Burn (Michael Bennett 7)

Breathing in Chanel No. 5 and shoe polish as we waited with the movers and shakers, I looked across the street at the diamond-filled windows of Cartier. Then I quickly looked away. Because I was off tonight.

I’d even gone and done the unthinkable in this modern and insane 24/7 wired-up world we lived in. I’d turned off my cell phone. The city, both uptown and downtown, would have to take care of itself. At least for one measly night.

“Your cab, Monsieur et Madame,” suddenly called the house manager as he scored us a taxi.

I hooked elbows with Mary Catherine, and we jogged into the rain for our cab.

CHAPTER 63

MARY CATHERINE AND I both laughed as we fell into the back of the taxi.

“Excuse me, nice young people, but where to?” said the middle-aged little cabbie with an Indian accent.

“The Plaza Hotel. On the double!” Mary Catherine yelled out before I could open my mouth.

I stared at her, my mouth gaping as the cab pulled out.

“Oh, that’s how we’re going to play it, are we?” I said as I began to tickle her. “What happened to all that ‘things better left unsaid’ stuff?”

“That was then,” she said, laughing, and then she did it.

Mary Catherine leaned in and gave me what I’d wanted more than anything since the night started.

A nice long taste of her red lips.

“This is now, Michael,” she said, pulling me closer.

We kissed slowly as the lights of the city swept through the windows and the rain pounded hard on the cab’s roof. We came up for air as we stopped before a dripping red traffic light.

“Sorry,” Mary Catherine said to the cabbie.

“No, please. Perfectly fine, in fact,” the cabbie said, looking at us in the rearview. “I like to see people in love. And I know the real thing when I see it.”

I watched Mary Catherine reapply her lipstick as there was a hum. But it wasn’t my phone, for a change—it was Mary Catherine’s.

“Hello?” she said.

I watched her listen. After a second, her expression changed as she sat up straight.

“What is it?” I said.

“It’s Brian,” Mary Catherine said. “Something’s wrong. It’s Seamus.”

I grabbed the phone.

“Brian, what is it?”

“He’s not talking, Dad,” Brian managed to say through his bawling. “I just came out to say good night, and Gramps is on the couch and all he does is just stare at me.”

“Is he breathing?”

“Yes, a little, I think.”

“We’re on our way, Bri. Hang in there. I’ll call the paramedics and call you back.”

I turned toward the cabbie. “Change of plans,” I yelled as I dialed 911. “Ninety-Fifth and West End Avenue. Please hurry.”

CHAPTER 64