will.”
“Jesus,” Bernard said when the two were safely out of earshot. “Who was that woman? I didn’t realize people like her actually existed.”
Georgia laughed. She threw back her head, closed her eyes, and laughed like an only child who has just realized that every last present under the Christmas tree belongs to her. She laughed so hard her shoulders shook and a salty tear rolled down her cheek and onto her tongue. When she was done laughing, she dabbed at her eyes with a napkin and put on her oversize tortoiseshell sunglasses before walking out into the gray afternoon. It’s what Jackie would do.
S pring Street teemed with pretty young things, crisply dressed gray-haired men with long-legged girls in skinny jeans, skate rats from the badlands of Westchester, and well-heeled couples who shopped at Dean & Deluca, where even tilapia cost twenty bucks a pound. The only remnant of the starving artists who’d once roamed the SoHo streets were at a few sidewalk tables displaying photos and paintings. In New York, especially, today’s street artist could be tomorrow’s Basquiat and was at least worth a peek. Georgia stopped at a table covered with small watercolors, bending down for a closer look at a hazy landscape of rolling hills, cypress trees, and a field of poppies.
“Did you do this?” she asked the high-school-looking boy standing behind the table. He wore a hooded, gray sweatshirt and kept his hands dug into the front pouch.
“I did,” he said with more confidence than she expected.
“It reminds me of Tuscany.”
“It is. It’s in Fiesole, outside of—”
“Florence,” she finished for him. “It’s really pretty.”
“You’ve been?”
“Yeah, but not for a long time. I keep saying I’ll get there but things keep getting in the way.”
“I know what you mean. So do you want it?”
“How much?” Georgia asked.
“For you, twenty bucks.”
“Sold.”
He sandwiched the landscape between two pages of an old
New Yorker
and gave her the magazine. “The magazine’s free. For you.”
She tucked it into her bag and continued walking, pausing outside a trendy boutique where she knew she could score something pricey and pretty. Lo claimed that retail therapy was the panacea for just about whatever ailed you, and Georgia was tempted to test out her theory. If Lo had lived through Georgia’s morning, there’d be a citywide shortage of size 4, black pants, which Lo snatched up with reckless abandon even when she was happy as a hummingbird. As Georgia contemplated blowing her entire two-week severance pay, two model-skinny, madly texting girls walked out of the boutique, hot-pink bags swinging over their shoulders. Georgia felt for the rolled-up magazine in her bag and continued walking. One treasure in a day was enough.
Standing in the hallway outside her apartment, Georgia fished for her keys. Sally’s leash wasn’t on the doorknob, and she worried that the dog walker had forgotten her lunchtime loop. “Coming, Sals,” she said under her breath.
“Hey, Sally girl,” she called, tossing the keys onto the desk and dropping her bags on the floor. She picked up the magazine and flattened it out on the desk, using the Harney tea tin that served as a pencil cup and a paperweight to hold it down. Sally barked, which she only did to announce someone’s arrival, andonly when someone else was already in the apartment. Georgia slipped off her trench and placed it on the chair. Her eyes widened as she noticed a jacket thrown across the chair, a navy blue, zip fleece.
Glenn’s
navy blue, zip fleece. Before she could gather herself, Glenn walked out of the bedroom.
“Georgia.” He walked toward her, a duffel bag printed with the Smith, Standish and Lockton logo in his hand, a short stack of books under his arm. Sally barked behind him.
“Glenn. What are you doing here? Why aren’t you working?” She stared at him. He looked good. Tired, but good. The circles under his eyes were
“Jesus,” Bernard said when the two were safely out of earshot. “Who was that woman? I didn’t realize people like her actually existed.”
Georgia laughed. She threw back her head, closed her eyes, and laughed like an only child who has just realized that every last present under the Christmas tree belongs to her. She laughed so hard her shoulders shook and a salty tear rolled down her cheek and onto her tongue. When she was done laughing, she dabbed at her eyes with a napkin and put on her oversize tortoiseshell sunglasses before walking out into the gray afternoon. It’s what Jackie would do.
S pring Street teemed with pretty young things, crisply dressed gray-haired men with long-legged girls in skinny jeans, skate rats from the badlands of Westchester, and well-heeled couples who shopped at Dean & Deluca, where even tilapia cost twenty bucks a pound. The only remnant of the starving artists who’d once roamed the SoHo streets were at a few sidewalk tables displaying photos and paintings. In New York, especially, today’s street artist could be tomorrow’s Basquiat and was at least worth a peek. Georgia stopped at a table covered with small watercolors, bending down for a closer look at a hazy landscape of rolling hills, cypress trees, and a field of poppies.
“Did you do this?” she asked the high-school-looking boy standing behind the table. He wore a hooded, gray sweatshirt and kept his hands dug into the front pouch.
“I did,” he said with more confidence than she expected.
“It reminds me of Tuscany.”
“It is. It’s in Fiesole, outside of—”
“Florence,” she finished for him. “It’s really pretty.”
“You’ve been?”
“Yeah, but not for a long time. I keep saying I’ll get there but things keep getting in the way.”
“I know what you mean. So do you want it?”
“How much?” Georgia asked.
“For you, twenty bucks.”
“Sold.”
He sandwiched the landscape between two pages of an old
New Yorker
and gave her the magazine. “The magazine’s free. For you.”
She tucked it into her bag and continued walking, pausing outside a trendy boutique where she knew she could score something pricey and pretty. Lo claimed that retail therapy was the panacea for just about whatever ailed you, and Georgia was tempted to test out her theory. If Lo had lived through Georgia’s morning, there’d be a citywide shortage of size 4, black pants, which Lo snatched up with reckless abandon even when she was happy as a hummingbird. As Georgia contemplated blowing her entire two-week severance pay, two model-skinny, madly texting girls walked out of the boutique, hot-pink bags swinging over their shoulders. Georgia felt for the rolled-up magazine in her bag and continued walking. One treasure in a day was enough.
Standing in the hallway outside her apartment, Georgia fished for her keys. Sally’s leash wasn’t on the doorknob, and she worried that the dog walker had forgotten her lunchtime loop. “Coming, Sals,” she said under her breath.
“Hey, Sally girl,” she called, tossing the keys onto the desk and dropping her bags on the floor. She picked up the magazine and flattened it out on the desk, using the Harney tea tin that served as a pencil cup and a paperweight to hold it down. Sally barked, which she only did to announce someone’s arrival, andonly when someone else was already in the apartment. Georgia slipped off her trench and placed it on the chair. Her eyes widened as she noticed a jacket thrown across the chair, a navy blue, zip fleece.
Glenn’s
navy blue, zip fleece. Before she could gather herself, Glenn walked out of the bedroom.
“Georgia.” He walked toward her, a duffel bag printed with the Smith, Standish and Lockton logo in his hand, a short stack of books under his arm. Sally barked behind him.
“Glenn. What are you doing here? Why aren’t you working?” She stared at him. He looked good. Tired, but good. The circles under his eyes were
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