Falling (3 page)

A
dull thud on the front door makes Emma jump. She can't imagine who could possibly be visiting her. She puts down a stack of books, eyeing the door nervously. “Hello?” she calls, as her hand hovers over the door handle.

“Hey,” she hears from outside. “It's Dominic DiFranco. I wondered if you needed some help.”

Opening the door, Emma is simultaneously grateful and slightly nervous. Is it normal for the landlord to show up whenever he feels like it? She looks over his shoulder but there is no car in her driveway.

“Where do you live?” she asks. “Did you walk over here?”

“It seemed silly to drive,” says Dominic, gesturing to a large red pickup truck in the driveway next door. “Given that I live next door.”

“You do? Why didn't you say anything?”

“What if it had freaked you out?” he says.

“What if it's freaking me out now?”

“Is it?”

“A little.” Emma frowns. This is something he should have mentioned. Surely this is relevant. She knows nothing about him, she realizes, thinking how unbalanced that is.

“Don't let it. I inherited both of these houses from my grandparents when they died. They lived in this one, and rented out the one I now live in. I do the opposite. I live next door with my kid, Jesse. It helps to supplement my meager income as bartender-slash-carpenter.”

“You have a kid? Sweet. How old is he?”

“Six. He's the coolest. You'll meet him soon. I'm surprised he hasn't poked his nose in already to meet the new neighbor.”

“Thank you for the warning! I'll look out for him. So you're a bartender? That's cool. Where do you work?”

“The Fat Hen?” He looks at her, expecting a reaction.

She stares at him, not sure what she is supposed to say. “Great.”

“You don't know it?”

Emma starts to laugh. “How would I know it? I've been living in town for, oh”—she looks at her watch—“approximately four hours and thirty-six minutes.”

“We've been on Guy Fieri's show.” His chest puffs up proudly. “
Diners, Drive-Ins and Dives
?”

His pride is endearing. Emma smiles as she watches him, certain now that whoever said all men are little boys at heart was right. “Should I have seen it?”

He gasps. “Yes! Yes, you should have seen it! It's the greatest show ever invented.”

He's sweet, she realizes. A big kid. “I'm not a big television watcher,” Emma admits reluctantly.

“How about the games?”

“What games?”

“Weekend sports. Baseball. Basketball. Come on. You've got to watch football, at least?”

“Nope.” Emma shakes her head and laughs. “I'm so sorry, but not even football.” She peers at him. “When you say football, do you actually mean American football? Or
real
football?”

“You mean soccer? Soccer is soccer and football is football. What's American football?”

The teasing is fun. She hasn't had a sparky, teasing conversation for a very long time, she realizes. Her old colleagues took themselves too seriously to engage in conversations like this. “American football? It's like rugby for wimps. With helmets and padding.”

“Oh, ha ha,” says Dominic, shaking his head. “I think maybe we should take the topic of sports off the table. You should come down to the Fat Hen, though. I'm working tonight. I'll get you a good seat at the bar and make sure you're looked after.” He leans forward, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “First shot's on me.”

“Shot!” Emma barks with laughter. “Good lord! Do I look like a shot girl to you?”

“Everyone looks like a shot girl to me. What's the point of drinking if you don't start off with a shot? Tell you what. I'll help haul boxes for you if you promise to come and have a drink at the Hen tonight. It's the perfect introduction to town. The real Westport. Not the prettied-up, perfect version.”

Emma appraises him. Of course he doesn't like the prettied-up, perfect version of anything. How could he? Everything about this man is real.
Integrity
, she finds herself thinking.
He has integrity.
“I suppose we'll find out tonight which I prefer,” she says, challenging him gently on his preconception of her. “And thank you, I would love
some help with the boxes. I've got far more books than I realized and I'm not sure where to put them.”

Dominic looks around the living room. “You want me to build some shelves in here? I could make some beautiful built-in cabinets.”

“Actually, I wouldn't mind some in there.” She points to the family room. “I was thinking of having that as a little library-cum-office. Would you be able to build some shelves in there? I was just about to order some of those stepladder bookshelves, but having built-ins would be even better.”

“Sure. All part of the service. No charge.” He smiles at her. “I can run to Home Depot today and pick up the wood. I'll just have to take measurements.”

“You would really do it? I was kind of joking. I didn't actually think you'd say yes.”

Dominic frowns. “Why would you joke about that?”

“Because it would be unthinkably rude to actually ask for something so huge. Are you completely serious? Because I totally understand if you aren't.” Part of her feels guilty. She barely knows him, and yet she trusts him. If he means it, she wants him to do it.

“I'm totally serious.”

“Thank you,” she says. “Truly. This is amazing.” She is smiling widely, unable to quite believe his kindness. “Can I just ask one tiny thing?”

“What?”

“If you're going to build bookshelves, wouldn't it be better to remove the carpet first? You don't want shelves sitting on the carpet. If I pull it up while you're gone, we can recut it to fit around the shelves. That will give a much more professional finish.”

Dominic looks at the carpet, thinking, before nodding. “Okay.
Sure. You pull the carpet up and we can refit it when the shelves are done.”

“Fantastic!” Emma's face is alight with pleasure that her plan to get rid of the hideous carpet has been put in motion so soon. “Let's get these boxes stacked up against the wall so at least we can get the rest of the furniture in.”

Y
ou're right, this is . . . fine for a temporary place to live,” says Sophie, walking through the house and trying not to show how much she hates it. “I mean, I really can't see what it's going to look like with all the boxes everywhere. And . . . that terrible wood.”

“I know. The wood. Isn't it awful? I'm dying to paint it all, but I need to move slowly. I've already got the landlord to agree to take the carpet up, which will then mysteriously disappear. ‘Oh bugger! Those bloody garbage disposal men took it by mistake. I only propped it up against the wall outside because there was no room for it inside. Oh, I'm so sorry. How about I replace it with some lovely fresh, new, clean sisal? My treat. To make up for my mistake.'”

Sophie laughs. “Poor landlord. He won't know what's hit him. So what's the story with him? Is he cute?”

Emma starts to laugh. “Absolutely not. First of all, have you not
heard the expression about not doing your dirty business on your own doorstep?”

“Are you kidding? Where better? He could slip through the sliding doors at night and have his wicked way with you. So, is he cute?”

“Sophie, no. First of all, he's not my type, at all.”

“What's your type?”

“Not him.”

“Methinks the lady doth protest too much.”

“I promise you, Sophie. He's not for me. But he seems like a lovely guy and he did help me move all the boxes.” Emma sits up as she hears the sound of a car. “In fact, here he is after his Home Depot run. So now you'll get to see for yourself.”

Sophie joins Emma to look out the window, giving a low wolf whistle as Dominic climbs out of his truck and goes to the back, hauling planks of wood off the flatbed.

“Are you kidding?” she says. “He's ridiculously sexy.”

“Not going to happen,” says Emma. “We couldn't be more different.”

“You don't have to marry him, but a summer fling would be an excellent idea. Whoa. Who is that?” A small boy, a miniature version of Dominic who looks to be about six years old but sports a Mohawk, climbs out of the passenger seat and walks to the back of the truck to help.

“That,” says Emma, “is his son. Jesse. Yet another reason not to get involved.”

“What's the story there?” Sophie is intrigued. “Divorced?”

“I have no idea. Honestly, Sophie, I just met him. I certainly don't want to start peppering the poor man with questions. He's my landlord, after all, and he lives next door. I don't want him to think I have any ulterior motives. I just want us to . . . be friends.” She pauses. “I did say I'd go and have a drink at the Fat Hen with him tonight, though.”

Sophie turns to her, openmouthed. “Oh my God! Are you kidding? You're having a date with him already?”

“It's not a date. He's the bartender there. He's just trying to make me feel at home. He's not trying to get into my knickers.”

“What?”

“It's an English expression. Never mind. Why don't you come with me?”

“And gate-crash your date? I don't think so! What are you wearing?”

“This!” Emma gestures down at her old clothes. “Oh, go on. Come. It will be much more fun if you're there.”

“I guess Rob could put Jackson to bed. It will give me a chance to get the lowdown on Sexy Dominic and the small son.”

Emma gives her a long, hard gaze. “I shouldn't have invited you, should I?”

“Too late now. How about I pick you up at seven?”

T
he Fat Hen parking lot, just off Riverside Avenue, is filled with pickup trucks, motorcycles, and the odd Audi and Range Rover. As Sophie parks the car, she explains to Emma that it is indeed a Westport institution, home to bikers from all over the state, as well as a popular spot for the brave hedge-fund manager who likes to experience the rough-and-ready of the real world from time to time. It's known for having the best burgers for miles, as well as live music three times a week, and karaoke on Mondays.

Neon signs adorn the walls, throwing glowing light into the otherwise dark space. A long bar runs along the wall, packed three deep, with a small restaurant area at the back. It is loud and raucous, filled with a mix of regulars and people stopping in to experience the famous joint.

And it is probably the last place on earth Emma would ever choose
to go. Her world, at least the world she has most recently left in New York City, is filled with genteel cocktail bars. In her world, she orders French martinis, Prosecco cocktails with St. Germain, Negroni Royales. She perches on bar stools surrounded by handsome, clean-cut men in sharp suits who eye her as soon as she walks in, determining whether to talk to her. This scene is about as far away from that world as you can get, and even though she willingly left all that behind, she's a little intimidated by what greets her here.

Emma grins as she pushes through the throng of people at the bar, trying to catch Dominic's eye to let him know she's arrived. Her blond, naturally curly hair is scooped up in a clip at the back of her head, with a few tendrils hanging loose. She's wearing an oversized white shirt and dark jeans, with flat espadrilles on her feet, only because she figured flip-flops probably weren't right for a night out, even to the Fat Hen. The only jewelry she wears is a large gold cuff on her right wrist, the last gift she gave to herself when she left the bank, and the last time she would spend serious money on something so utterly frivolous. She hasn't taken it off since.

Sophie is with her, rather more done up. Sophie has known about the Fat Hen all her life, but she hasn't ever been to the bar before, although Rob has. He warned her she was a little too dressed up, but Sophie paid him no mind. She dressed for herself, she'd told her husband, not for the bar she was going to, and so she had, wearing towering platforms, white jeans, a flowing shirt. With dangling earrings and blown-out hair, she gets admiring glances from the men at the bar as she walks in, as tall and slim as a model, and so very much more glamorous than most of the women here.

Dominic is chatting with a group at the other end of the bar, and as he looks over, he notices Sophie first, then lights up as he sees Emma.

“Hey!” He comes over with a grin, clearly thrilled they are here, thrilled to show off his workplace. “You made it!”

“I did.” Emma finds she has to shout. “This is my friend Sophie.”

They shake hands as Dominic turns to a couple of guys sitting on stools. “Hey! Get a move on, and let these ladies sit down.”

“No, no, it's fine,” Emma starts to say, but the men immediately stand up and offer their stools. Smiling a grateful thanks, she and Sophie sit down as Dominic pours them a couple of shots and slides them over.

“
Salut
,” he says, pouring himself one, too. The three of them down the shots in unison. “Welcome to the neighborhood.” He smiles, instantly refilling their glasses.

“Bugger,” says Emma, as she lifts the glass to her mouth. “We're not going to be driving home after this, are we?”

“That, my darling,” says Sophie, downing the second drink, “is what Uber is for.”

Dominic, overhearing, snorts as he shakes his head. “You bankers,” he says. “Uber!”

“I'm not a banker,” Sophie says defensively, although she's smiling. “Anymore. If I were, I wouldn't be here, would I?”

“Good point,” says Dominic. “Another shot?”

“No!” Emma interjects. “No more shots. Let's have proper drinks. I'll have a vodka martini, up, with olives. Sophie?”

“Vodka and grapefruit juice.”

“Coming right up, ladies.”

Sophie leans toward Emma as Dominic turns to pour the drinks. “He is very cute,” she says. “If I weren't married . . .”

“Thankfully you are, and thankfully, I am not you.”

Sophie looks up as Dominic approaches. “So, Dominic. I saw your very cute son today. How old is he?”

Dominic's face breaks into a smile at the mention of his son. “He just turned six, and thank you. He is very cute, I agree. Jesse. Light of my life.”

“Do you have a sitter?”

“I have a few. A friend's daughter often comes over when I'm working, then there's a high school student around the corner, and I have an old friend who fills in if I can't find anyone else. They're all great with him. He's the kind of kid who will go to anyone.”

“Where's his mom? Is she in town?”

Emma tries to catch Sophie's eye to give her a warning look—this feels far too intrusive to ask someone she doesn't know—but Dominic is unfazed.

“His mom took off just after he was born. She didn't want a kid, but by the time she found out she was pregnant it was too late. She had him, then left when he was about four months old.”

Sophie's mouth opens in shock. “Are you serious? She's not in touch with you at all?”

Dominic shrugs. “Nope. I tried. I used to e-mail her pictures of Jesse and updates about what he was up to, but then the e-mails started bouncing back. We haven't heard from her in years.”

Emma is disarmed by his candor about something so personal. Sophie, meanwhile, can't hide her shock. “So you're raising him all by yourself? Are your parents around? Do they help?”

“Nooo!” Dominic laughs. “I mean, they're around, but we don't see them too much. They're in Trumbull, but they're kind of busy doing their own thing.”

“So you're, like, the perfect man?” Sophie, Emma realizes, is drunk. Not sloppy drunk, but uninhibited drunk, as she leans across the bar, smiling.

Dominic looks at Emma. “I like your friend,” he says.

“This is what happens to her when she downs three drinks in as many minutes,” says Emma, wondering how it is that she is managing to hold her liquor so much better than Sophie.

“Is she married?”

“Very much so. With a very large and strong husband. The jealous kind. You know the type.”

Dominic shakes his head and whistles. “I shouldn't have poured you guys all those shots, should I? Is he going to show up and punch me?”

“Only if you're very unlucky.”

“Will you two stop talking about me as if I'm not here?” Sophie says. “Anyway. I am married and very happily, but Emma isn't. Emma is very definitely single, and isn't she gorgeous, Dominic? Don't you think she's pretty?” Sophie raises her eyebrows a few times, gesturing toward Emma with her head. “I just want you to know that if you were interested, you would have my blessing.”

“That's very kind of you,” says Dominic, laughing, as Emma turns a bright red and silently wishes the floor would miraculously open up and swallow her whole. “But I don't think it would be a good idea. Landlord, tenant, that whole thing. It can get messy. Also, I'm . . . seeing someone.”

“Okay?” Emma rolls her eyes at her friend. “Can you just stop now?”

Sophie throws her hands up in the air. “Okay, okay! Forgive me for trying to do some good in the world. So. Who are you dating? Is she cute?”

Dominic just shakes his head and laughs, excusing himself as he goes to serve a group of women at the other end of the bar.

“He really is cute. And nice. Did you notice? He's really nice,” Sophie says, turning to look at Emma and seeing that she is mortified. “I didn't mean to embarrass you. Sorry.”

“I think maybe after we've finished these drinks it's time to go home.”

“No way!” says Sophie. “This is the most fun I've had in years.”

Emma makes it a habit not to get drunk, but this evening, she's well on the way. At the very least, she has bypassed tipsy and moved firmly into that slightly more serious, happy stage of intoxication. She has a very large glass of water alongside her martini, which she is sipping regularly.

She doesn't like being drunk because she doesn't like being out of control. It has been such a long time since she's been in a situation like this that she's forgotten how much fun it is. She isn't blasted, not nearly as drunk as Sophie, but she is giggly and loose, and having fun with all the men in the bar—so many men! so friendly!—who are talking to them. She is having fun with the fact that Dominic is keeping an eye out for them and warning off any men he doesn't like the look of.

It's been a while since Emma had fun. It has definitely been a while since she has been anywhere where men have given her an appreciative glance.

For a while, when she first moved to New York, fresh out of her long-term relationship with Rufus, she dated up a storm. Everything was so exciting—the men! the bars! the way strangers would walk straight up to her in a restaurant and hand her their business card.

It didn't take long for her to realize how empty that was. Every man she dated inevitably ended up having a long list of other women he was taking out on the side. She had never heard of the word
exclusive
in terms of dating. Apparently, it was an American thing. Emma had always presumed that if, after around four or five dates, you liked each other and you ended up in bed together, you were “going out.”
Who would ever imagine that a person would be doing the same with someone else, or indeed, a number of someone elses? Well, everyone in New York, it seemed. Everyone but her.

It never felt like an even playing field. For every man Emma was interested in, there were at least three tall, skinny, leggy model-types who flung their Keratin'd hair around and smiled their perfect, white-toothed piranha smiles while elbowing Emma out of the way.

She couldn't compete with such high-maintenance gorgeousness, nor did she want to. At work, she put on her uniform—the designer uniform that all the female bankers were expected to wear: the Givenchy, the Dior, the Jimmy Choos, the Manolo Blahniks. She blew out her hair and expertly applied makeup every morning before leaving her apartment for work. But as soon as she got home she tore everything off and slipped into jeans and a T-shirt, scrubbing her face, pulling her hair back into a messy bun. On the weekends she let her curls burst free.

But every time she went out for dinner with one of the men she had met when she was done up for work, or at a client meeting, she knew she had to maintain the image or they would lose interest. After a while, she didn't want to pretend anymore. After a while, it just seemed easier to
not
date. And even though all of her work colleagues thought she was crazy moving out to the suburbs as a single, childless woman—
Westport! But you're not married! You're never going to meet anyone in Westport! What are you going to do in Westport?
—she knew she stood a better chance of meeting a real person there, someone who wasn't obsessed with a perfect trophy girlfriend hanging off his arm. More than that, she realized that in the life she wanted to live, meeting a man just wasn't the most important thing.

There were other things that Emma wanted to accomplish, things other than a picture-perfect relationship that may have been hollow
beneath all the flash and charm. A business of her own that fueled her creativity. A peaceful life. She dreamed of sitting in her own garden surrounded by hydrangeas, sipping a glass of wine and breathing in the salty air; going for daily walks along the beach; renting a kayak and taking it out on the water. She wanted to be living her life, finding friends, and if someone happened to come along whom she found interesting, then great. She wasn't going to go looking for him.

She was perfectly happy building a new life by herself.

In fact, the last thing she needed was a man to complicate things. Although, with a couple of drinks under her belt, there was nothing wrong with the tiniest bit of flirting. Was there?

•   •   •

Later in the evening, a girl comes into the Hen and Emma sees every man in the bar appraise her as she sashays through the crowd with a very plain friend. She walks right through the crowd, stopping several stools down from where Emma and Sophie are sitting.

“Dom!” She leans over the bar, pulls Dominic in with a proprietorial hand around the back of his neck, and gives him a long kiss on the lips.

“Wow.” Sophie leans toward Emma with a frown. “That's the girlfriend? How disappointing.”

She is pretty, Emma thinks, pretty beneath all the makeup. Her hair is very blond, and very hair-sprayed. Her eyelashes are false, her T-shirt tight and low-cut. She's sexy as hell.

“Why? She's a bombshell,” says Emma.

“She looks like she just walked out of Ruby's Two.”

“What the hell is Ruby's Two?”

“It's where the girls are.”

Emma continues to look bemused.

“A strip club! It's where all our hedge-fund husbands go for their boys' nights out. And trust me, it's not exactly . . . not exactly sophisticated.”

“Are you calling his girlfriend cheap?”

“Yes!” slurs Sophie delightedly. “That's exactly what I'm calling her. She's nothing compared to you. And without the makeup she's probably as rough as anything.”

“You're mean when you're drunk.” Emma sits back, looking at her friend in astonishment, narrowing her eyes to try to focus more clearly.

“I'm not mean. I'm just more honest. Seriously.”

Before Emma can respond, Dominic comes over with the blond girl. “Ladies, I'd like you to meet Gina.”

Sophie puts on her most gracious smile. “So nice to meet you,” she says, as Emma admires her capacity to switch gears so quickly. “I'm Sophie.”