there were children. Cassandra realized she knew one name that would kick back results: Reginald âCandyâ Barr, although without the nickname. Immediately, she had the official page for his law firm, Howard, Howard & Barr.
Wowâhe was gorgeous. That hadnât been apparent in the newspaper photo. Perhaps this one had been sweetened in some way? Photoshop covered a multitude of sins, as her own author photo would attest.
She started to hit the contact button, butâno. E-mail was too businesslike. The form would be shunted off to some administrative assistant, and its very existence would indicate that she wanted something, would cement her status as a supplicant. Phone? Who would be in the office on a Saturday? She checked the address, a downtown tower with multiple offices, a place where a chance encounter would be credible. Yes, thatâs how she would begin.
Would he recognize her? People often did, claiming her face was remarkably like the one they remembered from ten, twenty, thirty, even forty years ago. Cassandra was never sure how to feel about that, if it was a compliment or a lie or an insult. A face should change over the years, and she thought hers somewhat improved from her childhood days of chipmunk roundness. More importantâwas it plausible that she wouldrecognize him, was there any trace of the little Candy Barr she had known? Yes, the dimples still glinted, even in this professional portrait meant to convey seriousness, accomplishment, I-will-get-you-what-you-deserve.
Her plan was plausible, just. The only downside was that she would have to wait until Monday. Sighing, she checked the schedule for the movie theater in the neighborhood, wondered if there was something ambitious to cook, wished she had someone for whom to cook. If the frayingâsnappingâof a shoelace led to the madhouse, what was the destination for those who never had to worry about shoelaces and fifty-cent avocados? Here, nine floors above a city that had once been her home, Cassandra felt wrapped in cotton, too far removed from everyday concerns. The gym could keep her body hard, but what would keep her spirit tough? She knew how she didnât want to define her lifeâthrough a man, or even by her workâbut had no idea what else could define a person. She would never yearn to be twenty-three again, broke and scraping by. But she missed the adventure of unearthing Bulgarian wine from the bargain bins at the local liquor store, laughing at its label, its price. Laughing at herself, a skill that was at risk of atrophying.
CHAPTER
9
UNLIKE THEIR COUNTERPARTS IN NEW YORK, most Baltimore buildings do not deny the existence of the thirteenth story. Gloria had always liked that lack of superstition in her hometown, its refusal to pretend that leaving a number off an elevator panel could make the number disappear. Calling the thirteenth floor the fourteenth doesnât accomplish anythingâexcept for making a lie of every level from thirteen on.
Still, it was simple serendipity that had landed her on the thirteenth floor of the thirteen-story Highfield House. For years she had stalked the building, a Mies van der Rohe from the early 1960s, waiting for the right apartment to open up, then waiting another year while it was gutted and updated by a local architect. The building had little in commonwith its neighbors, redbrick high-rises that aspired to a more obvious grandeur. Made of glass and white bricks, rising on stilts, it sought to complement the landscape. Gloria had attempted to re-create the same feeling in her apartment, in order to showcase her collection of abstract art and mid-twentieth-century furniture. If Gloria ever entertained, her guests would have been amazed by the immaculate, modern apartment, so at odds with its ownerâs personal appearance.
But Gloria never entertained. She was proprietary about her home, wanted it just for herself.
Today, she had awakened to the anemic
Wowâhe was gorgeous. That hadnât been apparent in the newspaper photo. Perhaps this one had been sweetened in some way? Photoshop covered a multitude of sins, as her own author photo would attest.
She started to hit the contact button, butâno. E-mail was too businesslike. The form would be shunted off to some administrative assistant, and its very existence would indicate that she wanted something, would cement her status as a supplicant. Phone? Who would be in the office on a Saturday? She checked the address, a downtown tower with multiple offices, a place where a chance encounter would be credible. Yes, thatâs how she would begin.
Would he recognize her? People often did, claiming her face was remarkably like the one they remembered from ten, twenty, thirty, even forty years ago. Cassandra was never sure how to feel about that, if it was a compliment or a lie or an insult. A face should change over the years, and she thought hers somewhat improved from her childhood days of chipmunk roundness. More importantâwas it plausible that she wouldrecognize him, was there any trace of the little Candy Barr she had known? Yes, the dimples still glinted, even in this professional portrait meant to convey seriousness, accomplishment, I-will-get-you-what-you-deserve.
Her plan was plausible, just. The only downside was that she would have to wait until Monday. Sighing, she checked the schedule for the movie theater in the neighborhood, wondered if there was something ambitious to cook, wished she had someone for whom to cook. If the frayingâsnappingâof a shoelace led to the madhouse, what was the destination for those who never had to worry about shoelaces and fifty-cent avocados? Here, nine floors above a city that had once been her home, Cassandra felt wrapped in cotton, too far removed from everyday concerns. The gym could keep her body hard, but what would keep her spirit tough? She knew how she didnât want to define her lifeâthrough a man, or even by her workâbut had no idea what else could define a person. She would never yearn to be twenty-three again, broke and scraping by. But she missed the adventure of unearthing Bulgarian wine from the bargain bins at the local liquor store, laughing at its label, its price. Laughing at herself, a skill that was at risk of atrophying.
CHAPTER
9
UNLIKE THEIR COUNTERPARTS IN NEW YORK, most Baltimore buildings do not deny the existence of the thirteenth story. Gloria had always liked that lack of superstition in her hometown, its refusal to pretend that leaving a number off an elevator panel could make the number disappear. Calling the thirteenth floor the fourteenth doesnât accomplish anythingâexcept for making a lie of every level from thirteen on.
Still, it was simple serendipity that had landed her on the thirteenth floor of the thirteen-story Highfield House. For years she had stalked the building, a Mies van der Rohe from the early 1960s, waiting for the right apartment to open up, then waiting another year while it was gutted and updated by a local architect. The building had little in commonwith its neighbors, redbrick high-rises that aspired to a more obvious grandeur. Made of glass and white bricks, rising on stilts, it sought to complement the landscape. Gloria had attempted to re-create the same feeling in her apartment, in order to showcase her collection of abstract art and mid-twentieth-century furniture. If Gloria ever entertained, her guests would have been amazed by the immaculate, modern apartment, so at odds with its ownerâs personal appearance.
But Gloria never entertained. She was proprietary about her home, wanted it just for herself.
Today, she had awakened to the anemic
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