Nightwatcher (Nightwatcher #1)(8)

Oh well—maybe she’ll like it. Maybe the songs will have special meaning to her.

To us. Me and Mack.

Her heart is pounding. This is the turning point. This means there actually is going to be a me and Mack.

She pulls the CD off the package and sets it aside. Still no card, she notes—and the flaps are sealed with thick manufacturing tape, meaning it’s not inside the box, either.

Okay—so he obviously wants to be her secret admirer for the time being. She’ll play along.

Smiling, she opens the silverware drawer and searches for a blade. A butter knife won’t cut it—literally—and of course Kristina, being a vegetarian, doesn’t have steak knives.

She jerks open another drawer. Ah, there—it figures Ray didn’t take the paring knives when he left; he never did any cooking. Not that Kristina does, either.

She grabs a nice big sharp knife from the drawer, idly wondering what Mack’s favorite meal is, whether it involves meat, and whether she can learn to prepare it if it does—or even if it doesn’t. Who knows? Maybe she’ll become a gourmet chef.

Oh, come on. Really? You?

She glances at the whiteboard attached to the kitchenette’s lone patch of wall space. Ray used it to keep himself organized. It was, ironically, one of the few things he left behind when he moved to his new apartment down on Warren Street.

The whiteboard was covered with his usual lists, reminders, and appointments.

Kristina took smug satisfaction in erasing it all. Then she wrote, in its place, Anything is possible.

Her neighbor Allison, who lives in the apartment below, once said that, on a gloomy day when Kristina really needed to hear it.

“Anything is possible—that’s my philosophy,” Allison told her, and Kristina decided to make it her own as well.

She looks at the words every day, and reminds herself that she believes them.

Especially now.

After hurriedly slitting the seams on the box, she tosses the knife aside, a little too carelessly. Oops—a momentary inspection reveals that she just nicked the countertop. Oh well. She’s not going to live here forever, and anyway, it’s cheap, crappy laminate.

She turns her attention back to the box, opening it and pulling out her Styrofoam-encased prize.

“Wow, Mack,” she whispers, thrilled. This is definitely the most romantic gift she’s ever received.

As the cab slows in front of Pier 54, Allison glances at the meter and fumbles in her bag for her wallet.

“Here’s my card.”

She looks up to see her backseat partner—was his name Bob? Bill?—holding out a business card. Surprised, she takes it, looks at it.

Bill.

William, to be exact. William A. Kenyon, of Keefe, Bruyette, & Woods, Inc.

“Why don’t you give me a call and we’ll go out sometime,” he suggests, and she’s even more surprised, considering he hasn’t said two words to her since midtown.

“I . . . I have one, too, somewhere in here.” She goes back to digging in her purse, feeling around for the small leather case.

“One?”

“A business card.”

“That’s okay,” he says with a wave of his hand. “Just call me.”

The cab pulls up alongside the curb. She probably should give Bill back his card with a thanks, but no thanks.

Instead, because it’s easier—and because she’s lonely, and it might be nice to go on a date some night, even with a Mr. Wrong who expects her to do the calling—she tucks the card into her bag. “Sure.”

Maybe she’ll call. Probably not, though.

She pulls out some cash, offers him a twenty. “Here—for the cab. I really appreciate it.”

“Not a problem. Keep it.”

“But—”

“Just call me,” he says again. “Maybe I’ll let you buy me a drink.”

Oh, ick. She opens the door and gets out with a wave. “Thanks again.”

“See you later.”

I highly doubt that, Bill.

Putting him out of her head, she moves on.

It’s taken Kristina quite some time to remove the packaging and set up the CD player. It’s a lot more complicated than her old one; it plays multiple CDs, and there are a number of different settings: shuffle, song repeat . . .

She figures she’ll learn how to work it all when she reads the instruction leaflet—which will have to wait.

Right now, she just wants to hear some more music.

Not Alicia Keys, though.

Sorry, Mack.

She did put on the CD he gave her, but wound up fast-forwarding her way through the album. It’s not really her cup of tea, and anyway, she’s anxious to hear all her old favorites. It’s been much too long.

Now she’s listening to Barbara Cook singing Sondheim—ah, that’s much more like it—and keeping a close eye on her watch.

Every weeknight at around seven forty-five, Mack gets off the subway over at the Canal Street station, then walks the couple of blocks to his apartment building.

Our apartment building.

Kristina prefers to think of it that way because she and Mack do, after all, live under one roof. Just not behind the same door.

But maybe someday . . . especially now that he’s made his first move, after all these weeks of flirting . . .