Honey (8 page)

Honey sagged into the mattress, glad she faced away so he couldn't read her relief. “Okay, well, I don't want to make you late.”

“I'm going to grab a shower first. The old bitch has a nose like a bloodhound. Join me?”

She shook her head. “No thanks. I'll … rinse off later.”

He shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

Reaching for her childhood stuffed animal cat, Mr. Pinky, set atop her night table, Honey buried her face into the worn terry cloth, wondering how she'd ever got so lost. She'd left Omaha for New York with Mr. Pinky, a suitcase crammed with cheap designer knockoffs—and a whole lot of big-city dreams. Most of those dreams, she now acknowledged, had revolved around meeting a man—the man—who would take care of her.

Eight years later, her version of Happily Ever After looked a lot different. It wasn't about finding love, marrying, and having children, though she hoped to someday have all of those things.

It was all about freedom.

 

“If I'm honest I have to tell you I still read fairy tales and I like them best of all.”—Audrey Hepburn

April, Union Square Park

Weeks slipped into months. Banked snow, blackened by vehicle exhaust and plowed by pedestrian feet, slowly melted away. The thermometer inched upward. Trees and bushes budded. Public green space became green again. Before Marc knew it, they were into April. Making out at the IFC seemed more like something he'd fantasized about, not actually done. And yet, paradoxically, Honey had become a very real presence in his life.

Amazingly they'd found a way to be friends. By mutual agreement, the movie make-out episode was never brought up—or repeated. If Marc had his way, and he meant to, it never would be. As much as he'd loved kissing and stroking her, and having her do those things to him in return, the shitty feelings that followed had taken too great a toll. He might have stopped before going all the way, but that didn't excuse going as far as he had. He wasn't her doctor anymore, but he'd started out that way. Initially he'd sought her out solely to try and help her out of her situation. That was still his hope. Good intentions were great, but on the downside, hell was paved with them. Action was needed to back them up. Being “just friends” wasn't always easy on him—it was hardly ever that—but given that was the only way he could stay sane and still see her, the struggle was worth it.

They settled into a pattern, meeting weekly, more often when his ever-shifting work schedule allowed it. Either way, he made it a point to touch base once a day, preferably by phone but at least by text, not only to say hi but most importantly to make sure that she was all right, that Drew hadn't hurt her again. So far as Marc knew, he hadn't. According to Honey, who was still infuriatingly tight-lipped on the subject, Drew was slammed at work, including managing a new private investment pool he'd set up for middle-income people to have access to making money in the market. Marc was happy to hear it. Hell, he'd welcome another crash if it meant keeping Winterthur occupied and away from her. Every time he watched her walk off, he wondered if their next meet-up would be in the ER or worse, the morgue. Until she decided to leave—and it was, he reluctantly admitted, her decision, not his—they would play things as safely as possible, including steering clear of any place in the vicinity of midtown or Wall Street.

With the weather warming up, more and more their clandestine catch-ups occurred outdoors in public parks, or at least they started there. Sometimes their rendezvous segued to brunch or dinner. When that happened, Marc always paid. Along with being raised by his mother to be a “gentleman,” he'd noticed that Honey didn't carry much cash, though she did have a credit card, which she very rarely used, at least not in his presence. It might or might not be in her name, but he bet anything the monthly statement went to Winterthur. He wasn't a psychiatrist but he'd seen and read enough to know that control was a big-driver issue for most abusers. Keeping Honey on a short leash financially was likely one of the ways Winterthur exerted his.

Still, despite his “friendship” with her, little had changed. She was still living in Winterthur's Park Avenue apartment—and under his thumb. Knowing the bastard must make at least occasional love to her, if you could call using someone's body for sport, and occasionally as a punching bag, “making love,” had him seeing red. The thought of Honey in the bastard's bed and at his mercy made Marc want to punch things—starting with Winterthur's face. But since doing so would bring on all kinds of trouble for Honey, he settled for a substitute. Going back to boxing at his local gym wasn't going to move any mountains, but at least the workouts helped him release the tension and anger in a safe, healthy way. Too bad Winterthur didn't try it.

The tension wasn't only anger; it had a strong sexual component as well. Honey might be just his “friend,” but the desire to be more to her hadn't gone away just because he'd found his mislaid morals. If anything, it was stronger than ever. But right now she didn't need a second lover complicating her life. What she needed,
all
she needed, was a friend who had her well-being at heart. Marc focused on being that for her.

That didn't mean it was easy.

He descended the curved steps from the statue of Mahatma Gandhi to where Honey had finally stopped snapping pictures of him with her iPhone camera. Situated on the periphery of the park's southwest corner, the bronze depicting the renowned Indian leader was set against a backdrop of magnolia trees in full blossom. Eyeing the stalls of the green market, where not only fruits, vegetables, and meats were sold but also an array of artisanal cheeses, wines, and baked goods, all of them locally sourced, Marc heard his stomach rumble. Earlier he'd suggested they put off picture taking, pull up a bench, and make a picnic of the goods they'd bought.

But Honey could be stubborn when she felt something to be sufficiently important, a character trait that gave Marc hope that her days as an abused kept woman might well be numbered. Noting the fire in her eyes and the firming of her mouth, he recognized this was one of those times—and that he didn't have a chance.

Those blossoms, she pointed out, flinging a slender arm back toward the tree, were as fragile and fleeting as they were beautiful. One good rain would send most of the petals dropping. A slightly overcast sky and the weather forecast calling for midday thunderstorms bore her out. Marc resigned himself to more posing.

“You must be the worst model ever,” she declared, softening the complaint with a smile. “Besides being a fidget, you're a blinker.”

Marc admitted to both. “I've singlehandedly managed to mess up every family Christmas and Fourth of July photo for the past two decades. My mother says I was drawn to emergency medicine because it always keeps me in motion. I've never admitted it before, but I think she may be right. A desk job would kill me. Unless I'm reading, I seriously hate sitting still. Even then I'm more likely to pick up my tablet and start pacing.”

He paused there, belatedly wondering what had started him babbling. Honey was incredibly easy to talk to. Over the past months, he'd probably strung more words into sentences with her than he had in the last five years of dating. And she was fun, seriously fun. Be it something as simple as strolling through the city on a quest for the perfect angle, light, backdrop—whatever—she was a great companion, a great friend, a great …

Rather than go “there,” he glanced down at her hands. “Can I see?”

“Sure, but remember to be gentle. I'm still … learning.” She held out the phone.

He took it from her, flipping through the last few photo frames. “Whoa, these are really good. You have a real eye.” The compliment wasn't only intended to boost her self-confidence. He meant it.

She dismissed his praise with a shrug of her slender shoulders. “I'm just an amateur.”

Not for the first time it struck him how often she prefaced her passions and accomplishments with “just,” as if by getting the jump start on minimizing herself, she might divert some knockdown blow.

“Everybody starts out that way. You think the Sistine Chapel was Michelangelo's first time picking up a paintbrush? That Frank Lloyd Wright started out with Fallingwater as his inaugural project? That he didn't maybe, you know, try designing something simpler like a tree house first?” He would have referenced a famous photographer too, but off the top of his head he couldn't come up with any.

But he had her laughing, and that was something. Shaking her head, she shot him a smile. “You really are sweet, but I'm hardly in the same league.”

At times like this, Marc could have shaken her—gently, of course. “My point is to stop being so hard on yourself. How do you even know what league you're in until you try? Why not take a class,
one
class, and see how that goes? There's the New School or SVA or … ” He stopped when he saw her gaze glazing over.

“Classes and camera equipment cost money,” she said, looking beyond him toward the green market which showed signs of winding down.

So do shoes
, Marc felt like saying, but for once kept his mouth shut—sort of. “Why not make like the Nike ad and ‘Just Do It?'”

She slid the phone back into her purse and looked back up at him. “Maybe I will … someday.”

In Marc's assessment, someday usually equated to never, but tough as it was, he kept his lip buttoned and his judgments to himself—for now. Instead, he said, “You know I may still be a lowly ER resident, but I do okay for myself. I have some money set aside, and I'd be happy to—”

“I will
not
take money from you.” Her fierce look took him aback. He hadn't seen anything like it since that first day, the morning when he followed her back to the Park Avenue apartment.

“At least hear me out first before deciding.”

“I've already decided,” she said, her expression softening, though her voice held firm. “Besides, you disapprove of me. Don't trouble yourself to deny it. It's true.”

“I do not … well, who cares what I think? I just—”

“I do not accept money from disapproving gentlemen,” she answered gamely.

Mark bit back a groan. Another Audrey quote! From
Breakfast at Tiffany's
, he believed. In the spirit of being a better …
friend
to her, a couple of weeks ago he'd streamed it from Netflix and watched the whole thing through. Though he'd never been a fan of old films—the whole “Sally Tomato” subplot was supremely silly—this one was more entertaining than he had reason to expect. Or maybe it was his knowing how much the movie meant to Honey that had made it of interest to him.

“Consider it as a loan if that makes you feel more comfortable,” he conceded, though he never meant for it to be anything but a free-and-clear gift. That Honey wasn't prepared to accept it in that way called for some creativity on his part. He paused to regroup, an idea tickling the corners of his mind. “Or maybe we could work out some sort of barter agreement.”

Her gaze narrowed. “What kind of barter?”

Her suspicion was as apparent as her uniquely pretty mouth. A few months ago he might have been offended, but not so now. Now he got it—her. It wasn't that she distrusted him specifically. It was men as a whole. Not for the first time, he wondered what relationships might have preceded the one with Winterthur. Though he couldn't put his finger on exactly why, he was starting to suspect she hadn't ever had a real adult boyfriend.

Marc circled back to her question. What could he reasonably—and respectably—have her do for him that, above all, wouldn't get her into hot water with Winterthur? Jiggling his knee, he thought for a moment. Eureka—he had it. His mother, when she visited, was always on his case about his apartment. Not only was it a “wreck” so far as mess went, but apparently it was so uninviting as to merit being called Spartan, or so she complained. Along with being low on time and patience for fixing it up, Marc was afraid he didn't have the taste. Fabric swatches, paint chips, draperies, and home décor items—it was all part of a foreign world he couldn't begin to figure out.

But he bet Honey could. He thought back to his first, and only, time inside her apartment. Despite her “boyfriend” busting the place up along with her, he remembered it as sophisticated but also charming. Someone had obviously taken considerable time and care in searching for unique, not cookie-cutter, furnishings and pieces. Marc seriously doubted that person was Winterthur.

Hoping he could sell her on the idea, he steered them over to an empty bench. Settling onto it, he shifted to face her. “I bought my place a few years ago. The building is early twentieth century and doesn't have all that much in the way of amenities, but it gets great light and it still has most of the original features.”

Her face lit. “I love prewar apartments. They have such great bones.”

“Yeah, well the problem with my place is that it's so
barebones
. It still looks like I just moved in and with my work schedule—”

“I'd love to help you redo it.”

“You would?” Could convincing her really be this easy?

She nodded. “I'm no expert. Whatever I know is completely self-taught. But I do have a … friend with a background in interior design. He works in Manhattan as a window dresser for Ralph Lauren.”

Until now, Marc hadn't heard her mention having any friends of either gender. For a fleeting, not very self-flattering moment, he felt a twinge of actual jealousy. Tamping it down, he nodded. “Ralph Lauren, wow, that's great.” To Marc, one designer was the same as another; still, the Ralph Lauren brand was so strong, even he knew the name.

She nodded. “It really is. He has all sorts of imaginative ideas. Who knows, he might even lend us his employee discount. I'd have to ask him about that, of course.”

“That'd be great, but no pressure. I mean I don't want to put anyone on the spot.” He hesitated. “When uh … do you think you might want to come by and, you know, have a look?”

She hesitated. “I'll have to check my … schedule. Can I let you know tomorrow?”

By her schedule, what she meant was Drew's. But it was what it was—for now.

“Sure,” Marc forced himself to answer. Pulling one of the croissants he'd bought earlier out from the white paper bag, he handed it to her.

“Yum, thank you,” she said, taking a big bite.

For the next few minutes, they ate in companionable quiet. Feeling a drop on his nose, Marc looked up. Clouds were moving in, no doubt about it. “Looks like we're getting rained on after all,” he observed.

Honey sent him what he now recognized as her
I told you so
look but otherwise she refrained from rubbing it in. “The wind is picking up,” she said, reaching up to deal with the loosened hair lashing her face.