The House of Dreams (2 page)

At the sound of paws trotting across the bare concrete floor, Sophie turns and smiles. “Hey, Mutt.” The dachshund yawns and stretches, front legs extended, tail wagging high. “C'mon,” she says, swinging down from the window. She freshens up, picks out a clean white shirt, and shrugs it on. Sophie reaches for the lead spooled on her suitcase. She rubs her thumb across a curling airline sticker on the case, thinking of the last trip she took with Jess to Mexico. A knot forms in her throat as she remembers it all—the color, the light, the heat.
Coming home,
she thinks. She remembers dozing on Jess's shoulder in the taxi as they drove through the snowy streets of New York to their cozy apartment in Greenwich Village and wonders if she'll ever be that happy again.
It's all gone. I made my choice.
She glances across at the dog, who sits waiting for her, his head tilted. “I know, I know,” she says, peeling the sticker off and screwing it up. She flicks the ball of paper into a wire basket beside Alisha's drawing board and stops to look at the wedding dress designs her friend is working on. Sophie reaches out and touches the cool bolt of duchess satin. “Could have been me,” she says under her breath, and she pads across the studio, sunlight warming the open space in wide parallelograms now. “It's just you and me, now,” she says as Mutt follows her, tail wagging in hope. She clicks on the coffee machine, takes out a fresh pack of Zabar's coffee from the mercy parcel of provisions her mother insisted she take, and rips open the seal, inhaling the rich, smoky scent as she tips it into the filter. She glances at the bag of groceries, spots her mother's familiar, looping hand on a note tucked beneath some bagels. Sophie smooths it out:
Hang in there. I love you, Mom x.
It is pinned to a copy of a Henry James essay, and Sophie sees she has underlined a section.

At the door, she pauses to slip her tanned feet into a pair of white Converse sneakers and loosely buttons the shirt, rolling the sleeves and knotting it at the waist of her wide-legged chinos. Mutt's paws skitter impatiently on the floor, and he nudges her leg with his head.

“Just a second,” she says. Sophie tucks a pair of Ray-Bans into her hair and checks her reflection, rubbing away a smudge of mascara from beneath her sea-green eyes. She wipes a trace of toothpaste from the crease in her bottom lip with her thumb.
You can do this,
she tells herself, her mind racing ahead to her meeting with Lambert, her stomach taut with excitement and nerves. She has imagined what it will be like to meet him, finally, a thousand times. “Be generous, be delicate, and always pursue the prize,” she says under her breath, quoting from the James essay. She tucks the papers into her battered leather satchel and grabs her keys and a few dollar bills, then slides back the dead bolts on the heavy metal door. “Let's go.”

On the street, her tension eases as they walk around the block to Bedford Avenue, the pulse of a bass line drifting from a pimped-up Chevy on a side street beating in time with her heart as she pauses for Mutt to christen his favorite lamppost near the Kam Sing Restaurant. The metal cellar door is propped open, and the scent of last night's cooking oil and spices drifts up to her. Sophie reaches into her pocket for her phone and dials her mother's number, stepping aside for a group of early gray-faced commuters heading toward the L. She catches her reflection in the window, a white ceramic lucky cat waving at her from the counter. Sophie frowns at the busy signal and slips her phone away.

“Finished? Sure?” she says as the dog walks on. She ties him up outside the grocery store on a wall scrawled with graffiti, and he waits, his unwavering eyes on her as she buys fresh orange juice. Sophie takes a copy of
The New York Times
from the vending machine. She sees his name instantly, there, beneath the headline. It's as if the print loses focus, leaving two words in dazzling clarity: Jess Wallace. Mutt barks, impatient, and Sophie can't help smiling as she walks over and unties the lead. “Hey, I was only a minute.” The dog's good mood is infectious; joyful wags contort his whole body—they are together again, simple as that. Sophie loops the lead and bag over her wrist and flicks on through the paper as they walk, deliberately not reading the front-page article but instead searching for her latest column on a new exhibition that has just opened. She finds it way back in the “Arts” section, tucked among the advertisements. It feels like an afterthought.

In the studio, she hears the shower running, Alisha singing loud and true along to Macy Gray on the radio. Sophie pours a cup of coffee and clears a space among the sketches and bolts of fabric on the dining table, spreads out the photographs and documents from her satchel as if she is dealing cards. Each is labeled with a Post-it note, written clearly in black ink:
Gabriel Lambert, 1970? Last known photo. Varian Fry, André
Breton, 1940. JC: Gabriel and Annie Lambert, party, Long Island, 1960s.
This last photograph Sophie picks up, studies closely. The young woman wears her blond hair fashionably loose, a heavy blunt fringe over dark kohled eyes that gaze, full of love, at the lean, tanned man at her side. His black hair is graying at the temples, worn long enough to brush the collar of his faded denim shirt. His eyes are fierce, the color of the sky. The chemistry between them is palpable, even down the years, no air between their bodies, his arm protectively around her waist, her palm resting flat against his chest.
How do you do that?
she thinks.
How do you keep that passion for a lifetime?
Her stomach tightens with nerves at the thought of finally meeting them. Their legendary love affair fascinates her; the idea that sometimes there is a happily ever after is a beacon of hope in the darkness.

“Hey, honey, I didn't hear you come in last night,” Alisha says. The red of her sarong flares as she walks through sunlight, beads of water glistening on her freshly oiled skin.

“Didn't want to wake you. How was your break?”

“You know, Labor Day, my family.” Alisha purses her lips. “How's your mom?”

“She sends her love.”

“D'you manage to store all your stuff in her barn?”

“Just about.” Sophie raises an eyebrow as she looks down at Mutt. “Mom suggested we should just move in there. What do you think?” The dog cocks his head, listening.

“Where's she live again?”

“Montauk.”

“Could be worse.” Alisha shrugs, takes a bright green apple from the bowl on the counter. “If the
Times
don't take you on full-time, you could get yourself a job in one of those fancy-assed lobster restaurants.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” Sophie says. “Everywhere's closing for the season, but I'm heading out to Long Island again tomorrow, so I'll see if anyone's hiring, just in case.”

“Ha, ha.” Alisha bites into the apple. “Man, you spend more time out there than in the city lately. This article you've been working on?”

“Yeah.” Sophie rubs the bridge of her nose, rests her lips against her index finger as she stares at the photo of Gabriel and Annie. “I'll be glad when it's done.”

“Sleeping any better?”

Sophie looks up from the photo. “So-so. I've just got all these questions running around in my mind.”

“Tonight you take the bedroom for a change. You need some sleep if you're going to face off with the great Gabriel Lambert, baby girl.” Alisha comes over to her. “Were you up all night working again?”

“It has to be perfect.”
It's got to be,
she thinks. What was it her editor had said?
The correction rate on your pieces is too high, Sophie. Accuracy is everything at the
Times
. You're quick, you're willing, but you're making too many beginners' mistakes. If you want to make it, you've got to check and double-check every lead, every line. I know you've had a tough few months, but if you can't nail this Lambert story, I'm going to have to let you go.
“Talking of perfect, see this?” She taps the front page of the paper.

“Jess? Is he back?”

“Who knows? There's some big summit at the UN, maybe he's in town for that.” Her stomach turns over at the thought. “I haven't spoken to him in weeks.”

“Good.” Alisha glances at the clock. “It's the best way. A clean break. You'll be back on top in no time, trust me.” She raises her chin. “Say, hadn't you better be going?”

“Is that the time?” Sophie scoops up her papers, swings the satchel across her body. “Thank you.” She hugs her friend. “I promise you, this won't be for long.”

“Take all the time you need to find somewhere. Me and the Mutt will be just fine, won't we?” she says to the dog. “He's a big hit with all my clients.” The dog looks up at her, cocking his head.

Sophie checks her watch and wheels her bicycle toward the door. “Anyone coming in today?”

“Yeah.” Alisha gestures toward a mannequin draped with muslin sheets in the corner of the studio, near her drawing board. The shape hints at the full skirts of a wedding dress, and a crystal tiara rests on top, sparkling. “Damn, I didn't—” She hesitates, glances at Sophie.

“It's okay,” she says, her voice softening. “I was thinking the same thing. It would have been last weekend.” Sophie opens the door. “Kind of ironic, isn't it, bunking down in a wedding dress design studio.” She glances back, forces a smile. “Like I always say, the universe has a sense of humor.”

Alisha holds open the door. “I sure wish it would share the joke.”

In the hall, Sophie drags the elevator cage open and wheels her bike in. “Catch you later?”

“MoMA at five?” Alisha raises her hand as Sophie disappears.

On the street, Sophie pauses as her mobile vibrates in her pocket, the old-phone tone rising above the traffic. She wheels the bike along the pavement with one hand, crooks the phone beneath her jaw. “Mom?”

“Hi, darling, sorry, I was just doing my Pilates. I saw you'd tried to call. Are you okay?” Sophie can hear an old James Taylor track playing in the background.

“Fine.…” Sophie pauses. “No, I'm not fine,” she says. “I feel like I'm going round and round in circles with this story—”

“But he is going to see you?” Sophie hears her mother click off the radio. “I spoke to Gabe's son, like you asked.”

“I feel like such an idiot, asking my mom to call for me. But thank you.”

“Hey, that's what I'm here for. And honey, trust me. If I know them, they wouldn't have let you within a mile of Gabe if you weren't family.”

“I just want to do it justice. Do Vita justice. I care about this story.…”
Our story,
Sophie realizes. “I miss him.”

“Your dad? So do I, darling. So do I. Every single day.” She hears the emotion in her mother's voice. “He would be so proud of you. You've sacrificed a lot for this.”

“You mean Paris, Jess?” Sophie pauses.
Happily ever after?
she thinks. “He didn't get it at all, did he? But then I never told him the real reason I want to write this story.”

“Well, we all have our secrets, don't we, darling.…”

 

THREE

M
ANHATTAN

Wednesday, September 6, 2000

S
OPHIE

Sophie runs up the stairwell of the
New York Times
' offices on West Forty-third Street, the exhilaration of her ride across the Williamsburg Bridge into Manhattan still with her, her cheeks flushed with pink. The stale scent of cigarette smoke hangs on the air in the hall as she pushes open the door. “Hey,” she says to one of the interns on the way through the dingy, windowless newsroom. “Is the boss in yet?”

“Not yet, Soph.” The boy flexes his wrist and winces.

“RSI playing up, still?”

“Yeah, and the culture editor wants me to be his hands today.”

She roots around in her bag and tosses him a gold pot. “Tiger Balm helps. Weren't you on the TV guide? Those grids are a killer.”

“They're kind of boring.…”

“Shh!” Sophie's eyes widen. “For God's sake don't let anyone hear you say that. You've got to suck it up, we've all been there.”

Sophie glances around for any sign of her boss as she walks on through the office. “Thank God,” she says under her breath as she reaches her desk safely. She slings her satchel onto the back of her chair and swivels around to the computer just as the phone rings. “Sophie Cass,” she answers, crooking the receiver against her shoulder as she begins to type. She waves her hand, clearing the cloud of fruit flies hovering above the bowl of red apples by her computer.

“Cass,” he says. The hum of the strip lights and tap of keyboards across the room seem to intensify.

“Wallace,” she says finally, trying to sound amused, playful.

“Damn, your voice is sexy as ever.” She can hear his breath on the phone line. “You're late.”

She eases back in her chair. “I prefer to think of it as making an entrance.” Sophie pauses. “How do you know?”

“I always liked you in chinos. Very Hepburn, very yar…”

“Are you comparing me to a
boat
?” She swivels around and stands. Jess is leaning against a desk at the end of the newsroom.

“Why not? Trim. Responsive. Lively handling…” He flicks his cell phone closed and walks toward her as she replaces the receiver with deliberate care.

“What a surprise. I didn't know you were in town.”
You didn't warn me,
she thinks.

“How are you?” He leans down to kiss her cheek, and she smells a new cologne—something citrus and fresh. “You look great.”

“Thanks. I've been at the beach with Mom.” She can't immediately place what has changed about him. He's wearing the same deep blue suit she loved the best, his red-blond hair is immaculate, as ever. “Are you here for the summit?”