Fall (VIP #3)(62)

But as soon as I get outside, I find myself hesitating. I’m not in the mood to walk and roam.

Ten minutes later, a light, dry voice made rough by decades of smoking cuts through my brooding thoughts. “Don’t you have a terrace in that apartment of yours, my dear?”

Elbow braced on my knee, chin resting in my hand, I glance up from where I sit. “I’m more of a stoop kind of gal,” I say to Mrs. Goldman.

Her red lips pull into a thin but friendly smile. “I grew up in the Lower East Side. Sitting on the stoop and playing around in the fire hydrant spray made up the majority of my childhood.”

“I would have liked to play in a hydrant spray,” I tell her.

She makes a noncommittal noise. “You look like you could use some company.”

It is on the tip of my tongue to pretend that I’m fine. But I can’t make myself do it. I shrug instead, embarrassed that I’m so obvious. But she doesn’t look at me with pity. Her eyes are warm as she nods.

“As much as I’d love to relive my childhood by sitting with you,” she says, “my hips cannot tolerate it. Why don’t you come upstairs with me, and I’ll fix us a nice lunch.”

Again, I want to protest, to tell her not to put herself out on my account, but I find myself clearing my throat and pushing a smile. “Thank you, Mrs. Goldman. I would appreciate that very much.”

“Come along then.” She waves me up. “And don’t forget to dust off your bum.”

A few minutes later, I’m sitting in Mrs. Goldman’s cozy kitchen as she bustles around getting lunch together. I’ve been informed that I am a guest and thus not allowed to help. Lunch is an assortment of fresh bagels, lox, cream cheese, tomatoes, pickled herring, pitted cherries, pumpernickel bread, chicken salad, with little dishes of mustard, capers, and pickled onions, and a bottle of champagne to top it all off.

“Because I love champagne,” she says, pouring each of us a glass. “And you should indulge in what you love every day.”

“Every day?” I take a sip. It’s crisp and cold and perfectly bubbly.

“It need not be the same thing every day. But I’ve come to the realization that denying ourselves daily joy is to live a half life. And where is the fun in that?” She raises her glass and salutes before drinking. A satisfied sigh leaves her lips. “Wonderful.”

I make myself a chicken salad sandwich on pumpernickel, accepting a knife from her to cut it in triangles. “Some people would argue that indulging in whatever you want leads to recklessness. That it’s safer to pace yourself and refrain sometimes.”

Mrs. Goldman smears some cream cheese onto her bagel. “Safer, huh?” She smiles but her dark eyes gleam when she looks up at me. “How alike you and Jax are.”

“Me? Like Jax?” I laugh shortly.

She isn’t at all thwarted. “To a tee. Both following the safe plan in life.”

Another shocked laugh bursts out of me. “Oh, come on, Jax never plays it safe. His whole life is one big indulgence.”

One iron-gray brow wings up. “You think so?” She adds a few slices of tomato to her bagel and sprinkles capers over it. “You realize that what one person considers a risk can be familiar comfort for someone else. That boy’s lifestyle has the appearance of living on the edge, but for him, it might as well be a cradle.”

“I guess I didn’t think of it that way.” I take a bite of my sandwich, mainly because I suddenly don’t want to talk. But even though it tastes delicious, I find it hard to chew past the lingering lump in my throat. I swallow with difficulty and take another long sip of champagne, grateful for the way it fizzes in my mouth.

Quiet descends as we eat. But I feel her curious gaze on me. Mrs. Goldman, while not my age, or even really a friend, is the kind of woman you know you can talk to and she’s not going to sugarcoat a thing. Even better, she’s obviously good at seeing clearly in places I cannot.

With a suppressed sigh, I set down the remains of my sandwich. “I’m attracted to Jax—John. I think of him as John.”

Both brows lift this time, but Mrs. Goldman isn’t surprised. “Of course you are, dear.”

My cheeks heat, and I know they’re bright pink, damn it. “Okay, obviously I always was. But it’s more now. I like him. A lot, and …” I press my hot hand over my burning eyes, a pained, wry smile pulling at my lips. “I can’t ignore it anymore, you know? I think … I think I either have to acknowledge it with him, or move on. Because I’m not one to stick around”—who are you kidding, Stells? You never stick around—“being moony over a guy who might not like me in the same way.”

I bite my lip, internally wincing at my emotional spew. From behind the shade of my hand, I hear Mrs. Goldman make a noise of amusement.

“Oh, I have a feeling he likes you just fine, dear.”

I sneak a peek at her through my fingers. How would she know?

She smiles broadly. “The notorious womanizer—yes, I know his reputation well—is spending time with you. Men like him don’t do that unless they are hooked.”

I slump against the table, resting my forehead on my bent arms. “God. I sound like I’m in high school, worrying if a boy truly, really, actually likes me.”

Delicately, she slides my plate out of the reach of my hair. “It’s been a while since I’ve been in school, but I do remember how to pass notes.”