You’ve Been Warned

Chapter 7

THE RASH, whatever it was, is gone now. So is that awful burning smell. Why was that different than in my dream?

Thankfully, I’m not very good at running and dwelling, otherwise I’d be obsessing about what did or didn’t just happen as I race up to the Turnbulls’ building on Fifth Avenue across from Central Park.

For now, what I force myself to think about is that I’m late for work and how that’s a major no-no with the boss, something Louis, the morning doorman for the building, is all too pleased to point out as I blow by him.

“Uh-oh,” he says, slowly shaking his nearly bald head. “Somebody’s in trouble. Never let ’em see you sweat, Miss Kristin.”

“Good morning to you too, Louis,” I say over my shoulder.

“Overslept, huh?”

If only.

I hop on the elevator and press PH for the penthouse, the top, the ritz.

Eighteen stories later, I step out onto the black-and-white-checked marble of the foyer that separates the only two apartments on the floor. My rushed footsteps echo as I steer left to the Turnbull residence with key in hand.

Please let her be in a good mood.

Fat chance.

Opening the door, I see Penley’s rail-thin frame standing before me. It doesn’t matter how much Restylane she’s got spackling her frown lines, I can tell she’s pissed.

“You’re late,” she announces, her voice detached and chilly.

“I know, I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.”

“Sorry doesn’t work for me, Kristin.” She picks a piece of lint from her designer workout clothes. Nearly every morning, she heads to the gym after I arrive. “You know I have to be able to rely on you,” she says.

“Yes, I know.”

“From where I’m standing, I’m not so sure you do. In fact, I’m pretty sure that you don’t.”

I look at Penley “the Pencil” Turnbull and want to scream so loud it will break crystal, and there’s plenty of it in earshot. Her patronizing tone, the way she refuses to yell at me because that would be sooo middle-class, it drives me absolutely bonkers.

Penley folds her arms. It’s her Mommie Dearest pose. Actually, her Step mommie Dearest pose. “So, can I still rely on you, Kristin?”

“Yes, of course you can.”

“Good. I’m glad we’ve had this little talk.”

She begins to walk away, then stops, very nearly pirouettes. Almost as an afterthought, she updates me on the kids, of whom she isn’t the natural mother. Their real mother died in a shooting accident the year Sean was born. “Dakota and Sean are both in the kitchen, finishing their breakfast. Oh, and be sure to double-check that they have everything for school. I don’t want to get another note home saying they forgot something. It’s embarrassing. ”

Yes, Your Highness.

I watch Penley glide down the hallway to her bedroom before I start for the kitchen. I only get a few steps when the phone rings. I pick it up in the study.

“Hello, Turnbull residence.”

“Is the boss in the room?”

It’s Michael.

I lower my voice. “No. You just missed the mistress.”

“Were you late?”

“Yes.”

“Was she a bitch to you?”

“You have to ask?”

“I guess you’ve got a point there,” he says. “So, how are you, anyway?”

“Michael…”

“What?”

“What did I tell you about calling me here?”

“Who says I called for you?”

“Yeah, right, like you actually want to speak with Penley.”

“What, a guy can’t talk to his wife?”

“You know what I mean; it’s risky.”

“I keep telling you, Penley doesn’t believe in answering the phone. That’s what she has you for.”

Right then, I hear a voice behind me. Her voice. “Who is that, Kristin?” asks Penley.

I nearly swallow my stomach.

“Oh, gosh, you startled me,” I say, breathless.

She couldn’t care less. “I asked who you were talking to.”

“No one,” I answer.

“It’s obviously someone. ” She gives me a disapproving glare. “That’s not a personal call, is it? Because you know how I feel about those when you’re supposed to be working.”

“No, it’s not a personal call,” I assure her. Unless, of course, you count your husband.

“Then who is it?”

I think fast. “It’s some guy from Lincoln Center. He wants to know if you’d be interested in attending an opera series they’re doing.”

Penley cocks her head and shoots me a suspicious look.

So I gamble.

“Here,” I say, offering her the phone. “You can talk to him if you want.”

Penley – a devout macrobiotic dieter – looks at the phone as if it’s a Twinkie. No, worse – a fried Twinkie. She wants nothing to do with any “salesman type,” even one from Lincoln Center.

She sniffs. “I thought we were on that do-not-call list.”

“You know, you’re right,” I say, relishing the thought of repeating this to Michael. He’s undoubtedly been listening the entire time. “We are on that do-not-call list,” I say into the phone.

Sure enough, as I hang up I can hear him laughing hysterically.

Michael Turnbull, my almost perfect man, loves to live on the edge. And he loves it even more when I join him there.

Chapter 8

I LOVE DAKOTA AND SEAN. Who wouldn’t? That’s the message lettered on T-shirts I gave the Turnbull kids last Christmas. It also happens to be absolutely true. I feel sorry for the kids because their stepmother is such an uncaring bitch toward them.

As we ride the elevator down to the lobby, Sean stares up at me with his big blue curious eyes. At age five, everything – and I mean everything – is a question for this darling little boy.

“Miss Kristin, how old are you?” he asks.

His sister, Dakota, seven going on seventeen, immediately chimes in. “You’re not supposed to ask a woman how old she is, dummy!”

“That’s okay, sweetheart. Sean can ask me anything.” I flash him a reassuring smile. “I’m twenty-six.”

He blinks his baby blues a few times as if mulling it over. “That’s really old, isn’t it?”

Dakota slaps her forehead. “Oh, brother! And I mean brother. ”

I laugh – something I do a lot when it’s just the three of us, especially during our daily trek to Preston Academy, or as New York magazine prefers, “The ‘it’ school for tykes on the Upper East Side that’s harder to get into than Fort Knox.”

“Miss Kristin, why do kids have to go to school?” asks Sean without missing a beat.

“That’s easy. So they can learn lots of neat things and grow up to be really smart like their parents,” I explain. “Isn’t that right, Dakota?”

“I guess,” she says with a shrug.

Sean blinks again. “Are you smart, Miss Kristin?”

“I like to think I am,” I say.

Yet it’s moments like this that make me wonder, and question myself. I care about these two kids so damn much and would never do anything to hurt them. So why am I having an affair with their father?

I know why.

I can’t help myself.

Michael is wonderful, and he loves me, and I love him as much as we both do Dakota and Sean.

As for stepmom Penley, she treats the kids like fashion accessories, to be seen adoringly at her side like an Hermès or a Chanel bag. She doesn’t make time for them as much as she allots it, scheduling the two children into her life the same way she does luncheons and museum committee meetings.

I hate the termhome wrecker, and if for one moment I thought I was actually wrecking something wonderful, I’d be out of their lives in an instant. But I spend a lot of time in that penthouse apartment, and I see what’s going on.

Yes, maybe my head knows better. In my heart, however, I’m convinced that the four of us – Dakota, Sean, Michael, and me – are destined to be together.

It’s going to happen.

Soon.

Chapter 9

WE BOUND OFF the elevator and right into the playful smile of Louis. “Well, if it isn’t the Three Musketeers!” he exclaims.

Louis reaches to the side of his doorman’s coat and brandishes an imaginary sword. On cue, Sean goes for his. Their daily make-believe duel lasts all the way across the lobby.

It’s always fun to watch, especially today. After the morning I’ve had, this ritual – this return to normalcy – is exactly what I need.

I laugh and cheer Sean on as Louis pretends to be fatally wounded. With all the gusto of a B movie actor, he drops to his knees and dies a slow, painful death.

Maybe that’s what does it.

Or maybe it’s simply being outside again.

Either way, no sooner do I set foot on the sidewalk than my thoughts return to the Fálcon Hotel and my dream – that horrible, horrible dream – coming to life.

Instantly, I’m awash in all the disturbing images again. They’re vivid in my mind and at the same time confusing. New Yorkers, more than anyone, don’t like things they can’t rationally explain. That goes for non-native New Yorkers as well. Like me.

“Miss Kristin, is everything okay?”

It’s not Sean asking the question this time, it’s Dakota. Not only is she mature for her age, I think she’s also a mind reader.

“Everything’s fine, sweetheart. Why do you ask?”

“Because you’re squeezing extra tight this morning.”

I look down and, sure enough, I can see the white of my knuckles wrapped around her tiny hand. Same for the one around Sean’s.

“I’m sorry,” I say, loosening my grip. “I guess I like holding on to you both so much, I never want to let go.”

“Fine with me,” says Sean blithely.

We continue walking, and I struggle to clear my mind of all the bad images from earlier. It’s near impossible. A howling ambulance passes us on the street, and it’s as if I’m seeing it all yet again. The body bags, the zipper…

The woman’s hand covered with blood.

“Miss Kristin, you’re doing it again,” says Dakota, trying to wiggle her fingers free.

“Yeah,” says Sean. “You’re like my G.I. Joe with kung fu grip!”

A few minutes later we arrive at Madison and 74th, and the imposing wrought-iron gates of the Preston Academy. I kneel to kiss Sean and Dakota good-bye.

“Have a great day, my angels.”

“You too, Miss Kristin,” chirps Sean. “Have a great day.”

Dakota peers into my eyes. “Are you sure everything’s okay?”

“I’m sure,” I answer.

But of course I’m not.

Then I wink at the kids, and they wink back. They have killer winks too.

I stand there and watch the kids dash off, joining their classmates marching up the steps to the school. They look so happy, so carefree.

So innocent.

Chapter 10

THE TWO BEST THINGS about my job disappear through the front door of Preston Academy, and I’m left walking back to the worst thing.

Penley.

That and what she likes to call “light housekeeping,” or sometimes “chores.”

While the kids are at school, Penley keeps me busy with… well…busy work. Let’s just say the woman is extremely anal-retentive. Last week, while having me organize the pantry, she insisted I arrange the cans of soup in alphabetical order.

As for the “heavy housekeeping” – changing the bed linens, washing and ironing, cleaning the bathrooms, et cetera – that’s taken care of by Maria, the twice-a-week maid. I think she’s great. Originally from Morelia, Mexico, she’s an incredibly hard worker and boasts a wonderful smile. As for how she manages to put up with Penley and her biting tongue, I can only attribute it to Maria’s very limited grasp of the English language.

I, on the other hand, can understand perfectly all the ridiculously demeaning things that Penley says to me on a daily basis.

So rushing back to that penthouse apartment after dropping off Dakota and Sean holds little appeal. I prefer to take my time, today being no exception. Since I haven’t been able to make any sense of what happened, or seemed to happen, earlier, I’m trying to keep my thoughts on anything but.

I stroll south on Madison Avenue. The sunlight is perfect, and the urge to snap some pictures returns. I reach for my camera and automatically I’m excited.

As I take off the lens cap, I can’t help thinking about Michael. When he’s not trying to put me into a nicer apartment, he’s offering to jump-start my career by financing my own gallery or getting me a prestige magazine shoot.

But I won’t let him do that. None of it.

It’s important to me that I do this on my own, even if that means barely scraping by, living paycheck to paycheck. I’m not a complete fool, mind you – Michael is allowed to take me out, buy me dinners and other fun stuff – but I never want to feel as if I’m beholden to him. And deep down, though he’ll never admit it, I think he doesn’t want me to feel that way either. That’s another reason I love him. I do. I do.

I keep looking for more great shots to build my portfolio, clicking away when I’m lucky enough to see them. And today -yeah! – I’m seeing them.

A little farther down Madison, I spot a man in a skullcap, washing the front window of a restaurant, his disgruntled reflection crystal clear in the wake of his squeegee.

It creates a fantastic double image of working-class angst, and I shoot it from a couple of angles, commiserating with the guy.

Then I pass a woman smoking a cigarette outside a Coach leather store. She’s undoubtedly a sales clerk on break, the hunched posture and faraway gaze providing more than enough proof. I take two shots, one of her and one of her shadow.

I smile behind my lens. This is really good stuff!

So good in fact that I lose track of how far I’ve walked.

Before I know it, I’m standing less than a block away from the Fálcon.

That was a close one, I tell myself. Surely the only thing worse than returning to work would be facing that hotel again. Especially since the Fálcon and I have some history anyway. To put it mildly.

So why aren’t my feet moving?

All I have to do is turn around and head up and over to Fifth Avenue. Easy as pumpkin pie.

And yet I don’t. It’s as if that powerful undertow has taken hold of me again, fighting my urge to walk away.

What, are you nuts, Kristin?

No, I’m not. I’m one of the sanest people I know. That’s what makes all of this so strange.

Inexplicably, I feel drawn to the Fálcon and what happened there this morning.

What did happen there?

I don’t know, do I? Not really.

I need to watch the news. I need to develop the pictures too. But first I need to do something else.

Walk away.

Quickly, I do just that.

See? I’m back in control.

Chapter 11

I RUSH THROUGH the door of my apartment at a few minutes after five that night.

I should be exhausted. Penley had me polish every piece of silverware for sixteen place settings, including not one, not two, but three different-sized salad forks. Three, for crying out loud!

And as she occasionally peered over my shoulder to make sure I didn’t miss a spot, I fantasized about stabbing her with all of them.

On the bright side -always on the bright side – were Dakota and Sean. After I picked up my little sweethearts from school in the afternoon, we walked to Central Park and played tag and “nanny in the middle” in the Sheep Meadow for over an hour.

Like I said, I should be exhausted.

But I’m not. I’m too anxious to be tired, too tense. I’m dying to find out what happened at the Fálcon Hotel this morning. I need to have this strange mystery solved.

I put down my bag, kick off my flats, and grab a Vitamin Water from the fridge – the peach-mango flavor, a personal favorite. Then I head straight for the TV and the start of the first “Live at Five” news program I can find.

“Good afternoon, here’s what’s happening…,” begins the perfectly coiffed male anchor. Seriously, it looks as if he’s wearing a hair helmet.

He and his female cohort take turns reading “the top stories of the day.” A water main break in the Flatbush section of Brooklyn. Yet another fatal stabbing in Queens. A taxi that jumped the curb down on Wall Street and collided with the cart of one very angry hot-dog vendor.

But nothing about the Fálcon.

How could that be?

If a runaway cab taking out a bunch of hot dogs is considered newsworthy, certainly the death of four people at a hotel in Midtown is as well.

Or is it already old news? Maybe what I saw this morning was the lead story for the noontime broadcast and now they’ve moved on to other tales of woe. It is a big city, after all. Plenty of mayhem and misery to go around.

I flip the channel.

Another anchor duo appears, but it’s the same result, nothing about any “tragedy” at the Fálcon. Maybe they had it as one of their top stories and I missed it.

Or maybe I just imagined the whole thing. This is getting really creepy.

The dream was a real dream, but what I saw on the way to work was a figment of my imagination? A physical manifestation of my emotional distress, as my ex-shrink, Dr. Corey, might say. Yeah, and in my spare time I’m Gwyneth Paltrow!

I know what I saw and I know it happened on my way to work this morning. I was there! And should there be any doubt, I know just one thing to do.

I get up from the TV and head over to my shoulder bag. Reaching in, I grab my camera and the rolls of film I shot this morning.

It’s time to hit the darkroom.