The first thing I did when I arrived back in the city was pick Chaka and Kahn up from the doggy hotel they’d been staying at these last two weeks. Merritt’s friend Nick, whom I was subletting from, was fine with me boarding the two Yorkies while I was away at the Boot Camp but had very specific stipulations about their accommodations. Their fourteen-day stay in the Presidential Suite at the Dogtopia Pet Hotel included a thirty-nine-inch HD flat-screen TV, panoramic glass views of New York City, filtered water, a bedtime story complete with milk bones, and daily spa treatments. Substitute milk bones for milk and cookies and throw in some talk therapy and their stay wasn’t all that different from my two weeks at Retreat House, and really not much cheaper.
I paid the exorbitant bill and walked the dogs back to Nick’s Perry Street studio apartment. Unlocking the deadbolts, I pushed open the heavy door, scattering the layer of takeout menus that’d built up on the welcome mat in the hallway. The dogs didn’t seem quite as happy to be home as I would’ve thought, but then again, from the sound of it, the pet hotel’s Presidential Suite was bigger than Nick’s entire apartment.
Chaka moseyed inside and took a few slow laps of the apartment before sulkily lying down on the window seat in the sun. Kahn sniffed his way to the kitchen and took some half-hearted licks of the non-filtered, regular New York City tap water out of the bowl and rolled over on the cold linoleum floor for a nap.
“Sorry, boys,” I said, lifting my suitcase onto the bed. “Looks like it’s back to reality for all of us.”
Chaka lifted his head off the pillow and snorted before laying his head back down. I shook my head, fired up my laptop, and began sorting my dirty clothes into two piles, laundry and dry-cleaning. Sand managed to find its way into every square inch of my suitcase, and I had to shake out almost every garment before stuffing it into one of the bags. Each piece was still a bit damp from the moist ocean air that seemed to have seeped into everything I brought with me. I breathed in the clothes and already missed Topsail. The salty scent of sea air taking me out of Manhattan and back to the beach.
I sat down at Nick’s desk and opened up my work emails. I’d only been gone for two weeks, but it may as well have been two years with how many unopened emails I had waiting for me. I scrolled through the first several dozen, most of which were the usual headshot submissions, audition announcements, and casting notices. Then, in all bold type, I saw the email I’d been looking for, the one announcing Lena Moore’s final audition for the Cats producers this upcoming Wednesday at the Shubert Theater.
I closed the laptop and walked back to the foyer to pick up the take-out menus strewn across the ground. Sifting through the pile, I zeroed in on a Thai restaurant just a few blocks away. I picked up my phone and started to dial the number and then promptly hung up. This was how it all started, some Pad Thai, spring rolls, and then a run downstairs to the liquor store for a bottle of white wine to wash it all down. No, I was going to cook dinner tonight. In the words of Todd Aldrich, great food started with great ingredients. I didn’t have to prepare anything too complicated as long as I started with the right components. The only problem, Nick’s fridge was completely bare.
I grabbed the dogs and their leashes and hopped on the subway. I was headed uptown a few stops, to the Union Square Greenmarket, one of the best spots in New York City to find organic fruits and vegetables, cheeses, fresh herbs, and seafood. I’d probably walked through the market a million different times, cutting through the square for quicker access to this street or that, but had never really stopped to check it out. Once or twice, I picked up a bouquet of flowers from one of the stands closest to the subway entrance, but never bought any of the food items.
The variety wasn’t quite as good as the Topsail Farmers Market, but there was still a pretty great selection. I was walking around from stand to stand, trying to work out a menu for myself, when I spotted them: Stump Sound oysters by the bushel and peck.
“Excuse me,” I asked the proprietor. “How much for those?”
“How many people are you serving?” he asked.
“They’re just for me.”
“It’s an even fifty for the dozen,” he said.
“I’ll take a dozen then, please.”
He nodded and pulled some sheets of newspaper off a large stack to wrap the shells in.
“Sorry, how much for the shucking knife?” I said, pulling it down off a high rack.
“That’ll be ten dollars.”
I pulled a crisp hundred-dollar bill out of my wallet and passed it to him.
He counted out the change and handed the money to me. “Do you need a quick lesson on how to open the shells?” he asked.
“I think I’m okay,” I said as I started to turn away. “Actually,” I said, spinning around to face the stand, “if you wouldn’t mind showing me, that’d be great.”
“No problem.” He picked up an oyster and leaned over the counter. “First, place the tip of the shucking knife at the base of the hinge. You’ll want to twist the knife about forty-five degrees, and then lever the knife upwards to pry the hinge open like so,” he said, demonstrating the motion. When he was finished, he handed me the knife so I could give it a try.
He pulled a large oyster off of the ice tray. “Here, give it a go with this beauty.”
I repeated his instructions out loud, while working to pry the oyster open with the knife. When I heard the small pop of the shell, I knew I’d been successful.
“Now, if I can make a recommendation,” he said, “the Stump Sound oysters don’t need much embellishment.”
“Just a little lemon to bring out their brightness,” I said.
He raised his eyebrows. “You had a good teacher, I see.”
I smiled broadly. “The best.”
He passed me the bag of wrapped oysters. “I packaged the oysters up in ice, so they’ll be fine for a while. Enjoy them. They pair really well with—”
“A Chablis although I think I’ll be sticking to seltzer.”
He winked at me. “You’re all set, then. Have a great evening.”
I finished walking around the market and was picking up sweet corn and oversized blueberries from a stand selling fresh summer produce, when I spotted a table selling gourmet pet treats. Poor Chaka and Khan seemed to be grieving the loss of their four-star service so much, I figured the least I could do was buy them a few doggy delicacies. I walked over to the crowded table, pushing my way through to get a closer look at the merchandise. I picked up a bag of pup-corn and turned it over and read the ingredients to make sure the treat was safe for Yorkies.
“Excuse me,” I said, trying to get the salesperson’s attention.
The stand was overflowing with people. It seemed everyone in New York City liked to pamper their pets.
I rose up on my toes again. Although I should’ve been used to it by now, sometimes I really hated being so short. “Excuse me,” I shouted again, more loudly, over the masses of heads.
“Let me help you get their attention,” said a gentleman’s voice from behind me. My heart lurched in my chest. I knew that voice better than I knew my own. I closed my eyes, spun around, and came face-to-face with Sam.