Beware That Girl (20 page)

I tried explaining that the stipend only took care of books, school supplies, field trips, uniforms and application costs. Grooming supplies, clothes, drinks and even our coffees had to come from elsewhere.

“Oh.” Her face fell. You could tell that Olivia had never once in her life thought about any of those items as something that you
pay
for. “Well, okay. I get it, I guess. So I’ll give you mad money, like, on a regular basis. We can set up an account, and that way you won’t be all creeped out about it.” She and Bruce had started pacing. “My dad doesn’t even have to know, if that’s what you’re worried about. It’ll be a total secret!”

She’d offered with an open hand, no strings attached. It threw me.

“Olivia, I love you to pieces.” I had to get up and pace with her. She was making me dizzy. “You’re crazy generous and a lifesaver, but this is something I need to do for me, for my own self-respect.”

She made a face.

I couldn’t very well tell her that there was no way I was handing
that
much power over to another person, even her. I couldn’t be that beholden to anyone, no matter how prettily the offer was wrapped. Besides, I kind of missed the market.

“Hey, it’s just four hours on Sundays, and if we have plans, Mrs. Chen will let me off. See, it’s really important to—”

“You mean tomorrow?” She stopped pacing so suddenly that Bruce and I almost bumped into her.

“Yeah, starting tomorrow.”

“Okay, yeah. Well, I get it, I guess. If it’s, like, such a big deal for your self-esteem or whatever, fine.”

Quelle turnaround.

—

Olivia wasn’t home when I got back. The afternoon hung on me like a smelly sock. Despite putting in my hours at the market and finishing a physics lab, I felt it pressing. The walls closed in on me, and given the size of the penthouse, that’s saying something. Bruce and I made an executive decision to go to the park.

We had the same argument every single time: I wanted us to have a nice leisurely stroll through the park and Bruce wanted to chase after every big dog he saw. Bruce barked and lunged at German shepherds, boxers and Dobermans. The little dogs, the bichons and terriers, were invisible to him. It was a pain, but I had to admire him. Bruce knew where the real threat would be coming from.

We liked to end our walk sitting on one of the benches near Fifth and close to the Met. We always chose the one that was right in front of the stone bridge with the beautiful ironwork.

We both noticed the man sitting diagonally across from us. He was definitely Upper East Side material, so it wasn’t that. What caught my attention was that he held his cigarette the exact same way my father did. Smoked it the same way too. That’s all it took to transport me back to dear old dad. I understood my father—“got” him—by the time I was twelve. But I was the only one. And it wasn’t all that helpful.

Everyone—my mom, his cronies, his many and varied employers—labored under the misguided assumption that in the end, it was my father’s drinking that led him to unconscionable actions. I knew better. My father used alcohol as an excuse for actions he would have happily committed without a single drop. I’d see him ruminating over a cup of coffee, stone-cold sober at 6:15 a.m., giving us both the gimlet eye, and sure enough, the cops would be called that night. Or not. But there would be pain.

Even at his most inebriated, my father did not leave marks on my mother on the days she had shifts at the dental office. He saved that kind of thing for when she had four days off in a row.

He rarely left marks on me.

Was any of that in Kruger’s locked file cabinet?

We were very, very secretive, Mom and me. We thought the shame would kill us. What idiots. Did anyone guess? Was anyone paying attention? Sister Rose would have, and she would have done…
something
.

But that last move, I swear to God, we didn’t even know where we were. Who could we have told?

“Stephen, please, please…”

He unfastened his belt with one hand, holding a cigarette between his thumb and index finger with the other. “Cockroach, you go fix your daddy a drink. You know how I like it. Go on, baby. Don’t make your daddy mad now.”

And I did. Every time. I’d go to the kitchenette. I’d shut the kitchen door and open the fridge door, wide. The old Amana made an unearthly electronic wheeze every time you opened it, and it just got louder the longer you kept it open.

But not loud enough to drown out the sounds.

Not nearly enough.

I would get the Coke but leave the fridge door open because the wheeze was better than nothing, right? I’d retrieve his glass. It had to be his glass. Then, ever so slowly, I would reach for the ice. Four perfect cubes—not three, not five. Plop, plop, plop, plop. Three fingers of Canadian Club splashed onto the cubes. The Coke can always gasped when I pulled the tab. Five fingers of Coke. And then I would wait with his glass in my hand. Had to wait until the noises, the pleading, softened. I always waited by the open fridge door. Praying to the interior lightbulb, of all things, because God had not followed us to this address. Praying that my mother wouldn’t be hurt badly. “Please, please, please…” Praying that I wouldn’t throw up. And worst of all, praying for forgiveness, because I was so relieved that it wasn’t me.

When the noises stopped altogether, I would close the fridge and open the kitchen door.

“Here’s your drink, Daddy.”

Olivia suppressed a gasp when he opened the door. Mark Redkin lived in an “artisan” loft at the edge of Tribeca. Artisan meant “authentic restoration,” which in Mark’s case apparently meant that everything was bleached and painted white. The brick walls, the exposed pipes in the ceiling, the ceiling itself, the kitchen area, the sofas—it all gleamed with a bright coldness…
no,
she corrected herself, not cold, just clean and crisp. Yes, it was clean. Olivia liked clean. “It’s beautiful, Mark!”

“I’m glad you like it.” He leaned over and kissed her temple. “Sit, make yourself comfortable. Can I get you a drink? You like Chablis, right?”

“Yes, please.” How did he know? She stepped into the living area. Every surface was clear. There were no books or accessories other than clear glass bowls. A couple of outsized art posters of Mondrian exhibitions in Europe dominated the space. Her father hated Mondrian.
Well, good thing he’s not here, then.
Olivia giggled. She was nervous, very nervous.

“What?” asked Mark as he returned with two huge goblets of wine.

“Nothing, I-I was noting the Mondrians.”

He kissed her temple again and sat in a white Le Corbusier chair directly opposite her. “This apartment suits you. It’s as if I had you in mind as I completed it.” He shook his head, looking a bit sheepish. “
And
I kind of did. To tell you the truth, I just bought those stupid Mondrian posters in hopes they would impress you.”

“Really?” Olivia hugged herself. This was better than the thousands of scenarios she had imagined.

“Yeah, and I think I hit a home run. This place,
my
place, is a perfect blank canvas for your beauty. You do know how exquisite you are, don’t you?”

She so had the upper hand in this. She would obliterate the others.

“You see, I find that truly beautiful women know they’re beautiful, but they have a great need to be told so. They flourish in the telling, and so I’m telling you, Olivia. You are absolutely exquisite.”

Her heart hiccupped. No
boy
could pull off that line. No
boy
would know how true it was. A shiver of fear competed with the thrill of being there. Mark was not a boy. She took a sip from her glass. Then another.

“Mark, I—”

“How’s your wine?” He leaned back into his chair, but not once—not even for a second—did he take his eyes off her.

“Perfect.” She took another sip and dared to look directly at him. His eyes were full of
her.
It was as if he had never beheld such a creature and would never want for another.

“I’m glad you came, Olivia. I’ve imagined you here, like this. There is so much I want to show you, teach you.”

His voice was a caress. She felt light-headed in his words and leaned back.

“Don’t.” Mark took a sip of his wine and smiled playfully. “Please stand up again.” He ran his fingers through his hair. “Please? For me?”

He smiled just enough to unearth a dimple on his left cheek. How had she not noticed that before? Was there ever a more attractive man? More powerful? He thrilled her, scared her. Conflicting feelings coursed through her, but they didn’t cancel one another out. They existed side by side.

“Put down your drink, please.”

Olivia looked vainly for a coaster, gave up and set the goblet on the glass coffee table.

“Good girl.”

What was he thinking? What was he going to do? What did he want? She held her breath, was going to explode. More than anything, she wanted…

“You are so beautiful in that dress. You must only wear dresses. Turn around slowly.”

She did so, desperate to please him, and in the turning realized that she had lost the upper hand.

“Yes.” Mark nodded, as if to himself. “Yes.”

Olivia dared to take a breath and then resumed her perfect pose. She knew how to pose. She had been doing it all her life.

“Now…” His voice was low, hoarse. “Take off your dress.”

It was almost five thirty. I was sitting at Shwepper’s desk, flipping through the alphabetical listings at the back of Kruger’s DSM, basically just waiting for the meeting to start. The meeting would be in the little boardroom just off the admin office. We, the Wonders and Redkin, were going to review our gala instructions. The Winterfest Gala wasn’t until the end of the month, but the prep was monster and involved a phalanx of mommy committees. Today, Redkin would present the final seating lists. We were to memorize the biographies of the guests at our individual tables.

Redkin was in his office, which made me hyperalert, but at least I knew that Goodlace was also still in hers. And as was increasingly the case these days, her door was wide open.

“You forgot to turn off the computer the other day.”

He was behind me.

He waited for me to react.

I did not.

“I’d say I’ve got my eye on you now, but then, I have since the moment we met.”

“Time to go?” I stood up.

I felt his smile. “You still don’t see it, do you? I tried to tell you before—”

“Mark?” Draper stepped out of the meeting room. So she was here too. Why? Keeping tabs? “We’re ready to start.”

He stepped over beside me and leaned in ever so slightly. “Surely you see it?” He said it softly, gently. “If not now, you will soon. It’s why I’ll wait. It can be lonely for people like us. I know what you are. You and me, Kate, we’re
exactly
the same.”

My heart stopped beating.

Fruit don’t fall far from the tree, Katie. You’re just like me, through and through.

“Mark? Mark?” called Draper. “We’re ready.”

“Coming,” we said.