My One and Only(90)

There was nothing from Dad—that wasn’t a surprise…I don’t think the man had ever sent me an email or called of his own volition. But nothing from BeverLee, either, which was unusual. And nothing from Willa, which struck me as ominous.

With a glance down the hall at Nick, who was speaking now to a doctor, I logged in to my credit card account. Just for the heck of it. There, dated yesterday, was a $108 charge to Bitter Creek B&B in Rufus, Montana. Huh. Well, good. The kids had left the great outdoors for a shower and a bed. Couldn’t blame them.

In the past when she used my credit card, Willa was always very specific about what exactly she’d be doing…not asking permission, but letting me know she wasn’t going wild, either. This was a first.

My computer beeped; an email from Carol. Horse tranquilizers administered. Miss your grouchy ass. Where the hell are you?

New York City, I typed back. Yankees fans everywhere. Will do my best to cull the population. See you Monday.

Then I dropped a note to Kim, asking her to water the one houseplant I owned (a cactus, go ahead, make the joke) and if she wanted anything from the Big Apple. Another inbox chime. Is Derek Jeter available? she wrote. And why are you in New York? You still with your ex-husband? Are you sleeping together? I’m calling you right now. On cue, my cell phone rang—Ozzy’s “Crazy Train,” Kim’s favorite song. I opted to skip the call and kept typing.

Can’t talk now, long story. Will be back this weekend. Gotta run. Sorry.

“Want to come in to the firm? See where I work?” Nick asked, appearing in the doorway with a cup of coffee in his hand. The man was irresistible, and damn if he just didn’t improve hourly. Dressed in a crisp white shirt and tan pants, he hadn’t shaved today. Sigh!

“Sure, I’d love to.” I snapped down the lid of my laptop, then remained seated. “But Nick, I have to get back to Martha’s Vineyard, too.” I paused a second. “This whole…um, trip wasn’t on the calendar. I need to think about home.”

“Oh, sure. But not today, right? I mean, yesterday didn’t really count. You should stay till Sunday. Actually, traffic sucks on Sundays. So stay till Monday.” He paused and looked into his coffee cup. “Or longer.”

The first warning bell chimed, far off but still audible. “Well, I have court on Tuesday, and I need to prep for that. And you know, my regular stuff back home.”

“Right. Unless…well. Never mind. Let’s go.”

“BOSS! YOU’RE BACK!”

Within seconds of walking into the fifth floor of the Singer Building, Nick was swamped by employees. He greeted everyone by name, shook hands, answered questions about the wedding. I recognized Emily; she offered a tentative smile, and I gave her a little wave back, feeling oddly shy.

“This is Harper,” Nick said. “Willa’s sister.” His hand rested lightly on my back—a message, perhaps, that I was to be treated well. The seven or eight people clustered around the reception desk fell silent. Ah.

“Holy shit,” said someone. “I don’t believe it.”

I found the owner of the voice. “Hi. Peter, right?”

Pete Camden had worked at MacMillan with Nick. They’d been the two anointed rookies, the wunderkinds. Though I had met him only once, his name was burned into my memory…the night of our big fight, Nick had gone to stay with Peter Camden.

“Jesus Humphrey Christ. It really is you.” He gave me a cold look.

“Pete, you remember Harper,” Nick said.

“Oh, I remember, all right,” Peter answered. No one else said anything for a second.

“Want the tour?” Nick asked, then took my hand and started to lead me away from the gaggle.

“Nick,” Peter called, “stop in my office when you have a sec, okay? I’ve got something on Drachen.” He slapped Nick on the shoulder. “Great to have you back, buddy.” He ignored me.

“So my legend precedes me?” I asked Nick as we went down the hall.

He shot me a look and didn’t answer. “Here’s my office,” he said, opening a door. The room was spacious and open, decorated with blond wood furniture and a red leather sofa. An antique drafting table anchored one end of the room, a large desk and ergonomically graceful chair on the other. The windows overlooked Prince Street, and I could see the wrought-iron facade for which the building was rightly famous. In the center of the room was a huge smoked-glass conference table laden with neatly rolled blueprints and a model of a ten- or twelve-story building.

“So this is the Drachen model?” I asked.

“Yeah,” Nick said. “What do you think?”

It was like a really sophisticated dollhouse, charming and detailed. I bent to get a better look, smiling at the little details inside, the models of people outside, the trees and walled gardens that would line the entryway, should Nick get the job. “It’s beautiful, Nick.”

“Thanks,” he said with a smile. “Here are some of the other buildings we’ve done.” He pointed me to the photos hanging on the wall.

They were stunning. I didn’t know too much about architecture other than what I’d absorbed during my time with Nick, but I could tell his stuff was special, modern yet not ridiculous, if you know what I mean. Nothing was shaped like a penis, in other words. Nick’s buildings echoed the surrounding architecture of the neighborhoods, but they were unique, too, in some indefinable way. I looked long and hard at the photos, aware of Nick’s eyes on me. “I like the curves on this one,” I said, pointing to one.