Erica Orloff - The Golden Girl

“You okay?”

“Yeah. Fine. Now.”

“Where are you?”

“West Point.”

“The military academy?”

“That’s the only West Point I know, Troy.”

“Sorry…it’s just you’re way upstate. I’ll leave now. These goons still around?”

“No. And I’m actually going to be heading back to the city soon. I’ll be fine. I just thought you should know. You told me I should check in with you. You know, after the whole thing at the warehouse.”

“You actually listened. I’m shocked, but stay put until I can get there.”

“And how will I explain that to my date? Look, I’m going back to the city. I’ll check in, I promise. But for now, I’m safe.”

Troy didn’t respond. After a few seconds, Maddie said, “Hello? You still there?”

“Yeah. I’m weighing whether or not to let you go back on your own or waiting, which has its own risks. All right…you can head back on your own, but check in.”

“Okay. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.” Maddie broke the connection and emerged from the stall. She left the rest room, and her heart skipped a beat when she didn’t see John. Then he rounded the corner, carrying two hot chocolates in plastic cups.

She smiled and wrapped her hands around the steaming cup he handed her.

“Warm up…it’ll be a cold ride back to the city. I thought, to be safe, we’ll cross the Bear Mountain Bridge and head back on the Westchester side of the Hudson.”

“You’re the pilot.” She grinned at him as they left the building, blending in with the crowds of tourists enjoying the fall foliage.

They walked back to the motorcycle, and before they put on their helmets, John asked her, “Are you sure there’s not something you want to tell me?”

She nodded.

He looked at her skeptically. “Okay…Listen, instead of that Tex-Mex place, I was thinking of cooking for you. I’m no gourmet, but I make a mean paella.”

“Sounds delicious.”

“Then hop aboard my magic carpet and off we go.”

The ride back to the city was uneventful, but Maddie kept looking over her shoulder anyway, and John kept glancing in his side-view mirrors. Finally, they reached the outskirts of the city. As they sped along the streets of Harlem, they eventually reached an area that was gentrifying. Buildings were spruced up, townhomes were showing signs of renovation, and small shops and groceries and bakeries were bustling with afternoon activity.

John pulled next to a small town house, and parked his bike in a spot next to the building. Painted on the blacktop was white paint that read Apartment 2B.

They took their helmets, and she followed him into his building, a brownstone divided into two apartments on each floor.

Apartment 2B was a one-bedroom with a large, open living-room area that doubled as a dining area, and a decent-size kitchen. Long, narrow windows with crown molding let in a little afternoon sun onto hardwood floors.

“This is really lovely,” Maddie said, looking around. “I like the floors—old-fashioned hardwood.”

“Did ’em myself,” John said proudly. “They were here, but under the most god-awful carpet you ever saw. I had to refinish them. I got into this building ages ago when, trust me, you wouldn’t even want to walk down the block. I fixed the apartment up, put in the crown molding, did those shelves there. Spruced up my place, and little by little, the neighborhood spruced up, too.”

Maddie looked around. His furnishings were eclectic—if she had to put her finger on it, she’d say there was a vague Asian influence mixed with some flea-market finds. On one table sat what looked like a real Tiffany lamp. She walked over and touched it.

“That was my grandmother’s.”

“It’s beautiful.”

“What’s your apartment like?”

“Oh…you’ll see it one day. It’s nice. You know…um…a little more traditional. But nice.”

She felt herself getting in deeper and deeper with her lies.

“Come on over here, and I’ll pour you some wine while I cook.”

He uncorked a bottle of cabernet, and Maddie sat on a wicker stool at his breakfast bar and watched him while he carefully prepared dinner.

“Can I help?”

“No. I decided yesterday I would rather cook for you and spend an evening alone together, talking, instead of in a noisy restaurant, so I’m all set. If you want, go turn on the stereo over there. I have it preset to some stations. I think the second button is a jazz one. The first is classical. Moving up it gets into rock. One hip-hop.”

Maddie climbed down from the stool and turned on the stereo, ultimately choosing the jazz station. She pulled out her cell, text messaged Troy “IM OK,” then she went back to watch John as he busied himself in the kitchen.

Funny, she thought, she had grown up with a chef in her home. But he treated the immense kitchen with its restaurant ranges and subzero refrigerators, and built-in wine coolers, like a restaurant. Joseph would chase her out of “his” kitchen, and because her mother insisted on a macrobiotic diet—the better to avoid adolescent weight gain, she told Madison—the “poor little rich girl” had never even licked cake batter from beaters. Or watched anyone prepare an entire meal. She tried to imagine Ryan Greene—or any of the men she knew, for that matter—chopping onions or peeling garlic.

Over wine, John told her more about his childhood, and his first forays into the gang.

“Have you ever really hurt someone?” she asked him, thinking clearly for the first time of pulling the trigger at the warehouse.

He nodded. “One of the requirements for getting into the gang was you had to commit a mugging. So I did. I was so tired of getting jumped on my way to school. The gangs offered a street family. So I mugged someone—an older guy on his way home from work. He had on a uniform for a gas station. Old guy, like I said. Looked a little frail. But he ended up having a gun. I wrestled him for it…and I hit him on the head.”

“Was he okay?”

“Yeah. I mean, I’m sure he had a big welt the next day. But I felt terrible.”

“It’s hard to picture you doing something like that. When I see you in class, those kids absolutely revere you.”

“Well, at the end of the day, it’s about making a difference. It’s not about how much money you have, or your possessions…”

She thought about being an agent. Would she be able to make a difference so that Claire did not die in vain? That was part of how Renee put it. She had a chance to do something.

After an hour or two of simmering, dinner was done. John uncorked a second bottle of wine and lit some candles. While he did that, she helped set the table. On his refrigerator, she noticed pictures of his class—including one of her, front and center on the fridge, leaning in next to Anna as they worked on the computer. She smiled to herself.

Over dinner, they sat and ate, as usual the conversation not lagging. After they finished, he invited her into the living-room area. “When we’ve digested dinner, I’ve got a homemade dessert. I made flan yesterday, but I’m too full—unless you’re still hungry.”

“Not me. Stuffed for right now. But dinner was wonderful.”

He refilled her wineglass and sat next to her on the couch, draping an arm around her. She was surprised at how comfortable she felt around him. She was so used to being cautious.

He turned his face to her, his dark eyes full of passion and intensity, and began kissing her neck. He moved his arm from her shoulder to take her face in his hands. Soon, they were kissing ravenously.

Madison had never felt anything that she would describe as raw passion before. Her few boyfriends over the years had been as tightly wound in their careers as she was. They scheduled sex into their PalmPilots and BlackBerry PDAs and arranged dates after board meetings—often canceling at a moment’s notice for business reasons. But this, with John, was a hunger, and they hurriedly undressed each other, moving from the living room to his bedroom, which was cozy and lit by a small night-light.