she needed a down payment.
She’d already visited the Human Resources Department at Hudson to discuss the possibility of borrowing against her pension; they’d advised her not to do it. She’d also visited her bank, where a loan officer told her he’d be happy to discuss mortgages with her once she had a sufficient down payment. Vivienne didn’t seem to be coming through with any rich single guys from her synagogue.
Libby wondered if Ned knew how lucky he was. He might not be able to afford the Hudson School’s annual tuition—hell, she couldn’t afford it, either, and if Reva hadn’t been eligible for a free ride at the school, she’d be stuck, like Eric, in an overcrowded public school. Or else Libby would have left the city, moved to a more affordable suburb and enrolled her daughter in the local school district. Nowadays, though, the suburbs were almost as expensive as the city. Imagine having to bankrupt herself to buy a tract house somewhere, miles from everything, with sky-high property taxes. And she’d have to buy a car, and Reva wouldn’t have Central Park to hang out in with her friends, or a student subscription to Mostly Mozart.
Life was too damn expensive.
Sighing, Libby shut Eric Donovan’s folder and tossed it onto the dining-room table. Then she pushed herself out of her chair and trudged to the kitchen. Her ex-husband’s phone number was programmed into the cordless phone’s memory to make Reva’s life easier—she phoned Harry far more often than Libby did—but Libby had assigned himnumber nine on the memory list. No way did he deserve one of the first few numbers.
She pressed the memory button and nine and listened to the phone ring on the other end. Maybe she’d get lucky and no one would be home. That would give her a few more days to prepare herself mentally for the difficult task of begging him for assistance. Not that she had a lot of time to spare. She needed to come up with the money or move by January.
“Hello?” Bonnie spoke into the phone. She had an odd accent, nasal Brooklyn burnished with polished notes of Westchester, kind of like Dijon mustard on a greasy hot dog.
“Bonnie? It’s Libby,” she said. “Is Harry there?”
“If you’d called ten minutes later, he wouldn’t be,” Bonnie told her. “He has a squash date with Gerald Wexler.” Bonnie liked to engage in friendly small talk with Libby. She probably considered it terribly civilized that a former wife and a current wife could shoot the breeze rather than each other.
Libby tried to recall who Gerald Wexler was, then decided she didn’t care. “Can I talk to him?” she asked, a part of her wishing she’d waited ten minutes before phoning, and another part of her lecturing herself to be mature and sensible and get this god-awful conversation over with.
“Let me see if I can grab him before he bolts,” Bonnie said. “You know how he can be.”
Actually, Libby didn’t know how he could be. The only time he’d ever bolted during their marriage was when he’d bolted from the marriage itself.
She heard a click as Bonnie put her on hold—why the woman couldn’t just put down the phone and holler for Harry was a mystery—and then, after a few seconds, another click. “What’s up?” Harry said. Unlike Bonnie, he didn’t seem to feel any compulsion to be civilized.
Libby steeled herself for her mission. To call him and complain about his failure to pick Reva up on time or his letting her watch R-rated movies when she visited him was one thing; to ask him for financial help was quite another. “I need to talk to you,” she began, then realized she couldn’t possibly talk to him about her apartment if he was on the verge of bolting.
“About what?”
If he were any more brusque, Libby would get windburn from his words, right through the phone. “It’s important, and I can’t go into it when you’re on your way out.”
“Is it about Reva? Is she okay?”
She’d give him half a
She’d already visited the Human Resources Department at Hudson to discuss the possibility of borrowing against her pension; they’d advised her not to do it. She’d also visited her bank, where a loan officer told her he’d be happy to discuss mortgages with her once she had a sufficient down payment. Vivienne didn’t seem to be coming through with any rich single guys from her synagogue.
Libby wondered if Ned knew how lucky he was. He might not be able to afford the Hudson School’s annual tuition—hell, she couldn’t afford it, either, and if Reva hadn’t been eligible for a free ride at the school, she’d be stuck, like Eric, in an overcrowded public school. Or else Libby would have left the city, moved to a more affordable suburb and enrolled her daughter in the local school district. Nowadays, though, the suburbs were almost as expensive as the city. Imagine having to bankrupt herself to buy a tract house somewhere, miles from everything, with sky-high property taxes. And she’d have to buy a car, and Reva wouldn’t have Central Park to hang out in with her friends, or a student subscription to Mostly Mozart.
Life was too damn expensive.
Sighing, Libby shut Eric Donovan’s folder and tossed it onto the dining-room table. Then she pushed herself out of her chair and trudged to the kitchen. Her ex-husband’s phone number was programmed into the cordless phone’s memory to make Reva’s life easier—she phoned Harry far more often than Libby did—but Libby had assigned himnumber nine on the memory list. No way did he deserve one of the first few numbers.
She pressed the memory button and nine and listened to the phone ring on the other end. Maybe she’d get lucky and no one would be home. That would give her a few more days to prepare herself mentally for the difficult task of begging him for assistance. Not that she had a lot of time to spare. She needed to come up with the money or move by January.
“Hello?” Bonnie spoke into the phone. She had an odd accent, nasal Brooklyn burnished with polished notes of Westchester, kind of like Dijon mustard on a greasy hot dog.
“Bonnie? It’s Libby,” she said. “Is Harry there?”
“If you’d called ten minutes later, he wouldn’t be,” Bonnie told her. “He has a squash date with Gerald Wexler.” Bonnie liked to engage in friendly small talk with Libby. She probably considered it terribly civilized that a former wife and a current wife could shoot the breeze rather than each other.
Libby tried to recall who Gerald Wexler was, then decided she didn’t care. “Can I talk to him?” she asked, a part of her wishing she’d waited ten minutes before phoning, and another part of her lecturing herself to be mature and sensible and get this god-awful conversation over with.
“Let me see if I can grab him before he bolts,” Bonnie said. “You know how he can be.”
Actually, Libby didn’t know how he could be. The only time he’d ever bolted during their marriage was when he’d bolted from the marriage itself.
She heard a click as Bonnie put her on hold—why the woman couldn’t just put down the phone and holler for Harry was a mystery—and then, after a few seconds, another click. “What’s up?” Harry said. Unlike Bonnie, he didn’t seem to feel any compulsion to be civilized.
Libby steeled herself for her mission. To call him and complain about his failure to pick Reva up on time or his letting her watch R-rated movies when she visited him was one thing; to ask him for financial help was quite another. “I need to talk to you,” she began, then realized she couldn’t possibly talk to him about her apartment if he was on the verge of bolting.
“About what?”
If he were any more brusque, Libby would get windburn from his words, right through the phone. “It’s important, and I can’t go into it when you’re on your way out.”
“Is it about Reva? Is she okay?”
She’d give him half a
Similar Books
