Made in Manhattan

Violet didn’t quite believe it herself.

* * *

Kimberly had declared it a New York miracle: Cain was going to rent the first apartment they’d toured.

Not that he’d said as much yet, but Violet knew he liked the loft. It was obvious from the thoughtful way he assessed the open living space as though mentally planning where to put the television, and that he’d yet to grumble.

He wandered upstairs to check out the bedroom, and Violet stayed back with Kimberly. Violet was a little surprised by how much she loved the place. As a lifelong Upper East Sider, the trendy neighborhood known as the Meatpacking District was relatively unfamiliar to her. Aside from attending a few birthday dinners over the years, she’d always had a hard time getting past this neighborhood’s origins: literal meatpacking. As in slaughterhouses and the whole deal.

Not exactly a romantic history.

But even she had to admit that, as with most areas of New York City over the decades, the neighborhood had reinvented itself rather compellingly. The area was now mostly known for its exclusive nightclubs, posh restaurants, and trendy designer shops, though she knew none of that was what appealed to Cain.

There was an unstructured spontaneity to the area that was the complete opposite of Violet and Edith’s beloved Upper East Side. Instead of ornate building facades, marble foyers, and tidy parks, the Meatpacking District was all about brick, angled streets, a modern industrial aesthetic.

The loft they were touring in particular was about as opposite from Adam’s brownstone as was possible while still being in the same city. The space was smaller, but it felt bigger. Instead of being long and skinny with multiple separate rooms, the space was one enormous open area, with a metal spiral staircase leading up to a loft.

According to Kimberly, until its recent renovation, it had been used as a storage facility. The floors were original hardwood, with just enough scuff to give the place an inviting “make yourself at home” vibe. The exposed brick walls gave the place warmth, the high ceilings gave it openness, and the brand-new appliances in the kitchen definitely didn’t hurt either.

There was a wine chiller built into the cabinets, a warming oven, and an enormous granite island that would easily fit at least four barstools.

“Doesn’t this just beg for a gorgeous cheese board and a glass of Barolo?” Kimberly asked Violet, sliding her hand over the counter with a wistful look.

“I’m more of a pinot grigio girl myself, but I could do a serious wine-and-cheese night here,” Violet said.

“Sometimes I think I have the most torturous job ever,” the perky redhead said, tucking a shoulder-length curl behind her ear. “I’m a Brooklyn girl through and through, but when I see places like this, I wonder if maybe it wouldn’t hurt to pick up a lotto ticket every now and then.”

At the reference to money, Violet bit the inside of her lower lip. It’d been impossible to miss Kimberly and Cain’s frank discussion about the monthly rent. Since Violet had inherited her grandmother’s home, she didn’t know much about rent prices, but if the amount had seemed uncomfortably astronomical to her, she imagined it had to to Cain as well.

“Will you excuse me? I’m dying to see the upstairs,” Violet told Kimberly, who was astute enough to know when to hang back.

Violet set her purse on the counter and reluctantly headed to the stairs. Ogling Cain’s future kitchen for its wine-and-cheese potential was one thing. Seeing where he’d put his bed was a whole other thing. One she worried would keep her up at night.

The staircase was not exactly stiletto friendly, so she gripped the railing firmly as she made her way to the second level.

“Oh,” she said in surprise when she got to the top. The downstairs had plenty of windows that mostly looked out at the surrounding buildings, creating a very urbane feel. The second floor cleared all of that, though, and had an unobstructed view of the Hudson River.

Cain stepped out of a walk-in closet, shoving his hands into his jean pockets when he saw her. “Well. What do you think?”

“I think you use this as the bedroom area,” she said, gesturing to the room, then pointing to a smaller area, separated by a half wall. “And that would make for a great office or seating area.”

“A seating area? For what?”

“Reading.” She walked into the space in question. “A big, comfy chair there. A great lamp. A table for your beer, coffee, whatever. A bookshelf there,” she pointed to the corner, then looked over at him. “You said you liked to read.”

“I did,” he said, giving her a thoughtful look. “What do you think about the place in general?”

“I think you’re the one who’ll be living here, so what really matters is what you think.”