Page 15 of Brooklynaire
“June? Like, two months fromnow?”
“Yep.” I look up. “Nate. What thehell?”
“What’s theproblem?”
The problem is that we’re not in front of my apartment building on Water Street. Instead, I’m staring at Nate’s mansion on Pierrepont Place. “It seems we’re atyourhouse?”
“Dr. Herberts was right—your cognitive abilities areunscathed.”
I smack him on the arm. “Don’t be a wise ass. Why did you bring mehere?”
“For lunch, for starters. And we’ll talk about my otherplan.”
This is mildly infuriating, but I follow him up the brick pathway toward the house. It’s not like there’s anywhere else I’m supposed tobe.
Nate’s home is a mansion in the truest sense of the word. When the house went up for sale four years ago, theNew York Timesdid a whole article about its history and architecturalsignificance.
Nate scooped it up. He lives here alone, in a six-bedroom house. I’ve been inside a couple of times when he’s hosted charity fundraisers at home. And I use the wordhostedcasually—when Nate throws a party, Lauren or I hire people to do all thework.
The front door opens as we approach. “Hello, dears! Is that Rebecca?” A plump, smiling woman wearing an apron and a little cap on her head waves us toward thedoor.
“Hello, Mrs. Gray!” Nate’s housekeeper is someone I speak to on the phone often enough, but rarely see. “How have youbeen?”
“Better than you, if I’ve heard correctly. How is your noggin?” Mrs. Gray asks. “Still a bit under theweather?”
I glance toward Nate, wondering why his housekeeper would know anything about my head injury, but he looks away and coughs. “I know I didn’t call ahead, but is there something you could feed us for lunch?” he asks, in a more polite voice than he uses with anyone.Ever.
“But of course! Do you think so poorly of me? In five minutes, I can give you Caesar salad with chicken and a bowl of tomato soup withcroutons.”
“Thank you,” Nate says, sounding sheepish. “That would beperfect.”
“It’s only perfect if Rebecca agrees,” Mrs. Gray sniffs. “I can make her a sandwich if that menu doesn’tsuit.”
“Soup and salad sound lovely,” I sayquickly.
“Mrs. Gray?” Nate stops her as she hurries from the foyer. “Rebecca is going to be staying here for a little while. I’ll put her in the greenbedroom.”
“What?” I say at the same time Mrs. Gray claps her hands together and smiles, before hurrying offagain.
“Hear me out,” Nate says, taking my jacket off my shoulders. He hangs it on a coat tree in the corner. Nate’s foyer is larger than my bedroom on Water Street. “Your apartment is too noisy. This house has six bedrooms. I’m headed to Washington DC tomorrow. You’ll have complete privacy. Give it a week. See if the quiet helps yourest.”
I’m just gaping at him. “I can’t stay here.” For aweek?
“Whynot?”
“Well, I justcan’t, that’s all.” I’m not making any sense. But the reasons aren’t that much fun to articulate. “You’re myboss.”
Nate actually rolls his eyes. “I didn’t ask you as your employer. I asked as your friend. Just tell me onething.”
“What?”
“If I was injured and scared and not sleeping well, would you offer me one of your sixbedrooms?”
“Well, sure.” I don’t even have to think about it. Of course I’d helpNate.
“Good.” He turns away as if the matter is settled, heading toward the rear of the house. “Then let’s eat lunch,” he says over hisshoulder.
I follow him through an enormous parlor filled with antiques, onward to the dining table. This room should seem stuffy, with its long table and sixteen chairs. But there’s a wall of leaded glass windows looking out on a manicured garden, and all that greenery draws the eye away from the antique fixtures and thechandelier.
