Total pages in book: 85
Estimated words: 80652 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 403(@200wpm)___ 323(@250wpm)___ 269(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80652 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 403(@200wpm)___ 323(@250wpm)___ 269(@300wpm)
While it’s lopsided to place the plight of refugees and immigrants next to a fourteen-year-old moving to a cushy Manhattan apartment and attending a posh private school, I can’t think of a better way to give her some immediate perspective.
I’ll never forget the day I bemoaned to Matt how I’d been missing home and was thinking about packing up and heading back. It’d been a stressful couple of months at work, and the city was feeling particularly grumpy lately. Not to mention one of my sisters had just delivered her first baby and I was missing out on priceless family gatherings. But Matt wasted no time hauling me to 97 Orchard and promptly telling me that if I gave up on my dreams over a couple of minor inconveniences, I’d be throwing mud in the face of all those people who sacrificed so much more for so much less.
“Someday you’ll look back at this, and you’ll—” I begin to say before she lifts a hand.
“No offense, Elle, but I’m really freaking tired right now, and I just want to go to bed.” Despite the fact that it’s barely 7:00 p.m., Scarlett trots up the steps to West’s apartment, swipes her key card, and disappears inside. A moment later, she pops her head out. “You coming in or what?”
“Am . . . am I supposed to?”
She motions over her shoulder. “Uncle West says he’d like a word with you, so probably.”
With my heart in my teeth, I glide up the narrow limestone stairs and step into his world once again.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
WEST
“I read your article,” I say as we settle into my study. Upon the girls’ return, Scarlett promptly announced she was skipping dinner and going straight to bed, and I took the opportunity to invite Elle in for a drink and a debriefing on their evening together. “The one from October 2018.”
“Oh.” Her dark brows arch. “I was joking when I told you to read that . . . what was it about? They all kind of blur together over the years . . .”
Figures.
“‘The Dirty Truth about First Times,’” I recite, my back to her as I top off my bourbon. “What’s your poison?”
“Gin and tonic,” she says without hesitation. “Please.”
“Scarlett was decent for you tonight, I presume?” I mix her drink, give it a stir, and deliver it with a monogrammed cocktail napkin.
“She was . . . quiet.”
Our fingertips graze in the exchange, and our gazes hold.
Her lips slip into a coy smile as she sinks into the chair next to mine. “I took her to the Tenement Museum, but now I’m worried I traumatized her.”
I take a seat. “The Tenement Museum. Interesting choice.”
While I’m well aware of its purpose and history, I’ve yet to visit it myself, and it’s one of the last places I’d whisk a teenager off to on a Friday night.
“I was hoping to give her some perspective.” Elle takes a careful sip. “This is amazing, by the way.”
“What kind of perspective were you hoping to give her, exactly?”
“I just wanted to show her how lucky she is to be here,” Elle says. “And how so many people sacrificed everything they had for a chance at something better in this very city.”
“And do you think it resonated with her?” I fight a chuckle.
Elle rests her elbow on the arm of the chair and her pretty face on her hand as she exhales. “No. I don’t. She didn’t say a single word to me on the walk home, and when I asked if she was okay, she told me it was really depressing and she wanted to go to bed.”
“Sounds about right.”
“I was thinking tomorrow we’d do something lighter,” she continues. “There’s this really fun vintage flea market in SoHo the last Saturday of every month—so tomorrow. I don’t know if she’s into that kind of thing, but at least it won’t be depressing. Vintage Pucci and Halston never are.”
“Excuse me, sir.” Bettina stands in the doorway, hands clasped at her hips. “Dinner is ready.”
Pointing at Elle’s cocktail, I say, “Why don’t you join me? It’d be a shame for Scarlett’s plate—or that perfectly good gin and tonic—to go to waste.”
“Are you sure?” Elle rises, her movements jagged and uncertain.
“I am,” I say. “But apparently you aren’t. Don’t feel obligated to stay out of politeness.”
I’ve eaten thousands of dinners alone; one more won’t kill me.
Elle’s lips move, but no sound emerges. And her eyes scan the room as if she’s looking for an exit, though her feet remain firmly planted. She’s a beautiful portrait of confusion with those deep ocean eyes and windswept chocolate strands framing her face.
But indecision has always been my biggest pet peeve.
“Guess I’ll decide for you.” I head for the door. “You’re staying for dinner.”
A quiet elevator ride later, we’re situated at the dining table as Bettina serves her signature coq au vin with haricots verts. Simple, timeless, and impeccably presented.