With Friends Like These: A Novel (8 page)

“Dr. Walter’s adviser thanks you for your offer but wonders if you’d be willing to increase it.”

“Uh-huh,” I said feeling a familiar disappointment snake up from the pit of my stomach, grip my insides, and give them a good yank. Every other apartment bid had run along these lines. “We’ll discuss it and I’ll call you in a bit.” I clicked off and explained.

“What it comes down to, is, do you really want this place?” Jake asked reasonably.

I thought of all my addresses in thirty-some years—the solid, three-story house in the Minneapolis of my childhood; the rambling Manhattan apartment I’d shared with a boyfriend, and then with Jules, Talia, and Chloe; Jake’s cozy hovel, which I moved into when we became engaged; our current rental in a building that looked like a stack of ice cubes, its balcony the size of a coffin. In the Central Park West apartment, I felt as embraced as if I’d lived there in a previous life of extraordinary contentment.

“My gut says go,” I admitted, “but maybe I’m getting carried away. I need a reality check.”

We walked in silence until Jake sat down by a stream we’d been following. He began picking up pebbles and idly throwing them into the rushing water. A dozen pebbles later, he spoke. “Q, you’re not crazy. It’s a terrific apartment, and probably a pretty sure investment if we decide to move somewhere like this for good.” Whenever we got fifty miles outside of Manhattan, he invariably launched a Norman Rockwell fantasy, forgetting that he was well on his way to a prosperous career representing white-collar crooks, a species he’d find in short supply here in the land of the rake and the rooster. “If you want it, I want it. We can up the offer five percent, but that’s the limit. I draw the line at food stamps.”

I hugged him as he left a message for Horton. Then Jake and I trundled off to the bridge, spread a quilt nearby, and feasted on sandwiches thick with turkey and Brie, washed down with sparkling lemonade. Stuffed, the two of us lay back hand in hand and counted clouds floating in the sort of pool party sky you never see in a city. Soon I began to doze. I dreamt of us unpacking boxes in our new apartment. Inexplicably, I was playing the cello, accompanied by Eloise Walter. After a bravura performance I retreated to a bedroom, where I discovered a door that Horton hadn’t shown us. It was locked. I didn’t have the key. I banged, again and again.

I woke to Jake shaking my shoulder. “Q—you’re moaning.”

“What did I say?” I asked, blinking in the light. I’ve been known to dream in convoluted, Spielberg-worthy plots, which I try to recount for Jake, who finds them considerably less captivating than I do.

“I have no idea, except that you scared the nuts off me.” He stood and extended a hand. “C’mon, we have plans.”

During my nap, Jake had read a borrowed guidebook and made a reservation at a nearby restaurant. Our dinner lived up to its billing—red snapper for him, duck breast for me—as did the brandy we sipped later in front of the inn’s hearth. It was nearly midnight when we tiptoed up the Black Cat’s stairs.

On Sunday, the aroma of sizzling bacon woke us and we stumbled down to breakfast. I was at risk of taking a third helping of waffles, using up the owner’s entire winter store of maple syrup, when he said, “Do you two enjoy auctions?” That was like asking me if I, as a human being, enjoyed oxygen. In twenty minutes, Jake and I were in the back row of a crowded barn, listening to an auctioneer sell off the possessions of a local gent enamored of guns and bugles repurposed into lamps. We were ready to bail when the auctioneer announced the final lot, items from the home of the family for whom the town was named.

“This sounds promising,” I whispered. “Can you stand ten more minutes?”

“Stay as long as you want,” Jake said. “I’ll go outside and make some calls.”

First up was a spinning wheel, too Colonial Williamsburg for my taste. Ditto for a mallard posing as a door knocker. I was ready to join Jake in the parking lot when the auctioneer lifted a small pine cradle. “Looky here, folks,” he said as he turned it from side to side. “This treasure’s from the sixties. That’s eighteen-sixties, handed down in the seller’s family. Every baby started his life in this little bed, and damned if they didn’t all live to be centenarians, legends in these parts.”

As I walked forward, the auctioneer told tales of the cradle’s distinguished occupants: Great-Granny Mabel, the suffragette; Uncle Buster, who ditched the booze and became a circuit court judge; and Grandpa Al, that prankster, who almost incinerated the one-room schoolhouse. I got within a foot of the cradle, which showed only the tenderest wear. It was painted blue.

“We’ll start at forty,” the auctioneer said.

“Forty,” I shouted back.

“I hear forty—do I hear fifty?” He did, and in rapid succession.

“I bid a hundred,” I said, shaking my paddle like a maraca. Across the room, a spirited competitor—or a shill—shook hers, too, and went to $125. From another corner, someone bid $150.

“Do I hear one seventy-five for this hand-crafted heirloom?” the auctioneer
asked, pronouncing the
h
in
heirloom
. In a sweet tenor, he began to croon. “Hush, little baby, don’t say a word. Papa’s gonna buy you a mockingbird.” He laughed. “Maybe not a mockingbird, but damn if this ain’t special.”

Heck, damn if it ain’ t
. Mama Blue went to $175.

The auctioneer sang, “Sleep, baby, sleep. Your father tends the sheep.” The auctioneer heard $200 and switched his tune. From the front of the room he belted out, “Little boy blue, come blow your horn. The sheep’s in the meadow, the cow’s in the corn.”

“Two hundred twenty,” I screeched. “Two hundred twenty.”

“I hear two-twenty,” the auctioneer boomed. “Do I hear two-thirty?” The room fell silent. “Do I hear two-thirty?” He did not. “Going once, going twice. Sold to the tall lady in the straw hat for two hundred and twenty dollars!”

I caught my breath and raced outside to find Jake. “Ready to leave?” he said, snapping shut his BlackBerry.

“As soon as I pick up my purchase.” He gave me a look of feigned surprise.

“Why don’t you go to the car and pop the trunk?” I went inside, counted out my cash, lifted the cradle in my arms, and hauled it to the car.

“What’s this for?” Jake said gently. I couldn’t identify his expression. “Q, what are you trying to say?”

He’d taken the sorrow of the miscarriages every bit as hard as I had, but the tragedies were no longer discussed, filed away like failed exams. My eyes went from the cradle to my husband’s face.
Honey, I wish I did have something to tell you
, I thought, but all I could offer was a mental telegram of optimism whose source I could attribute only to the good fortune of finding the Central Park West apartment. “No, sweetheart, no news,” I said, and tried to sound, if not breezy, at least neutral. But the mood had shifted as surely as if a thunderstorm were blowing into town. I refused to see the cradle as he must, a receptacle for lost hopes. “I was thinking of it for magazines,” I said, offering up the first thing that came to mind. “You know how they multiply on my side of the bed.”

He lifted the cradle into the trunk and got behind the wheel, the look on his face the one he usually saves for cross-examinations, enigmatic beyond my understanding

“Did you let the firm know you’ll be late tomorrow?” I asked as we drove to the inn.

“About that.” I could hear him thinking. “Turns out I shouldn’t take off. In fact, we’d better leave.”

I knew the finality in his voice, a tone as specific as an exclamation mark. To return to the city we took the parkway instead of back roads. About an hour outside of New York my phone rang. “Is anything wrong?” I said as soon as I heard Horton’s voice.

“Not necessarily, but it’s gotten complicated.” He paused. “There’s a second bidder.”

“So our bid wasn’t accepted,” I added, confused.

“This can happen with a red-hot property. I’m sorry.”

“Is it those people we saw?” Another couple had been waiting to see the apartment with Mrs. Shelbourne after she gave Jake and me our joint tour.

“They found it way too small….” Horton’s voice trailed off.

“What’s going on? What aren’t you saying?”

“Full disclosure—the other bidder’s an insider.”

“Define insider.”

“A resident. In the building.”

“Is there a posting or something that tells which apartments are for sale?” I pictured a memo slid into every mailbox.

Horton snorted. “If that were the system, how would working stiffs like me make a dime? The information brokers have is
privileged
.” He spoke the word as if it were his bank account’s PIN number. “In fact, as a result of your offer, Fran had decided not to do her usual all-points listing to alert other brokers. She wanted a fast deal, remember? She thought you and your husband were ideal.”

I sensed that Jake wanted to rip the phone out of my hand and talk directly to Horton, but I asked with considerable patience, “What happened, then?”

Horton picked up his pace. “What happened is that some guy who lives in the building harassed the doorman into telling him which apartment with a reservoir view was up for sale. This gentleman buttonholed Fran in the lobby and practically wrestled the poor thing to the ground till she gave him a walk-through.” Horton stopped to breathe. “He was accompanied by a wife or girlfriend—Fran wasn’t sure which, except that they were both too loud for her taste. Fran only let them stay a few minutes, but it was long enough for the pair to agitate Dr. Walter.” Everything that had felt right was going wrong. “The bottom line is that you and Jake need to think fast about whether you want to top the other bid.” He floated the number we’d need to surpass.

I gulped. “Okay,” I said. “We’ll call you tomorrow.”

I waited for Horton’s goodbye, but what he said was, “Quincy, there’s one last thing.” I could hear him breathing. “When you saw the apartment the first time, you mentioned you knew someone in the building.”

“Yes.” My stomach lurched. “My friend’s boyfriend, Arthur somebody.”

“Did you tell him you were bidding on an apartment?” Horton asked. “Because Arthur Weiner is your competition.”

  
Jules

When Talia invites you to dinner, she’ll
shtup
you with an enigmatic vegan casserole. Chloe will serve exquisite morsels catered by whatever venue the privileged class has most recently anointed as noteworthy—last time, the entire menu was raw, for that special moment when you crave arctic char marinated in watermelon juice. Quincy’s cuisine, along with her creativity, fluctuates: depending on the time of the month, your meal could range from shrimp luxuriating in a sublime ricotta fondue to her mother’s hamburger hotdish. Not that I’d refuse, either, but when friends visit my home, nobody leaves hungry or with a prickle of cactus pear stuck between her molars. For tonight I’d whipped up pasta with lemon and pistachios, a Jules de Marco trademark with Marcella Hazan in a supporting role. We’d finish with olive oil cake, which tasted far better than it sounded. I might as well have put up a billboard saying that Rome should be our next destination, because planning a September getaway was the special entrée on the night’s menu.

As I was frizzling artichokes, the phone rang. “Need any wine?” Talia
said, calling from Chloe’s car. “Last chance to hit that liquor store in the Village.”

“Thanks, but I’m good.” Decanted Chianti sat on my walnut sideboard, reflecting the setting sun. Two more bottles waited, with prosecco in reserve for toasting should Rome win the bake-off.

“In that case, you’ll see us in ten minutes,” Talia said, adding, “If we don’t wind up in New Haven.” She let loose with her gravelly laugh, a sound that I imagined had, pre-Tom, hijacked many a man-child lost in a fog of lust.

“Not fair—this time I know where to go,” Chloe shouted over a robotic voice politely urging a right turn.

“How late are we?” Talia asked. “Is Quincy there yet?”

“No sign of her,” I said as I hung up.

Quincy had been incommunicado all week, though I’d e-mailed her. Twice. I was hoping she wouldn’t roll in an hour late claiming she’d been shanghaied by that holy state she’d spoken of when authors blast through their writer’s block and compose like hellhounds. Quincy could go wherever her effing flow took her as long as she didn’t forget about our dinner, which would mean postponing our decision about this vacation that had all four of us politely posturing.