Stocks tumble on news of—
Australian fires rage, claiming hundreds—
Each little banner is a lure, drawing me away from my task. But I block them out.
Where else to look for you?
I tick back through all the places we’ve gone, the things we’ve done, what you’ve told me about yourself. Then I remember your apartment where a strange woman answered the door.
Oh, this is just a vacation rental. I am here with my family this week.
I open the vacation rental website she mentioned and search the listing by address.
Click, click, click. After scrolling through a few apartments, there it is.
Chic, modern Chelsea two-bedroom with stunning views, the headline enthuses—walking distance to almost everything!
I scroll through the photos. The bed where we made love for the first time. The kitchen where you cooked me one of the best meals I’ve ever had—a spicy Chilean sea bass with roasted garlic new potatoes. We drank wine, a bold and fruity cabernet, and laughed and laughed. It felt like love, almost right away. Not what I was expecting—loose connections, fun, but brief encounters. This was more.
Clicking through the pictures on the listing, I see the bathroom. We showered together in the huge steamy stone and glass affair, very stylish. Subway tiles, marble countertops.
In retrospect, it looked very obviously like a vacation rental. Something stiff and cold about it.
The owner’s name and contact number are listed at the bottom of the page. Joe is a “superhost” apparently, and his listing boasts that he’ll get back to you in under an hour. So, I send him an email.
Dear Joe, This might seem odd, but a friend of mine is missing. His last known address is your Chelsea vacation rental. I am attaching a photo. Do you recognize him? Did he leave contact information? Thanks so much for your help.
Then I wait. There’s no phone number to call—there so rarely is these days. No person waiting on the other end to answer your questions, your thoughts and concerns in real time. Warmth replaced by so-called efficiency. The silence around me expands.
Finally, an email comes through, its chime startling me—my editor.
Perfect. See you in-studio later.
In-studio to record the Dear Birdie podcast, where Jax and I read three different letters out loud, then discuss. One broken heart, one dark mystery, one lighter, funnier question about modern etiquette or social navigation. Jax takes the hard-line. I take the softer approach. We sometimes have a third—one of our therapists or a private investigator—to offer some practical advice when needed. Nuts-and-bolts type stuff.
I have to admit I’m the most surprised of all by the runaway success of the column, the podcast. Even the television option looks promising. There are just so many people out there lost in this modern world, looking for a connection. Dear Birdie gives that to them, even if they are among the majority who never write or leave a voice message.
Even if they’re just out there alone reading or listening.
My doorbell rings. I’m so lost in thought that the sound moves through me like a Taser. I practically leap off the couch where I’ve curled myself up in a ball, and race to the door. I don’t even look before I swing it open, so sure that it’s you with flowers, with words that explain this weirdness. You’ll wear that crooked smile. We’ll laugh about it all.
But it’s not you.
It’s a man I don’t recognize with icy green-gray eyes, close shorn blond hair. He stands at an angle on the stairs, halfway up as though he’s moved back down after ringing the bell to keep a polite distance. Leaning against the railing, one hand in the pocket of his bomber jacket, he offers a low-wattage smile.
“Wren Greenwood?”
I move back behind the door a bit. He doesn’t move forward to close the distance I’m trying to create between us. So far, no one has tried to find out Dear Birdie’s true identity, but I’m always afraid that the day will come. The tsunami of mail, some of it from regulars, can get dark. Some people are grateful, but some are angry. Many benefit from the advice I have to give, but a few hate me, blame me for mistakes they have made based on how they interpreted my words. There have been a few death threats. We all agree that it’s better if Dear Birdie remains anonymous.
“Can I help you?”
He takes out a tattered brown identification wallet from the back pocket of his jeans. Holding his ID out to me, he says, “My name is Bailey Kirk. I am a private investigator licensed by the state of New York.”
“What can I do for you?” I say, wary. He puts the wallet away and moves forward to hold out his phone.