City Mouse Page 3

  “Liza, I—”

  “Sorry, someone just came into my office, gotta run. The broker is literally sitting at his desk right now waiting for your call. Keep me posted!” she chimed, then hung up.

  I stared at the number. Liza’s list of contacts and favors ran deep and wide—who knew what she might have traded on my behalf. Plus, she didn’t use the words to die for very often.

  At lunchtime I jumped into a taxi and a small marble of guilt start to form in my stomach. I met the broker in the art deco lobby and as he pressed the PH button, I literally felt a shiver. I had never been to a penthouse apartment before, let alone looked at one to buy. As the elevator opened onto a freshly painted landing, I reminded myself that I had been in this situation many times before—arriving into a tasteful hallway, only to find cracks in the plaster and a living room with windows facing a brick wall. He slid the key into the lock of PH-A and we walked inside.

  What I saw was better than to die for—it was incredible. The apartment’s soaring ceilings, nearly twenty feet high, made the open living space feel almost like a loft. Sun streamed in through the floor-to-ceiling windows, revealing an unobstructed view of the Hudson River. A river view. I felt like I was floating on top of the city.

  “The sponsor put in all new appliances,” he said, walking around the island of the open kitchen with tall built-in cabinets lining the entire wall behind him. He gestured to a large empty space in front of the windows and said, as if reading my mind, “And a dining room table placed here could fit at least twelve.”

  My left brain told me to stop, to not act like I wanted it too badly, to erase the imaginary scene unfolding at the table where I saw myself tapping a glass to toast our new apartment. To appear only slightly interested, to start with neutral body language, guarded and cool. But I couldn’t help myself; I knew in my bones this was it. “This is totally amazing,” I blurted.

  “Wait until you see the terrace,” he said.

  I floated behind him out the terrace doors, buoyed by joy. After more than two long years, I couldn’t believe my luck. I had finally found the apartment we had been waiting for. The one that had been waiting for us.

  The view was pinpoint clear for miles all the way up to the George Washington Bridge. From our perch, the muted sounds of the city seemed far, far below, like the fluid hum of blood. I spied a number of rooftop gardens on neighboring buildings below us, dormant, waiting for the spring, sprinkled with potted winter pines and outdoor tables and chairs of weathered wood. The secret nests of those who lived above the others, suspended high over Manhattan. This could be ours, I thought. Our terrace, our view, our table, our life.

  Inside, there was a separate wing with two oversize bedrooms plus an extra little den. I opened a closet to a holy vision: a full-size washer and dryer! “I have to call my husband,” I said, digging through my pocketbook for my phone.

  “Hurry and jump in a cab,” I told Aaron. “It’s a surprise. A good one, don’t worry. Yes, right now. See you in a few.”

  While I waited, I walked around the apartment again, fingertips grazing the walls as if they were already mine.

  * * *

  “And here’s where we could set up our office,” I said, showing Aaron a windowed alcove in the den.

  “Did I mention it’s zoned for PS 9, one of the best public elementary schools in the city?” the broker added. I knew Aaron would be as thrilled as I was at the bonus of not having to worry about costly private school tuition.

  During the walk-through Aaron was mostly silent, inspecting the places where the walls met the moldings. Such a natural negotiator, so calm and aloof. He was wearing one of my favorite ties too, the light blue one with a darker blue stripe that matched his eyes. He must have had a pitch meeting that day to be wearing a tie.

  The broker looked at his watch. “I have another showing downtown at two o’clock. This apartment goes on the market first thing tomorrow. If you want it, it’s yours for the asking price and we can draw up the papers.”

  “We’ll call you by five,” I said, taking one last mental picture as we headed out the door.

  Aaron and I walked up 85th Street toward West End. I held tightly onto his arm, feeling chilly and excited. “Can you believe it? A penthouse apartment! That we can afford! Brand new, with everything we’ve wanted—a washer and a dryer and a ton of storage space. Zoned for PS 9, no less. And can you get over the view? It’s like a dream up there.”

  “Yeah,” Aaron muttered, “your dream.”

  “What?” I looked up at him, confused.

  He dropped my arm. “What the fuck was that, Jessica?”

  I was stunned. “What was that? That was the fabulous apartment we’ve been waiting for. That’s what the fuck that was.” I couldn’t believe he was even questioning me.

  He peered down at the sidewalk and then back at me with anger in his eyes. “I can’t believe you dragged me up here and wasted my time with that place. I thought we were done with this—done with looking at goddamned apartments. Tell me—have you been running around looking at apartments behind my back?”

  “The broker called me—out of the blue,” I lied. “And thank god! Do you know how lucky we would be to get that apartment? To live in a penthouse right here in the city instead of some crappy Colonial up in Tarrytown?”

  “You’re not getting it, Jessica. I do not want to live here. I don’t know how many times I have to say it for it to sink into your head. Ready? I’ll say it again to make sure you hear me!” He was shouting now. “I do not want to live here! Got it?”

  I had never heard him so acidic, so mean.

  “What is wrong with you?” I said, feeling the mad hot tears starting to roll down my cheeks. “We’ve looked at a hundred apartments and now at least twenty houses. Nothing’s ever good enough for you! Today I found the perfect apartment! I found a chance for us right now to move to a bigger space—an incredible space—and still keep our life here. And instead of thanking me for finally finding it, you’re screaming at me like I’m a child!”

  “You’re so fucking selfish you can’t even see it,” he responded. “It’s not a chance for us—it’s a chance for you. It’s what you want—not me! Haven’t you even stopped for a second to think about what might be best for the other people you happen to live with? Like your children? Your husband? It was never our deal to stay in the city forever. You said you were ready and I thought we were on the same page. But obviously we’re not. Far from it.” He turned and started to walk away.

  “I can’t believe you’re walking away from me!” I screamed. I noticed two people turn to stare, and then look away quickly. Oh my god, I thought, we are that couple, fighting on the street in public. “I am trying so hard, Aaron, so hard. I am the one trying to solve this and you’re not helping one bit. And now you’re walking away. I don’t know what else to do anymore!”

  And with that, I started to really cry. I put my hands over my face, feeling my chest heave with each wail. This is not really happening to me, this is not happening. All I wanted was for Aaron to come back, for him to put his arms around me and tell me we would work it out, that it would all be okay.

  But he didn’t. He didn’t say one word. He just quickened his pace until he disappeared up the street.

  * * *

  The rest of the day the air around me felt heavy, like gravy. Tucked behind my office door, I stared at the ad comps and window cards that needed my approval but couldn’t find the energy to review all the tiny details. The fight played over and over in my head—his angry eyes, his scathing, hurtful words—I do not want to live here. You’re so fucking selfish . . . The back of his coat as he walked away. Every time my cell phone vibrated I expected his number to flash up—and every time it wasn’t him I sank a little deeper into my chair.

  I rode the long afternoon hours at first fuming that he hadn’t called to apologize and then slowly settling into a corner of stubborn resentment. Finally I thought, This is ridiculous. I should
pick up the phone and call him. We’re adults—we’re married—we’re not in high school! But my indignant side prevented me from dialing. You weren’t the one who walked away, it said. Don’t you dare be the one to call him first.

  But what if our fight was the start of something deeper, the first crack that starts our fall? Maybe now I’ve blown it; I played this house thing completely wrong, and for what? So I can live my life alone in a box on this island that couldn’t care less whether or not I’m even here?

  At five o’clock I started to think about heading home, looking forward to hearing Phoebe’s excited “Mommy’s here!” and Madison’s unconditional slobbery baby kisses on my cheek. Just then, a calendar reminder popped up on my computer screen—Office Holiday Party, 6-9 p.m.

  Ugh. It had totally slipped my mind. I couldn’t think of anything I was less in the mood for than summoning an hour’s worth of feigned holiday cheer, but end-of-year bonuses were due to be distributed and a little extra face time could be essential to move up on my boss Sybil’s nice-or-naughty list. I knew I had to at least do a drive-by.

  I called to ask our nanny if she could stay a little late, and before heading out, I decided to break the acrimonious silence and quickly sent Aaron a short e-mail: Plse be home by seven. Forgot I have my office holiday party tonite. My fingers automatically typed my usual Love, J, but then I erased it before pressing send.

  Sybil, our agency’s cofounder and president, had cut spouses and significant others out of the holiday party mix a couple of years before. “Budget,” she’d explained, but she spared no expense on the party itself, taking over the rooftop at the Gansevoort Hotel. Yet even with the top-shelf booze and tuna tartare it was usually a bore. The guys from accounting huddled in their usual spot next to the bar and the creatives took turns outside for a smoke in the cold while Sybil and her minions bobbed and weaved like honey bees among the heaviest-hitting clients.

  When I arrived, the room was sparsely populated with some of the more junior account managers sitting on the low, white modern couches, votives glowing on the tables. I ordered a glass of white wine and checked my phone—still nothing from Aaron.

  I felt a tap on my shoulder and turned to find my assistant Megan. “Hi, Jessica!” she chirped. She was always so irritatingly upbeat. “I didn’t see you leave the office. Have you met Lindsay?” she asked as a slim blonde joined us. “She started last week, in publicity. Lindsay, this is my boss, Jessica. Jessica, Lindsay.”

  As I pretended to be interested in Lindsay and her midtwenties existence, living in the West Village with three roommates, and she pretended to care about mine—yes, I’ve really been at the agency eight years; two girls, two and a half and six months old; the Upper West Side—it was obvious how little we had to talk about. Less than ten years and five stops on the express train separated us, but at that moment I felt strata apart. Not too long ago I’d been her, with a ten o’clock dinner reservation and the address of a late-night after-party scribbled on a piece of paper in my back pocket, wrapped around a credit card and a couple of twenties. Thank god now I’m not, I thought. I had hated the New York singles scene, hanging out in crowded bars and scoping out guys who most of the time ended up being bridge-and-tunnel from New Jersey and Long Island. Struggling to stay awake and out until two, three, four o’clock in the morning, and then scraping enough cash together for a cab ride home, usually alone. All I wished for now at two a.m. was to be fast asleep, at home in my bed. With my husband.

  “Do you have a picture of your kids?” Lindsay asked politely.

  “Sure,” I said, pulling up a recent shot on my phone and feeling a twinge of sadness that there was still no message from Aaron.

  Lindsay smiled at the picture of Phoebe hugging Madison. “They’re adorable. You’re so lucky.”

  I am lucky, I thought. I am so lucky to have two beautiful, healthy children. And I am so lucky to have Aaron. So what am I doing? Why am I jeopardizing my relationships with the most important people to me over a stupid apartment, over some glamorous life in Manhattan that’s not even close to the one we’re actually living? It is time. It’s time for me to be a good wife and a good mother and do what’s right for all of us, not only me. What matters is that we’re together, living in a place where we all have room to grow. It’s not me giving up if we move to the suburbs, I realized. It’s me moving forward, together with my family.

  “Will you excuse me a second?” I said, and turned to scan the room for Sybil so I could say my hellos and get the hell out of there.

  As I edged my way toward the bar on a last once-around, I felt my phone vibrate. It was a text from Aaron: I’m home.

  It was only two words, but they were the two most important ones.

  Chapter four

  My favorite part of the village of Suffern was that it didn’t have a Starbucks. The Starbucks was a mile up the road, technically in Airmont, not Suffern, relegated to the strip mall alongside Walgreens and Applebee’s and Provident Savings Bank. On the days I commuted to the city for work, I smiled driving past the Starbucks and stopped downtown instead at the Muddy Cup, a well-worn coffee shop with big wooden tables and paintings by local artists hanging on the walls, a place where they served organic coffee in ceramic mugs with mismatched plates and had fresh muffins loaded with raisins and pecans. At the self-serve counter I filled my new silver travel mug with a dark breakfast brew that stayed hot nearly all the way to Penn Station.

  I loved the quiet village on those early June mornings before most of the shops were open. The stores weren’t fancy; there was no place to buy Stuart Weitzman pumps or a Ralph Lauren throw. There was a thrift shop, a unisex haircut salon, and a family-owned furniture store; a decent Chinese restaurant, a veterinarian’s office, and the Ticket Stop for bus and train and lottery tickets. Framed by the backdrop of Rockland County’s rolling Ramapo Mountains, Suffern felt like the edge of suburbia that hadn’t given in to change just yet.

  It all happened so fast—like getting married, buying a house felt like a giant leap of faith. After all the almost-maybes, we found it: a beautiful, brand-new Victorian-style house perched on a hill with a huge wraparound porch and scalloped shingles painted a perfect shade of dreamy gray. Welcome to the Montebello Pines. On 2.3 acres, with a bonus—a heated driveway; and the closets, oh my god the closets! Pristine closets with more space than we could ever fill.

  A tour, a handshake, and then a contract. Passing inspection without a hitch. Learning about the forced-air furnace and the sprinkler system with rain-sensor controls. Congratulations! Your mortgage is approved. Signing the papers felt so adult—by law, we were bound, indebted to the bank for the next thirty years.

  Thirty years.

  I initialed JA again next to Aaron’s scribbled promises, when an unexpected exhale escaped from my lips. Aaron placed his hand on mine. It’s all good, he smiled, and I could feel his reassurance start to seep into my skin. For months I had convinced myself I was ready but now it was real, we were actually doing it, we were moving out of the city and into a house in a town where we didn’t know anyone—a town named Suffern, no less—blazing a new trail like a pair of white-collar pioneers.

  But we are doing it differently, I reminded myself. We’re not saying goodbye to Manhattan—hello, we’ll be there almost every day for work. We’ll meet Liza and Richard for lunches and dinners, once a week at least. And on any Sunday morning we can jump in the car and in less than an hour be the first in line for the new exhibit at the Children’s Museum, with a stop at Levain for our favorite cookie snack on the way home. To our home, together. I loved saying those words, our home. Even if the bank owned most of it.

  The move itself had been surprisingly simple. Leasing a second car, an Outback wagon, I conceded, as it did make more sense to have enough room for the groceries, plus it had better gas mileage than one of those huge SUVs. Registering for preschool. On my computer I had searched Suffern preschools and in a second found Suffern Montessori, Laurel Meadow, the G
oddard School—plenty of choices, all within a ten-minute drive, and all with a space available for the fall—not like cutthroat Manhattan. It had even been easy to find a new nanny—by kismet, it turned out an account rep in my office had a cousin in nearby Spring Valley going to school at night for her teaching degree who was looking for a live-out position. And a few interviews later, we had Noreen, an energetic young woman with fiery red hair pulled back in a braid, whom Phoebe and Madison took to right away.

  Taking a week off from work for the move had given me just enough time to fill the fridge with food and give Noreen the rundown before jumping on the train to navigate my daily trek back into Manhattan. I hoped Aaron and I might be able to commute in together, but it turned out he needed to leave an hour earlier to get to his office on time. Most mornings he was able to catch a ride to the station to make the 6:28 train with a finance portfolio manager he met who lived around the corner. My train didn’t leave until 8:19, which provided me time to give Phoebe and Madison their breakfast before driving to the station. If Aaron knew he needed to work late, he took the car and drove in and Noreen dropped me off and picked me up at the station, with Phoebe teaching Madison how to blow kisses from the backseat. We were only a few weeks into our new routine, but so far, it was working.

  After I got through my initial panic of leaving the kids with a brand-new nanny and traveling so many miles to work, in my commute I discovered a new secret joy: one free, uninterrupted hour of Me Time—each way! I found the exact spot to stand on the platform to score an empty window seat in the right car for my transfer at Secaucus, and quickly learned the unspoken protocol of my new silent travel partners: brief, polite eye contact with an accompanying nod. Never a word to uphold the sacred safe zone of commuter anonymity. Then I’d put on my headphones and press play to start my marvelous solo hour. First, text Noreen to make sure drop-off went okay and zip through my e-mails. Then I had time to read whatever I pleased: the New York Times or Media Ink in the Post, catch up on back issues of Travel + Leisure and Elle Decor. Time to make lists of things I needed for the house: bath towels, bulletin board, a comfy upholstered chair for our bedroom. Window coverings and more of those kid-sized hangers. Or sometimes I’d sit and look out the window, listening to the hum of the train running fast through the fields and let my eyes fall into sweet stolen minutes of much-needed sleep.