A month later, on a bright, sunny Saturday afternoon, Angie was laughing so hard that she nearly choked on her iced coffee. She walked through SoHo with Joaquin, her arm looped in his as he regaled her with tales from the fashion world.
“Well, girl, I told him, ‘Your work is just shameful. Do not ruin this beautiful fabric and my gorgeous creations with stitching you wouldn’t use on your mother’s kitchen curtains.’ Puh-lease.”
They continued laughing as they careened down the street toward the park where they were meeting Scott and his kids. “So are you going to get some sort of show next season?” Angie asked.
“Well, it won’t be Bryant Park, baby, but I got a few fashion websites interested and two buyers for smaller chains, and I’m working on getting an interview in Women’s Wear. And Marc Jacobs almost made eye contact with me at this opening last week, so I’m getting there, sweet thing, I’m getting there.”
Angie’s phone buzzed. “It’s Rita,” she told Joaquin before answering. “Hey! Joaquin and I are near you at Vesuvio. You wanna meet us for coffee?”
“Oh, I can’t, honey, I gotta color my hair. But you kids have fun. I’m thinking of going more burnt sienna than burgundy. You remember that color? Burnt sienna? From the Crayola box?”
“I do. I do remember burnt sienna,” Angie said with a smile, looking at Joaquin and pointing to her head.
Joaquin made a face of mock-horror and mouthed burnt sienna?!
“Anyway, honey. Can you come by this week? I’m drowning in manuscripts. Which is a good thing. If it doesn’t kill me.”
“I can help out,” Angie told her. “But, Rita, what’s up with Mackenzie? I’ve left messages and sent texts but she’s not responding. I feel awful.”
“I know, honey. There’s a new head of legal at the studio and we’re trying to renegotiate and get her rights back so we can shop it elsewhere. But listen, I got this other book, a thriller. I think it’ll sell. It’s about this young reporter who’s bored out of her mind covering local zoning meetings and whatever when she overhears a conversation . . . Well, you know—the usual, but it’s very good—good story, very good writing.”
“Sure, I can come in Monday and pitch in however you need.”
“Okay. I gotta go and get this damn hair done. See you Monday.”
“See you Monday.” Angie disconnected and Joaquin looked up from his phone with a sassy grin.
“I just got a text from that painter! The one I met that time at that party, so I gotta jet. We’ll meet up Friday, though, yeah, with Mr. Hottie?”
Angie laughed. Jeremy Banker was in town rehearsing a play off-Broadway, and the three of them were getting together for dinner. Joaquin was almost giddy with excitement.
Joaquin dashed off, and Angie wandered over to the park playground on her own to meet Scott, who had the kids for the afternoon. Angie observed Michelle, who had just turned six, proudly pushing Brendan on the swing set. She pulled Scott into a big hug and then they sat on a bench to watch the kids play.
After a moment, Scott asked, “So, how are things? You’re getting by?”
“I’m getting by.”
“What about LA? Do you miss it?”
She and Nicole had texted for half an hour the night before. Nicole had suggested coming to New York to visit her next month, and, while Angie was considering it, she was still raw from everything that had happened. Ellen had been released from the hospital and was now back home, but the road was going to be long until she was back to her usual self.
Angie was still trying to accept what she’d learned about her mother and father in LA. She’d lost more than just Scarlett. But they were her parents, and while she could never look at them the same, they had all made efforts to repair their broken bond. Gerry had even suggested Angie come out to the house once a week for a book club, just the two of them. He was so animated when she went, so delighted to talk about books and literature with her, she almost didn’t recognize him.
“What happened in LA is part of me,” she finally said to Scott. “Just like what happened to Scar will never leave me. Or any of us. But life goes on, doesn’t it? And now I’m back here, and I can honestly say I feel good these days. Happy, even.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. I grew a lot when I was out there. I feel pretty . . . almost . . . okay.”
“Okay is good.”
They both laughed as Michelle came running up, her little brother in tow. “Daddy, that boy said Brendan had to get off the swings. Then he pushed me!”
Angie realized it was the same bratty boy who’d pushed the little girl in the pink-and-blue parka last winter.
“Oh, honey, he’s just crabby,” Scott soothed his daughter. “Just ignore him. It’ll be okay.”
“No. No, it won’t be okay.” Angie couldn’t look away from the scowling boy standing at the swing set.
Michelle looked at her aunt, her mouth open, her mind working. And then, just like that, she walked right up to the bully boy and punched him.