Passion on Park Avenue (Central Park Pact #1)(18)

Naomi shoved off a couple of boxes and sat in one of the chairs, curling her right leg beneath her.

Audrey and Claire joined her, wineglass and mug in hand.

“Wait, do we need cheese for this?” Audrey asked as she plopped into the chair. “Because I can have some ordered, like, ASAP.”

“You mean you just order cheese?” Claire asked, giving her an incredulous look. “Like, a block of cheddar?”

“No, like . . .” Audrey gestured at the table with her hands. “A plate. A cheese plate. A fancy one. My favorite place is right around the corner, and they deliver.”

“God, I love Manhattan. Make it so,” Naomi said. “I’ve got lots more wine . . . somewhere.”

Audrey busily started tapping something on her phone. “Aaand . . . done.” She set her phone on the table, screen down. “Cheese will be here in thirty minutes or so. Now. Speak.”

“I don’t even know where to start with this,” Naomi said, plunging her fingers into her hair and tugging just slightly in agitation, trying to quiet her thoughts.

“All right,” Claire said quietly. “You said you used to live here. How old were you?”

“Nine when I moved in,” Naomi said without hesitation.

“Which apartment?”

“Five E. There are only five units on each floor, A through E. E’s the largest, with four bedrooms, three bathrooms plus a powder room, separate dining area . . .”

“So, fancy New York,” Audrey said with a comprehending nod.

“Very. Unfortunately, my family wasn’t the fancy one.”

“But if you lived here . . .” Audrey trailed off in confusion.

“One of those four bedrooms I mentioned? I shared it with my mother. Who was the housekeeper of the family that lived there.”

“Naomi,” Claire said softy. “Please tell me you’re not ashamed of that. It’s perfectly respectable.”

“I’m not,” Naomi said, using her finger to flip the handle of her wine mug one way, then the other. Back and forth.

“But”—she looked up—“that’s also not the ugly part. I mean, don’t get me wrong, a stubborn, high-energy third grader having to share a tiny room with her equally stubborn and high-energy mother wasn’t exactly a pretty picture. But sometimes I like to imagine that she and I could have gone down the Gilmore Girls path. BFFs, or whatever.”

“You didn’t?” Claire asked.

“Definitely not.” She blew out a breath and took another sip of wine. “Okay, short version? My mom was a wildly mediocre housekeeper, and I’m sure if the woman who had hired her had been around, her job wouldn’t have lasted a week. But. The lady of the house, as she called herself, no joke, was gone most of the time caring for her sick mother in Newport, or some other fancy place.”

“Uh-oh,” Audrey said softly.

“Right?” Naomi said, her smile brittle. “It has all the elements of a thoroughly unimaginative movie.”

“Wait, what am I missing?” Claire asked.

“I’m guessing Naomi’s going to tell us next that while her female employer was gone all the time, her male employer was very much around.”

“Oh. Ohhhh,” Claire said, hazel eyes widening in comprehension.

“Yeah. In the cliché of all clichés, he was banging the help. And the help was a very willing participant.”

“Did you know? I mean, while it was going on?”

Naomi’s shoulders lifted. “I mean, sort of? I was nine and didn’t care enough about sex and relationships to really register that my mom often put me to bed and then wouldn’t come back to our room until much later in the evening. If she came back at all. I think maybe I told myself that she was sleeping on the couch or something to give me some space. I don’t know if it was self-protection or what . . .”

Naomi trailed off and gathered her thoughts before forging ahead.

“Anyway. Whether my ignorance was intentional or not, I lost all ability to pretend it wasn’t happening when I caught them together.”

“Oooof,” Audrey said with a wince.

“Yeah. Just, you know, banging in the kitchen like it was no big deal.”

“While you were there? In the apartment?”

“To be kind of fair, they thought I’d gone to the park to play. Rather, they’d sent me to the park to play.”

“Alone?” Claire’s nose wrinkled. “And you were nine?”

“No. Though I wish I’d been alone. Instead they sent me with my mom’s employer’s son. He was a year older, and we got along never. He was the spoiled rich brat who was both older and taller than the housekeeper’s dorky daughter. I was also a brat, except the mouthy, defensive kind who was all too aware of her secondhand clothes and crooked teeth and donated schoolbooks. Plus, let’s be honest. Even in the best of circumstances, boys and girls don’t get along at that age, and these were not good circumstances. I mean, he called me Carrots.”

“Oh, how very Anne of Green Gables!” Claire said.

“No,” Naomi said, lifting a finger, knowing exactly to whom Claire was referring. All redheaded girls were familiar with their soul sister Anne Shirley. Pippi Longstocking, too. “I assure you, this is no Gilbert Blythe scenario.”