Honeymoon

Chapter 9

THERE WAS A QUOTE from someone, somewhere, that Nora loved and also believed with all her heart: One’s real life is almost always the life one doesn’t lead.

Well, not this girl’s life.

At the corner of Mercer and Spring in SoHo, she paid the cabbie and wheeled her suitcase into the two-story, all-marble lobby of her apartment building. It was a deluxe converted warehouse. An oxymoron everywhere but in New York City.

Hers was the penthouse loft, half of the entire floor. In a word, huge; in another, stylish. George Smith furniture, polished Brazilian wood floors, a Poggenpohl-designed kitchen. Calm and quiet and elegant, this was her sanctuary. Her true “no place else on earth I’d rather be.”

Actually, Nora loved to give tours of the place to those few people who interested her.

At the front door was Nora’s sentry—a six-foot clay sculpture of a male nude by Javier Marin.

There were two intimate sitting areas—one in sumptuous white leather, its complement in black—all Nora’s design.

She adored everything in her place and had scoured antiques shops, flea markets, and art galleries from SoHo to the Pacific Northwest to London and Paris, and tiny villages in Italy, Belgium, Switzerland.

Her collectibles were everywhere.

Silver: several Hermès treasures; a dozen or more silver bowls, which she loved.

Art glass: French Gallé picture frames; opaline boxes in white, green, turquoise.

Paintings by a select handful of up-and-coming artists from New York, London, Paris, Berlin.

And, of course, her bedroom: so vivid—very heavy on the beta waves—dark wine-colored walls, gilded sconces and mirrors, a chiseled block of antique scrolled wood over the bed.

Go ahead, figure me out if you can.

Nora grabbed a bottle of Evian from the fridge and then made a few calls, one of them to Connor, which she called her Man Maintenance. A bit later she made a similar call to Jeffrey.

At a little past eight that evening, Nora walked into Babbo in the heart of Greenwich Village. Yes, it is definitely good to be home.

Never mind that it was a Monday, Babbo was packed. The mingling sounds of silverware, glasses, plates, and hip city people filled the split-level restaurant with a pulsating hum.

Nora spotted her best friend, Elaine, already seated with Allison, another dear friend. They were at a table along the wall of the more casual first floor. She bypassed the hostess and headed over. Cheek kisses all around. God, she adored these girls.

“Allison’s in love with our waiter,” announced Elaine as Nora settled in.

Allison rolled her big brown eyes. “All I said was that he is cute. His name is Ryan. Ryan Pedi. He even has a cute name.”

“Sounds like love to me,” said Nora, playing along.

“There you have it, corroborating testimony!” said Elaine, who was a corporate lawyer with Eggers, Beck & Schmiedel, one of the city’s preeminent firms. Above all else they specialized in billable hours.

Speak of the devil. The young waiter, tall and dark, appeared at the table to ask if Nora wanted anything to drink.

“Just water, please,” she said. “With bubbles.”

“No, tonight you’re drinking with us, Nora. That’s it. She’ll have a cosmopolitan.”

“Coming right up.” With a quick nod, he turned and walked off.

Nora put a hand to the side of her mouth and whispered, “He is cute….”

“I told you,” said Allison. “Too bad he’s barely old enough to drink.”

“I was thinking more like drive,” said Elaine. “Or is it we’re getting so much older that they’re looking younger?” She dropped her head. “Okay, now I’m depressed.”

“Emergency change of subject!” declared Nora. She turned to Allison. “So what’s the new black for this fall?”

“Believe it or not, it may actually be black.”

Allison was a fashion editor at W, or as she liked to call it, the only magazine that could actually break your toe if you ever dropped it. Their business model was simple, she explained: big ads featuring skinny models wearing designer clothes never went out of style.

“So what’s new with you, Nor?” asked Allison. “Seems like you’re always out of town. You’re a ghost, girl.”

“I know, it’s crazy. I just got back today. Second homes are all the rage.”

Allison let out a sigh. “I’ve got enough problems paying for my first—oh, that reminds me, did I tell you about the guy who moved in on my floor?”

“The sculptor who played all that weird New Age music?” asked Elaine.

“No, not him. He moved out months ago,” she said with a dismissive wave. “This new guy just bought the corner apartment.”

“What’s the verdict?” asked Elaine, ever the lawyer.

“Single, adorable, and an oncologist,” said Allison. She shrugged. “I suppose there are worse things in life than marrying a rich doctor.”

The words had barely left Allison’s mouth before she raised a desperate hand to cover it.

A quiet fell over the table.

“Guys, it’s okay,” said Nora.

“I’m so sorry, sweetie,” said Allison, embarrassed. “I wasn’t thinking.”

“Really, you don’t have to apologize.”

“Emergency change of subject!” declared Elaine.

“Now you’re both being silly. Listen, just because Tom was a doctor doesn’t mean we can’t ever talk about doctors.” Nora put her hand on top of Allison’s. “Tell us more about your oncologist.”

Allison did and the three carried on, the idea being that they’d been friends long enough not to let a terribly awkward moment stand in their way.

The young waiter returned with Nora’s cosmopolitan and went over the specials. The three friends drank, they ate, they laughed, they gossiped wickedly. Nora looked completely at ease. Comfortable and relaxed. So much so that neither Allison nor Elaine could tell where her thoughts really were for the rest of the evening: the death of her first husband, Dr. Tom Hollis.

Or rather, his murder.