for the New York Philharmonic Sunday afternoon and then we’re going to some friends’ apartment for dinner. We could grab a drink after the concert—maybe around five? Marion can shop or head to our friends’ place early.”
That is more convenient for me, but I can’t help but be bugged by the mention of the concert. Regardless of how many times I’ve invited him and Marion here for a Sunday brunch or suggested we grab a play and dinner in the city, he usually passes, bemoaning the fact that he’s become a bit of a homebody since his early retirement from a hedge fund. And now Marion’s organized a day in Manhattan without even factoring in me and Hugh. But really, I shouldn’t be taken aback. From the moment Roger married her a few years ago, she’s been boxing me out in lots of little ways that my brother doesn’t even seem to notice.
“Are you sure? I don’t want to throw off your plans.”
“No, I’m dying to see you, Button. I want to be there for you.”
“Thanks, Rog. That means a lot.”
After agreeing to firm up our plans in the next day or so, we sign off. I get up to boil water for tea. Daylight has faded, and lights are blinking on in the endless high-rises visible from the apartment. Living here, with this breathtaking view of Manhattan at night, I’m always struck by how the building lights always seem dabbed on here and there at random, like the backdrop of a Broadway show.
I sip my tea and reflect on the conversation with Roger. I’m glad I asked for his help, and I’m grateful for the chance to see him even sooner than I’d hoped. But something makes my stomach knot, something beyond the fact that he’d planned to be in Manhattan and hadn’t told me. That Marion had surprised him with tickets? And then I realize I’ve completely forgotten Roger’s birthday. It was ten, no eleven, days ago.
Shit. It’s like Gabby said—I’ve been distracted, forgetful. Was it because of having so much on my mind lately, or a precursor to my memory loss?
I shoot him a quick email apologizing and order him a cookbook that I’d eyed for him months ago. Roger’s always been a bit of a bon vivant, someone who loves fine decor, the best wines he can get his hands on, and gourmet cooking.
Absentmindedly I glance at my phone and to my shock, notice it’s almost five. Sasha is due momentarily. I set my laptop on the dining table and open it to the research notes she’d emailed for the podcast. Two minutes later the concierge rings to say my guest has arrived, and I use the time Sasha’s on the elevator to swap my boots for ballet flats.
“Are you sure you’re up to this?” she says as soon as I swing open the front door of the apartment. “I more or less invited myself.”
“No, it’s fine. Come in.” She’s carrying a wrapped bouquet of flowers and a tiny shopping bag. “Let me take your coat.”
“First, these are for you.” She hands me both packages. “I thought the flowers could cheer you up. And I’ve brought chicken soup, too. I know this deli makes the absolute best in the city.”
“Sasha, you shouldn’t have.” On the surface it seems like a lovely gesture, but to me it’s excessive. And from what I’ve learned about Sasha so far, she often has a secret agenda. I know to keep my guard up with her.
“Oh please, my pleasure,” she gushes. “It’s so hard to be sick, especially when your plate is as full as yours is.”
For a second, I wonder if she’s gotten wind of what happened to me. People I know in the field might have heard via the rumor mill of my bizarre visit at Greenbacks, learned it was me who was rolled out on a stretcher. But her expression doesn’t seem to be alluding to it.
She shrugs off the strap of a quilted tote bag and slips out of her coat, revealing a striking drop-waist dress, black on top, with a row of black and white knife pleats on the lower half. It looks great with her blond bob. And it’s sleeveless, emphasizing her perfectly buffed arms.
An awkward moment follows in which I can’t take her coat because I’m holding her offerings. She ends up hanging up the coat herself and then follows me into the great room, where I set the soup on the counter and