Shy Town Girls (2 page)

It was on the tip of my tongue to tell him that I
was sure he was still cheating on me, even though I knew he would
deny it. It’s not normal behavior to come home smelling of perfume
and Scotch, or spending nights away from our apartment and not
calling to check in. I replayed the pathetic evenings I waited up
with a bottle of wine, checking my phone, and falling asleep on the
couch. Or pretending I was asleep, hearing him quietly sneak into
the apartment and crawl into bed as tears escaped from the corners
of my closed eyes. I could have forgiven him once--and I even
thought I had—but I knew I’d never be able to trust him again. I
thought I was being the bigger person by trying to push past it for
the past year of my life, but I just couldn’t live with it nor
should anyone. He wasn’t trustworthy. Fool me once, shame on you,
fool me twice shame on me and I wasn’t about to look like a
fool.

I was too drained to fight. Not now. “You’re
regrettably suffocating Charles, I just need to find some
independence,” I said. “And that’s not something I can do if I’m
living with you.” He looked perplexed. “I’ll let you mull that one
over, let’s go.” Impossible.

I jumped out of the Land Rover, threw my purse over
my shoulder, and ran up the steps to the front door. Charlie got
out and began to unload my boxes, thumping them down on the ground,
probably hoping to break something. I held down the buzzer with a
little more pressure than necessary.

“Who is it?” a voice sang through the intercom.

“Bobbie Bertucci. I’m moving into the bottom floor
apartment with Ivy and Ella.”

The front door buzzed, and I walked in. Charlie
followed, carrying boxes. As I stepped inside the entryway, I did a
quick scan and was blown away by the old-style elegance of the
building. It smelled like cinnamon and mahogany, and was all lofty
vertical lines, tall windows, and wide casings, the wood worn, but
well-kept. The floors creaked with every step as we walked past a
sweeping, grand staircase with a turned banister and down a short
hallway on the main floor beneath a chandelier dripping with real
rock crystal drops.

“This is it,” I said. Apartment 1A, read the sign in
gold above the big black-painted door. This was my new home, my
fresh start. I took a deep breath, knocked, and opened the door.
“Hello?” I said. I suddenly felt very shy.

“Bobbie!” a voice, full excitement, called from
behind me. Charlie and I both turned to see Meryl’s blonde, wavy
hair bouncing as she flew around the corner of the stairway. I was
relieved to see a familiar face in my new surroundings.

“Meryl, hi!” I dropped my bag and embraced her. Her
hair smelled like fresh linens and sweet lavender. I had met Meryl
outside a lecture hall on the first day of my freshmen year of
college, when she had glanced over at my iPod and our bonding over
Brazilian music began. She was a grad student working on her
thesis. “Oh my God,” she had exclaimed. “You’re into Vanessa da
Mata too?”

I told her about the trips I had taken to Brazil for
Carnival with my eccentric family. She told me about her dreams to
dance samba in Rio de Janeiro. I told her about Mangueira, the
samba school I had attended ,one of the oldest samba schools in the
world, and promised to teach her all the moves I knew. I also
promised her I would one day go to Rio to Carnival with her. From
that moment on, we were friends. Seven years older than me, Meryl
was the girl who invited me to all the hottest parties, who bought
me alcohol before I was 21, and who still managed to inspire me to
pull straight A’s—like her. She was the big sister I had always
wanted. I found out later that she had an enormous trust fund,
something you would never have guessed from her modest habits. Only
her incredible generosity to one cause after another, especially
when it came to helping those younger than herself, gave any hint
of how well-off she was. Now, in her early thirties, with her
Master’s degree, Meryl pursued her dream to work as a publisher.
With her added love for all things electronic, especially anything
with an apple on it, she was quickly becoming a top publisher of
digital books in Chicago and beyond. I loved and respected her for
so many reasons. If there was anyone who paved her own path, it was
Meryl.

“Hi Charles,” she said flatly. He gave her a nod.
“Bobbie, do you want some help? We have a surprise for you if you
want to wait on the boxes.”

“Helloooooooo dolly!” I heard an unfamiliar voice.
Sweeping down the stairs in a China-red silk top and blue flowing
skirt was the beautiful, silver-haired Barbara Shafer. I had never
met her before, but Meryl had described her to me—raved about her,
really—when she had talked me into moving in. Barbara, who owned
the house, was in her mid-70’s, but she had an intense vitality and
a glow about her that would make her look forever young. As she
grabbed me and gave me a big hug and a light kiss on my cheek,
Charlie slipped out to the car for more boxes. I smiled, blushed
and tilted my head down as I did so often when I was truly
embarrassed.

“Welcome to your new home, doll face!” Barbara
laughed and then smiled with real warmth. “Oh my goodness! You are
beautiful!” She cupped her hands to my face as if she was examining
a marble statue. “These eyes, they’re like—Godiva chocolates. What
do you think, Meryl? Milk chocolate or semi-sweet? And this
luscious dark hair...” Barbara smelled like rose perfume. She
smacked her lips again against my blushing cheek. I knew for sure
she had left a bright wet crimson lipstick mark on my face this
time. I didn’t mind.

“Come, come, honey,” she said, hooking my arm in
hers. “I have a surprise for you. Drop those bags. Forget those
boxes. Worry about them later.” As she led me back down the hallway
to the stairs, she leaned in and whispered, “Who is that dashing
young man you brought with you?”

“Oh, he’s just the lying cheat who stomped on my
heart,” I said lightly. “Otherwise known as my boyfriend,
Charlie.”

“Oh, wow. Hang on to that one,” she winked. I think
she was being sarcastic, or maybe she didn’t hear me. I wasn’t sure
which. Barbara and I started up the stairs, with Meryl following
and Charlie lingering somewhere behind us.

“Barbara, wouldn’t you rather take the elevator?”
Meryl asked.

“I’ve got two legs that I’d best use while I still
can, honey,” Barbara said. For my benefit she explained, “Meryl
installed an elevator for me last year after I took a little spill.
I’m not quite as nimble as I used to be, baby, and I did an uncanny
impersonation of Humpty Dumpty on this staircase here. Except
Humpty Dumpty broke more than just his hip, didn’t he?” she added
drolly.

“That’s awful,” I said. “Are you okay now?” The
image of her tumbling down the steep wooden stairs was
frightening.

“Well, they couldn’t put Humpty back together again,
but they could for me. Pretty good job, too, wouldn’t you say?” She
swiveled her hips suggestively as she climbed the steps in front of
me. “I want you to make yourself comfortable here, Bobbie. This is
your home now. So, you’re down on the first floor with Ivy and
Ella. I have the flat on the second floor, and Meryl is here on the
top floor in her ‘ivory tower,’ as we call it.”

By now we were on the third floor landing, but we
didn’t stop there. I admired Barbara’s stamina as we climbed a
total of three very long flights of stairs. These old Victorian
buildings were tall. The stairs creaked with each step.

“Now, I want this house to be filled with nothing
but love and harmony,” Barbara said. “This is very important to me.
Mutual respect, openness, honest communication. If you have any
problem whatsoever, you come straight to me and we will take care
of it!”

Finally we came to another smaller landing. We had
reached what I hoped was the top. “You hear me, honey?” Barbara
said earnestly. “We are a family, and we take care of each other.
And I will expect you to obey the house rules at all times. No men,
no alcohol . . . unless you share!” Was she kidding? I’m sure she
was. While I blushed for the umpteenth time, she continued, “And
here we are! Ready? One, two, three. . .” she pushed open a big,
black worn iron door. A large gust of wind almost blew me back down
the stairs.

The first thing I saw, when I was able to get my hair
smoothed down and out of my face, was a tiny blue-black ball of
fur, hurtling toward me and wagging furiously.

“
This is Due, who usually needs to
be shushed when he first meets someone. But clearly he knows you’re
family. I don’t even have to tell him to be quiet!” Barbara tried
to temper the onrush of friendly puppy. “I got him from that
amazing shelter that Oprah contributed big bucks to--PAWS. Due is a
terrier-poodle mix of some sort. This no-kill shelter is the cat’s
meow,” she winked, “pun intended.”

“
Due! Sit!” ordered Barbara, and Due
sat, still wagging.

“
Wow! I can’t believe he understood
that! He’s adorable!” The moment I knelt down to pet him, Due
licked my hand and then rolled over onto his back, begging me with
brown, soulful eyes to scratch his speckled belly. “With a welcome
like this,” I laughed, “how can I not feel at home?”

After that last surprise, I found myself finally
relaxing, forgetting about the anxiety that had wracked me on the
drive over. I took a deep breath, lifted my head up, and smiled. I
suddenly felt eager to see what would happen next.

Chapter 2

Leaning over the railing that ran around the rooftop
garden, I was awestruck by the fabulous view--the expanse of Lake
Michigan and the incredible skyline that defines the windy city. I
could see the dark, sparkly Sears Tower (it’s technically the
Willis Tower now, but in every Chicagoan’s mind it will always be
the Sears Tower) and the shining jewel that is Trump Tower off in
the distance. Both were surrounded by other skyscrapers that
attempted to rival their height and beauty. Lake Michigan’s deep
blue waters spread out on another side of the garden. As a
surburbanite, these Chicago staples were part of everyday
conversation for me, but now I was seeing them in a whole new way.
And to think, this was essentially my new backyard!

I could have looked out over the city for hours, but
I turned my attention to the rooftop itself. Comfy woven wicker
chairs and chaises with kelly green cushions were scattered around
the terrace. The garden itself was enchanting, with deep,
green-purple vines covering the red brick walls and snaking around
dozens of pots, filled with flowers. I noticed perennial pink
asters and stunning clumps of Purple Dome asters, but my favorites
were the yellow, purple, bronze, and white chrysanthemums, flowers
of harvest, flowers of fall.

Barbara shared all this with me as she explained,
“It’s important for everyone in the house to know the flowers and
to make sure they’re watered and cared for correctly.”

My eyes were drawn to the big table spread with a
red checkered cloth and covered with assorted crackers, cheeses,
sliced baguettes, olives, and prosciutto with melon.

Two women who appeared to be in their mid-twenties
came sauntering through the roof-doorway, carrying trays of
glasses, a bottle of champagne, and a glistening pitcher of orange
juice. I knew from looking at their Facebook photos that these were
my new roommates, Ivy and Ella.

“Bobbie!” Ivy plopped her tray down on the table,
rattling the champagne glasses as she ran up to me and introduced
herself. Ivy was petite, with ivory skin and high, prominent
cheekbones. But it was her mischievous energy and her big, gorgeous
blue eyes—so striking in contrast with her long black hair—that
would keep me sneaking looks at her. As a modeling agent, I’m
always drawn to unusual beauty, and she had it—in spades.
Automatically I reached out to shake hands with her, but she
quickly drew her hand back and grabbed me in a hug instead. “We’re
friends now,” she said decisively. “None of that hand-shaking
crap!” she proclaimed emphatically.

“It’s great to meet you, Ivy,” I said, hoping what
she said was true. Would we be friends—or merely roommates? It’s
not like you can just decide these things. Making friends
post-college was never as easy as it was in school.

Ella, on the other hand, came off as cool, but I had
a hunch she was just shy, like me. Her straight, silky brown hair
just touched her lean, muscular shoulders. She was as pretty as
Ivy, but with a delicate simplicity and a cat-like expression. I
noticed how graceful her movements were as she relinquished the
pitcher to Barbara, then wiped her slender hands on a cloth, and
walked over to join us. She gave me a hug too, if somewhat less
exuberantly than Ivy.

“You are now an official resident of 721 Dearborn,”
Ella proclaimed in a quiet, ironically official voice.
“Welcome.”

“Thank-you,” I said. I put my hand over my heart and
looked at each of them in turn. “I’m so glad to be here.” And I
meant it.

Barbara, who was pouring drinks, called, “I’ll drink
to that!”

Now that the five of us were all together, the
energy level on the terrace suddenly tripled.

Ivy handed me a mimosa. “Cheers, roomie!” she said,
tapping my glass.

“Welcome to the family!” Barbara raised a glass to
me. Meryl and Ella followed suit.

“Wow, this is amazing, you guys,” I said. “Thank you
so much for everything. Barbara, this house, this rooftop, it’s
just so magical. And this drink isn’t bad, either.” As I looked at
Barbara and back at the girls again, my eyes almost teared up in
gratitude. It was an emotional day, and I tried to get a grip. I
did not want to lose it in front of these people I barely knew. And
I certainly did not want to lose it in front of Charlie, who had
just emerged from the stairwell.