Moonlight Over Manhattan(37)

The sun-filled living room had high ceilings and exposed brick walls. There was a large wood-burning fireplace, and three oversize windows faced west and offered a view of the Hudson River.

Harriet walked across to the window. From her own apartment she saw other buildings. Brick walls, trimmed with iron fire escapes. If she stood on a chair and craned her neck she could just about see the tops of a few trees in Central Park. Her view was nothing like this.

She gazed for a moment and then turned back to the room.

A large leather sofa faced a fireplace that was flanked with bookcases. They ran the whole length of the wall and reached up to the ceiling.

For Harriet, a bookcase was too much of a draw to simply walk past without giving it attention.

Curious, she stepped forward to read some of the spines.

Dickens and Dostoyevsky nestled alongside modern authors such as Stephen King. There were medical textbooks, books on music and art history. If she’d had to compile a character study of the owner of the apartment based on the contents of his bookshelves, she would have struggled.

What it told her was that Ethan Black read what he wanted to read. The books on the shelves hadn’t been chosen to impress, but were a haphazard catalog of the owner’s varied tastes and interests.

Two large armchairs sat invitingly on either side of the fireplace and on the coffee table in between them there were more books and a few medical journals. A photographic book on Prague, a biography of a leading politician and a book on motivation written by a gold-medal-winning skier called Tyler O’Neil.

On the shelf in front of the bookcase were several photographs. She stepped forward and took a closer look. She recognized Debra in one, with a younger girl who was presumably Ethan’s niece. Next to that was a photograph of four men standing on a snowy slope in ski gear. She recognized Ethan Black. Who were the other three men? His brothers? There was another photo with about twelve people grouped together, laughing.

Whoever they were, Ethan seemed to have a big family and lots of friends.

She felt a stab of envy. No doubt his Christmas would be full of laughter and eggnog. Not that she particularly liked eggnog, but she would have liked to have a busy, noisy Christmas.

Harriet resisted the temptation to sink into the comfortable armchair and lose herself in one of those books. Books had always been a comfort to her. More than comfort. There were times when reading came close to an addiction.

When things had been tough at home, Harriet’s solution had been to remove herself from life and disappear. She’d chosen to be invisible. Sometimes physically, by hiding under the table, but sometimes psychologically by diving into a literary world unlike her own.

As a child she’d liked to sink into the pages and lose herself for hours at a time. When she was reading, she didn’t just leave her own life behind, she stepped into someone else’s. There were times when she’d read for hours without noticing the passage of time or the onset of darkness. When it grew too dark to read, she simply switched on her flashlight and read under the covers so that she didn’t disturb her sister, who was sleeping in the next bed. At school, she carried her book around. When things were difficult, the weight of her bag would comfort her. It helped just to know the book was there, waiting for her. At various points in the day she’d feel the edges bump against her thigh, reminding her of its existence. It was like having a friend close by, telling her I’m still here and we can spend time together later.

Even now, more than a decade on from that difficult time of her life, she found herself instinctively reaching for a book when she was stressed. Comfort was different things to different people. To some it was a bar of chocolate or a glass of wine, a run in the park or coffee with a friend.

To Harriet, it was a book. Now, when she was feeling uncomfortable and unsettled in a stranger’s home, was one of those times.

There, on the shelf in front of her, was an elaborate edition of Charles Dickens’s A Christmas Carol. It was one of her favorite stories, particularly at this time of year. She loved reading about Scrooge’s transformation. It gave her hope.

She reached to pull it from the shelf and then paused.

If she started reading, she’d find it difficult to stop and she had work to do. Later, she could read.

Regretfully, she stepped back from the bookshelves, gazing at them the way another woman might salivate over chocolate.

Fliss had never been able to understand how the mere thought of reading could lift her spirits and make her feel excited.

Tearing her gaze away from temptation, she picked up her case and carried it upstairs.

It was a duplex apartment, and in many ways it felt more like a house. Certainly more like a house than her apartment did.

If she stopped and listened she could hear faint sounds of street noise coming from far below, but the place was remarkably quiet for Manhattan.

Even as she had the thought, Madi barked and Harriet put her case down and shook her head.

“No.” She spoke firmly. “Quiet.” She knew that patience and consistency were the secret to training a dog.

Madi looked at her and wagged her tail but didn’t bark, so Harriet picked up her case again and hauled it upstairs.

There was a master bedroom suite that was obviously Ethan’s, and she glimpsed a walk-in closet that had been cleverly converted to a mini gym. There was a rack of free weights, a bench and other pieces of exercise equipment.

So even though his nutrition left something to be desired, he did work out.