Chapter 27

The next week and a half was surprisingly calm.

I played tour guide for Avery’s wife and kids; we had a great time roaming from one end of the city to the other. One afternoon, Debra and I descended on New York’s finest clothiers to shamelessly wield our purchasing power. Spending Avery’s money was Deb’s full-time job and she gave me plenty of tips. Enough to write a book.

“Play the part,” she told me. “If stores think you’re going to spend thousands, they put their best people on it.”

She wore Armani pants with a Dolce & Gabbana top cut to make her petite figure look curvy. Prada boots elevated her from waif to vixen, commanding fear and respect in the hearts of salespeople everywhere. She vetoed my choices and said they were too casual.

Who knew Gap was unacceptable on Deb’s spree to spend?

I found a plum Banana Republic suit that met with her approval and we took a break at Barney’s.

“Don’t automatically reject anything without pondering,” she lectured. “Fur, leather, garments made in Mexico, just keep an open mind. Otherwise, you reduce your options.”

We attacked Fifth and Madison Avenues. Tiffany’s alone took two hours.

“If they offer you water, make it Perrier with a twist of lemon,” she whispered in the crystal room. “Don’t settle for tap. Ever.”

The salespeople didn’t know what hit them. They couldn’t do enough for us and one of Cartier’s offered champagne. I hadn’t been treated that well in years.

“You are the ultimate pro,” I told her.

For lunch, we stepped into Town and put our feet up.

“Avery’s going to kill me,” Debra said. “I was only supposed to buy what I absolutely needed.”

I had forgotten how much I liked Debra.

Unusually attractive, she had high cheekbones accentuated by short, auburn-colored curls. Her big brown eyes and wide grin invited everyone to smile. Deb’s skin looked like midnight without moon or stars. She was easy-going and fiercely independent, essential qualities when married to a man whose business kept him away for most of the year.

“Tell me again how you and Avery met.” I munched on my Caesar salad.

“I worked at the Hyatt in La Jolla.” She crinkled her nose. “Supplementing my income because teachers don’t make shit. Can you believe I had to waitress three nights a week just to buy decent clothes?”

“Did you hate it?” I asked.

“I hated the way people behaved. A person’s character is revealed by how they treat their waitress. Peers and superiors are almost always treated with respect, but what about someone perceived as inferior? That’s the true test. I always wanted to shout out my credentials with every table I served just so everyone would know I was educated.”

“Avery must have made one hell of an impression,” I said.

“Avery was a perfect gentleman. Smooth, that’s for sure. Brother has style, you know what I’m saying?”

I nodded.

“I was immediately turned on,” she continued. “I planned on sneaking him my number three seconds after we met.”

“Sneak?” I asked. “Why didn’t you just come out and hand it to him?”

“He was having drinks with another woman and I naturally assumed they were together. White woman, too. I was all pumped to break up their jungle fever when Avery asked me to dinner. Turns out the woman was just a business associate. So, I gave him my number and he called me that night.”

“Moved quickly, didn’t he?”

“Avery wastes no time.” Debra winked and sipped her cocktail. “We had only been dating a month when he proposed. I wanted to wait and plan the wedding of my dreams, but Avery talked me into getting married that weekend in Vegas. What a nutty thing to do, don’t you think? I would beat Jasmine within an inch of her life if she ran off with some player and married him. What could I do though? Avery is the kind of man who goes for what he wants. I’m glad we seized the day because in his line of work, who the hell knows what tomorrow brings.”

She was right. Who the hell knows?

“Are you bothered that Avery is gone so often?” I asked.

“Like you wouldn’t believe. Jasmine and Rakio miss him so much and I do, too. Regardless, we made a commitment to one another and Avery is doing his best. I’m hoping that one day soon he’ll be home for good.”

I knew better than to smile. Avery hadn’t yet told me his plans, top secret were his two favorite words, so there was no reason to get Debra’s hopes up or blow the surprise. Afterwards, Debra and I headed back to Madison Avenue and did more damage to our bank accounts.


The following day, I took Jasmine to see the Guggenheim and Museum of Modern Art. An aspiring artist, she soaked up the scene as we walked through the exhibits. She memorized everyone and everything in order to draw it all later. Jasmine was never without a pencil. She’d sketch on napkins whenever we stopped to rest between museums.

“Paris, Rome, or New York City,” Jasmine said. “I’ll study with the best and never stop learning. Not even when I’m ninety.”

“If you choose New York, you’ll already know the language,” I said.

“Olivia.” She sighed in that adorable way teenagers sigh at adults who don’t understand them. “I speak French and I’m learning Italian.”

“I’m so sorry,” I laughed. “I forgot how smart you kids are nowadays.”

She smiled and her violet eyes sparkled.

“You look like your father,” I said.

She looked away and pretended to be offended.

“Except for the scar and hideous braids.” She snorted.

Jasmine was short like her mother, resembling her father in every other way. She had Avery’s eyes and demeanor; they shared the same facial expressions, nose and crooked smile. Jasmine kept her hair long with a wave to it, curling up at her shoulders.

She looked like a black Marlo Thomas from That Girl. Her navy blue beret matched her Capri’s. She wore a crisp, white, buttoned-down blouse that hung out of her pants. Jasmine looked like an artist.

“I think you’d like New York best of all,” I told her as we ate hot dogs in Central Park. “Italians are filthy and Parisians are snobs. Here you get the best of both worlds. The people are dirty and rude.”

“I could make my parents happy and stay in Los Angeles.” She washed her hotdog down with a Diet Coke. “They think home is safer.”

“You have time to decide. Try all of those cities and stay with your favorite.”

“New York would mean being closer to dad.” She wiped her mouth with a napkin. “Maybe I would get to see him more often if I lived here.”

“Maybe.”

I looked at Jasmine and felt a rush of envy for the girl. What must it be like to love a father? To want to be with him? I thought of Max and wondered what kind of father he would make someday. I looked around the park.

“What are you smiling about?” Jasmine asked.

“Everything.”


For equal time, I took Rakio out the next day. He yawned when I mentioned museums and scowled at the thought of a baseball game. I had no idea how to entertain a fifteen-year old boy, but it turned out to be fun. We spent most of the day in Greenwich Village, hitting thrift shops and old record stores for clothes and imports.

Rakio was tall and thin. He wore simple clothes, jeans and a T-Shirt from X-Large in Brooklyn, with a do-rag on his head. A good mix of Debra and Avery, he shared his father’s height and jawbone and his mother’s dimples. Other qualities were very much his own, such as light brown eyes and dreadlocks that hung down his back.

“What are we looking for?” I skimmed through a used CD rack. “Public Enemy? Snoop?”

“So five years ago,” he said. “I don’t listen to them anymore. I’m lookin’ for OutKast or Fat Boy Slim imports.”

“Fat Boy Slim?” I asked. “I didn’t realize that was a musical group. I thought it was a subliminal weight loss program.”

Rakio looked at me like I just landed from a spacecraft.

“O,” he moved closer to me, “you gonna tell me what my dad does for money or what?”

It was my turn to look at Rakio like he was the alien.

“Don’t try pumping me for information. I’m too smart for that.”

“Come on, girl, you know you can trust me.” He winked.

I laughed out loud.

“Do you use that line with the ladies back home?”

Rakio looked sheepish and nodded.

“Does it work?” I asked.

“Every time.”

“Good for you, kid. Too bad I’m on to you.”

I took Rakio over to the Statue of Liberty thinking he’d be interested in the history of our country. Turned out he was only interested in spitting off the top.

“Isn’t that what The Empire State Building is for?” I asked, dragging him away.

“I did that yesterday!” he howled.


During the daylight hours, I committed to memory everything I loved about the city, taking in sights like I’d never seen them before, probably because I‘d never see them again. Paranoia be damned, I smiled at strangers and really looked at their faces, even taking the subway for the first time in ages.

At night, my windows kept open a crack to the sounds of people, cars, and parties below. The stereo turned off most of the time because I wanted to hear commotion on the street.

At the end of the week, Avery’s family packed up and went back to California. On our drive to the airport, everyone grew sullen and quiet except for Avery. He whistled and hummed along to a tune on the radio, telling his family he’d see them soon. They didn’t believe him. Jasmine cried at the airport and Avery hugged her and said they’d be together in no time.

“You always say that,” she whimpered.

“You’ll see, baby,” he whispered. “You’ll see.”

As we drove home, Avery grew quiet.

“You always get grumpy when they leave.” I turned off the radio. “Just think; it’ll only be a week before you see them again.”

Avery said nothing.

“You’re welcome,” I said.

“Olivia, are you trying to fish for information?” He stared out the window. “Are you trying to be clever and determine my plans?”

I didn’t say a word.

“You’re inept at subtlety,” he said.

“I want to be able to contact you in an emergency.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll know if you need me.”

What’s with the men in my life?

“Listen, Batman.” I leaned over in his direction. “I don’t need a giant flashlight to point at the sky. Just a cell number, thanks.”

“I told you. I’ll be in touch if you need me.”

“How will you know where I am?”

“I’ll know.”

“Is it California or not?”

“I’ll be home for a little while,” he finally admitted. “I just don’t know how long I’ll stay.”


Back in my apartment, I picked up my headset again.

Silence.

I held my breath.

When Pressure began, I threw down the headset and let a stream of curse words fill the air. Billy Joel sucked. Once in a while, if I kept the headset on, I could hear muffled voices. However, the music was so loud it was impossible to make out words.

One of two things was up: Either Max took off the necklace and placed it next to his stereo system accidentally or he was fucking with me. Intuition told me which scenario was more likely.


The next night, I put on a black dress purchased during my shopping spree with Debra. I wore my mother’s pearls, the only thing of hers that I kept, and put my hair up out of the way. I called for a cab and headed into Little Italy.

“Olivia, you look lovely!” Mrs. Susi whistled as I walked into her place.

“What’s the occasion?” Isabel put chairs on top of tables, closing up for the night.

“Put on something elegant and let’s get out of here!” I said.

Mrs. Susi hadn’t seen an opera for over thirty years, so I borrowed a limo and took mother and daughter to dinner and a show.

Lincoln Center was alive with hundreds of people mingling about in anticipation of a glorious evening. Beautiful operas are spectacles in the grand tradition of the word and that night was no exception. La Boheme had always been my favorite and when Mrs. Susi blew her nose for the third time, I took it as an endorsement.

After the performance, Mrs. Susi offered to make espresso.

“It’s too late,” I told her. “If I drink one of your espressos now, I’ll never get to sleep.”

“I make decaf,” she said, looking at me with eyebrows raised.

“Okay then,” I replied.

She turned to Isabel and said in Italian,

“She never turned down my espresso before.”

Isabel just shook her head.

“You different.” Mrs. Susi sat across from me in the bakery.

Isabel sat down and we all slowly sipped our decaf espresso.

“How different?” I asked.

“Not sure.” Mrs. Susi stared at a cluster of freckles on my arm. “How is your secret love?”

“I don’t think it’s going to be a secret much longer.”

“That’s it.” Isabel nodded with a knowing look. “You have that glow. Like you’re in love.”

“I’m not the glowing type.” Sip. Sip. Sip.

“Every woman is a glowing type,” she replied. “Even if she don’t know it.”

“This is good for you.” Mrs. Susi talked fast, in Italian. “You settle down and take it nice and easy. Be good to him and he’ll be good to you. Let me tell you something and don’t forget this. I was married for forty years and I know the secret of a happy life.”

“Slow down, Mrs. Susi. My Italian is a little rusty.”

“Listen to me,” she said. “The secret is: don’t talk so much.”

I tried not to laugh.

“She’s serious,” Isabel told me.

“See, my Isabel could never understand this so she never got married.”

Isabel just shrugged her shoulders while Mrs. Susi continued.

“Women nowadays talk too much. Sometimes we need to be quiet and listen. That’s all. Just listen.”

I nibbled on biscotti and looked around.

“Can I buy that picture of you and Frank Sinatra?” I asked.

Isabel drew her breath sharply as Mrs. Susi crossed herself.

“Never!” Mrs. Susi replied. “I will take it with me to the grave!”

“Momma wants it buried with her in the coffin.” Isabel sighed.

When we were finished, Mrs. Susi took me out to her garden.

“The summer is hot,” she explained in broken English, “so vegetables a bit dry.”

“I’m sure they’re delicious,” I replied. “You’d be proud of me. I’m learning how to cook.”

Mrs. Susi smiled for a while, looking at me with a grandmother’s love.

“Cooking is a good thing to learn now, isn’t it?” she asked.

I didn’t know what she meant. Mrs. Susi hummed Young at Heart while gathering up tomatoes and other vegetables that didn’t look familiar. She put them in a bag and handed it to me.

“What’s in here besides tomatoes?” I asked.

“Some ginger and garlic.” She winked and touched my hand. “Good to use. Trust me.”

I thanked her warmly as she gave me a hug. Before I left, Isabel took me aside and placed an envelope in my bag. I looked inside at a smaller copy of the Frank Sinatra picture.

“Don’t tell her,” Isabel whispered. “She thinks it lessens the importance of the big one behind the counter. Anyway, you keep this.”

“Thank you.” I put the picture in my purse. “I will cherish it.”

As I left Susi’s Sweets, I gave the owner and her daughter a kiss and promised to visit the following Sunday. They would never know what they meant to me or why I’d never return.

It was better that way.