Andrew called Beth the next morning, and it went straight to voice mail. He opted to text her instead. 2:30 flight. Home by 6. An hour later he checked out of the Peninsula and joined Kimberly in a limo to O’Hare.
Andrew took measure of his assistant’s mood. Cordial but cool. She did her best to pretend the previous night never happened and spent most of the ride to the airport on her iPhone. But as they rolled down Michigan Avenue, she casually let a little more leg show than was usual for a December day in Chicago, as if to remind her boss what he’d left on the table.
At the airport, they discovered their two-thirty back to JFK had been delayed indefinitely due to a Christmas snowstorm that had socked the Eastern Seaboard. Kimberly took a seat at the gate as far away from Andrew as possible and lost herself in her iPad. Andrew found an airport bar, ordered a whiskey sour, and tried to get in touch with Beth again. Still no answer.
More than four hours later, the announcement came that Andrew’s flight to JFK would soon begin boarding. When he got to his first-class seat, he discovered that Kimberly had switched her seat assignment so that she wouldn’t have to sit next to him. Maybe it was for the best. He quickly texted Beth an updated estimated arrival time and settled in for the two-and-a-half-hour flight.
Never mind Kimberly. What he wanted most in the world was to get home to Beth, to make things right, to give her a wonderful Christmas.
A few minutes before 11:00 p.m., Andrew and Kimberly said their terse good-byes at the JFK curb. It was snowing hard, and several inches had already accumulated. Kimberly flagged the first taxi she saw, tossed out a lukewarm “Merry Christmas,” and was gone.
“Same to you,” Andrew said. As her cab disappeared into the snowstorm, a tremendous sense of relief washed over him. At least that was over. He’d have to face her again after the holidays, but that was more than a week away, and for the time being he could table his worry—at least until after New Year’s Day.
He flagged his own taxi and headed home to Beth.
On the way, Andrew had the cab pull to the curb long enough to buy a bouquet of flowers from one of the few markets in Manhattan open late on Christmas Eve. He knew Beth; she’d expect no less after the way he bolted on her so suddenly Friday evening.
As the cab pulled away from his building, Andrew looked up at the apartment window. It was dark inside except for the soft glow from the Christmas tree bulbs. He checked his watch: 11:43 p.m. Beth might already be in bed. He looked at the bouquet, hoped his floral mea culpa would do the trick. He was in no mood for a Christmas Eve confrontation.
As he walked by her apartment, Andrew noticed Mrs. Applebee’s door was slightly ajar. He could hear her TV volume turned loud enough to be heard all the way across Central Park.
His own door was unlocked. He pushed it open, stepped into the darkened apartment, and clanked his keys onto the gold tray that sat on the antique table by the door. He peeled off his wool overcoat and scarf and flung them on the rack. The moment he stepped into the dim living room, he saw her: Beth curled up in the easy chair. She was wearing a pullover sweater and jeans, her arms crossed.
“Hey,” he said. “Did we forget to pay the Con Ed?”
Beth just stared at him. Andrew knew that look. She was still angry.
“Got your favorite flowers.” He held out the bouquet, but Beth made no move to accept them. “Listen . . .” Andrew dropped the flowers on the kitchen table. “I’m sorry I had to run off like that. It’s just . . . this writer—”
“She answered your phone, Andrew.”
His stomach lurched, but he tried to bluff it. “Who?”
“Don’t give me that. You know exactly who. Kimberly. I recognized her voice. She answered when I called you last night.”
Andrew had a brief flash of anger at Kimberly. Why had she answered his cell phone? Stupid, stupid.
“I . . . told you she was coming along,” he said.
“Don’t lie, Andrew. I deserve better.”
“I’m not lying.”
The look on her face told him he’d better not push it. “I guess it slipped my mind,” he said. “I didn’t think it was important.”
“Not important? You know she’s after you.”
“After me? C’mon, Beth. That’s not true. She thinks of me as a mentor—”
“Don’t patronize me. I want the truth.”
“Beth, I—”
“What was she doing with your phone?”
“I don’t know. I guess I left it—”
“Was she in your room?”
Andrew hesitated.
“The truth, Andrew. Just tell me the truth.”
“She came along for work. I needed help signing the client.”
“So, yes, she was in your room. And since when do you need help signing a client?”
Beth was out of her chair. She made a beeline for the front door.
“I’m her boss, Beth. We work together. Nothing happened!”
“Then why didn’t you tell me she was going?”
Beth grabbed her coat and scarf from the rack and threw them on. Andrew could see she was struggling to keep from melting down in front of him.
“Beth, stop.” Andrew put a hand on Beth’s arm.
She jerked away. “Don’t touch me! I can’t stand you right now! I can’t stand being in here!”
“Beth, where are you going? It’s two degrees out.”
“I need some air. I need to think.”
“But it’s almost midnight,” Andrew said. Beth looked him in the eye.
“Then merry Christmas,” she said.
And with that she was out the door and into the stormy Christmas Eve night.
Andrew went to the window and looked down just in time to see Beth turn up snow-covered 89th Street. He hurried to the door and put his overcoat back on.
There really was no choice. He had to go after her.