether she was losing her mind.

  Behind her, Paige said, “What in bloody hell was that about?”

  “Shut up,” she said, without turning around. Then added, “Please.”

  “Maybe you need to—”

  She swiped furiously at a tear. Spun around to face her stepdaughter and said, “This never happened. Do you understand? Your father is not to hear about this.”

  “But I think—”

  “I don’t care what you think. Do you hear me, Paige? He can’t know about this.” Suddenly depleted, she stumbled to a nearby granite stoop, sank onto it, and buried her face in her hands.

  While she struggled to regain control, her stepdaughter sat quietly beside her and awkwardly patted her back. In an attempt to slow her galloping pulse, Casey practiced the breathing exercises she’d been taught in Lamaze class. Gradually, she began to return to herself. Paige took Emma from the stroller, kissed the top of her fuzzy blond head, and placed her in her mother’s arms. “This,” she said, with a wisdom far beyond her years, “this is what matters. The only thing that matters.”

  A tear escaped from the corner of Casey’s eye. She thumbed it away, nodded, and took a deep breath. Her baby daughter cradled to her chest, she rocked back and forth, her cheek resting against Emma’s soft head. “You okay now, chief?” Paige said.

  “Better. Not quite over it, but better.” Over Emmy’s duck-fuzz hair, she smiled at her stepdaughter. It was a wispy smile, but sincere. “Thank you,” she said.

  “We’re family,” Paige said. “Family takes care of family.”

  * * *

  “So he said to me—” Rob’s black-lacquered chopsticks hovered over her plate, and he took his time selecting the choicest bite of shrimp. “He told me, ‘I suppose that back in your day, it was different. But nowadays, if it doesn’t have a good dance beat, we don’t call it music.’”

  Merriment danced in his eyes. A swirl of evening breeze, disappearing as quickly as it had come, tossed a strand of dark hair into her face. She shook it back over her shoulder and propped her chin on her hand. “Cocky little SOB,” she said.

  “Oh, he’s not so bad. He’s actually starting to grow on me.”

  Above their heads, twinkle lights dangled from the wooden ribs of a huge red umbrella. “This is why I love New York,” he said. “Try doing this at nine-thirty at night in Jackson Falls.”

  “Try doing anything at nine-thirty at night in Jackson Falls.” She took a bite of his subgum rice and said, “I still don’t understand why you put up with it. It’s appalling, the way he treats you, like you’re something he’d scrape off the bottom of his shoe.”

  He reached for another shrimp, and Casey pushed her plate across the table to him. “They’re paying me beaucoup bucks to babysit,” he said.

  “And you care less about money than anyone else I know.”

  “But there’s the entertainment value, and you can’t put a price on that.” He leaned back in his wrought-iron chair and rested a bony ankle on his knee. “He’s desperate to one-up me. But, you see, I’m not desperate. There’s a certain satisfaction in watching him flit around my head like an annoying little gnat. Sure, he’s a pain in the ass. But he’s not mature enough to understand that just by engaging in those behaviors, he’s already lost the battle.”

  “If I live to be a hundred, MacKenzie, I don’t think I’ll ever completely understand you.”

  He waggled his eyebrows. “Gotta keep the mystery alive.”

  She coughed, picked up her napkin and covered her mouth while she choked on a mouthful of food.

  “Fiore?” he said. “Please don’t choke to death. I never did learn the Heimlich maneuver.”

  “I’m sure…somebody in this place…did.”

  He briefly surveyed the other diners and said, “This is New York. If you were sprawled out dead on the sidewalk, they’d just step over you.”

  She dabbed at her mouth, her eyes, and said, “You’re probably right.”

  “I know I’m right.” He reached into the pocket of his jacket, pulled out a small box wrapped in paper covered with bright red balloons and finished off with a sparkly red ribbon. “Happy anniversary,” he said.

  His face taut with anticipation, he watched her reach into her purse and pull out a starched white envelope. She set it on the table and said, “Happy anniversary.”

  Rob picked up his beer, took a long, slow sip. Set the bottle b
ack down and said, “You first.”

  She took the box in her hands. Shook it, sniffed it, flipped it. A small box usually meant jewelry and, although she wasn’t a woman who coveted baubles, Rob MacKenzie was a wizard at choosing pieces she found immensely appealing.

  “Open it,” he ordered, and she gave him a saucy smile before slowly, meticulously untying the bow. While he waited, feet dancing restlessly beneath the table, she set aside the ribbon and carefully unwrapped the package.

  Inside the box she found another, smaller box. A jeweler’s box. Casey glanced at him, and he nodded encouragement. She opened the hinged lid. Inside, on a bed of burgundy velvet, sat the most beautiful ring she’d ever seen. A single, oval-cut emerald, polished to a shine, nestled in a setting of delicate gold filigree. The gold wore the patina of age. “Oh, babe,” she said, “it’s beautiful. And an antique.” New jewelry didn’t wear the burnished dignity of this piece. “Where’d you get it?”

  “It belonged to my great-grandmother. It’s a family heirloom.”

  Her eyes questioned him. “I asked Mom for it when we got married,” he said. “Take it as a token of her esteem, the fact that she’d be willing to part with it for you.”

  “I really shouldn’t—”

  “Of course you should. You’re my wife. It’s been passed down through the family, and you have every bit as much right to it as any other family member.” He took her fingers in his. “I had it cleaned and sized. I originally intended to give it to you as a wedding present, but I decided to wait. So Mom’s been holding it for me until I thought the moment was right. You planning to put it on, or just sit and look at it?”

  He had a way about him, had always had a way about him, that could banish any dark clouds surrounding her and allow the sun to pour through. Casey took the ring from the box, slipped it on her right ring finger, held up her hand and admired it. “I wish I’d known your great-grandmother,” she said.

  He picked up his napkin, leaned over the table, and dabbed a tear away from the corner of her eye. “I don’t remember much about her,” he said. “She died when I was six. But if you believe the stories, she was quite the feisty old broad. I think you’d get along. You like?”