Tanvi composed herself. “Well, now you’re here. And you’ll get the cups.”
Meena nodded. “I’ll make sure they’re recycled.” Meena left them and dropped off a snoozing Wally in his crate before crossing the hall. She barely took in Sam’s living room; it felt too intrusive. Back in the apartment, Meena went to the windows. She could imagine a woman sitting in a chair playing dead.
She dropped her keys at the small console table and noticed a book. It was tiny, pocket size. Einstein’s Dreams. The mustard-and-black cover was muted and simple. She picked it up, thumbed through it. She came across two folded pieces of thin, smooth stationery with a Victorian design. She unfolded the note and saw Neha’s handwriting.
I work in beige. My office desk clear except for what enables me to do my work—pens, pencils, highlighters, index cards, paper clips, etc. The quiet is quite deafening at times, perfect for the solitary work of determining a word’s definition, parts of speech, and roots.
My work is my life, and my passion is to do it well, to continually improve. This week I’m learning Icelandic. I’m fascinated by the construction of their words. Gluggaveeur. The last five letters can be inferred to refer to weather. It is an old root. The literal translation, however, is “window weather.” I was delighted by the discovery.
Meena could relate. The quiet was deafening, and more so right now. As with Neha, Meena’s work was her life. But lately she’d had the sense that it wasn’t enough. The excitement of a new place, the discovery of a new story, documenting a moment in time, it challenged her and fueled her. Still, in the last few years, there had also been a growing sense of emptiness. If she was honest with herself, she was missing something, though she didn’t know what.
All she did know was that for this one week, she’d put everything on hold so she could stay in Boston, sort through Neha’s things, and move on. But she was beginning to feel a pull, the need to know more, especially to see where these notes would lead.
CHAPTER EIGHT
There was nothing casual about Clifton Warney. Even the faint pinstripes on his black three-piece suit matched his pink silk tie.
“This is magnificent.” Clifton stood in the space separating the dining area and the living room. “Once you get rid of everything, you’ll have people lining up to live here. Location alone will get you a great price, though it is only one bedroom, and that does limit the type of clients. It is great for a young couple.”
“Everything?” Meena had hoped to keep the furnishings for now. She didn’t have time for a wholesale clean-out and honestly didn’t even know where to start. “I’ve organized a bit, but I don’t have a lot of time. I’m due in New York on Tuesday.”
“That leaves you this weekend.” Clifton pulled out his phone. “I can recommend a company to come pack it all up and store it.”
Which would mean additional cost. “You said something about possibly starting the lease in January?” She would have to do a full-year lease, which would mean not selling until the following year’s end.
“Yes,” Clifton said. “September, which you just missed, and January are two big times for the rental market turnover. Which means you need to get this place cleared out as soon as possible so I can market it in November and get someone signed before the end-of-year holidays.”
Meena mentally ran through her calendar. She had planned to be in New York until mid-November. She’d pitched a story to Gramophone to cover the Festival Bach Montreal in early December before heading to London. She could come back for a week at the beginning of November depending on how her editor meetings panned out. “What if it’s cleared out by mid-November?”
Clifton pursed his lips and tapped his finger against his chin. “Let me see what’s available and how competitive the market is for this area. We’re not talking college students here, which would be easy, though international graduate students might be able to swing four thousand dollars per month.”