Stay(23)

“I’m not moving in with you.” That sassy mouth. She’s always so defiant.

“That’s correct. Tonight, we’re having dinner, and I’m showing you the place.”

“It’s not happening.”

I take her arm and lead her toward the entrance. “Then view this as an educational experience. People buy tickets to look inside historic brownstones.”

She shakes her head, slinging her bag over her shoulder. “I’ve been inside them.”



* * *



“Katherine Hepburn had a place in Turtle Bay Gardens.” She strolls through the open floor plan of my living and kitchen area with a glass of pinot noir in her hand.

“The neighborhood’s close to Broadway. You could take Eli to a show whenever you want.”

She makes a little face. “Burt would love that.”

“Sorry?”

Her nose wrinkles, and she seems annoyed. “He makes these comments about how I’m over-protective. How I’m keeping Eli from doing manly things. Like it’s going to make his son turn out gay.”

“Have I mentioned your ex husband is an idiot? He was an idiot in school, and clearly he didn’t mature out of it.”

“My point is who cares if he’s gay? All I want is for Eli to be happy…” Her voice trails off, and she takes another sip of wine.

“And to get that surgery?”

“I’ve stopped thinking about that.”

A pinch in my chest reminds me I haven’t. “Come with me. I’ll show you the extra rooms.”

She leaves her glass on the island and follows me to a flight of dark-wood stairs. On the second floor, a sitting room faces the street, and directly across from us is a small bedroom.

“My aunt decorated this one. Actually, she decorated the whole house. She likes projects.”

A strange feeling tightens my chest. Am I worried about what Emmy might think? I shouldn’t be. Bex has excellent taste.

She enters the blue room, and her breath catches. “Oh, my goodness…” It’s a whisper of wonder as she turns, looking at everything.

The walls are covered in beige wallpaper with a small pattern of navy anchors, ship’s wheels, and spy glasses. The bed is made with a navy and beige spread covered in nautical patterns. In the bookcase are hardbound editions of Moby Dick, Treasure Island, and other sea-themed stories.

My favorite part is around the medallion at the base of the ceiling fan. It’s a large, navy stencil featuring points of the compass and the words Not all who wander are lost.

“Eli would love this.” She goes to the bookcase and carefully picks up a conch shell from Key West, a starfish from Bermuda. On top of the bookcase is a massive, black pirate ship in an enormous bottle. “He’d freak out if he saw that.”

“It’s Blackbeard’s ship. Queen Anne’s Revenge.” I’m feeling really good about my proposal at this point. How could she possibly say no? Having housemates is a fact of life for most New York residents. Not the rich ones, but still.

She picks up a framed photo of me in my dress whites. I step up behind her and reach for it. “I can remove the photographs of me.”

“You’re very handsome in uniform.” She looks up, and our eyes meet.

She doesn’t seem as angry anymore. I remember the last time she looked at me this way, that night so long ago. It fans the heat smoldering in my belly.

“We all looked the same.” I put the photo aside.

“I never asked how you liked being in the Navy.”

Clearing my throat, I rub my stomach, trying to break this pull I feel toward her. “I liked it more than I thought I would. I went in thinking the danger, the lack of control would bother me, but the routine, the discipline… it was very satisfying.”

“Were you in any battles?”

“No, I was lucky.” She follows me to the door and back out onto the landing. “My time was mostly spent sailing, being a presence.”

“Still, you were always in danger.”

“I suppose we’re in danger every day of our lives.”

“But not like that.”

I lead her to the bedroom at the end of the hall. It’s pale yellow and faces a small park behind the block of townhomes. “Rebecca wanted the window-seat to be the focal point of this room.”

Emmy leans into it and looks outside where a large tree grows. “As much as I hate to admit it, I miss this. Growing up in this world is so different from the East Village.”

“You belong here.”

Her eyes flash at me. “I didn’t say it was a bad different. This life can be very controlling and miserable.”

Tell me about it. Still, “I don’t remember you being miserable growing up.”

She shakes her head, but I let it drop. I don’t want to fight with her.

Instead, I motion toward the stairs at the end of the hall. “My bedroom and office are on the third floor. You never have to see me. Unless you want to.”

Her arms cross and she meets me at the door. “Why are you doing this? I didn’t ask for your help.”

“You didn’t have to.”

“So, what’s in it for you?”

My brow furrows. When did little Emily Barton get so cynical? I guess she has a point.