DIDN’T SEE YOU at the play,” Shepherd says. “You must’ve slipped out quick.”
Libby gives me a look that reads: You forgot to mention your date was Adonis?
“My sister had to pee,” I say, which only magnifies her put-out expression. “This is Libby. Libby, Shepherd.”
Libby says only, “Wow.”
“Nice to meet you, Libby,” he replies.
She shakes his hand. “Strong grip. Always a great quality in a man, right, Nora?” She looks at me pointedly, simultaneously trying to be my wingwoman and to embarrass me.
“It seems to come in handy in James Bond movies,” I agree. Shepherd smiles politely. No one says anything. I cough. “Because of all the people dangling off buildings . . .”
He nods. “Got it.”
The temporary madness or magic of the other night has worn off. I have no idea how to interact with this man.
He says, “Can I grab either of you something? Beer? Seltzer?”
“I’d have wine,” I say.
“You know what?” Libby grins. “This darn bladder! I already have to pee again.”
Shepherd gestures down the hall. “Restroom’s right down that way.”
“I’ll be back in a sec,” Libby promises, and as Shepherd turns to pour me a glass of wine from an open bottle on the counter, she makes a break for it, mouthing over her shoulder, NO I WON’T.
Shepherd hands me the glass, and I tip my chin at the— approximately—fourteen thousand bottles of wine on the island. “You all really want to forget that play.”
He laughs. “What do you mean?”
I take a big sip. “Just joking. About the wine.”
He scratches the back of his head. “My aunt runs this informal wine exchange. Everyone brings one, and she puts numbers on the bottom. At the end, she raffles off whatever doesn’t get drunk.”
“Sounds like my kind of lady,” I say. “Is she here?”
“Course,” he says. “She wouldn’t miss her own party.”
I almost inhale my wine and have to cough to clear my lungs. “Sally? Sally’s your aunt? Charlie Lastra’s your cousin?”
“I know, right?” he says, chuckling. “Total opposites. Funny thing is, we were pretty close as kids. Grew apart as we got older, but his bark’s worse than his bite. He’s a good guy, underneath it all.”
I need to either change the topic or scout out a fainting couch. “I promise I was going to call, by the way.”
“No worries,” he says, a bashful dimple appearing. “I’ll be around.”
I say, “So your family owns the horse farm?”
“Stables,” he corrects me.
“Right.” I have no clue what the difference is.
“It’s my parents’ place. When construction stuff is slow for me and my uncle, I still help them out sometimes.”
Uncle. Construction. He works with Charlie’s dad.
Shepherd’s phone buzzes. He sighs as he reads the screen. “Didn’t realize it had gotten so late. I’ve gotta head out.”
“Oh,” I say, still on a snappy dialogue hot streak.
“Hey,” he says, brightening, “I hope this doesn’t sound too pushy—because I understand if you’re not interested—but if you want to go on a trail ride while you’re here, I’d love to take you.”
His warm, friendly expression is as dazzling as it was when I first bumped into him outside Mug + Shot. He is, I wholeheartedly believe, a truly nice man.
“Maybe so,” I say, then renew my promise to call him. As his pine-and-leather scent retreats across the room, I stay rooted to the spot, caught in an endless loop of Shepherd is Charlie’s cousin. I almost kissed Charlie’s cousin.
It shouldn’t matter, but it does. I can hear Charlie saying, This can’t be anything, but I can’t shake the feeling that it already is.
I feel vaguely sick. Libby still isn’t back yet, and I’m too deep in my thoughts for small talk with strangers. Avoiding every attempt at eye contact, I wander through the crowd to the far end of the living room.
A series of three massive paintings hangs in a triptych. The walls are covered in paintings, actually, every color palette and size, giving the house a cozy, eclectic feeling mismatched to its old-fashioned exterior.
The paintings are definitely nudes, though abstracted: all pinks and tans and browns, purple curves and shadows. They remind me of the Matisse Cut-Outs, but whereas those always strike me as romantic, even erotic—all artful arches and curved, pretzeling legs—these feel casual, the kind of vulnerable nudity of walking around naked in your apartment, looking for your hairbrush.
The scent of weed hits me right before her voice, but I still flinch when Sally says, “Are you an artist?”
“Definitely not. But I’m an appreciator.”
She lifts the wine bottle in her hand like it’s a question. I nod and she tops off my glass.
“Who made them?” I ask.
Sally’s lips tighten into an apple-cheeked smile. “I did. In another life.”
“They’re phenomenal.” From a technical standpoint, I know very little about art, but these paintings are beautiful, calming in their earthy colors and organic shapes. They’re decidedly not the kind of art that makes a person say, My four-year-old niece could paint this.
“I can’t believe you made these.” I shake my head. “It’s so strange to see something like this and realize it just came from a normal person. Not that you’re normal!”
“Oh, honey,” she laughs. “There are far worse things to be. Normal is a badge I wear proudly.”
“You could’ve been famous,” I say. “I mean, that’s how good these are.”
She appraises the paintings. “Speaking of those ‘worse things to be than normal.’ ”
“Fame comes with money,” I point out. “Money’s helpful.”
“Fame also comes with people telling you whatever they think you want to hear.”
“Hello there,” Libby coos, slipping into place beside us. She gives me an indiscreet waggle of the eyebrows, and I’m grateful Sally misses it, so I don’t have to explain the meaning behind it is She wants me to screw your nephew! Instead of your son! Which was also briefly on the table!
“Sally painted these,” I say.
Libby looks to her for confirmation. “No freaking way!”
Sally laughs. “So shocked!”
“These are, like, professional, Sally,” Libby says. “Have you ever tried to sell any?”
“I used to.” She looks displeased at the thought.
“Wuh-oh,” Libby says. “There’s clearly a story here. Come on, Sal. Let it out.”
“Not a very interesting one,” she says.
“Lucky for you, we just saw a play that severely lowered our standards,” I say.
Sally lets out a devilish snort and pats my arm. “Don’t let Reverend Monica hear you say that. Old Man Whittaker is her godson.”
“I hope he’ll pose for the statue in the town square,” I say.
“That statue could look like my mail carrier, Derek, for all I care,” Sally says. “Long as the plaque says Whittaker. We need the business that sort of thing could bring in.”
“Back to the story,” Libby says. “You used to sell your paintings?”
She sighs. “Well, when I was a girl, I wanted to be a painter. So when I was eighteen, I went to Florence to paint for a few weeks, which turned into months—Clint and I broke up, of course—and after a year, I came back to the States to try to break into the art scene in New York.”
“Get out!” Libby lightly thwacks Sally’s arm. “Where’d you live?”
“Alphabet City,” she says. “Long, long time ago. Stayed for the next eleven years, working my ass off. Sold some paintings, applied for shows constantly. Worked for three or four different artists and spent every night trying to network in galleries. Worked myself to the bone. Then, finally, when I’d been at it for eight years, I was part of this group show. And this guy walks in, picks out one of my paintings, and buys it. Turns out he’s a renowned curator. My career takes off overnight.”
“That’s the dream!” Libby squeals.
“I thought so,” Sally replies. “But I realized the truth pretty fast.”
“That Clint was your true love?” Libby guesses.
“That it was all a game. My paintings hadn’t changed, but suddenly all these places that had turned me down wanted me. People who’d never looked my way were all over me. Hardly mattered what I made. My work became a status symbol, nothing more, nothing less.”
“Or,” I say, “you were extremely talented, and it took one person with good taste to say so before the masses caught on.”
“Maybe,” Sally allows. “But by then I was tired. And homesick. And usually pretty hungry and broke, and the curator came on to me when I was just lonely enough to fall into bed with him. Not long after my father passed, we broke up, and I came home to be with my mother. While I was here, she asked Clint to come clean our gutters.”
“The jokes just write themselves,” I say.
“So then you realized he was your true love?” Libby says.
Sally smiles. “That time, yes. He was engaged by then. Didn’t stop my mother’s machinations. Her mantra was It’s not official until they’re down the aisle. Thank God she was right. As soon as I saw Clint again, I knew I’d made a huge mistake. Three weeks later, he was engaged to me.”
“That’s so romantic,” Libby says.
“But didn’t you miss it?” I say.
“Miss what?” Sally says, clearly not tracking.
“The city,” I say. “The galleries in New York. All of it.”
“Honestly, after all those years of toiling, it was a huge relief to come here and just . . .” She lets out a deep breath, her arms floating up at her sides. “Settle.”
“No kidding,” Libby says. “We moved to the city so our mom could try to make it as an actress—the most chronically exhausted person in the world.”
“That’s not fair.” She was spread thin, sure, but she was also full of life, ecstatic to be chasing her dreams.
Libby shoots me a look. “Remember that time she was a nickel short at the bodega? Right after that Producers audition? The clerk told her to put a lime back, and she broke down.”
My heart squeezes. I had no idea Libby remembered that. She’d just turned six, and Mom wanted to bake Lib’s favorite corn-lime cookies. When Mom started melting down at the register, I grabbed the extra lime in one hand and Libby’s little fingers in my other and dragged her back to the produce, taking our time zigzagging back to Mom while she gathered herself.
If you could have any treat, from any book, I asked her, what would you choose?
She picked Turkish delight, like Edmund ate in Narnia. I picked frobscottle from The BFG, because it could make you fly. That night, the three of us watched Willy Wonka and cleaned out the remains of our Halloween candy.
It’s a happy memory, the kind that almost sparkles. More proof that every problem could be solved with the right itinerary.
Everything turned out okay, I remember thinking. As long as we’re together, it always does.
We were happy.
But that’s not what Libby’s telling Sally. She’s saying, “Mom was broke, tired, and lonely. She put her career ahead of absolutely everything and was miserable because of it.” She turns to Sally, conspiratorial. “Nora’s the same way—worked to the bone. No time for a real life. She once refused a second date with a guy because he asked her to put her phone on Do Not Disturb during dinner. Work always comes first for her. That’s why I dragged her here. This trip is basically an intervention.”
She says it all like a joke, but there’s something hard and thorny underneath, and her words land in my gut like a punch. The room has started to pulse and waver. My throat feels full, my clothes itchy against my skin, like something is swelling inside me. She’s still talking, but her words are garbled.
Tired, lonely, no real life, work always comes first.
For weeks, I’ve worried how people will see me once Frigid hits shelves, but Libby—Libby’s the only person who’s ever really known me. And this is how she sees me.
Like a shark.
The shame hits hot and fast, a desperation to crawl out of my skin. To be anywhere else. To be someone else.
I break away, heading for the bathroom in the front hall, but it’s locked, and I beeline toward the front door instead, only to find a handful of people crowding it. I double back, dizzy.
I want to be alone. I need to be somewhere I can vanish into a crowd, or at least where no one will acknowledge what’s happening to me.
What is happening to me?
The stairs. I take them to the second floor. There’s a bathroom at the end of the hall. I’m almost to it when a room on the right catches my eye. A wall of books is visible through the cracked-open door.
It’s a beacon, a lighthouse on a far shore. I step inside and close the door behind me, the party receding to a muffle. My shoulders relax a little, the thud of my heart settling as I take in the cherry-red race car bed against the wall on my left.
Not a store-bought plastic monstrosity, but a homemade wooden frame, painted to glossy perfection. The sight of it sends a pang through me. As do the homemade bookshelves lining the far wall. There’s so much care, not just in the construction but in the organization, Charlie’s touch and Clint’s as visible as inky fingerprints.
The books are meticulously ordered by genre and author, but not pretty. Not rows of leather-bound tomes, just paperbacks with creased spines and half-missing covers, books with five-cent thrift store stickers on them, and Dewey decimal indicators on the ones that came from library sales.
They’re the kinds of books Mrs. Freeman used to give us, the ones she’d stick in the Take a Book, Leave a Book bin.
Libby and I used to joke that Freeman Books was our father. It helped raise us, made us feel safe, brought us little presents when we felt down.
Daily life was unpredictable, but the bookstore was a constant. In winter, when our apartment was too cold, or in summer, when the window unit couldn’t keep up, we’d go downstairs and read in the shop’s coveted window seat. Sometimes Mom would take us to the Museum of Natural History or the Met to cool down, and I’d bring my shredded copy of From the Mixed-Up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler with me and think, If we had to, we could live here, like the Kincaid siblings. Between the three of us, we’d be fine. It’d be fun.
Magic. That’s what those days felt like. Not how Libby made it sound.
Sure, there were problems, but what about all those days lying on our bellies in the Coney Island sand reading until the sun set? Or nights spent in a row on our sofa, eating junk food and watching old movies?
What about the Rockefeller Center tree lighting, hot cocoa keeping our hands warm?
Life with Mom, life in New York, was like being in a giant bookstore: all these trillions of paths and possibilities drawing dreamers into the city’s beating heart, saying, I make no promises but I offer many doors.
You may chassé across a spotlit stage with the best of them, but you may also weep over an unbought lime.
Four days after the lime incident, Mom’s friends came over with Cook’s champagne and an envelope of cash they’d pooled to help us out.
Yes, New York is exhausting. Yes, there are millions of people all swimming upstream, but you’re also in it together.
That’s why I put my career first. Not because I have no life, but because I can’t bear to let the one Mom wanted for us slip away. Because I need to know Libby and Brendan and the girls and I will all be okay no matter what, because I want to carve out a piece of the city and its magic, just for us. But carving turns you into a knife. Cold, hard, sharp, at least on the outside.
Inside, my chest feels bruised, tender.
It’s one thing to accept that the person I love most is fundamentally unknowable to me; it’s another to accept that she doesn’t quite see me either. She doesn’t trust me, not enough to share what’s going on, not enough to lean on me or let me comfort her.
All those old feelings bubble up until I can’t get a good breath, until I’m drowning.
“Nora?” A voice spears through the miasma, low and familiar. Light spills in from the hallway. Charlie stands in the doorway, the only fixed point in the swirl.
He says my name again, tentative, a question. “What happened?”
