She watched me as we entered the tall, elegant building near Central Park West. I took in the sweeping lobby with caramel colored marble floors and the older man with brilliant white hair manning the desk. It was a soothing, sophisticated place that didn’t seem to suit my sister but I realized that the last time I had really spent any quality time with her was back in Italy at our small house on a wild plot of salty land in Napoli. She was a model now and a successful one at that.
We traveled up to the eighth floor and I knew she had made a deliberate choice to live on this level, as it was her lucky number. For some reason, I held my breath while she opened the large door at the end of a short hall. I was worried that her apartment would be much like the building, aesthetically pleasing but impersonal, glossed over with glamour instead of warm with personality. The idea that I might not know my sister like I had always assumed made my skin prickle.
I let out a sigh of relief as soon as I stepped inside. Large black bookcases stuffed with novels sectioned off a small office behind the living room where twin chocolate brown leather chairs and a mahogany sofa bracketed a large fireplace. The walls were painted a deep warm red and the dark wood floors extended all the way back into the kitchen where I could see glass fronted cabinets and a dedicated shelf overflowing with herbs. It was so true to the Cosima I knew, brilliant and warm and secretly introverted, that the sight of it instantly settled my stomach.
“You like it.” She grinned at me and slipped off her ridiculously tall heels, putting them in the mirrored closet beside the door.
“I love it,” I agreed.
“I bought it three months ago and I’ve been slowly trying to make it my own,” she admitted. “I had to flirt shamelessly with the building committee in order to paint the walls – they were beige.” She made a face, prompting me to laugh. “But I think it’s coming along nicely.”
She took my purse and jacket from me, hanging it up amid the myriad of designer items in the closet before taking my large suitcase in hand.
“Hades is around here somewhere,” she said over her shoulder as she led me through the apartment to the hallway where my bedroom would be. “He can be little hostile with strangers.”
Hades was her black cat, a feline with more attitude, even, than his mistress.
“Oh, Cosi,” I gasped when I saw the room that would be my own. Blues and lavenders dominated the scene, inspired by the massive painting over the white wrought iron bed. It was one of my own pieces, one that I had sent to her after my first gallery showing. Tears brimmed over my lashes, my emotions unable to take another hit, no matter how slight.
“I decorated with you in mind. I know you want to find your own place but I want you to feel at home here and if you want to stay, well,” she shrugged, “that would be fine too.”
I laughed weakly and hugged her. “Sei carinissima.”
“I’m not sweet at all. I just love you.”
There was no just about it so I squished her harder.
“And when you are ready to tell me what happened with you and Elena, I hope you’ll come to me. No matter what, I’m yours, I’m here for you,” she whispered, stroking a hand down my hair.
I only nodded as the tears came freely, dripping soundlessly down my face.
Chapter Three.
I had made a list on the plane. A list of things I had to accomplish my first week in the city. But at eleven o’clock on my first day in New York City, I sat at Cosima’s kitchen counter staring blankly at the paper, my eyes stuck on the first item lining the top; contact Elena’s boyfriend about DS Galleries.
Cosima had left at the crack of dawn for a photo shoot in Central Park, her beautiful face bare of make up but glowing even at four thirty in the morning. I had shuffled out of my room on two hours of restless sleep and pressed a kiss to her cheek. At the time, I was happy to have the morning to myself but now as the afternoon crept closer, I found myself still paralyzed in my chair.
I tried telling myself a million different things. That I couldn’t love a man I had only known for a week, that it didn’t matter because I couldn’t love him enough to hurt my sister, that even that didn’t matter because he didn’t feel the same way about me and how awkward would it be at family dinners knowing that he had done things to me and I to him that I had never dreamed about before meeting him.
I tried to luxuriate in the love I felt for my sister but the material felt rough, abrasive against my skin. Elena and I hadn’t been close in a long time and I wasn’t sure if that should alleviate my guilt or deepen it.
But it didn’t matter, and honestly, I knew no rationale would make the problem go away nor my overactive feelings about it or him. I was stuck, well and truly stuck between a rock and a hard place.
I was just about to drag myself out of the apartment to walk aimlessly around New York, hoping to absorb my new hometown, when the landline trilled. I hesitated for a second before answering and immediately regretted it.
“Giselle Moore? This is Margot Silver.” I recognized her professional disdain immediately – Sinclair’s personal assistant was hard to forget. “I’m calling on behalf of DS Galleries. We would like to set up an appointment for you to meet with our curator Beatrice Rossi at your earliest convenience.”
I swallowed loudly before answering, was she going to pretend she didn’t know who I was? “My schedule is relatively open as I’ve just moved to the city. I can be available whenever is convenient for Mrs. Rossi.”
“Very well.” Her tone had warmed fractionally. “She has a cancelation tomorrow at one o’clock. If you’ll come to the gallery, she will see you then. Oh, and you may want to think about investing in a cell phone and joining the modern age so that it is easier to get in touch with you.”
My hand was slightly unsteady as I replaced the old fashioned phone back on its cradle. I let out a whooshing breath and dragged my hands through my hair. Sinclair had kept his promise to Elena to introduce me to the New York City art world, but he wouldn’t be doing it himself, that much was sure. It was for the best, of course, but my heart still panged pitifully in my chest as I stalked into the bathroom to shower before lunch with my family.
The streets of New York are not at all like the streets of Paris. The French city is the most visited in the world and yet even at the height of tourist season in the summer, it does not feel half so crowded as New York City on any given day. I thrilled to the bustle as soon as I descended from Cosima’s quiet apartment. My senses tingled as they were assaulted with every smell from bagels to smok
e and choking exhaust and my eyes flitted across hundreds of beautiful varied faces. My dilemma was momentarily trivial in comparison to the hugeness of New York and I allowed myself to bask in humanity.
Unfortunately, as soon as I reached Osteria Lombardi in Soho, my good mood gave way to anxiety. I had been inside my mother’s restaurant only once before, when Cosima had flown me in for the big opening party. So, it felt strange to stand in front of the brick façade, staring at the family name I had forsaken scrawled elegantly across the massive glass window beside the red painted door.