Part 11 (1/2)

”Hey, Nicky baby, you look beautiful,” he effused. Then he struck a bold E minor chord on his guitar, like a flamenco fanfare, and reached to pat her. ”Come here, sweetie.”

”Hi, Alan. How's everything?” Seeing him always bucked Ally up. He usually came on duty while she was out for her run, and she looked forward to him as her first human contact of the day. He was younger than she was--early thirties--but she thought him attractive in an East Village, alternative-lifestyle sort of way. He was very proud of the new yin and yang tattoos on his respective biceps. She admired his guts and his willingness to stick to his dream, no matter the degradation of his life in the meantime.

”Doing great, Ms. Hampton. Things are moving along.”

”Alan, I've told you a million times to call me Ally.” Anything else made her feel like a hundred-year-old matron.

”Hey, right, I keep forgetting.” Then he nodded at the manila envelope Grant had just given her. ”Pick that up on your run?”

”I was ambushed by my ex-brother. He pa.s.sed it along.”

”What's that mean?” he asked with a funny look. ”Brothers are for keeps.”

”Unfortunately, you're right, Alan. The whole thing was long ago. And not far away enough.” She was urging a reluctant Knickers on through the inner door. ”Seeing him just now was sort of like an aftershock.

From a big earthquake in another life.”

”Sounds like you need a hard hat,” he said, and turned back to his guitar, humming. And dreaming.

She took the elevator up to the top floor and let herself into her apartment, as always feeling a tinge of satisfaction at where she lived. Home, sweet home.

Her loft-style apartment was in an idiosyncratic building whose six- year-old renovation had been designed by her old architectural firm, just before she had to leave and take over Citis.p.a.ce. It was their first big job in the city. She was the one who had designed the large atrium in the middle and the open gla.s.s elevators that let you look out at tall trees as you went up and down.

She loved the building, but at the time she couldn't have begun to afford an apartment there. Later, when she could, none was available.

Then she heard through the managing agent that a German owner, after completely gutting his s.p.a.ce, had to return to his homeland in a hurry and was throwing it on the market for half what he'd paid.

She'd built a bedroom at one end--walling off an area with gla.s.s bricks that let light through--and installed a ”country” kitchen at the other, but beyond that it was hardwood floors and open s.p.a.ce and air and light, along with a panoramic view of the Hudson River out the north window and a central skylight that kept her in touch with the sky and the seasons. In much of Manhattan it was possible to go for months and not actually walk on soil. You could completely lose the sense memory of the feeling of earth beneath your feet. She didn't want to lose the sky too. Since she couldn't afford a brownstone with a rear garden, the next best thing was to have a giant skylight.

What she really dreamed of was to someday have a vacation home on the Caribbean side of the Yucatan, where she could wake to the sounds of the surf and play Bach part.i.tas to the seabirds in the coconut palms.

She felt there was something spiritual in the pure sound of a stringed instrument. It was sweetness and joy crystallized. It went with the sound of surf. They belonged together.

She had actually researched and designed that dream house already. The place itself would be based on the Mayan abodes of a thousand years ago, on stilts with a bamboo floor and a palm-frond roof to provide natural ventilation.

And since this was all a dream, she could fantasize that Steve was alive and was there too. Maybe this was her version of the Muslim Paradise, a land of milk and honey and infinite beauty and pleasure.

Sometimes late at night, when the world was too much with her, she would put on headphones and a Bach CD and imagine she was on that beach in the Yucatan, gazing up at the glorious stars.

The other thing she wanted to do someday was memorize the first violin score of all the Beethoven late quartets. But now any intensive playing, which was more tiring than it looked brought on chest pains after a few minutes. s.h.i.+t. She felt like she was slowly being robbed of everything she loved... .

She decided to stop with the negative thoughts and get ready for the stressful day to come. She just needed a few quiet moments to get mentally prepared for it.

The first thing she did was give Knickers an early morning snack, then a fresh bowl of water and a large rawhide chew to occupy her energy for part of the day. After that, she would shower and change for the trip uptown.

She had to dress for the rest of the day, which eventually might include going down to the office, if she had the time and inclination, so she decided to just throw on jeans and a sweater. She didn't pay any attention to the envelope Grant had given her; she just tossed it onto the burnt-tile breakfast counter.

She told herself there wasn't time to look at it now, but she also realized she had a very serious psychological resistance to opening it.

She hadn't antic.i.p.ated that just seeing him once more would make her this tense and angry. His proposition was surely part of some kind of scam. She'd vowed never to believe him again. It was going to take a lot of persuading to get her to break that resolve.

Look at it later. Whenever.

She gave Knickers a good-bye pat and headed out the door.