Page 49 of Between Two Strangers

“Thank you. I’d love that.”

After we sign off, it occurs to me again that Josh might have an interest in me beyond the professional. He’s an attractive guy, for sure, and though at times he’s seemed overly smooth, he’s smart and well-spoken, and the fact that he’s so savvy about art makes him even more appealing. But it’s hard to fathom that I could be histype. No, I remind myself, this is just him being thoughtful—and remembering that when he asked me for a list of people to add to the guest list, I had only nine.

I continue west and then south to SoHo, where I meander through several pricey home stores, just to look around. After that, I stop at two stationery shops I love and end up buying several sheets of vintage-looking wrapping paper, one featuring elephants, the other ancient Egyptian hieroglyphs.

Done with SoHo, I walk up Broadway and stop at Evolution, a store specializing in science and natural history artifacts that’s pure heaven for me. After wandering the aisles for over half an hour, I buy a small bunch of African porcupine quills for a mere three dollars. From there I head to Greenwich Village, only browsing at a few places and making purchases at a couple of others. I end up with remnants of fabric, a packet of old postmarked stamps, a couple of travel books from a remainder bin, and a set of amazing vintage postcards from Rome, Istanbul, Niagara Falls, and the Thousand Islands, the archipelago that straddles northern New York State and Canada.

Are there really a thousand islands in the St. Lawrence River, I wonder, or is it simply marketing hyperbole? What would it be like to travel along that river, seeing those islands one by one? And what would it be like to fly to Rome or Istanbul finally, to climb the Spanish Steps and sail across the Bosporus? I worry that I’ll never know.

By the time I finish up in the Village, I’m starving. Chelsea Market, the huge food hall, isn’t far, so I walk up there, my tote bag loading me down, and order a caprese sandwich on an enormous roll from a shop called Cappone’s. Though it’s Friday afternoon and things are bustling, I score one of the metal tables along the passageway outside the shops.

Halfway through my sandwich, I can’t help but notice how serene I feel. Maybe I haven’t traveled anyplace exotic, but miraculously, all the browsing and shopping accomplished exactly what I hoped they would. I’ve released much of my anxiety in the process.

And I’m starting to see a few things from a different angle. Maybe the loss of power in my studio buildingwasdue to a prank by kids or just a random power outage. It certainly seems likelier than someone going after me on purpose. And if whoever intruded into my apartment actually was a private eye looking for proof I extorted a fortune from C.J., he came up empty-handed and would have no reason to return. So I should stop worrying about being in my apartment or the studio.

And I should stop agonizing about Jane Whaley, too. Since I know for sure that I didn’t blackmail C.J., she won’t be able to wrench the money from my hands.

And at that moment, just as I’ve given the wordsthree and a half million dollarspermission to bounce around my head, my gaze falls on a baby inside a stroller next to a nearby table. Facing me, he looks to be about six or seven months, with round eyes the same shade of blue as the little cap on his head. I capture his attention and he studies me with that knowing look certain babies have, the kind that makes you wonder if there is actually a thirty-five-year-old person inside, someone who’s totally aware of what’s what but has no way of conveying it to you yet.

In the past, the sight of a baby might have left me heartsick with longing. Not today, though—because now I have a plan in place. My next appointment at the clinic is booked, and I’ll soon have money in the bank to pay for the IUI. There may not be any boats across the Bosporus for me this year, or anytime soon, but perhaps creating my next collage will help ease my pining for that. And besides, I want a baby more than I want to roam the world right now.

Done with the sandwich finally, I wipe the grease from my hands on the paper napkin so that I can take another look at the porcupine quills I bought and mull over how I might use them. Ireach behind me to unhook my tote bag from the back of the chair and start to reach in.

I notice the sheet of white paper right away, folded in half and lying on top of everything I bought today. I squint, trying to recall what it could be, as I pluck it out and unfold it.

The paper is totally blank—except for a word in the middle of the page, made, it seems, by a rubber stamp.

Whore.

25

Now

MY BREATH HITCHES AT THE SIGHT OF THE WORD. BEFORE I CANspin around in my chair, I catch myself, worried about being too obvious. Instead, I shift my position the tiniest bit and, with my heart pounding, slowly turn my head to look behind me.

The concourse seems even busier than when I sat down fifteen minutes ago: a continuous stream of tourists and foodies moving in both directions. It would have been easy enough for anyone to stuff the vile note in my bag, which I’d stupidly left dangling behind me on the chair. There’s no one who looks furtive or otherwise suspicious in the throng, and yet the person who left the note could be close by, waiting to see my reaction.

Was it just some run-of-the-mill woman hater? New York City has more than its share. But it feels like too much of a coincidence. I know how strongly Jane Whaley considers me a tramp, maybe equivalent in her mind to being a whore, and she must have had her sick helper drop it in my bag—the same guy who broke into my apartment and possibly showed up at my studio door. Which means that he’s followed me ever since I set out from my apartmentbuilding this morning. The note might have actually been left before I even arrived at Chelsea Market, when I was stopped at a street corner on my way from the last shop I visited.

Holding the note in my other hand, I force my eyes back to the word in middle of the page. Someone’s clearly used a black ink pad and a rubber stamp, the kind some small businesses still employ to mark something with the phrase “paid in full” or “do not bend.”

I wonder how often the company that made this one gets a request for a stamp that says “whore”?

I refuse to let the word get to me. I’d never felt so much as a twinge of guilt about spending the night with C.J. and I still don’t. He wasn’t wearing a ring, and if he actuallydidhave a wife, I reasoned at the time, then he was the one responsible for the adultery, not me.

No, it’s not the word itself that’s throwing me. It’s that Jane Whaley has graduated from searching my apartment without an obvious trace to trying to spook me. Is she hoping I’ll get so worn down from a combination of legal maneuvering and harassment that I’ll throw up my hands and refuse the trust?

I quickly gather my things, eager to leave. At a trash bin by the door I chuck the sandwich wrapping and start to rid myself of the note as well, but then something tells me I should hold on to it. I end up stuffing it in my jacket pocket.

Though I’d planned to return to the East Village on foot or by bus, there’s no way I’m doing it now, since I don’t know if I’m still being followed. Miraculously I spot a free cab barreling down Ninth Avenue, so I raise my hand, flag it down, and hurl myself inside. As the driver takes off, I glance back, but don’t see anyone leap into a car behind us. I can’t believe I’m being forced to worry if someone is tailing me.

Twisting back around, I sink into the seat. It’s good to be in the safe cocoon of the cab, weaving our way first through Chelseaand then the crazy, narrow streets of the Village, but I know the relief will be fleeting. Because as soon as I get home, I’ll be holed up with a table against the door, wondering what other nastiness Jane Whaley has up her sleeve. If only I could see Rosenbaum sooner. For a minute I toy with the idea of reporting the harassment to the police before dismissing the idea. What crime would I be reporting? It’s hardly against the law to call a woman a whore. Guys do it all the time.

Finally, we cross Broadway into the East Village. Though the driver seems to be using GPS, he pulls up by mistake to the building just before mine. I don’t have the mental energy to explain the error, so I unbuckle my seat belt and bolt from the cab.

Hoisting my tote bag over my shoulder, I take a few steps toward my building before coming to a sudden stop. There’s a young guy in a preppy-looking tweed blazer standing to the left of the stoop. He’s about six feet tall, with reddish-brown hair, and he’s swaying a little from one side to the next, as if he’s waiting for someone.

With a start, I realize it’s C.J.’s son.

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