3 This new place of mine would be a lot more appealing if it didn’t smell like a combination of wet dog and liverwurst.
Because the apartment is in desperate need of airing out, I cross to the living room window and tug on the lower sash. The old glass rattles within the frame, but the window won’t budge.
I lean in for a closer look—as I suspected, the sash has been painted shut. I could work it free with a screwdriver and hammer, but I have no idea where my tools are. Packed in a box somewhere and sitting either in my old place, in the gallery, or downstairs in the lobby.
I blow out my breath and glance at my watch. The doorman, a young guy named Thomas, promised to keep an eye on several of my boxes, but how much time does a twenty-dollar tip buy?
Running my hand through my hair, I turn to look around my new apartment. I agreed to buy the place with its furnishings, but I’d paid little attention to the furniture when the real-estate agent walked me through the place. I’d been far more impressed by the open space that serves as living room/kitchen/dining area, framed with a wall of ninefoot windows granting me a panoramic view of Central Park. The three bedrooms are small, like the bedrooms in most older apartments, and the tiled bathrooms are positively Spartan.
But the building is in the Upper West Side, convenient to NYU, and miles away from St. Louis. The location, combined with the open living area and those glorious windows, so wowed me that I nearly accepted the selling price without even attempting to negotiate.
Selling myself to the board of directors, however, had been another matter. Before I could purchase the apartment, I had to provide the Westbury Arms’ managing board members with an application for membership to the homeowners’ association, personal and business references, a letter of employment confirmation, verification of my bank accounts and brokerage statements, the last two years’ tax returns, and a copy of my mortgage loan approval. After going through my paperwork, they called me in for an interview, bluntly asking why they should allow me to live at the Westbury Arms.
“Because I’m quiet,” I’d said, feeling a bit like a criminal under interrogation. “I think I’ll be a good neighbor. And current research indicates that quiet neighbors tend to inhabit safe neighborhoods, while safe neighborhoods tend to create higher property values.”
After withdrawing for a private vote, the four board members stepped forward to welcome me to the Westbury Arms.
Now I can’t help but wish I’d sent a cleaning crew ahead of me. I am staring at ugly vinyl and chrome furniture, smudged walls, and carpets that smell of cigars, cooking grease, and dog. I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised to find the place in need of cosmetic work, but my high hopes made the place look a lot more appealing when I signed the purchase contract and handed over a check for the first year’s maintenance fees.
I reach for a wall switch and flip it, hoping to activate the ceiling fan. Instead, a light glows in the long gallery that leads to the foyer.
At least the light works.
Sighing, I pull a six-pack of diet sodas from a box on the kitchen island, then walk to the avocado-colored refrigerator and open the door. Five cans go into the fridge, the sixth I pop open. I’d drink from the can, but I can’t stand warm soda, so I search through several cupboards for a glass. Finally I find a New York Yankees mug in a forgotten corner. The bottom is filled with little black things—roach droppings or dirt?—so I rinse the mug beneath a stream of hot water.
While the mug drips on the counter, I open the freezer and hope for an icemaker. No such luck. But the former tenant left me an ice cube tray—silver, like the ones my parents used before they broke down and bought new kitchen appliances.
I wince at the snap and creak of snapping ice, then drop a couple of clouded cubes into the mug. After dumping the rest of the ice into a plastic container from one of my moving boxes, I refill it with water and slide it back in the freezer.
I slide onto a barstool and smile as I sip from the mug. This isn’t exactly my finest moment, but it’s memorable all the same. The Lindbergh High senior voted most likely to remain a geek has accomplished his first domestic act at the famous Westbury Arms without breaking or burning anything. If I can get my other boxes moved upstairs without tying up the elevator or stepping on some other tenant’s foot, surely I’ll remain on good terms with my neighbors . . .
I set my mug on the counter when I hear a knock at the door. The doorman? The super? For a split second I wonder if I’ll find Aurora Norquest standing outside—I’d like to apologize again for intruding on her grief.
But the woman I spy through the peephole is a familiar-looking silver-haired lady in a black suit with a fur collar. When I open the door, the petite woman lifts a white bakery bag and smiles.
“Welcome to the Westbury Arms,” she says, her voice a genteel murmur in the silence of the carpeted hallway. “It’s wonderful to have you here, Mr. Cannon.”
I struggle to place her face, then I remember—this woman was one of the four board members who vetted my membership application. One of the four formidable guardians of the Westbury Arms.
I open the door wider. “Thank you, Mrs.—I’m sorry, but I’m terrible with names.”
Her thin mouth twitches with amusement. “I’m Clara Bellingham, and I didn’t expect you to remember my name. I’m sure you’ve had a lot on your mind in the last few days.” She leans slightly to peer over my shoulder. “I hope you don’t mind that I picked up a few baked goods to welcome you to the fifteenth floor.”
“Thank you.” Taking the hint, I step aside. “Won’t you come in? I’m sorry the place is a mess, but I’ve just begun to settle in. Most of my boxes are still in the lobby—”
“You don’t have to explain. I know Horace Williamson had no taste. But I think you’ll find this is a nice apartment. It has nice bones; it just needs a bit of sprucing up.” She walks forward, her gaze sweeping from wall to wall and floor to ceiling, then pauses outside the first door off the main hallway. “How many bedrooms have you, Mr. Cannon?”
I’m sure she knows the answer, but I’ll humor her. “Three.” I lean against the wall and cross my arms. “I’ll use this room as the master bedroom. The room right off the foyer would make a good guest room, I think.”
She presses her lips together. “Excellent idea. I believe that was the arrangement the McConnells used—they lived here before Horace Williamson.”
I acknowledge this information with a polite smile. “The other bedroom—the one next to the living room—will be my office. It has more closet space than the others, and I have lots of files to store.”
“It’ll be a good space for you—and it’s close to the kitchen. By the way, what do you think of the view from your living room?”
“It’s wonderful. The windows were what sold me on this place.”
Nodding, she follows the gallery until it ends at the open space that serves as the main living area, then turns to face me. “I’m surprised the unit doesn’t look worse than it does—Horace was never one to invest much energy in his home. It’ll be interesting to see what you make of the place.”
“I do plan to fix things up—in my spare time, that is.”
“We’re always fixing things up at the Westbury. I don’t suppose you’ve heard the history of the building?”
“Not really—is it colorful?”
Her smile deepens into laughter. “We’re not nearly as colorful as the Dakota on Seventy-second—they filmed Rosemary’s Baby there, you know, and John Lennon was murdered on the sidewalk right outside that building. The Westbury was built in 1885, the year after the Dakota, and the architect must have been determined to outdo his competition. That’s why we’re fifteen stories; they’re nine. We have forty-five apartments, the Dakota’s original plans called for only thirty-six. There are more now, of course—people at the Dakota are always chopping those grand old spaces up into smaller units. While our apartments have been renovated, we haven’t allowed any to be subdivided.”
Amused by the competitive comparisons, I do my best to suppress a smile. “How long have you lived here, Mrs. Bellingham?”
Thought narrows her eyes and tightens the corners of her mouth. “A long time, Mr. Cannon. Perhaps too long.” She sighs, then looks at me with a smile that seems forced. “It’ll be nice to have another young person on the fifteenth floor.”
I laugh. “I have a niece who thinks thirty-seven is positively ancient.”
“Children—what do they know?” Mrs. Bellingham holds out the bakery bag and looks toward the boxes on the kitchen island. “I should leave this with you and let you get to your unpacking. I don’t want to interrupt.”
I take the bag from her. “Thank you, and you’re not interrupting. I’ve left some boxes downstairs, but as long as the doorman doesn’t mind keeping an eye on them—”
“Thomas won’t mind. He’s an agreeable young man.”
“Then . . . would you like to sit down?”
“Why, thank you.”
As she walks toward the horrid vinyl sofa, I set the white bag on the counter and struggle to keep a straight face. Apparently reading my financial records and reference letters wasn’t enough. The woman wants to know if my bellybutton is an innie or an outie.
“Can I get you something to drink, Mrs. Bellingham? I could offer you a diet soda or water . . .”
“That won’t be necessary.” When she sits and crosses her legs, I notice that she has dressed in heels and stockings even for this casual visit. “Tell me all about yourself, Mr. Cannon. New neighbors are an unusual treat on this floor.”
I sit in a creaky chair that has seen better days. “Call me Phil, please.”
“You look more like a Philip.” She tilts her head, and from this angle I can see a discreet hearing aid. “Are you a native New Yorker?”
“No, ma’am. Born and raised in St. Louis, Missouri. But after college I wrote a few papers and the next thing I knew, NYU offered me a part-time position on their faculty. I teach there now. I do consulting work when I’m not teaching.”
She lifts a brow. “You must do very well.”
“I make a decent living. It’s nothing spectacular, but it keeps me in computers and video games.”
Her answering smile is more a mechanical civility than an expression of pleasure, so I assume she doesn’t share my enthusiasm for technology.
“So . . . you’ve lived in New York for some time?”
“Before moving here, I had an apartment in Brooklyn. But I didn’t like the commute, so as soon as I could afford it, I began to look for a place in Manhattan. My real-estate agent was thrilled to find this apartment.” Thrilled by the commission, I want to add, but hold my tongue. Mrs. Bellingham brings the tips of her fingers together in a delicate gesture. “It’s hard to believe such a promising young man hasn’t married.”
She’s diplomatic; I’ll give her that. “I was engaged to be married once, to a girl from back home. But she didn’t want to leave St. Louis, and I’ve always thought of myself as more suited to urban living. So we broke up.”
Mrs. Bellingham makes soft tsking noises. “A shame you couldn’t compromise.”
I shrug. “I’ve decided some men aren’t meant to be married.”
“But you’re not . . . you know.”
She waggles her brows and heat flows from my neck into my face when I catch her meaning. “No, I’m not gay.”
Pressing a hand to her thin chest, she manages a choking chuckle. “One can never be certain these days, especially in this city. Every Sunday I pick up the Times and read about those ‘same-sex commitment ceremonies’—well, I’m sure you can see why it’s not safe to assume anything anymore. Especially when you meet someone who is . . . legally unattached.”
“I’m not single because I’m gay,” I answer, trying to keep my tone light. “I’m single because I’m an economist. I meet women; they ask what I do; I tell them. Most of them run for the exit within sixty seconds.”
Mrs. Bellingham twitters. “I find that hard to believe; you’re such a charming young man. I love self-deprecating humor.”
“Really.” Amazed that she is so easily entertained, I decide to offer one of my best riffs. “I assume you know the definition of an economist.”
She looks at me, brows raised, and gives me a half-smile. “Why don’t you enlighten me.”
“All right—an economist is someone who finds something that works in practice . . . and wonders whether it would work in theory.”
Nine of out ten women who hear that joke only stare at me, but Mrs. Bellingham chuckles. “What a delight to have you on the fifteenth floor with us, Philip. Especially now that Mary Elizabeth is gone.”
“Was she Mr. Williamson’s wife?”
“Oh, no. Mary Elizabeth was Aurora’s mother.”
I nod; names and faces are beginning to connect. “Aurora is the young woman next door? I met her earlier today, but I think I caught her at a bad time.”
“That’s probably true.” Her brow arches. “Did she mention her mother?”
“She said she buried her mother today.”
“The service was held this morning.” A faint line appears between the woman’s thin brows. “Mary Elizabeth was my dearest friend, and I love Aurora like a daughter. I suppose that’s why I’m so worried about her.”
Not certain I want to hear gossip about my neighbor, I stretch my arm along the back of the chair and look around for an excuse to escape. I’d like to finish with Mrs. Bellingham’s quiz so I can go downstairs and pick up my boxes, but it’d be rude not to reply to her statement. “Aurora seemed well enough to me,” I answer. “A bit distracted perhaps, but surely that’s normal in her situation.”
“Distracted? My, what an understatement.” She shakes her head with that helplessness I’ve seen women adopt when they talk about troublesome children. “Aurora is a jewel, but not really capable of functioning in the real world, if you know what I mean.”
Despite my good intentions, I can’t resist the bait. “I don’t quite follow.”
“You didn’t speak to her at length, did you?”
“Only briefly.”
“Well”—Mrs. Bellingham leans forward—“have you ever met people who are too naive and timid to survive in the real world? Aurora is like that. Even as a child, she lived in books and fantasy worlds. As a teenager she would rather read than date, and I don’t think she had a single boyfriend through her entire adolescence. I didn’t think she’d summon up the gumption to go away to college, but she surprised me by enrolling at some small girls’ school in Virginia—Sweet Briar, I think—but after graduation she came home and planted herself right back in her mother’s apartment. She was working at a bookstore at the time, then she went and surprised us all by falling in love with a young man who actually wanted to marry her—but by that time Mary Elizabeth had begun to slip. So that was the end of that.”
“I don’t understand. What was the end of what?”
“Why, the engagement, of course! Aurora’s young man wanted to marry her right away, and Aurora refused to put her mother in an institution. The young man—I forget his name—wouldn’t even consider moving into the apartment with M.E. and Aurora, so they had a big argument and we never saw him again.” Mrs. Bellingham flicks her hands in a dismissive gesture. “Afterward, of course, I told Aurora she was better off without him. He didn’t seem to like Mary Elizabeth at all, and everyone knows you can’t come between a girl and her mother.”
“So . . . Aurora and her mother were really close?”
“Truly. Mary Elizabeth was thirty-five when she had Aurora, so she was a mature first-time mother and extremely devoted. When Mary Elizabeth’s mind began to wander, Aurora quit her job and stayed home to help. I suppose you could say she’s lived as her mother’s shadow for the last ten years. She might have nursed her mother for another ten if Mary Elizabeth’s heart hadn’t given out. Now Aurora’s rambling around in that big apartment all by herself. I’m worried to death about her.”
Not knowing what to say, I prop my chin in my hand and regard my guest with what I hope is a compassionate look. Mrs. Bellingham seems sincere, but she has to be exaggerating. The woman I met in the hallway was no helpless ingénue. She stuffed that bulky trash bag down the chute with considerable determination.
“Well . . . I think it’s admirable that she wanted to take care of her mother. I’m sure she’ll find a way to make a new life for herself. Maybe she’ll even look up that old boyfriend.”
Mrs. Bellingham straightens and holds me in a level gaze. “I’m afraid that’s quite impossible.”
“Why not? Stranger things have happened.”
“Aurora would never speak to that young man again. And all those years of being alone up here . . . well, I’m afraid they’ve broken her spirit.”
“I’ve heard that care giving is extremely stressful—”
“Of course it is, but that’s not what I’m talking about. But before I can explain her problem, you have to understand her background.” Mrs. Bellingham lowers her voice to a conspiratorial tone. “Haven’t you put it together? Aurora Norquest? Of Manhattan?”
I rake my hand through my hair, frustrated that I am failing a quiz on material I didn’t know I was supposed to study. I am not a Manhattan blue blood, I have no idea what families are listed in the social register or if such a thing still exists, and I couldn’t care less that the Westbury Arms is six stories taller than the Dakota—
From a sea of swirling thoughts, one possible answer leaps up at me. “The only Norquest I know is the horror novelist.”
Mrs. Bellingham applauds, her face a mask of pleased surprise. “You are quick, young man.”
My jaw drops. “Get out. Theodore Norquest lives here?”
“Lived here—until he abandoned his pregnant wife and ran off to Europe to raise another family. Aurora is his daughter.”
I don’t know anything about the writer’s marital history, but probably three-quarters of the civilized world has heard of Theodore Norquest’s spectacularly successful horror novels. Several of his books have been reworked as screenplays, and an A-list of Hollywood’s finest have made his stories familiar even to the nonreading public.
I let my head fall back to the cracked vinyl and grin at the silent ceiling fan. “Theodore Norquest’s daughter lives next door. How wild is that?”
“Several celebrities have lived in the building from time to time. Just like the Dakota.”
I lift my head. “Anyone famous living here now?”
Her smile diminishes slightly. “Not at the moment.”
My thoughts veer to my collection of first-edition Norquest novels, any one of which would become infinitely more valuable if autographed. “Does Norquest ever visit?”
“Sadly, no. Mary Elizabeth and her husband did not part amicably, and after the split M.E. couldn’t say his name without hissing. Ted lives in Europe, and he’s never met his daughter. I doubt he ever thinks of her.”
I am too surprised to respond with more than a nod, then a dart of sympathetic pain makes me wince. I can’t imagine being estranged from my parents. Even though I haven’t lived at home in years, we still keep in touch.
But I don’t want to discuss my family—and Mrs. Bellingham is obviously eager to talk about my neighbor’s.
“Norquest must be ancient by now,” I say, thinking aloud. “I remember reading his books when I was a teenager.”
Mrs. Bellingham chuckles. “Careful, young man—Ted Norquest is my age. M.E. and Ted went everywhere with me and my husband, Charley, when we were younger. We used to go out for dinner and dancing two or three nights a week. When the Norquest marriage broke up, Ted moved to London. Shortly after that, Aurora was born. My Charley, God rest him, is the closest thing to a father the girl has ever known. She wept for days when he passed.”
I look toward the long gallery that stretches to my door and the outer wall of Aurora Norquest’s apartment. “Did Norquest never even try to see his daughter?”
“Not to my knowledge—and I daresay I know everything that’s happened in that girl’s life. I’m ‘Auntie Clara’ to her, and now that her mother is gone, I’m probably the only living soul who loves her.” The woman’s lined mouth quirks in a melancholy smile. “Sad, isn’t it?”
“Extremely.”
“So you can see why I’m glad you’ve come to live here. Aurora needs the company of someone her own age. She’s had far too few male friends.”
Uh-oh. A cold knot forms in my stomach when I look up and see the determination in her eyes. The last thing I need in my life is a matchmaker.
I lift my hand to cover an anxious cough. “I’m afraid I won’t be much help in that department, Mrs. Bellingham. I think I’m certifiably undateable.”
Her laugh ripples through the air. “That’s the point, Philip—so is Aurora.”
“Pardon?”
“She doesn’t go out—she won’t go out. She wouldn’t even go to her mother’s funeral.”
I shift in the chair as my mind races. Once again I have the feeling she’s testing me on material she’s only allowed me to glimpse.
“All those years of nursing have turned her into a sort of recluse,” Mrs. Bellingham says, a tinge of sadness in her eyes. “She has no interest in anything outside that apartment. Oh, she reads and watches television, and she’s as bright as they come. But just try to get her out of the house—it’s impossible.”
“She doesn’t go out at all ?”
Mrs. Bellingham gave a tense shake of her head. “Not anymore. It’s a tragedy, really. She’s never been much of a social creature, and after she quit her bookstore job, she squirreled herself away in the apartment with Mary Elizabeth. She used to go out in the beginning—I’d sit with M.E. so Aurora could go to the drugstore or grocery—but while she was out, she couldn’t stop worrying about her mother. Eventually she decided it was simpler to stay home and arrange for deliveries. Some of her friends used to come around and try to pry her out, but after a while, they stopped coming. Now I’m afraid I’m the only friend she has left.”
Not certain what she wants from me, I shift my gaze to the cracked veneer on an end table.
“Please don’t think I’m trying to arrange anything between you two,” she says. “I’m not urging you to marry Aurora—she’s proven she can take care of herself. But she could use a friend.”
I look up, struck by the note of wistfulness in the woman’s voice.
“Heavens, look at the time.” Mrs. Bellingham taps her watch. “I have to run. I have to get to the library to pick up a few books for Aurora, then I have to run to a dinner appointment. But it’s been lovely to visit with you.”
I stand to walk her to the door, but Mrs. Bellingham is halfway down the gallery by the time I extricate myself from the uncomfortable chair.
She smiles as I reach out to open the door. “I hope you enjoy living here, Philip Cannon. If you need anything at all, don’t hesitate to knock.” She twiddles her manicured fingers in a quick wave, then sails away, moving down the hallway at a surprisingly quick pace.
I linger in the hall until she is safely inside, then I glance toward the Norquest apartment. No light seeps from beneath that closed door; no signs indicate anyone lives behind it. Hard to believe I’m living next to the daughter of one of the world’s most successful writers . . . and harder still to believe my elderly neighbor wants to fix me up with a recluse.
At this point, I have more mundane things on my mind. I have to unpack, set up my computer, and decide which pieces of Mr. Williamson’s odious furniture can remain and which must be replaced. Once my apartment is set up, I need to analyze the data for my latest consulting project and grade a stack of papers from my students. Relationships, even friendships, require time, and I have never had trouble filling the hours of a day.
Now, though, I have boxes waiting in the lobby. I pat my pockets to be sure I have my keys, then close the door behind me. I press the elevator call button, then step back to study the layout of the hallway. Two elevators serve this floor—one beside my door, the other at the end of the hallway, next to Mrs. Bellingham’s apartment and across from Aurora Norquest’s. Three tall windows flood the public area with light and offer a lovely view of the building’s center courtyard. Across from the windows, a flight of wooden stairs leads up to a single gray door marked with a “No Admittance” sign.
The stairway to the roof, apparently. Sometime after I am settled I might go up there and have a look around. Ought to be quite a view.