Tips for Living(7)
Ben frowned at me, started drumming his pencil and then stopped abruptly. “Don’t get me wrong; I like the column.”
“So does my dad,” Lizzie admitted.
“But one event is a data point. Several data points are a pattern. The column might not be striking the chord you think it is. If you receive any more letters like this,” Ben said, pointing at his screen, “Tips is done.”
“Got it.”
I wasn’t going to fight a hypothetical. I’ve learned to pick my battles with Ben.
“Is there any coffee left?” I asked, starting for the coffeepot on top of the file cabinet.
“We’re out,” Lizzie said, sheepishly. “Sorry. I know it’s my turn, but I had to meet with my mom and the wedding caterer before work.” She mimed shooting herself in the head. Lizzie was going to marry her longtime boyfriend next month—a sweet guy she’s dated since high school. “I’ll pick up a can at lunch.”
I couldn’t wait for lunch. I’d been waking up tired lately, as if I’d barely slept. Instead of my usual already excessive three cups to jump-start my brain in the morning, I seemed to need coffee all day long. I’d been putting off going in for a checkup. I knew I’d been mildly depressed, but was something else going on? As a child, I’d experienced this kind of fatigue from a vexing sleep problem, but I thought I’d outgrown it.
“I’ll just run to Corwin’s for coffee,” I said. And a treat. I deserved a treat after Helene ruined Pilates class. I hadn’t bought my favorite chocolate muffin in ages. “Anyone want anything? Muffins? Cheese Danish?”
“No, thanks. They’re still charging summer prices over there,” Lizzie said.
Ben let go of his ear and looked up. “How about one of Eden’s donuts? Make mine jelly.”
I left the office and headed across the street toward Eden’s Coffee Shop, a bacon-scented haven in a town that’s changed too fast for locals and not fast enough for Summer People, who want juice bars and gourmet takeout. I noticed a woman and two men emerge from a dark green Mercedes parked in front. They looked completely out of place. The woman wore a fur-trimmed black leather coat and heels. The men had on long, black cashmere overcoats with scarves at their throats. The shorter, silver-haired man locked the car and then ushered the others into the coffee shop while holding the door for them.
I paused as I recognized him. I hadn’t seen him in a few years—he was probably close to seventy now, still spry, though his thick mane had thinned. He was wearing his trademark black turtleneck under the sleek black coat. He’d always looked and dressed like Sean Connery. Whether cooking one of his exotic dishes for Hugh and me in his loft or massaging egos at one of his gallery openings, he was impeccably outfitted at all times.
“Abbas?”
Hugh’s longtime art dealer, Abbas Masout, of Chelsea by way of Lebanon, turned around and broke into a smile.
“My God, Nora!” he said, letting the door close behind his companions. “Dear girl, it’s good to see you.” He walked over and leaned in for a European “kiss kiss” exchange on both cheeks, then followed it with a hug, as he always did.
“Abbas, what are you doing here?”
“Taking some Paris collectors to Hugh’s studio for the afternoon. They are desiring a little local flavor first.”
A light in my brain clicked on. “That’s right. It’s Monday.”
Art galleries were closed on Mondays in the city, making it a big day for studio visits. I used to arrange Hugh’s schedule so Abbas could bring collectors and curators to view work on Mondays. That explained why Helene was in Pequod. She probably had my old job tending to Hugh’s potential buyers.
“I heard you are also living in this charming place,” Abbas said.
I got here first. “Yes.”
He peered at me with concern. “You are managing?”
I remembered running into him in the checkout line at Barnes & Noble after the divorce. He’d asked the same question before insisting on buying the book I held, as a gift to me. Abbas was macho, but kind.
I blinked. “Of course.”
“Excellent. You are looking wonderful, by the way.”
“Thank you.”
“I would invite you to join us,” Abbas said, lifting his palms in helplessness, “but Hugh and his little girl are inside . . .”
I couldn’t keep from glancing through the coffee shop’s window. The Parisian collectors were just sitting down at a table, blocking my view of Hugh and his daughter. One of the newspapers had mentioned her by name. Callie.
“And Helene is coming,” he said, apologetically.
“Right. Well, it would’ve been great to catch up, Abbas. But I’m late for work, anyway.”
Just then Helene pulled up in a silver Lexus. She spotted me and raised a haughty eyebrow. I felt myself beginning to vibrate. My blood started to cook.
“Nice to see you, Abbas. Take care,” I said.
“We must find a way to get together, dear girl.”
“We will,” I assured him, nodding and hurrying away. “We will.”
No jelly donuts for me and Ben. We were going to have to pay for pricey muffins from the market.
On Wednesday morning, I headed for Pilates again, hoping Helene had purchased her class card exclusively for the Mondays she’d be hosting visiting art collectors. But her Lexus sat in the parking lot. In my spot. I considered turning around. Instead I parked and walked into the alley, fighting the urge to go home with every step—until I saw Helene. She was chatting up Kelly like the two of them were best friends, and she’d already set her mat down in lane seven. My lane.