I don’t know, Dr. K. All I’m saying is whatever I’ve been doing feels right, and things haven’t felt right in so long.
Anyway, last Wednesday evening I caught the express train from New Haven to Grand Central. I told Heather it was an informational interview with an ex-colleague and was relieved when she didn’t ask any questions.
I got to the restaurant at seven-thirty a little tired, but I jolted awake when Skye entered. I’d sort of forgotten what she looked like. I mean, I knew she was gorgeous, but what I remembered most was a feeling, a vibration in her presence that put me at ease.
But as she strolled toward me, I remembered—Skye Starling has one of those faces that stops wars. Or starts them. What is it that they say? A face that launched a thousand ships, that’s it. In a word, she’s stunning. Smooth skin, high cheekbones as round as apples, and giant, light brown eyes that brightened when she saw me.
Right off the bat Skye ordered a beer. When I told the waiter I’d stick with water, disappointment crossed her face, and I knew I had to tell her.
“You’re going to think I’m a big weirdo, but I lied to you in Montauk. I don’t drink. There was no vodka in those greyhounds.”
She looked at me curiously. “Why did you lie?”
“In truth, I panicked. I’m not used to … walking up to girls I’m interested in. I didn’t want to sound sober and lame. Even though that’s what I am.” I let myself smile.
“I don’t care if you’re sober, Burke.” Skye looked at me intently. “But no more lying. Deal?”
“Deal.” Oh, well.
Our food arrived and I loved watching her eat, slurping ramen greedily and washing each bite down with a sip of Sapporo, her face flushed pink from the steam. So many women—my wife included—are afraid of food. Since having kids, Heather has wrestled against her body—racing the treadmill and sprinting up hills to keep herself whittled down to nothing.
Skye told me about her work as a book editor, which fascinated me because I’ve always loved to read. When I was growing up, English was my favorite subject. Sometimes I think I should’ve pursued a more creative field, but Heather convinced me I was good with numbers. She thought I’d get rich working in finance, but that was forever ago, and we were wrong about so much.
I went into investment banking with high hopes, guns blazing. I put in the work. I got into the analyst program at Credit Suisse and was a year and a half in when I fucked it up. And do you know what happens when you fuck it up on the I-banker track? Nothing good. To say I was lucky to get my data-entry job at PK Adamson, one of New Haven’s shittiest wealth management firms, would be an understatement. A job that—let me remind you—I no longer have.
When Skye turned the conversation toward my professional life, I told her I worked for myself as an independent financial consultant. When Skye asked where I lived, I heard myself say Crown Heights, which surprised me, because I don’t think I’ve ever set foot in Crown Heights. But she nodded and said she didn’t venture to Brooklyn much, and I felt myself relax. Of course a girl like Skye Starling doesn’t venture to Brooklyn.
I waited for Skye outside the restaurant while she used the bathroom, the ramen heavy in my stomach. A light rain was falling, and when Skye appeared, I watched her open up a red umbrella, smiling as she offered me shelter. This look of hope was in her eyes and I should’ve felt guilty, for having a wife and kids and being on a date with this nice pretty girl to whom I’d just promised not to lie.
She asked me if I wanted to go back to her apartment “for a coffee” and I said that I did, because God I did—I wanted it more than I wanted a clean conscience. You’re a guy, Dr. K—you understand what I mean.
Skye said that she sort of liked walking in the rain, so we walked across town, and I don’t remember exactly what we talked about, only that we laughed. I laughed more that night with Skye than I’d laughed in years, Dr. K. With Garrett and Hope no longer in the house, and Maggie spending most of her time out with friends—I guess that’s what you do in high school—Heather and I pitter-patter around our empty home like strangers, and there isn’t a lot of laughter.
I expected a closet-size studio or a bunch of roommates, but Skye’s apartment in the heart of the West Village is a true one-bedroom and at least fifteen hundred square feet. Unless she works personally for Stephen King, more than a book editor’s salary is paying her rent.
I sank down into a couch as soft as butter, watching Skye shake off her trench coat and grab two espresso mugs from the bar. Her apartment is immaculate and tasteful and screams of money—everything from the art on the walls to the thick beige drapes hanging from the three enormous double-hung windows speckled with rain and glowing from the streetlamps below. Skye is too groomed to be a personal escort or something that would make her money remotely unethical; from the grandfather clock in the corner and the Nantucket Yacht Club tumblers, I’ve decided to bet on trust fund.
Absorbing more of the lavish details of her apartment, I realized that Skye Starling is exactly the kind of woman Heather has always envied—the kind of woman that Heather wanted me to help her become. But I failed. God, did I fail.
Skye slid beside me on the couch, her blond hair fanning the cushions, and pressed a warm mug of espresso into my hands. “Don’t judge me, but I’m having a real nightcap.” She tilted her mug to reveal two fingers of amber liquid inside.
“I’m not one to judge, Skye.” I inhaled the spicy sweetness of her perfume and wondered, not for the first time, if she had a thing for older guys or if the creases around my eyes were not actually as deep as I perceived them to be. After all, she still hadn’t asked my age.
I watched her take a sip of bourbon, the way her pink lip pressed against the mug’s rim. I couldn’t fathom how a girl like Skye could possibly be single. The thought had been sticking in my mind all evening, and I accidentally spoke it out loud.
“Good question.” She grinned. “Why are you single?”
“Touché.” I grinned back, then whipped up a story about an ex named Amanda, a woman I lived with for six years and almost married before I found out she was cheating on me with her coworker.
Skye’s face fell, and when she told me she was sorry, she looked genuinely sorry, and that’s a rare thing, Dr. K, when somebody you hardly know cares that you’ve been hurt. I could tell she wanted me to elaborate on Amanda, and that was the last thing I wanted to do, so I kissed her, there on her beautiful couch in her beautiful West Village apartment. And I may be pushing fifty, but I know the right way to kiss a woman. After that there was no more talking.
Chapter Six
Heather
NOVEMBER 1989
I started to get the feeling that Libby Fontaine’s money grew on trees. I knew nothing about art, and I wasn’t particularly fond of the several pieces of Peter’s I’d seen in the house, but I knew he had to be doing something right based on the steady stream of twenty-dollar bills in Libby’s silver Chanel wallet, which my friend Kyla says retails at around five hundred dollars. Kyla used to shoplift.
Libby was paying me fifteen dollars for every hour I spent “babysitting,” which included the time we spent sipping tea and chatting at the kitchen table while the kids slept. That was more than double what anyone else I knew was getting paid for part-time work. Sometimes it felt as though Libby was trying to give her money away, which baffled me.