Passion on Park Avenue (Central Park Pact #1)(16)

Oliver’s gaze had been scanning over Ruth’s head, hoping the delivery guy had made it in record time to give Oliver an out from the conversation, but his attention snapped back to the older woman. “The redhead? That Naomi chick?”

Gray eyebrows lifted in censure.

“Woman,” he amended. “She was in the final running?”

“Yes, because you put her through,” Ruth said.

“I guess I did,” he murmured. The feisty redhead had passed through his thoughts quite a bit the past couple of days, in a sort of nagging, what is with her kind of way.

If he were being honest, he’d approved her to the next round mostly to mess with the elderly co-op board. As the youngest member by at least thirty years, he liked to do his part to push their boundaries a bit.

“I didn’t think she’d make it to the last stage,” he said. From what he’d seen, the woman had been far too volatile for the staid board, who preferred mild mannered, gray haired, and old moneyed.

Naomi Powell checked none of those boxes.

“Yes, well, one of the other candidates pulled out. A larger apartment on the Upper West Side opened up.” She sniffed, to indicate her thoughts on the other side of the park. “Another had some questionable business partners. And though I can’t say I understand the appeal of Ms. Powell’s little jewelry business, there’s no arguing that it’s quite successful. But don’t you think it’s odd for someone so young to apply here?”

Oliver shrugged and glanced over his shoulder to make sure his father was still sitting peacefully in his chair. Ruth was astute enough to pick up on the gesture.

“I won’t keep you. Just give me your vote, and I’ll let you and Walter get back to your evening,” Ruth said with a kind smile. Stuffy as the old woman could be, he knew that Ruth cared for him. Not Walter so much. Ruth had been too close with Oliver’s mother to have any fond feelings toward the man who’d made Margaret’s life hell.

Still, Oliver appreciated that for the most part Ruth hadn’t held Walter’s past sins—and there had been many—against him after he’d been diagnosed.

“Remind me one more time of my options. It’s the redhead—Ms. Powell—or . . .”

“The Newmans,” Ruth said with no small amount of exasperation that he didn’t take this as seriously as the rest of the board. “They are a delightful older couple from Connecticut, empty nesters, looking to live out their golden years here in the heart of the city.”

There was no mistaking the change in tone when Ruth spoke of the Newmans compared with Naomi. She may respect Naomi’s right to apply, but clearly the Newmans were the appropriate choice.

“Ah, I guess . . .”

It was on the tip of Oliver’s tongue to make the choice of least resistance. The Newmans would be just like everyone else here. They’d offer unsolicited but amusing dating advice, would enjoy the excruciatingly boring holiday party deemed mandatory for “community development,” and would probably have strong opinions over the fact that he didn’t get the paper version of the Wall Street Journal and the New York Times delivered to his front door like everyone else. Oliver also knew that no amount of explaining would ever convince someone over the age of fifty that the digital and paper version were the same thing.

On the other hand, they’d never play their music too loud, would never bring home obnoxious douche bags, and given their own advanced age, would likely be understanding when Walter slipped out into the hallways wearing only his underwear as he was prone to do if Oliver or Janice left him alone for even a moment.

“Wait, you said it was a tie,” Oliver said, belatedly registering what that meant. It meant that half the board had voted for Naomi, which was a surprise. Oliver would have thought the Newmans would have been a shoo-in. He knew these people. They’d practically raised him. And the fact that half had been willing to let in someone as young and “un-pedigreed” as Naomi Powell surprised him.

“Yes, well.” Ruth’s lips pressed together. “I don’t mean to be crude, but many of the male members of the board let themselves be persuaded by Ms. Powell’s brash looks.”

Brash. It wasn’t a word he’d use to describe her. She’d been dressed conservatively; there’d been no tattoos or too-short skirts or unusual piercings. Then he pictured the fire in her eyes, every bit as bright as her hair. Yeah, she was . . . something.

Ruth looked pointedly at her watch. “Oliver, dear, I really need your answer. Whomever you choose will be fine.”

He meant to say the Newmans. To give Ruth the answer he knew she wanted, knowing it would be easier for everyone, and yet . . .

“Ms. Powell.”

She looked up, blue eyes wide and indignant. “I’m sorry?”

“Naomi Powell. She’s my vote.”

Ruth’s mouth dropped open. “But, Ollie. Surely you can see—”

“What can I say, Ruth?” Oliver gave his best smile, ignoring her use of his hated childhood nickname. “I, too, am a male on the board.”

“You cannot be serious,” she said as he started to close the door. “You can’t choose your neighbor simply because she’s a dish.”

He choked out a laugh. “A dish?”

“Or whatever the kids call it these days. A hottie.”