Imaginary Lines (New York Leopards 3)

One would think that mothers would desist in matchmaking after their children reached the reasonably advanced age of twenty-three and twenty-four. One would be incorrect. “Oh, no, thank you, but I have a place all lined up.”

Her small, heart-shaped face appeared unconvinced. “Hmm. Well. You at least have to let him show you around. Does he know when you’re coming? I talked to him last week and he didn’t seem to know you’d gotten the job.”

I busied myself preparing my tea. “Oh, yeah...I hadn’t actually gotten around to telling him yet.” Mostly because I hadn’t actually spoken with Abraham Krasner in years. We were in a conspiracy of silence, and I intended to keep it that way.

Sharon tilted her head back and forth in thought. “Maybe he should pick you up from the airport.”

I waved a hand in negation. “That’s really not necessary. But thank you. My cousin Shoshi will be around to help out.”

“Well. He’ll have to take you out for dinner, then.”

Because there wasn’t much else I could say to that, I smiled and agreed.

Taking my tea, I slipped deeper into the house. The walls and photos were familiar from a decade of Fridays spent here. I paused in front of a shot of me and Abe playing on the beach on one of our family vacations to Tahoe. I was gangly and smiling up at Abe as though he contained the world. He was tall and golden, the sun sliding over him as he kicked water at me.

Shaking my head at my foolishness, I slipped into Mrs. Krasner’s study, hoping to get a few moments alone before heading once more into the fray. To my surprise, the room wasn’t empty—Abe’s grandmother sat in the easy chair, eyes lidded, a romance novel lying open on her lap. Charlie, the Krasners’ old golden lab, lifted his white muzzle and blinked his rheumy, dreamy eyes at me.

I slowly tiptoed backward, not wanting to wake her, but she shook herself and proved me too late. “Tamar, dear.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to disturb you.”

“You could never disturb me. But what are you doing back here?”

“It got a little noisy.”

She smiled as though unconvinced, but let it pass. “And so you’re leaving us. All the way to New York.”

I smiled and crouched down so I could ruffle Charlie’s soft, floppy ears. He was old now, almost fourteen. He slept almost as often as Mrs. Krasner did. “It’s not so far. You could come visit.”

She waved a hand. “You know me. I don’t fly. And what do I want with that cold, wet city?”

I laughed. “Your grandson, of course!”

She eyed me slyly; in that way only grandmas do, with all the sleuthing of the heroine of a cozy mystery apparent in her eyes. “Are you going to see Abraham?”

I shrugged and fell down into a cross-legged position. I’d walked into that question. “Oh, I’m sure. We’ll probably grab lunch sometime.”

My false nonchalance failed to fob her off, and her expression softened in a manner that made my stomach tighten. She reached down and patted my arm. “He just needed to grow up, you know.”

I knew exactly what she meant, but preferred not to admit it. Still, playing the fool under her watchful gaze would’ve been worse. I looked down for a moment as Charlie rested his warm snout on my thigh. “How about you? Any exciting plans this winter?”

She shook her head at my blatant evasion but went along with it. “I’m going to visit my sister in Arizona for two weeks.”

I smiled and nodded, and we rested in comfortable silence. I stroked Charlie’s head again and again, especially those long silky hairs behind his ears, and felt some of my tension finally leave me, even if the memories wouldn’t.

The last time I’d been in this room, some four years ago, I’d caught a glimpse of a green and white friendship bracelet tucked under a pile of Sharon Krasner’s pa

pers. It had been a punch to the gut. I’d made that bracelet for Abe the Hanukkah I’d been fifteen. Put my whole heart into it, but he didn’t care. At least she was too sentimental to throw away. I’d thought about filching it back, but that seemed too pathetic.

It was probably long gone by now. Eight years was a long time to keep hold of a sentimental trinket.

When I’d graduated two years ago, I’d sailed out of college with bright eyes and bushy hair, and the absolute certainty that I was going to make it. I’d earned good grades and I’d been marginally active in two clubs—culinary and band. I’d been editor of my school newspaper.

I’d grown up watching Gilmore Girls. The world was supposed to be my oyster.

Then I graduated in a recession and moved back home with my parents. That was not an oyster. All my friends seemed to be doing productive things with their lives, by which I meant going to grad school or getting unpaid internships. Gabi had swung a production assistant position in L.A., while our other best friend, Cindy, was getting her education master’s.

I didn’t get any of the jobs I applied for. And I didn’t get into J-school. And I started to realize that I wasn’t such a special snowflake, after all.