Then
Wednesday, July 8
Beacon, New York
It was gorgeous out here. Just gorgeous.
I loved trains, had ever since my first ride to the city.
Romantic. Old-fashioned. No stress. No driving.
We chugged along at a steady clip. Hudson River on my left. Trees and brush and land, land, land.
No more city. No more sensory overload. Bye bye, Brooklyn. It’s been real.
Problem was, despite all the peace, all the beauty, I couldn’t find a way to relax.
I couldn’t stop scratching. Might have been the Amtrak’s textured seats. Or the pulsing early-July heat. Still, it was relentless. My arms. The backs of my knees. The place on my neck where the baby hairs grew.
Hell, maybe I was just nervous.
The last few hours had been a whirlwind.
Stuffing the jewelry into my bag. Cabbing it back to the apartment in Brooklyn Heights. Packing up my passport, my ID, my credit cards and computer—all the things worth taking. Tossing my life into a pair of duffel bags.
I’d coated my hair in mouse-brown L’Oréal. Waited forty-five minutes for it to process. Clipped a few inches off the ends. Put on my cheapest Target clothes and a pair of oversized sunglasses.
I’d locked the door behind me, leaving the bed unmade, some things behind. The place would look lived in if George came by. Prevent him from drawing the wrong conclusions just yet. And even when he did figure out I wasn’t coming back, he wasn’t going to go and report me—his mistress—missing. He was still trying to get Mary back.
Afterward, I’d grabbed a cab to Penn Station. Bought a ticket on the Adirondack Amtrak line, headed north, with cash. Final destination: Montreal. I wasn’t sure if I’d go that far, but I wanted to keep the option open.
Now I looked around.
The train was full. Had been since leaving the city. The borough-dwellers were getting the hell out. Setting off on a romantic ride up the river. Escaping the hustle and bustle of the city in the summer. Commuting up to Poughkeepsie. Or trying to see a bit of creek and forest and mountains, if only for a day.
Opposite me, a young couple, heavily tattooed and laden with Apple products, worked in tandem without looking at each other.
Meanwhile, I was the asshole who was taking up two seats, but I didn’t dare put my bags up top. The cargo was too precious.
The train slowed, approaching our next stop: Beacon. The hip couple began to pack their devices.
I unzipped my own bag, reached beneath underwear and T-shirts, jeans and socks. Felt a touch of velvet.
My fingers worked at the drawstring, tugging it open. I reached inside, relief flooding me—a catch of breath—as I touched the jewelry. Facets and prongs. Smooth and sharp. The emerald eyes of a panther. Vicious, vindictive. Money money money.
My shiny new life.
No more running. No more bouncing from place to place. Man to man. Child to child. No more worrying about how many years I had left in me for this kind of life. Mary thought I was late twenties, and I’d never disabused her of the assumption. I was actually thirty-five, only a few years younger than her. But I’d always looked on the younger side, and the men I’d been with had been happy to hand over their credit cards so I could get a facial. I never told them that those facials came with Juvéderm and Botox, as well.
Getting out of this game was absolutely what I needed, but it was scary, too. I’d been pretending so damn long. Contorting myself into boxes men created for me. Working myself into corners. Expanding to fill the spaces.
Who was I without all that?
My phone buzzed, and I jumped.
Quickly, I closed the bag, zipped it all tight.
The train slowed.
What if it’s George?
What if he’s already been home, seen what’s missing?
What if I’ve already fucked it all up?
I took the phone out of my purse, fingers shaking.
The train stopped. The couple stood up, bodies moving in tandem.
Relief. It wasn’t George, but Mary.
Hi again, it’s me. Just give me a call, ok. I’m worried about you.
My fingers hovered over my phone’s keyboard. God, I wanted to text her back. Tell her everything.
Hey, Mary, I’ve got half a million bucks worth of your sister-in-law’s jewelry. Grab Alex, come with me, take a cut, and we’ll build our own life up north.
Laughter bubbled within me. How silly and absurd. How fun. Drinking wine. Cuddling Alex. Spending money. Just Mary and me, two strangers who’d met on a playground—no men to want or possess us.
No expectations, just us.
The train doors opened. The cool couple got out. Movement and shuffling. New people getting on board.
I trained my eyes on my book. Another old detective novel. My favorite.
“These seats taken?”
I looked up to see a man and a little girl. Matching grins on their faces. Bags and ephemera in the guy’s arms. He gestured to the seats opposite mine.
“No,” I said. “Please. Go ahead.”
I stole glances their way as they shuffled in—couldn’t help it.
He was tall and lanky, due for a shave but in a way that sparked curiosity. One that almost made him more handsome. He wore a Medicare for All T-shirt, but that didn’t mean anything, did it? Plenty of people with money considered themselves progressive.
The girl—probably about three?—had a mess of Shirley Temple curls and a look of absolute amazement in her eyes.
He went to work folding up his stroller, wedging it above.
Meanwhile, the girl stared, slack-jawed, as if she’d never seen a human before. As if I were the face of god.
I never got tired of that, no matter how many men, how many children. The way they could look at you with such love, such awe, such guileless care in their eyes. As if they’d known you forever and at the same time had never seen anyone like you before.
Kids were amazing. Truly.
I let my book fall to my lap, waved at the little girl, unable to help myself.
“Hi,” she said proudly.
“Hi there. What’s your name?”
“Paw-pee.”
The man tossed a bag reading DiaBeacon, the museum up here that all the Manhattanites just loved, above, then put a backpack with loads of pockets, clips, and straps onto the floor. He pulled the little girl into his lap and went to work sifting through the bag for what I’d guess was a snack.
I could see the girl’s patience began to falter as the prospect of food made her hungrier. Finally, the man reached down far enough and found a package of half-broken crackers, which the girl took with a wilted smile.
I could organize the hell out of that backpack, I thought. Make it so much easier to find what you were looking for. I was so good with kids. A gift, really.
He opened the Ziploc for her, and she began to munch. I was about to turn back to my book, but the man smiled my way again—a kind smile, really. “She loves the train. It’s got to be her favorite thing in the world.”
“Who wouldn’t?” I said, smiling back.
He’s probably married, I thought. Probably on a Daddy-daughter outing, nothing more.
Besides, I was past all that. I was moving on. Away from all this.
The man looked at me a moment, and then I saw it—I did—as I had learned to pick up on, the drift of his eyes down to my hands, bare—not a ring in sight. “Her mom’s out in Ohio. Not many trains there, so it’s a treat when she’s with me, during the summers. We pick a destination and do a day trip. I’ve offered to drive her to amusement parks, out to Legoland. She only wants to go if it’s by train.” He laughed. “Kids, you know.”
I let myself chuckle, feeling the prick of recognition, my hackles rising. Knowing what this could be . . . if I wanted.
“What am I saying?” he went on. “You’re far too young to have kids.”
There he goes, I thought. Just like Mary. Making assumptions about my age. I let myself laugh again, louder this time. An encouraging laugh. “Flattering,” I said. “But not the least bit true. I don’t have any, though, much as I love them.”
The man smiled, and Poppy did, too.
“I like her,” the girl said. That was the other thing about kids. They wore every emotion right there on their sleeves.
The man and I both laughed then. “I’m Rich,” he said.
I hesitated only a moment, decided it was best to cover my ass—we were still close to the city, close to George and Mary’s world. “Annie. Nice to meet you,” I said. “And you, too, Poppy.”
The girl grinned.
Don’t go any further, I told myself. You’re done with this life. Getting off this hamster wheel.
I looked at the girl, at her clothes, clean and bright and nicer than something you’d find at Target or Carter’s. At the stroller up top, one of those Instagram brands that was too expensive for its own good. At the man, a little unkempt, but in a way that was almost affected. His jeans looked nice—expensive.
There was money there, plain to see.
It would be nice, wouldn’t it? To have a little companionship while I got everything together? The buyer for the jewelry wasn’t yet lined up. I needed to wait, lay low for a bit.
“Where are you headed?” I let myself ask.
“Woodstock.” The man grinned. “Well, the Rhinecliff stop, but that’s where we live. Old farmhouse right in town.”
That did it, if the rest hadn’t. Woodstock wasn’t cheap. Especially not in the middle of town.
I stepped into the box, into the role, as I had so many times before.
“That’s funny,” I said casually. “I’m headed there, too.”