Accelerated

“About Calvin.”

  “What happened?” He didn’t need to ask. Her face said it all.

  “He’s … he died. Earlier today.”

  “But,” he fumbled. “What happened? I thought …” He had a sickening image of Calvin’s parents holding their dead child, knowing they’d never see him run around again, never get to tuck him into bed at night. They’d never know how his life was supposed to turn out, where he’d go to college, who he’d marry or what his children would be like. He couldn’t help himself: Sean thought about Toby and everything that lay ahead of him. An entire life still to be lived. His future was open, limitless. If Toby died … no, he couldn’t think about it. Wouldn’t think about it. He pushed the idea as far from his mind as he could.

  The devastating fact remained that Calvin was dead. He didn’t exist anymore. How was he going to tell Toby? A metallic taste filled his mouth. The oxygen level in the market was dropping fast.

  “I keep thinking about the day we found him,” she said. “I was sure he was going to pull through. I mean, he was just a kid.”

  She’d said was. Calvin was. He flashed on a playdate the kids had at the beginning of the year. They’d criss-crossed packing string throughout the apartment, and tied it in surprisingly tight knots to chairs, tables, light fixtures, creating a huge, impenetrable web. They’d called it Spiderman’s Lair. It had taken half an hour for them to put it up. Sean spent the better part of the night breaking it down.

  He put the beer back on the shelf. “I don’t know about you, but I need a drink. Something stronger than beer. What do you say? A drink for Calvin?”

  She nodded. “Okay.”

  They went around the corner to a dive-y bar where old men drank in the mornings and college kids joined them at night. Scotch seemed like the only drink serious enough for what had happened. He ordered two.

  “To Calvin,” he said, raising his glass. “He was a good kid. A really good kid.”

  Jess raised her glass. She looked exhausted. “To Calvin.”

  After they drank, there was an awkward silence. “So … what happened?” he asked.

  “He never came out of the coma.” She shook her head and took another sip.

  “All because of a peanut allergy.” The idea of it chilled him.

  “I keep thinking about that day. If I’d gotten the Epi Pen, maybe Calvin would still be alive.”

  “Without the information about the allergy, there was no reason for it. This wasn’t your fault.”

  “But I found him. It was my responsibility to get him help.”

  “We found him. And we did get him help. We did everything we could.”

  She squeezed her eyes shut and nodded, like she was trying to believe it. “I have to tell the kids.”

  “What are you going to say?”

  “We’re meeting with the grief counselors over break,” she said. “There are specific ways you’re supposed to talk to kids about death.”

  “I could use some tips,” he said. Toby’s world was far from perfect, but he’d never had anyone die on him.

  “You’re supposed to avoid euphemisms. Don’t say Calvin passed away. Say he died. Use words like forever. Say he’s not coming back.”

  The words stung. “That’s so harsh.”

  “I know, but you want him to understand. You’re supposed to answer his questions, then not bring it up again unless he wants to talk about it. That’s what we learned in teacher training, anyway.” She paused, then added, “And he’s going to be afraid you’re going to die.”

  He hadn’t even thought about that one. Poor Toby. “I guess I’m not allowed to tell him I’ll live forever.”

  “It would be so much easier,” she said. “Say you’re young and healthy and you won’t die for a long time. That’s the best you can do.”

  “He was Toby’s best friend,” he said.

  She reached over and touched his hand. It was a sympathy touch, obviously, but he couldn’t help noticing that her skin was the exact same temperature as his. It was nice, something he’d never thought about before.

  “My mother died earlier this year,” she said. “I’m thirty years old and I didn’t think I could survive without her, and sometimes I still think I can’t. How do you deal with death when you’re eight?”

  “I’m sorry.”

  She smiled sadly. “I’ll say from personal experience, give Toby some time to process the news before school starts again.”

  That was a problem. Toby was scheduled to get home the Friday before school. He signaled to the bartender for another round.

  She took the drink skeptically. “For the record, I’m not sure what happens to me after two Scotches.” She raised her glass and took another sip.

  For the next half hour, they talked about death.

  “We’ve gotten ridiculously heavy.”

  The bartender watched Jess sway slightly and slid a wooden bowl down the bar. It stopped in front of them and they stared at its contents.

  Jess picked up an unshelled peanut as if it were a piece of plutonium. “You’ve got to be kidding.”

  So what if it was morbid? Laughing was a relief. “Maybe we should take it as a sign and change the subject,” Sean said. “So we don’t have to slit our wrists when we get out of here.”

  “Deal,” she said, pushing the peanuts out of the way. She reached into the D’Agostino bag on the floor and produced the package of Oreos. “They’re the perfect bar food,” she said, tearing open the package and offering him one.

  The Oreos went surprisingly well with the Scotch. “Do you have far to stumble home?” he asked.

  Jess twisted open the cookies and ate the halves individually, the way Toby did. “Oh, uh, I’m not actually staying at home.”

  “So, where are you staying?”

  “With my godmother,” she said. “She lives near here. My place is farther uptown.”

  “So you have relatives in the city? That helps.”

  She scraped the white stuff off the cookie with her teeth. “I have a confession.”

  If they were confessing, the evening must be going well.

  “So you know Bev Shineman?” she asked.

  “Sure,” he said, willing his face not to be expressive.

  She let her shoulders drop in defeat. “She’s my godmother. I don’t know if you knew that already.”

  “No,” he said. He hated the idea that Jess was related in any way to Bev Shineman. “Are you two … close?”

  “She and my mom were college roommates,” Jess said. “And since my mom died, she’s been right there for me. So yeah, I guess we are.”

  “That’s how they found you? Through Bev?”

  “It’s kind of embarrassing. Nepotism.”

  “It’s only nepotism if you’re unqualified. I don’t think that’s an issue.”

  She accepted the compliment with a grateful nod. “Still … weird.”

  “Yeah, a little,” he admitted. “And you’re … staying with her?”

  Jess picked at something that had hardened on the bar decades ago. “Yeah. It’s kind of complicated.”

  “Roommate drama?”

  “You could say that. Except my roommate is my fiancé.”

  So there was trouble in paradise. “Want to talk about it?”

  She considered it and looked like she was about to say no. “We’re on a break,” she said, twisting open another Oreo. The miniscule diamond was still on her finger.

  He watched her chew. Her jawline curved perfectly up to her earlobe. If it didn’t sound like a come-on he’d ask if he could draw her. “What happened?”

  She shrugged. “Complicated.”

  “What does he do?”

  “He drives a FedEx truck. For now.” She said it a little defensively. “He was just rejected by Columbia Business School for the second time.”

  So the guy was a fuck-up. “It’s a tough school to get into,” he said.

  “He was always the one who wanted to come to New York and g
et a great job. Only I got it.”

  He nodded, sympathetically. “That can be tough on a relationship.”

  “Yeah,” she said with a sarcastic smile. “Tell me about it.”

  “So … and tell me if I’m out of line, but don’t breaks usually lead to break ups?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “You tell me. Are you on a break or have you broken up?”

  “Touché.” The truth was, he thought about taking off his own ring every day, but he couldn’t do it. It wasn’t so much because of Ellie. It felt like a lie walking around without it. “Legally I’m still married.” He tugged at his ring distractedly. “I haven’t seen Ellie for almost four months.”

  “So what are you going to do? About being married, I mean?”

  He’d been wondering the same thing, but no one had asked him the question point-blank, not even Nicole. “I have no idea.”

  “I mean, what if your wife walked in tomorrow and said she wanted you back, wanted to go back to the way it had been. What would you do?” She took a sip of her drink and watched him with interest.

  What would he do? He wanted to say he’d never take her back, but the idea of throwing in the towel once and for all was too grim. “It’s hard to imagine going back to the way it was,” he told her. “Things were pretty messed up by the end.”

  She nodded like she understood exactly what he was talking about. He wondered if she did. “Sometimes I’m not sure humans are meant to mate for life,” she said. “From where I’m standing it doesn’t seem to work out so well.”

  Perversely, he felt the need to be optimistic. “Some people manage to figure it out,” he said. “I bet you will.”

  There was a pause, during which he thought about what it would be like to mate with Jess. He cleared his throat. If he didn’t change the subject, walking out of here was going to be humiliating. “Have you tamed the extra-credit parents yet?”

  “They’re kind of intense,” she said. “I gave back all the loot, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  “So you have the moral high ground. Excellent.”

  “It’s all I can have with this crowd. Most of these kids are living lives I didn’t think really existed.”

  “When Toby started at Bradley it was like we’d landed on an alien planet,” he said. “I understood the life form there was scientifically significant, but I was completely freaked out. To tell you the truth, until this year I pretty much stayed away from the other parents.” He thought back to last year and all the years before it when he’d let Ellie handle everything. He hadn’t realized then how much of Toby’s life he’d been missing.

  She laughed. It was a nice laugh. “So you’re not from around these parts.”

  “God no. I went to public school in Troy, New York. This is all … very different.”

  “Westerly, Rhode Island for me,” Jess said. “Public school all the way. Then I taught at the school I went to.”

  She looked at her watch. “Whoa.” She motioned for the check. “I had no idea how late it was.”

  He wasn’t tired anymore. He picked up the check. “Let me get this.”

  She was shaking her head and reaching into her bag. “No. Really. Here.” She handed him ten bucks.

  “Moral high ground,” he said. “I forgot.”

  “Exactly.” She got up and put on her down jacket. “I feel significantly better than I did a few hours ago. Thanks.”

  “Me too.” Would it be tacky, he wondered, to ask her out, given the circumstances?

  “See you back at school,” she said, and turned to go.

  The idea hit him just in time. “What are you doing tomorrow night?”

  “Oh, I’ve … I’ve got a bunch of things to do tomorrow.”

  “Because I’ve been invited to a dinner party at Art Crandall’s,” he said. “You’d really be helping me out if you’d come as my plus-one.” Did it sound like he was inviting her on a date? Was he inviting her on a date? “As friends.”

  By the expression on her face, he knew he had her. But he might as well put the icing on the cake. “It’s at the Townhouse.”

  “Seriously?” she said.

  A nod was all it took for her other plans to evaporate.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  ELEVEN YEARS IN NEW YORK AND SEAN HAD NEVER ONCE BEEN TO Sutton Place. Probably because there was nothing here except private cul de sacs, private mansions, private signs, private everything. He was sure someone was going to stop him and ask what he was doing here. But there was no one around. No through traffic, no noise. Only a thin layer of snow and the crunch of his footsteps. On this block, right now, it was impossible to imagine the noisy, crowded New York everyone else had to live in. He found the right building, looked once more at the killer view of the East River, and pulled at the brass claw mounted on Art Crandall’s front door. It cracked once against the backplate and a truck of a man in a dark suit pulled it open.

  “Welcome to the Townhouse,” he rumbled. “Name please?”

  “Benning. Sean Benning.” The guy was so pumped his seams looked like they were about to burst.

  “Someone’s looking for you.” The man pointed into the foyer with his chin.

  Jess was leaning against the curved wooden banister that led up to the main floor. He almost didn’t recognize her. The woman standing in front of him—sleek, elegant, and totally hot—looked nothing like a third‐grade teacher. Her hair was twisted loosely and pinned above her neck, revealing a deep V of pale skin where her dress dipped in the back.

  “You look amazing,” he said. You could compliment a friend. He was sure that was okay.

  “I never wear stuff like this. But I figured …” Her hand went nervously to her dress.

  “The Townhouse, I know.” He pulled at his tie. He hated them in general and made it a point never to wear one unless absolutely necessary. “Shall we?” he gestured up the stairs.

  “Hold up,” the doorman said, and pulled two sheets from the back of his clipboard. He handed Sean a pen. “I need you both to sign these. They say you promise not to repeat anything that happens here tonight. In other words, it’s all off the record. Makes people more comfortable letting their hair down, if you know what I mean.”

  Signing things always made Sean nervous. “I don’t know …”

  “House rules,” the guy said. “Sign or see ya later.”

  Sean looked to Jess. She shrugged and took the pen. “Why not?” she said.

  Why not seemed like it might work for tonight. He took the pen and signed.

  “Enjoy,” the guy said with a wink.

  Sean let Jess lead the way upstairs and wondered how bad it would be if he did, say, brush his hand along her back accidentally.

  The party in progress upstairs gave him a queasy flashback to the parent social. The room was filled with grownups. What would he say to them? He’d been an idiot to think this party would be any different. Art Crandall was a rich guy with rich friends. What was fun about that?

  Then he noticed the Picasso hanging a foot away from him. Jess was already standing in front of it, mouth gaping slightly.

  He’d never been this close to one and fought the urge to reach out and trace the form with his finger. The old woman in the painting looked into the distance with tired eyes. Her life had been drained away like the color in the monochromatic palette. He thought he’d seen most of Picasso’s work from the Blue Period—not only had he studied Picasso in art school, he’d gone through an embarrassing copycat period in his early twenties—but he’d never seen this one. It was spectacular. Apparently Crandall knew something about art, and that fact, though Sean was loathe to admit it, raised the man at least a little bit in his esteem. “I could stand here all night,” Jess said.

  “Do you think it would be considered anti-social?”

  A cute waitress with a pixie cut slid over to them carrying a tray of champagne. “Dom?”

  He took two glasses and handed one to Jess, who accepted it as if someone
handed her expensive champagne all the time. When the waitress moved on, Jess turned to him and mouthed Dom.

  “Shall we?” He led her through the crowd. The crystal chandelier threw off an inhumanly flattering glow. Then again, this group would look just as beautiful and successful in flickering fluorescent.

  A big, ruddy-faced man wearing an ascot and velvet smoking jacket blustered into the room. He threw up his hands in greeting. “Welcome, welcome!! Thank you all for coming to my little soirée!” He zeroed in on Sean. “Art Crandall,” he announced, aiming his outstretched hand in Sean’s direction. “You must be Sean Benning. Glad to meet you. Brilliant stuff! Brilliant!” Art Crandall had that polished look of success and an overall glow of wealth Sean wasn’t used to seeing in person except at Bradley. He was also unprepared for Crandall’s aggressive graciousness.

  “Mr. Crandall.” Sean offered his hand. “Nice to meet you.”

  “Mr. Crandall! Hah! You’re a guest in my house tonight. It’s Art! All my friends call me Art. And I think we’re going to be good friends.” He turned to Jess and gave an approving nod. “And who might this lovely peach be?”

  In a million years, Sean would never describe anyone, much less Jess, as a peach. Peaches were sweet and fuzzy. Jess was sexy and sharp.

  “Art Crandall,” he said, “meet Jess Harper.”

  Art looked at her as if she were a dessert smothered in whipped cream, then took her hand and kissed it with a dramatic flourish. “A pleasure.”

  “Uh, same here.” Her eyes darted nervously to Sean. In a seamless recovery, she withdrew her hand as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. “I love your home,” she said, using that same hand to take in the room.

  “Ah yes, the Townhouse.” Art sighed for emphasis. “Lots of good times here. Come, let me introduce you two around.”

  He steered them through the sitting room, slapping Sean on the back, his new best friend. The room was a blur of conversations and introductions to people Sean would never see again. He shook their hands. Their names slid by him. Nothing was sticking except for the fact that Jess was inches from him. He was lightheaded and he was sure it had nothing to do with the Dom. No one had made him feel this way in years, since the early days with Ellie. Just being near Jess triggered an onslaught of what felt like tiny geothermal events inside him—tremors, eruptions, floods—nothing as tame as the butterflies people talked about.