The F-Word

I grin. “Nice idea, but I have a place. In Manhattan.”

“Ah. I forgot. You’re a bachelor. Of course you have a place in Manhattan. Why would you want to live on the top of a hill in the middle of nowhere?”

We all laugh politely.

Why, indeed? I think as I pull away from the curb.

Me, with a house in the middle of nowhere.

I shake my head, reach to the dashboard and punch a button. My ’Vette is restored to her original self, but I’ve added some new tricks. Like Bose speakers and satellite radio.

I fiddle with the stations until I find one that plays oldies. Aerosmith fills not just the car but my head. Still, that image of a house on a hill surrounded by forest is tough to shake.

Maybe in ten years. Or fifteen.

Aerosmith gives way to AC/DC, and I step down on the gas and let the ’Vette do its thing all the way back to the office.

* * *

At five minutes of seven, I step from a taxi outside Bailey’s apartment building. I hand the driver a bill and tell him to wait for me. He nods, leans back and settles in.

I go up the steps, enter the small vestibule, press the button for Bailey’s apartment—and wait.

It gives me time to think about the choices I’ve made for tonight.

I hope they’re correct.

I spent a lot of time planning our evening. For some reason, my approach to this thing hasn’t been as businesslike as it should have been, so this afternoon I put in a couple of hours remedying that. I don’t want Bailey to feel intimidated, so I’ve made reservations at a restaurant in Chelsea that’s not elegant but is definitely upscale. And I’m dressed down, not up. Jeans. Boots. A white broadcloth shirt open at the neck under a gray tweed jacket. I know. Tweed isn’t in, but I like it, maybe because my Dad has always been a tweed guy.

And how come she hasn’t buzzed me in? Could she have gotten cold feet and decided to call the whole thing off?

Bzzzz.

Okay. Here we go. I trot up the endless steps, hang a right and get to her door. It’s cracked open.

I rap on it with my knuckles. “Bailey?”

“Yes. Come in.”

I do, but she’s nowhere to be seen. I shut the door behind me and make a mental note to warn her about leaving her door open. The buzzer system isn’t really much of a deterrent against intruders.

“Bailey?” I say again.

“I’ll be right there.”

I stroll around her tiny living room. Don’t I pay her enough for a bigger place? A place with an elevator? I’m pretty sure I do. On the other hand, what do I really know about rent in Manhattan now? After NYU, I moved into a flat near Wall Street. I shared it with two other guys and after my first bonus, I moved into a place of my own. And after that, I bought the townhouse. Maybe I moved up too fast to pay enough attention to…

Mrrrow.

I look down. The Siamese is weaving between my ankles. What’s her name? Prudence. Patience.

Priscilla.

She says Mrrrow again and keeps making those figure eights. And leaving cream-colored fur on my jeans. Well, what the heck, I think as I squat down and stroke her. Walter sheds too. His fur is darker so you don’t see it as easily, but—

“Is this okay?”

I look up. And think, OMG! It’s Bailey. And I don’t know which is worse—what she’s wearing, or the look of desperation in her eyes.