The Beginning of Always (37 page)

“Too much?”

“El Dorado sends their respects.”

Alistair gestured towards the black gates across the street. “Shall we?”

I looked up the street and back down, praying for a car to come and whack me into a two-week-long coma. But it was the Upper East Side, in a secluded residential neighborhood, and the only people about were nannies and kids.

I crossed the empty street, Alistair following at my side.

We didn’t speak to each other as we passed the security booth, Alistair giving a curt nod to the guard, who buzzed us in with no question. We entered through a small iron door to the side of the larger gate. The cobblestone path from the entrance arch led to a large courtyard with low hedges and meandering green paths lined with flowers. An enormous fountain marked the middle of the yard. Various wooden benches were scattered about with middle-aged women in St. John’s casuals huddled together in pairs. The occasional nanny and baby carriage completed the scene.

Several brick-lined paths extended off from the courtyard, winding away and turning around corners. These led to smaller stone-arched open-air hallways, which hid small private lobbies.

Alistair opened an ornate wooden-and-glass door at the end of one path and gestured with his open palm.

“After you.”

The door led to a medium-size elevator lobby with a mirror and several expensive-looking sofas. Alistair waved a key fob in front of a blank metal panel with a single flush button, and the elevator dinged perfectly on time.

We stepped in, the doors closing and taking all the breathable air with them.

We ascended to the unknown, the entire scenario assailing my sanity.

Alistair broke it first. “So, will you be coming to California with us?” He was leaning casually against the carved wooden wall, a glistening brass rail at waist height.

“Yep,” I answered, my eyes straight ahead, concentrating on the elevator doors.

“We leave tomorrow.”

“I’ll be there.”

“Florence—” Alistair started to say, but I turned on my heel to face him and he clamped his mouth shut.

I smiled, tightly, awkwardly, but still I smiled.

“Alistair,” I said, interlacing my fingers together before me. “I’m here at your behest, because I’m assuming what you have to show me has something to do with the profile I’m writing of you. I’d kindly ask you to refrain from discussing anything beyond the scope of my professional responsibilities. After the trip to California, I’ll come back, write up the article, submit it, and that’ll be the end of this. Our fourth week will be reserved for any lingering issues, although I’m sure we won’t have any. Then you’ll never have to see me again. So let’s just try to keep it together until next Friday, because that’ll be the end to this slow-motion torture we’re both going through. Okay? You move on with your life and I’ll move on with mine.”

Alistair canted his head to the side slightly but didn’t respond.

I crossed my arms and turned my attention back to the elevator doors. I was sick of doors.

The elevator opened to an apartment. Not just any apartment. The first thought I had once I stepped into this apartment was that it wasn’t an apartment at all, it was a goddamn palace. Or a museum. As I stood in what I could only assume was the foyer, everything around me just screamed palatial. The high ceilings, the floors of deep hardwood, the vast windows that stood proudly at the end of what could possibly be the world’s longest and widest hallway. Windows offered views that could only be described, even from my faraway vantage point, as “million-dollar views.”

The ceiling was replete with historical carved French-style detailing; the wallpaper just to my immediate right was a pale white with golden-pink flowers. The chandelier that hung from the ornate ceiling was tiered, crystal, and probably cost more than what I had made in my entire career as a journalist.

The apartment was staged with expensive furniture, plush rugs, vases of all sizes and colors filled to the breaking point with fresh flowers, and oil paintings of scenic visions hung on the walls.

And this was all visible from where I stood, just outside the elevator doors. I didn’t even want to think about what the rest of the place was like.

As I was pondering all this, I barely registered the fact that there was someone else in the room.

“Welcome!” the voice cried. I jumped slightly, then focused on the woman entering from around the corner. She had pin-straight dyed-red hair and a friendly face, touched with just the slightest of wrinkles. Her eyes were framed with wire glasses and her lips were tinted crimson red, which exaggerated the broad white teeth of her open-mouthed smile.

“Welcome!” she announced again.

The woman clutched my hands with both palms and shook them vigorously.

“My name is Stella. It is an absolute pleasure to meet you, Ms. Reynolds. Absolute, absolute pleasure.”

My arm jolted up and down with her handshake. “Uh … call me Florence. It’s nice to meet you too.”

“Well, Florence, what a beautiful name! Please, please, come in, come in! Wonderful to see you again, Mr. Blair.” Stella stretched out her arms and seized Alistair towards her a tight hug and an air kiss.

“Well, then, what did you think of the building? Gorgeous, right? They just finished a twenty-million-dollar renovation on the exterior!”

“Could use more gold,” I muttered.

“Pardon?”

“Nothing.” I smiled. “It’s gorgeous, for sure.”

“Yes, for sure! Well, then, should we start on our tour of the place? I bet you’re dying to see it.” And Stella winked at me, which thoroughly confused me.

But before my confusion could set in, Stella bustled us down the hallway, gesturing wildly with her arms. The arms were as expressive as her voice, the wrists reflecting each syllable, each wild expression and tonal change in her voice. Her fingers splayed out and curved in, tightening into fists to punch the air or spreading to waggle in exaggeration. She was practically skipping over the glossy hardwood floors.

“As you’ve seen, you’ll have your own private elevator, a grand foyer and gallery which connects to both living rooms and the kitchen with dining room that retains its old original French architectural molding and details.” She swirled a finger in the air, mouthing to me the word “breathtaking.”

“There are eight rooms which are separated into five bedrooms, two living rooms and a library. Altogether you have exactly four thousand, six hundred and thirty-one square feet of interior space, with over one thousand square feet of additional wraparound balconies attached to the entire unit.”

We were pushed into what had to be the library, with rich wooden built-in bookcases that lined the entire room. The wallpaper on the exposed non-book-crammed walls was deep blue with subtle stripes. Stella led us down another short stout hallway into a vast room which had to be one of the living rooms.

“The high ceilings with the floor-to-ceiling windows give you unobstructed views of the New York City skyline, and on the west side of the property you can just soak in the sights of Central Park, which extend all the way across the park and into the Upper West Side.”

Her ruby lips mouthed another word to me—“decadent.” At least I thought that was what she mouthed.

So commenced our very peppy, borderline aggressive tour of the apartment. We entered a room, she espoused its virtues, winked at me, mouthed some adjective, and we moved on.

Truth be told, it was breathtaking and decadent and all other luxury descriptives. Old-world details like carved wooden ceilings mingled with contemporary furniture read both tasteful and fresh.

We did a lap around the apartment, did a triple take in the master bedroom (“Glooooorious,” Stella sang) with its claw-footed tub and walk-in closet that rivaled the size of most average apartments. Finally, we ended where we’d started, in the foyer leading to the elevator.

“Alright!” Stella clasped her hands together and grinned broadly at the pair of us. “So, as anticlimactic as it sounds to say this, that is it!” She reached into her purse and withdrew something clutched in her manicured grip. “I must say, I am thoroughly envious. This is the best unit in the entire building. Nothing finer in a six-block radius!”

Stella seized my fingers, dropping something hard and cold and heavy into my palm.

“Congratulations, sweetie.”

“Um, thanks?” She had handed me a heavy golden keychain with the building’s address etched on it. Five fat golden keys were attached.

“Please feel free to look around as long as you two like. I’ll be downstairs in the lobby so you can call me if you need anything. I’ll check in with you two before you leave. Any questions?”

She smiled expectantly at me and I cast an uneasy look at Alistair. He didn’t give any lead, so I looked back at Stella. “No questions, thank you for the tour.”

“My pleasure!”

She gave Alistair another tight hug and winked at me one last time before the elevator took her downstairs again.

“Comes with three parking garage spots! Heated!” she cried out just as the elevator doors slammed shut in her face.

Her words were still lingering in the air as I cracked a small grin. “Nice woman, that Stella,” I said.

“She is enthusiastic, best real estate agent in Upper Manhattan.”

“Enthusiastic doesn’t even begin to describe it,” I said.

“So?” Alistair said.

I traced my fingers down the wallpaper and walked slowly away from Alistair. “So, what?” I said, my back turned towards him. I concentrated on every detail in the room but him.

“What do you think?”

I examined the gold foil in the roses, following the edges with my finger. “I thought you didn’t do residential.”

“Well, I thought this one was special enough for an exception.”

I paused in front of the window off to the far side of the foyer. The view peeked over the perfectly manicured central courtyard. A gardener was trimming a long row of topiaries as a young mom pushed a baby in a red stroller. They both were minuscule from our height.

It was as idyllic a scene as any Upper East Side resident could beg for.

“A good buy? What’s the price?”

“I have no issue with the price. I want your opinion on this place. What do you think?”

I scoffed. “What do you care what I think? You’re the expert. I’m still living with my little brother after half a decade of hotel squatting.”

“I value what you think. Please, tell me.”

I hesitated over my words. “The apartment … it’s gorgeous. What else is there to say? If price isn’t the issue, it’s an amazing apartment—it has everything anyone would need. It’s an apartment to kill for.”

I exited the foyer and crossed the entire length of the apartment. A set of white-trimmed french doors opened to the outdoors and a blast of cool spring air greeted my senses when I pushed out. I breathed in, then let go of the doorknobs and made my way towards the edge of the balcony.

The balcony was expansive, nearly rooftop status with enough space for a cocktail party. A modest (in comparison) garden was around the corner, and a plush seating area was situated a little ways off. I gravitated towards the area with the large couches, taking in the stone fire pit in the middle and the outdoor kitchen and grill next to it.

I rested my fingers lightly against the wide stone railing and couldn’t help but smile in awe. The view was breathtaking, the lush trees of Central Park spilling and rolling away from us to the horizon, where it was broken up by the water and a greater expanse of tall skyscrapers piercing the blue sky. We were so far up, the crowds down below moved like dots in a game, pixels along the screen of life.

The sound of Alistair’s shoes tapping crisply against the brick paving stones followed behind, coming to a rest just to my right. The wind picked up and blew south, taking Alistair’s scent and heat just ever so slightly towards me, so it hinted instead of assaulted. Tantalized.

I inhaled deeply.

“It’s beautiful.”

“You like it?”

I cast him a disbelieving look. “How could anyone not like this place? I mean, not even talking about the apartment. ‘Breathtaking,’ for sure.” I mined Stella’s glorious eye roll.

Alistair chuckled and I quirked a small grin.

“But, yeah, this here, this right here is the selling point.” I gestured in front of us.

“It reminds me of Michigan … of the trees … of the forest. I’ve never seen Central Park from this distance before. You know, I actually haven’t been to Central Park since I’ve moved back.”

I fiddled with the hem of my cardigan, biting my bottom lip in thought. “I should go check it out,” I said, more to myself.

“You should. It’s a nice escape from the city.”

“Yeah,” I said softly. Then I smiled and met Alistair’s gaze. “The apartment is an amazing choice. It’s perfect. You have good taste. I think you’d be very comfortable here.”

I slid my closed fist across the wide stone and dropped the keys that Stella had handed me. The brassy gold color of the keychain glinted, catching the sunlight.

“Here. These are yours. Congrats on your new home.”

Alistair didn’t make a move. He let the keys sit between us, untouched. Instead he studied me for a bit, his expression unchanging, totally neutral. “It’s not for me.”

“So just purchasing for the investment?” The wind blew brisker in pace, sending my hair whipping around, my swirling treads obstructing my vision.

“Not that either. This doesn’t have anything to do with Blair Properties.”

“So what are you going to do with it?”

Alistair reached over and caught a lock of my flowing hair gently between his fingers. He softly brushed my hair back to tuck behind my ear, his fingertips lightly grazing across my temples.

Shivers emanated over my skin and my heart thudded between my ribs, that now-familiar sweet ache spreading.

Alistair traced his touch down my neck, lingering.

“It’s yours,” he finally said.

Sound evaporated around us. All sound, the cars, the people, the city. The icy stone beneath my fingers suddenly went hot against my skin. Every sensation shifted with the plummeting sensation of my heart sinking.