The Marriage List (6 page)

"What's Arthur Avenue?" She asked, turning to
face him.

"You grew up in New York and don't know that
the real Little Italy is on Arthur Avenue in the Bronx? Best
Italian food outside of Italy and the bakeries…wow!" He put the car
in gear and they wended their way down side streets filled with
children playing, radios blasting, people sitting on stoops,
playing cards, boom boxes blasting. They drove past block after
block of three and four story brownstones, some colorful, some red
brick and some the traditional brown.

Grey found a parking space in front of
Firenze a small Italian restaurant. He opened the door for Carrie
and escorted her inside.

There were a dozen tables squeezed into the
tiny restaurant. The walls were dark green and each table sported a
Chianti bottle with a candle burning in it. They were early and the
place was almost empty. Carrie ordered the ravioli and Grey had the
chicken
parmigiana
with spaghetti.

"How was work today?" Grey asked, cutting off
a piece of chicken.

"We're working on three new approaches for
this one client. Sometimes I get confused because I'm working on
too many different things at the same time. You worked today too,
right?"

The ravioli seemed to melt in Carrie's mouth;
she had never tasted pasta so good.

"Susan and Max like to run their research by
me before they present it to John. John was my boss. When he
retired he decided to start this business and he brought me along.
Of course I had to kick in equal start-up money, but that wasn't a
problem."

"How did you make all your money?" Carrie
blurted out, then blushed at the boldness of her question.

Grey looked at her and laughed.

"I'm so sorry. That was rude of me. Please,
forget I asked."

"It's okay. I bought townhouses to start
with."

"Townhouses?"

"To save money I used to take my dates on
lots of interesting walks. We'd walk up to Harlem and back. I
noticed gentrification was beginning to move North, so I looked
into buying a few townhouses, refurbishing them and selling them at
healthy profits." Grey took a sip of his red wine.

"Pretty smart," Carrie said, cutting another
piece of ravioli in half with her fork.

"Guess so. I also bought one for myself and
kept it."

"You live in a townhouse?" she asked, her
eyes wide.

"Uptown. It isn't big, but it has enough
space for me…and for…the future," he said, coughing, "I made a ton
of money that way and then I invested it in carefully researched
companies…companies I was watching for my clients. I made about
twenty percent each year."

"Someday, if I become a creative director,
will you invest my money for me?"

He chuckled. "How about I teach you how to
invest and you can do it yourself?"

"I like that idea. So tell me about your
house," she said, smiling as she wiped her lips with the
napkin.

"It's orange brick with white trim, only
three stories with a basement and a garage. That was important.
It's about thirty blocks north of your place, near Manhattan
Avenue. I'll drive by when I take you home."

"Wonderful! I'd love to see it. I can't
imagine, three stories! It must be heaven."

"It's comfortable, though I only live on the
first floor. Haven't figure out what to do with the rest yet."

Grey turned his wrist to look at his new iPod
watch.

"Almost the witching hour. Have to get a rain
check from you on pastries for dessert."

I have a completely different kind of
dessert in mind for you the next time we meet.
She eyed his
torso hungrily wondering what he looked like underneath his
corporate veneer then nodded and smiled at him.

Grey drove her back to her office fifteen
minutes before she was due. They sat in the car smooching like a
couple of teenagers until she had to go in.

"I had a wonderful time today."

"It helps when the Yankees win," he said,
playing with the car keys.

"Oh, did they win? I didn't notice," she
teased.

"What?"

"I'm kidding. My wonderful day had all to do
with you, silly," Carrie explained, opening the car door.

"I'll call you tomorrow," he said, when she
closed the door.

"Good night."

"Good night, honey," he said, raising his
hand.

Grey put the car in gear and roared away from
the curb.

Chapter Seven

On Sunday, Carrie slept late, recovering from
her six-day work week. At eleven o'clock, the phone rang.

"Good morning," came the smooth, deep voice
of Grey Andrews.

"Good morning to you, too," Carrie's sleepy
voice returned.

"Dinner Saturday?"

"Lovely." She stretched her arm above her
head.

"Good. Rest up. I expect you to be able to
stay awake for dessert."

"Maybe we should start with dessert first,"
she teased.

"Don't have to twist my arm," he
snickered.

"Hmmm," she muttered, closing her eyes and
picturing him naked.

"See you Saturday," he said and rang off.

****

She worked every night until nine thirty. By
Thursday Carrie was tapped out.

"I'm leaving early tomorrow," she told
Dennis.

"Early? Who said?"

"I said. I'm exhausted, Dennis. Just one
afternoon, geez."

"Okay, okay. You can leave at one tomorrow,
but be here on Saturday."

"Saturday, again? No can do. I have a date.
But I'll work at home on Sunday for a couple of hours."

"It's that damn new business stuff. If you
were only working on Country Lane…but you're not. Your work is
still good, Carrie. Okay, deal. Can't afford to have you get sick
on me."

Carrie walked out of his office and down the
hall, where she bumped into Rosie.

"How you doin'?" Rosie asked her, a look of
concern on her face.

"Exhausted."

"You look it. Haven't seen you in weeks. Any
chance you can take a few minutes for lunch today?"

"Lunch? I'm leaving early tomorrow, so taking
lunch today wouldn't go over well. But I have to eat."

"I brought a sandwich. Come hide in my office
and we'll eat," Rosie offered.

Carrie agreed, returned to her office and
pulled up Country Lane project number 112 on her computer.

****

At one o'clock on Friday she packed up her
briefcase to work at home on Sunday. A piece of paper slipped out
of her agenda book and fell on the floor, right under her feet. She
picked it up. It read it: "Mom's Beef Bourguinon Short Cut
Recipe."

She tucked the recipe into her pocket and
walked out. It was overcast with rain threatening, a chilly late
September day in New York. She wrapped her raincoat around herself
and walked to the subway.

The wind whipped down west 78
^th
Street, blowing Carrie's hair in front of her face as she
approached the brownstone that housed her apartment. Loaded down
with groceries, Carrie could barely make it up the three flights to
apartment. She dropped everything inside her front door and ran to
shut the windows as the apartment was chilly. She put on music,
unpacked the groceries and pulled the paper with the recipe on it
out of her pocket.

"Okay, Mom, here I go," she said to herself
as her favorite Michael Bublé song, "Haven't Met You Yet" came
on.

The pre-heating oven warmed the whole
apartment. Carrie undressed down to a comfortable shift and began
to cook, sing and dance to the music. Cooking was fun for her,
especially with her mother before the family got fractured with her
parent becoming obsessed with making tons of money and working
twenty-four seven.

Her mother and father had started a catering
business together when they were both unemployed and Carrie was
only ten. The business had taken off because her parents worked
night and day to make it a success. Carrie was raised mainly by her
grandmother as her parents were always cooking, supervising events
and selling their services, especially during holidays. The more
successful they became, the more driven they became, terrified of
losing all they had acquired. At first, Carrie missed them terribly
but soon got used to being alone. She never quite adjusted to being
on her own during holidays and those days remained difficult for
her even now.

Her one-bedroom apartment had a tiny
fireplace in the living room and a balcony with French doors. The
small kitchen, tucked between the living room and bedroom was
well-equipped. She laid out the meat, chopped mushrooms, cooked the
bacon and opened wine, pouring a generous glass for herself.

At five o'clock she put the dish in the oven
and sat down with her glass of wine to put her feet up. She was
already feeling better. Then she realized Grey was expecting to
take her out to eat on Saturday and she had cooked. She picked up
the phone.

"Hi there," she said, when he answered before
she took another sip of wine.

"Carrie? Saturday… You're not canceling on
me, are you?" His tone became urgent and questioning.

"A change of plans," she corrected, sitting
up straight putting her feet back on the floor.

"No dinner?"

"Dinner here. Okay?" She chewed her lip.

"Your place?"

"I found an old recipe of my mom's and
decided to make it. It's in the oven cooking now…smells great."

"Hmmm. What is it?"

"Boeuf Bourguinon."

"I'm impressed and salivating already."

"Keep your pants on, handsome…" Carrie smiled
and sat back on the sofa, putting her feet up on the coffee
table.

"What made you think…"

"Tuesday night?"

"I'm salivating in that department, too."

She laughed. "Are you assuming we'll…"

"Not assuming anything here…but a guy can
hope, can't he?"

"Tomorrow will be our third date." Carrie
picked up her wine glass and took a sip.

"Our fourth."

"The first one was business," she corrected
him.

"That's what you think."

"It was a date? You didn't even kiss me
goodnight!" She put her feet down and sat up.

"Checking you out before puckering up."

She laughed.

"Same time tomorrow? Or do you want me to
come over tonight and…uh…stay until tomorrow…then I'm sure to be on
time," he chuckled.

"Good try. Six o'clock like we said and don't
be late or I'll start without you…"

"Start what without me…oh…the food! I
see."

She giggled, shook her head, hung up the
phone, and got up to check the oven.

Chapter Eight

By five thirty on Saturday, Carrie put
finishing touches on her makeup, and then she was ready. She wore a
long-sleeved, cream-colored cotton sweater, low cut over
skin-tight, stretchy jeans. Around her neck was an amethyst pendant
that hung down almost to her breasts. She added the matching
earrings and fluffed her hair.

The
Beouf Bourguinon
was in the oven,
warming up. The aroma filled the apartment and seeped out from
under the door, wafting down the stairs to fill the narrow hallways
and tiny vestibule. The table was set with her best dishes, white
with tiny butterflies and flowers in shades of lavender and light
green. The small round table was covered with a lavender cloth to
the floor, topped by a shorter one in darker purple layering the
setting. The crystal wine and water glasses were shining and there
was one silver candlestick with a light green candle perched in the
middle of the table.
Pretty romantic, he might get ideas. He's
already got ideas, I have to make up my mind what I want to
happen.

Carrie dabbed a little lilac perfume on her
wrists and between her breasts. Just as she was putting the stopper
back on the perfume, the buzzer to the outside door sounded. She
looked at her watch, two minutes of six. She giggled to herself as
she walked over to the outer door release button, surprised by the
excitement bubbling up inside her.

****

As soon as he opened the wrought iron front
door to the brownstone, Grey smelled the French stew cooking.
I
hope that's coming from Carrie's place.
As he climbed the two
flights of stairs, the aroma grew stronger and he felt his stomach
rumble in response. He held an expensive bottle of red wine in one
hand and a dozen red roses in the other. A smile grew on his face
as he was pretty confident he'd get the chance to make love to her.
He'd been thinking about Carrie all week, the taste of her lips,
the feel of her breasts, the firmness of her butt. Being able to
enjoy a baseball game together was icing on the cake. Unlike other
women, she had crawled under his skin quickly, inching closer to
his well-protected heart.

When she opened the door, she looked
beautiful and he was right, the wonderful cooking smell came from
her apartment. He kissed her lightly, handed her the flowers and
stepped inside. Expecting to find, like every other woman her age,
an apartment sparsely furnished in cheap furniture, his mouth fell
open at what he saw. He walked into the living room and was struck
by the beautiful red and orange striped matching loveseats on
either side of the fireplace. An old cobbler's bench served as a
coffee table between the sofas. An antique pine corner cabinet,
shined to a gloss, hugged the corner while tan burlap curtains
moved in the slight breeze that entered even when the windows were
closed.

"Your apartment is beautiful. Did you do
this?" His gaze traveled through the living room to the kitchen and
down the long hallway to her bedroom.

"Do you mean, did I hire a decorator? Hell
no, why would I?" she asked.

"Some people prefer to leave decorating to
someone else."

"This is my home. I want it the way I want
it. My taste. Can't leave that to someone else." Carrie handed him
a corkscrew.