Two of a Kind (20 page)

A
ndy had no trouble hailing a taxi to take them across town and to the Carlyle Hotel. There was very little traffic and the cab sped through the darkened park and downtown, but when they reached Fifth Avenue and Seventy-eighth Street, they were suddenly stalled by a tangle of cars. Horns blared and honked; the driver stuck his head out the window to see what was going on. “Accident,” he said when he pulled his head back in. “Who knows how long we'll be stuck here?”

“We can just get out and walk,” Andy said as he paid the driver. “It's only a few blocks.” They continued east on Seventy-second Street to Madison Avenue and then turned south. The shop windows were filled with bright, holiday displays. “Look at that,” Christina said. Eager as she was to get to the hotel, she couldn't help but notice the large cameo in the simple gold oval and she had to stop. “Isn't it lovely?” What had she said to Jane? Addiction? Obsession? The cameo was suspended from a braided gold chain and showed a woman in profile. Tiny grapes were carved into her flowing curls; her lips were parted in a smile.

“You like that?” Andy asked.

“You seem surprised.”

“It seems kind of plain to me. Don't most women prefer something with more bling?”

“Do I strike you as being like most women?”

“Hardly,” he said, and when he pulled her close for a kiss in the nearly empty street, she surrendered to it completely.

They were at the hotel in minutes. Like the first time they had come here, Andy had dropped off their luggage in advance, but this time he used his real name to register. “I
want
people to know about us,” he said. “I want
everyone
to know.” When they got upstairs, she was ready to slip into the bathroom to change into the new nightgown, but he stopped her. “Didn't you want to have dessert?” he asked.

“Well, yes, but I don't see any reason—” She stopped when she heard a knock at the door. “Who could that be?” she asked.

“Room service,” he said. He opened the door and a busboy rolled in a cart and then began to arrange things, including a covered pot with a Bunsen burner, on the table. Christina was silent until Andy had tipped him and locked the door behind him. Then he motioned for her to come over. “Chocolate fondue,” he said, lifting the cover.

“That looks delicious,” she said as the aroma of the heated chocolate wafted toward her. She was glad she had avoided the jelly doughnuts at the Gottliebs'.

“Oh, it will be,” he said. “We can put it on any of this—” He uncovered a platter of sliced fruit and pound cake. “Or we can put it other places. . . .” He slid a finger in the chocolate and held it up to her lips. “Happy birthday, darling.” Christina leaned closer and was just about to take his finger in her mouth when the sound of his phone fractured the mood.

“Damn,” he said. He licked the chocolate from his own finger and answered. For a few seconds he listened quietly. Then he said, “How much blood?” Another silence. “Okay,” he said. “Try to stay calm. I'll be there as soon as I can.” He clicked off.

“Who was that?” she said, but she didn't have to ask; she
knew
. Andy had given his cell phone number to that famous singer; she had called him before when they were together. The first or second time it happened, Christina teased him about having a crush on her; he got so red-faced and flustered that she realized she had struck a nerve. She stopped teasing him—and started resenting the singer instead.

“Xiomara,” he said, and went into the bathroom to rinse his finger. “She's staining and she's a wreck. I'm just going to meet her at the hospital and get her settled. Then I'll be right back—back to you.” He came over and leaned down for a kiss, but she turned her face away. “Christina, don't be like that. I don't want to leave you, but this is an emergency.”

“You're not on call tonight,” she said. “You told me that.”

“Well, no, but—”

“And it's my birthday! Doesn't she understand that you have a life? That you're not at her beck and call twenty-four/seven?”

“Who said anything about being at her beck and call? She's very anxious; you can understand that, can't you?”

“What I understand is that you're choosing her over me. Again.”

“That's ridiculous. I don't even know what you're talking about.” He crossed his arms defensively over his chest.

“This isn't the first time she's called and this isn't the first time you've dropped everything for her.”

“I take my work—and my patients—very seriously.”

“Yes. And some patients more seriously than others. Xiomara is the
only
one who has your private cell phone number. The only one!”

“She's a special case for all kinds of reasons.” When Christina didn't reply, he added, “Rachel never complained.”

“Maybe Rachel was a doormat.”

“That's low. Really low.” He picked up his coat. “I wouldn't have expected that from you, Christina.”

This was a cue to apologize, but she wasn't taking it; she was too angry. “So you're really going?”

“I told you I'd be back as soon as I can.”

“Don't count on my being here,” she said.

He shook his head. “You are blowing this totally out of proportion. But I don't have time to fight with you now.” And then he was gone.

Christina stared at the door after he'd closed it. Should she make good on her threat and leave? She was certainly angry enough. But when she started gathering up her things, she saw the peach nightgown and sank down on the bed. More than angry, she was disappointed. Was
this
what it would be like with him? There would always be a Xiomara—or her equivalent. Just a little while ago, she could see them as a unit, their two lives woven seamlessly together. Now she wasn't so sure.

The digital clock by the bed read 11:59. It was late, she was exhausted, and she did not want to take the long taxi ride back to Brooklyn. She would stay the night but leave first thing in the morning; who knew when—or if—Andy would be back? Padding into the plushly appointed bathroom, she filled a glass from the tap and took a couple of Advil; her head was killing her. Then she stripped off her dress, blew out the flame under the Bunsen burner, and climbed into bed. The nightgown remained where it was; she slept in one of the terry robes provided by the hotel.

A slim line of light showed between the drapes when the door opened; she had not thought to bolt it. She felt a surge of fear until she heard Andy's voice.

“Christina?” he said softly. “Are you still here?” She did not answer. Her head was pounding again and her mouth felt all cottony; she hadn't even brushed her teeth last night. He sat down on the foot of the bed. “You
are
here. I'm glad. I thought you left.”

“I wanted to,” she said. “I
should
have.”

“I told you it was an emergency but that I'd be back. And look—here I am.”

She sat up straighter. He was a mess—his clothes wrinkled and his collar smeared with what she realized must have been blood. He had not been to bed at all. “You must be tired,” she said, her voice more gentle now.

“I am. And I could use a shower.”

“So could I,” she said. Last night's makeup was still caked on her face.

“Maybe you'd like to join me . . . ?”

Christina hesitated. He was a good man. He cared about what he did, and did it with such passion and integrity. How could she stay angry with him? “I think I would.” She got up from the bed and loosened the belt of the robe; he slid it easily from her shoulders.

Afterward, they lay entwined in each other's arms. “Is she as beautiful in person as she is in the photos?” Christina asked. She ran a finger across Andy's chest where a few drops of water still clung to his skin.

“She's very beautiful,” he said. Christina was grateful he did not pretend not to know what she meant. “But I don't love her. I love you.” He tightened his grip around her.

Before she could answer, there was a knock at the door. “Did you call room service again?” she asked.

He shook his head and reached for the robe that was heaped on the floor. “You stay there.” He got up and went to the door. When he returned, he was holding a glossy black shopping bag tied with a red ribbon.

“Room service of a different kind,” he said, offering her the bag.

“What is it?”

“Open it and find out.” Inside the bag was a box, and inside the box was the cameo she had admired the night before.

Christina was stunned. “What did you do?” she asked. “Rob the place?”

Andy laughed. “Nope. But I know the owner of the store—I delivered his twins a couple of months ago. One of them is colicky and the only thing that calms her down is a ride in the stroller; I ran into the dad pushing her along Madison and told him about the cameo; he offered to have it sent over to the hotel.”

“What a romantic, thoughtful thing to do,” she said. “Thank you.” Any lingering resentment over the night before was gone now, dispersed like smoke.

“You're welcome,” he said. He slid into the bed beside her and they kissed for a long time. Then, all of a sudden, he jumped up.

“What's wrong?” She hoped it wasn't
another
call from that singer; she hadn't even heard the phone.

“I'm starved,” he said. “Ravenous, in fact.”

“Well, all right, we can order up some breakfast if you like—”

But Andy was busy lighting the burner under the pot of chocolate and uncovering the platter of fruit and cake from the night before. “I know it's decadent,” he said with a sly smile. “But I was thinking we could have some chocolate for breakfast. Warm chocolate—if you get my drift.”

“How did you guess?” she said with an answering smile. “Warm chocolate was
exactly
what I wanted.”

O
n the Saturday before Christmas, Andy found himself lugging a tightly bound and mesh-wrapped Christmas tree up the front stoop of Christina's house in Park Slope. This was about the last thing he ever expected to be doing, but he was having a surprisingly good time. The tree, nearly nine feet tall, had a fresh, piney scent, and the exertion of carrying it from the car and up the steps gave him the kind of mild endorphin high he associated with working out. Then there was the fun of Christina herself, pink cheeked and exuberant. She was wearing a loden coat with bright buttons and her hair had slipped a bit from its usual twist; the soft tendrils fell appealingly around her pretty face. Andy liked how well she kept up her end of the load.

“Careful,” she said as she maneuvered the pointed tip through the double doors. “You don't want to catch it on anything.”

“I'm good back here,” he said as he gently eased the fragrant mass inside.

Once they had it safely in the parlor, she shucked off her coat and went in search of the tree stand. Andy sat down to wait. In addition to the tree-buying expedition, she had invited him to both the party she threw on Christmas Day and to church the night before. He'd said yes to the former and declined the latter, though he had not wanted to tell her why. A long time ago, when he was a little boy, his class had gone to the Cloisters in Fort Tryon Park on a field trip. He'd been so petrified of the large, wooden crucifixes on practically every wall—Jesus in all his carved, static agony, spikes pounded through his wrists and ankles—that he'd gone into the bathroom and locked himself in a stall. One of the guards had to climb up and over the partition in order to get him to come out, and he'd cried all the way home. Ever since, he'd avoided churches.

“Here it is,” she said when she returned.

Andy had to admit he was fairly useless when it came to positioning the tree, but that didn't matter; she knew exactly what she was doing, and all that was required of him was to hold it steady while she tightened this and loosened that. After about fifteen minutes, the tree was securely in the stand and she used her kitchen shears to cut through the netting and twine that had held it. Immediately, the deep green branches sprang open like wings; they filled the room with their scent.

“Nice,” he said as he stood back to admire it.

“Very nice.” She switched on the radio to a station that was playing Christmas songs, mostly old ones, sung by the likes of Patsy Cline, Frank Sinatra, and Bing Crosby. “Music to decorate by,” she said, and walked over to the boxes of ornaments and coils of lights lined up by the windows. They began with the lights—“always clear, never colored,” she explained—which she wound around the tree and then tucked deep into the recesses of the branches. When that was done, Andy looked more closely at the boxes of ornaments. There must have been more than a hundred; he wondered whether she planned to use them all.

“I like to start by clustering certain ones together. See these?” She held up a tiny pair of pink satin point shoes and hung it on the tree. “I bought them at the Lincoln Center gift shop, the first time I took Jordan to see
Nutcracker
; now I add a new ballet ornament every year.” Andy lifted a miniature ballerina from the box and placed it next to the point shoes. “That's good,” she said. “You can put the other ones nearby.”

After he hung the rest of the ballet ornaments—wooden nutcracker, a tutu, another pair of point shoes made from ceramic—he watched Christina climb onto the stepladder to reach some of the higher branches. “Can I help you?” he asked.

“That would be great. Could you give me that one down there?”

Andy held it up. “A carrot?” he asked.

“It was my aunt Barb's,” she said. “Vegetable ornaments were kind of a thing with her.” In the same box, he found another carrot, a shiny red pepper, two ears of corn, and a pumpkin. He gave them to her one by one, and waited while she carefully positioned each glass bauble. Then she said, “Now for the fruit.”

“Aunt Barb?”

“Aunt Barb.”

Andy passed her shining strawberries, plums, limes, and several apples made of crimson velvet. Then she moved on to a group of ornaments in another box; they were all made of the same murky silver. “They seem kind of tarnished,” he said. “Are you sure you want to use them?”

“Mercury glass,” she said. “They're really old and I've been collecting them for years. I don't group these together; I put them up all over, as a kind of unifying theme.”

“I guess there's a science to this,” he said.

“More like an art.” She smiled.

When they were finally done, she went down to the kitchen and returned with mugs of thick, dark hot chocolate that was nothing like the sweet, packaged crap dispensed by the hospital vending machines. Andy was charmed by the whole experience; it was so nostalgic and wholesome, like he'd wandered onto the set of
It's a Wonderful Life
.
This was the first time he could remember not feeling the old sense of exclusion around the holiday, and he found he liked it. He let his mind skip ahead, to the next Christmas and the one after that. He could see waking up with her in the morning and sitting down to dinner with her every night, the hours in between governed by her graciousness, her seemingly innate sense of harmony and order.

“There's one last thing,” she said. “The star.”

“Okay, where is it?”

“Check that last box; it should be in there.”

Andy looked and found the star. It was made of silver glass and set on a hollow glass cone that would sit easily on top of the tree. “Here,” he said, but even on the stepladder, she couldn't reach. “Do you want me to do it?”

“Would you?” She climbed down. Andy replaced her on the stepladder and put the star in place. Jesus, he was glad his mother wasn't here to see this.

“Thank you—that's perfect,” Christina said. “Putting the star on top can be your official job now.”

“You mean I'm invited back next year?” His tone was playful, but he was probing; did
she
see a future for them?

“Why wouldn't you be?” she said, smiling.

He waited a beat. “Do you think we'll be together next year?”

“Do you?” She turned it back to him.

“I'd like that,” he said, looking at her steadily. “I'd like that very much.”

Before she could answer, Jordan walked into the room. She was bundled in a puffy down coat from which her long, alarmingly thin neck emerged. Clearly she was not happy to see him.

“Hi,” Andy said, trying to sound friendly. He'd be damned if he knew why she didn't like him. ”Your mom and I just finished putting on the decorations.”

“I can see that,” she said. “I'm not blind, you know.”

“Where are your manners?” Christina said. Jordan just glowered, so Christina continued. “Andy worked on the ballet section; I think he did a very good job with the ballet section, don't you?”

“No,” Jordan said flatly. “I don't.”

“Jordan!”

“Why ask if you don't want to hear my opinion? You can't even
see
the ballet ornaments; he stuck them way in the back. And they're too close together besides. And did he do the star too? Because it's crooked. But if you don't care, I guess I don't either.” She turned and left the room.

“I'm sorry,” Christina said as soon as she was gone. “Maybe I should have done the ballet ornaments myself. She's just finding all this very difficult.”

“All what?” he said with more edge than he'd intended. “The fact that her mother has a boyfriend who's bending over backward to ingratiate himself with her?” The music, which had seemed delightful just a little while ago, was now as annoying as hell and he wished she would turn it off.

“She just needs a little more time,” Christina said.

“What she needs is a firm hand,” he said. “You shouldn't let her get away with that.” There was a long, uncomfortable silence.

“And you shouldn't tell me how to raise my daughter,” said Christina when she finally spoke again.

Andy was ready to snap right back, but he looked at her first, spine perfectly straight, hands folded in her lap. Her cheeks, so pink before, had gone pale. She seemed so vulnerable. Then he thought of how she'd raised Jordan on her own, created this lovely home, a successful business, a life. She
was
vulnerable, but she was also brave, resolute, and proud. A wave of something rose and crested in him—was it love? Did he love this woman sitting across from him? Love her enough to put up with her bratty daughter and a possible lifetime of cloying holiday music? He got up from where he sat and put his hands over hers, as if warming or protecting them. She didn't say anything, but he saw her soften and incline toward him just the slightest bit. He didn't need any more encouragement to take her in his arms.

•   •   •

Despite
Jordan's evident hostility, Christina had invited Andy to stay the night. After dinner, Jordan had gone to her room and not emerged; Christina could feel her daughter's resentment emanating through the closed door. Andy had not seemed to notice. In bed, he kissed her shoulders and neck, but when he cupped her breasts with his hands, she murmured, “I can't . . .”

“I'll be quiet,” he said. “I promise.”

For a moment, she wavered. She loved the feel of him, all muscled arms and sculpted chest. And his caress was very arousing. But Jordan's room was too close for comfort and she moved out of the embrace. “I'm sorry,” she said. “I just won't be able to relax.” He did not press and they fell asleep entwined.

In the morning, Jordan's door remained shut while Christina made coffee and banana bran muffins. Andy liked the muffins so much that she packed him several to take home with him. As they were saying good-bye, she realized she didn't want him to leave; she wished she could spend the whole day with him.

“Do you have to get right back?” she asked. “I thought maybe we could take a quick walk through Prospect Park first and then you could get a car service from there.”

“I've never seen Prospect Park,” he said. He looked at his watch. “I don't have all that much time. But yeah, let's do it.”

She grabbed her loden coat from its hook and they walked arm in arm up the hill, toward the park. The day was cold but bright; the winter sun felt good on her face.

“I read there was a new skating rink in that park,” Andy was saying. “Do you like to skate?”

“I love skating,” she said. “We should go sometime.”

“Oliver's a terrific skater,” Andy said. “I'll bet he'd want to come too. What about Jordan?”

“No,” said Christina. “She never really liked it and now she'd never go; she's afraid of falling and getting hurt.”

They were both silent; even the mention of Jordan created an awkward barrier between them. Christina was trying to think of something to say when her attention was diverted by a plaintive meowing. A cat, in some kind of distress. But where? They were almost at the top of the hill, very close to the park now, and the trees here were older and more established than in the blocks below. She looked around. “Look,” she said to Andy, pointing. “Do you see?”

There, in a tree across the street, was a large white cat. Christina quickly crossed over and Andy followed. “Maddie!” called a woman who was standing below the tree. “Maddie, come down!”

“Is that your cat?” Andy asked.

The woman, who was quite young, more of a girl really, nodded. Her braided hair was disheveled, like she hadn't combed it yet, and she wore a parka and muffler over a pair of sweatpants. “She got out and when the garbage truck came up the street, she panicked and went up the tree.” From an earthenware mug, the girl produced a colossal shrimp. “I was hoping to coax her down with this; shrimp is her favorite.” She waved the tidbit in the air. “Maddie!” Turning to Christina, she added, “Her name is Madonna because she is
such
a diva. But mostly I just call her Maddie.”

Christina looked up at the cat. She was perfectly white, with long, luxurious fur and very blue eyes. The expression on her face was one of pure terror.

“I think she wants to come down, but she's stuck,” said Andy. “See how her back paw is caught in that crevice? I don't think she can free herself.”

“Oh no!” cried the girl. “How can I rescue her?”

“Did you call the fire department or the police?” Christina asked.

The girl nodded. “The firemen in the local firehouse are dealing with a four-alarm fire; who knows when they'll be back? And the police said they would try to send a squad car, but that was over twenty minutes ago.”

“I'll bet I could get her down,” said Andy.

“Are you serious?” Christina said. “
You're
going to climb that tree?”

“It's not all that high,” he said, and then turned to the girl. “Do you have a ladder?”

“I do!” said the girl.

“Good,” Andy said. “Why don't you go get it?”

Christina watched while the ladder was brought out and Andy climbed it as easily as he'd ascended her stepladder the night before. The cat, however, was still out of reach, so he grabbed on to a branch and hoisted himself up.

“Be careful!” cried Christina. He was high enough to get hurt if he fell.

Andy ignored her and focused on the cat. Christina saw how he extended his hand, giving her the opportunity to sniff him. But her front paw shot out and she raked her claws across his wrist. “Andy, are you all right? You'd better come down!” Even from where she stood on the sidewalk, Christina could see the streaks of blood. But Andy remained unfazed.

“She never does that!” said the girl. “She's just so freaked-out!”