The Good Twin(5)

I knew that was true. Stan worked at Goldman Sachs and earned good money. Yet, he never acted snobbish. He and Brian had talked about moving uptown, maybe an apartment near Central Park. But the West Village had always been their home. It was where their friends lived, where they felt comfortable.

Just as I asked, “Want me to set the table?” the doorbell rang. Stan raced to the front door. I glanced over at Brian, who quickly looked away. This isn’t good, I thought. A moment later, Stan returned to the kitchen, another man by his side.

“Brian, Mallory, this is Adam Jordan. He works with me.”

Adam smiled. “It’s nice to meet you both.”

Adam was about six feet tall, with a quarterback’s build. He had dark, tightly curled hair and a dimple in his cheeks when he smiled. Handsome. He was no doubt invited to meet me. Brian and Stan were always trying to fix me up, and I always rebuffed them. At least they have good taste. I would be pleasant to him, get through the evening, but nothing more. I knew from my mother where romance led—the death of dreams and saddled with a child. That wouldn’t be my life, no matter how handsome Adam was.





CHAPTER 4

“Mallory? This is Adam Jordan. We met last week at Stan’s.”

Of course I remembered him. I’d half expected him to call, even though I hadn’t given him any signals that I was interested in him during Stan’s scrumptious dinner. I’d been polite, though, paying attention to his stories, smiling when he was amusing, serious when he touched upon matters that concerned him. I knew guys thought I was pretty, maybe even beautiful, if I believed the high school boys who had always tried to get in my pants.

“I was wondering, would you like to go out to dinner with me, maybe Saturday night?”

“I’m sorry, I work weekends.”

“When are you free?”

“Adam, you seem very nice, but I don’t want to get involved with anyone right now.”

“It’s just dinner, not a marriage proposal.”

I laughed. Maybe it wouldn’t be so terrible to go out to dinner, to be served by someone else. As long as he understood it wouldn’t lead anywhere. “How about next Tuesday? I have an art class in Manhattan but finish up at eight.”

“Perfect. Do you like French food?”

“I’ll eat anything but Italian. That’s all I eat where I work.”

“I’ll book us a table at La Grenouille for eight thirty. It’s on Fifty-Second, just east of Fifth Avenue. Is that okay?”

“Sure.” I’d heard of it, of course. It was one of the best restaurants in Manhattan, serving top-rated food, with prices to match. It was a place I’d never go to on my own. Jeans and a peasant blouse—my usual attire for class—wouldn’t be seen there, where men were required to wear jackets and women dressed to show off. I had one decent dress and one pair of drop-dead-gorgeous heels, my only big splurge when I’d moved to New York. I’d have to tote them to art class and change afterward.

We chatted a few more minutes. Adam was easy to talk to, surprisingly low-key for someone who worked in a high-pressure job. When I hung up, I couldn’t help smiling. I was pleased that I’d agreed to dinner. Although my resolve to refrain from romantic attachments hadn’t changed, I could easily see him becoming a friend.



For the first time, I had difficulty concentrating during class, so I was relieved when the teacher announced he needed to end fifteen minutes early. I gave Brian a peck on the cheek before heading to the bathroom to change clothes. When I finished dressing, I stepped over to the mirror to see how I looked in my black jersey knit dress, with its deep vee neckline. Not bad. The knit fabric clung to my curves, and the neckline showed just the right amount of cleavage.

I stuffed the discarded clothes and shoes into a tote, then headed out of the building and walked toward Eleventh Avenue, then north up to Thirty-Fourth Street, where I could catch a series of trains to East Fifty-First Street. Manhattan never ceased to amaze me. Not just the buildings, crammed into every inch of space, but the hordes of people, any time of day or night. It suffused me with energy, just watching them rush to their destinations.

Chelsea was lined with art galleries, but I walked briskly past them, not wanting to be late, or at least not more than fashionably so. A man should always wait for a woman, my mother had often said. I’d just been casually glancing around me as I walked when I realized that right across the street from me, between Twenty-Seventh and Twenty-Eighth Streets, was the Jensen Gallery. It was in a two-story brick building that had been converted from a warehouse. The street level had no windows, just roll-up garage doors. I looked up to the row of windows across the second floor and saw that the lights were on. I was interested in seeing what artists they displayed. And, to be truthful, a little curious about the owner of the gallery, my supposed look-alike. The evening had turned chilly, and I pulled my lined trench coat closer around me as I started to cross the street, then suddenly stopped.

A man and a woman had walked into view. My breath caught, and I could feel palpitations in my chest. The woman’s blonde hair was both lighter and shorter than mine, and she wore a dress that looked like it came from the window of Saks Fifth Avenue. But for those differences, I was looking at myself.



My hands were still shaking as I sat across the table from Adam Jordan at La Grenouille. I held them below the table, between my knees, in an effort to still them. Dimly, I could hear the sound of Adam’s voice but scarcely comprehended his words. Instead, I couldn’t shake from my mind the image of the woman I’d seen inside the gallery. As soon as I’d glimpsed her face, I’d jumped back, away from the window. I hadn’t wanted to be seen. Not yet. So, instead of going inside, I ran from the building, confused and frightened. Now, sitting across from Adam, I tried to will my heartbeat to slow down.