You Were Meant For Me (2 page)

T
he supposedly hip place in Midtown was exactly the sort of place Miranda Berenzweig hated: cavernous, dim, and ear-splittingly loud. On one side of the room was a long, sleek bar made of highly polished black marble; on the other, a massive wall of water that rose from the floor like a tsunami. But since Bea was not only a hostess here but also dating the owner, their girl group had been lured by the promise of free food and drink. And look, here was Bea coming toward her.

“Hey,” she said and kissed Miranda on each cheek. “You're the last one to arrive; everyone else is already ensconced. Follow me.” Miranda was happy to do exactly that; she needed a guide in this latter-day Hades. The percussive beat from the music reverberated in the cavity of her chest and the crush of bodies thwarted her at every turn. But Bea seemed unfazed. Up a flight of black marble steps whose wrought-iron railing
pulsated with clusters of tiny white lights and down a short hall to a dark paneled door, which Bea pulled open with a flourish. “The VIP lounge,” she said. “Welcome!”

“We were getting worried about you,” Courtney said. She was five-eleven, and her sleek blond head towered above everyone else's at the table.

“I was stuck at the office,” Miranda said, shrugging off her coat and sliding into the tufted velvet banquette. “You didn't start without me, did you?”

“Of course not,” said Lauren, who looked at Bea. “You'll be able to join us too? Even though you're working?”

“My shift is just about to end,” Bea said.

Miranda had known Bea, along with Courtney and Lauren, since they had been freshmen at Bennington, and they still met every month or so to catch up on one another's lives. Tonight Miranda had a piece of good news to share—her first in a while—and when Bea sat down, a tray of pale green appletinis following in her wake, she dove right in.

“You're looking at the new online food editor of
Domestic Goddess
,” she announced. “We're revamping the Web site and I'll be responsible for all the food-related content.”

“Does this mean you won't be handling the print edition anymore?” asked Lauren.

“No. The new job is in addition to, not instead of. So it's a bump up.” Miranda took a sip of her drink—it was perfectly rendered—and smiled.

“Does it come with a raise?” Trust Courtney to bring up the subject of money.

“It most certainly does.” Miranda took a celebratory sip. Ooh, it was
good.
“A generous one.”

“Well, it's high time,” said Courtney, who didn't so much
sip as gulp from her glass. “You can finally stop living like a church mouse. Maybe you'll even move to Manhattan. You're not doing yourself any good out in the hinterlands.”

Miranda went still. That was not a very tactful—or accurate—thing to say. She was not poor; she was
frugal
, which was an entirely different thing. She was diligent about putting money away for the proverbial rainy day, a concept Courtney, with her penchant for Chanel and Christian Louboutin, did not understand. Of course, Courtney was the accessories editor at
Soigné
magazine; she would claim her indulgences were necessities. “I love Brooklyn,” she said.

“And you have such a great apartment, right near the park and all,” Bea, ever loyal, added.

“It
is
a nice apartment,” Courtney conceded. “But it's just so far from everything.”

“Not the things that matter to me,” Miranda said quietly. But the conversation was already moving on, and everyone was congratulating Bea, who'd announced that she was now one of two finalists vying for the part of Maggie in an out-of-town production of
Cat on a Hot Tin Roof
. Then Lauren told everyone how her youngest child, Max, had just been admitted to a highly regarded pre-K and they all toasted that with another round. Along with the drinks, platters of grilled shrimp, empanadas, and spicy, translucent noodles arrived.

“Here's to finger painting!” sang out Bea.

Then it was Courtney's turn. Miranda was seized with the small, petty hope that Courtney's news did not involve her job; Courtney definitely had the more high-profile position—everyone knew
Soigné
—and she did not want her own promotion to be upstaged. There had always been a little thread of competition woven into her friendship with Courtney,
something not present in her feelings for Bea or Lauren. But Courtney could also be her biggest booster, and it had been through a connection of Courtney's that Miranda had landed at
Domestic Goddess
.

“Harris proposed!” Courtney sang out. “We're getting married!”

“That's wonderful!” Lauren and Bea started to clap.

“Mazel tov.” Miranda tried to sound genuine though she thought Harris, a pedantic lawyer with a receding hairline and a premature paunch, was hardly a prize.

“Now you're the only one who's unattached,” said Courtney to Miranda. “Girls, we have to find someone for Miranda. She's too special to remain on the vine. Maybe Harris has a friend. I'm going to ask.”

Miranda, stung, said nothing. So what if she was single midway into her thirties? Was that a deficiency? A crime? “No Ivy League lawyers for me,” she said, striving to keep her tone light. Harris had gone to Harvard, a fact he managed to work into all conversations, even ones that were ostensibly about the weather.

“What's wrong with lawyers?” Courtney said. They had moved on to White Russians—sprinkled with pulverized chocolate and dusted with nutmeg—which Bea said were the bar's signature libation. “Harris says that the law is the most stimulating intellectual pursuit he can imagine.”

Then his imagination must be
pretty small,
thought Miranda.

“And that the people he met at Harvard—”

“I didn't say there was anything
wrong
with lawyers,” Miranda interrupted.
Now he has
her
doing it too!
“I'm just looking for someone with, oh, I don't know, a more artistic bent.”

“You mean some out-of-work painter who'll sponge off
you for months before he maxes out your credit cards and moves on to a twenty-five-year-old?” said Courtney.

“That,”
said Bea in a gentle but reproving tone, “isn't necessary. Or nice.”

Miranda pushed her glass away. Ordinarily she loved White Russians, but suddenly the sweetness was nauseating; she thought she might be sick. Did Courtney need to dredge all that up
now
? And anyway, she was exaggerating. When Luke had gotten fired from his carpentry job, Miranda had offered to stake his purchase of art supplies so that he could keep on painting. But he was still morose and moody and she'd encouraged him to treat himself: expensive lunches, a new Italian suit from Barneys. But he'd hardly maxed out her card. Anyway, she had paid off the sizable AmEx bill, and her heart, though still bruised, was nonetheless on the pitted and rubble-strewn road to recovery.

“God, you're treating Miranda like she's made of glass or something.” Courtney put a hand on Miranda's arm. “You know that I'm just concerned about you. We
all
are.”

“Not necessary. I'm fine.” Miranda stood up and brushed at her dark skirt, as if to wipe the lie away. Thanks to Bea's largesse, she was past her limit, and she swayed slightly on her feet. Better go home before she said something she'd regret.

Her standing up seemed to give the cue to Lauren and Courtney; the three women jostled their way through the still-crowded front room and out into the raw March night. Lauren and Courtney both lived uptown, and they headed off in the other direction. Bea and her manager boyfriend were still at the bar, which did not close until four a.m.

Miranda was alone. It was late, she was exhausted, and it had started to rain. To hell with being frugal; she was
taking a taxi home. Raising her arm, she stepped off the curb to hail one.

But it seemed there was not a single available cab to be had in the entire city. After twenty minutes of watching taxi after taxi whoosh down the slick streets, she gave up and trudged toward the subway station on Forty-second Street. The platform was as full as if it had been the morning rush. Two musicians—a drummer and a guitarist—were at either end; the drummer, beating on several inverted plastic containers, was particularly good. A gaggle of teenage girls preened for the boys nearby. A large Hispanic family occupied an entire bench, and a couple leaning against a metal support kissed languorously.

Miranda turned away. It was just over eight months since Luke had packed up the toothbrush, the sketchbooks, the paint-flecked flannels, and the jeans bleached to that enviable state of softened whiteness he had left in her apartment. Over eight months since he'd told her that he'd decided to leave New York entirely and move to Berlin. “It's got a totally happening art scene,” he'd said. “Really stimulating.” She hadn't known until after he'd gone that some of the stimulation was being provided by an adorable, twentysomething German girl he'd picked up at a gallery in Chelsea and had been seeing behind Miranda's back.

The lovers were still kissing; the man's fingers wound through his girlfriend's hair in an intimate, caressing gesture. Miranda did not want to see any more, so she walked down the platform. At the far end, under the stairs, was a huddled mass. At first glance, it looked like a pile of old blankets, but the bare foot sticking out from one corner—dark, with thick, overgrown nails and leatherlike heels—made it clear that
someone was sleeping underneath. Reaching into her wallet, she extracted a five and tucked it at the edge of the pile. She also set down the doggie bag of shrimp and noodles that Bea had sent her off with. Then the train pulled in—finally—and Miranda turned from the foot and the blankets. She found a seat and sank down gratefully.

Ordinarily, she was happy with her job, but today there'd been nothing but stress. The managing editor had gotten into a fight with the decorating editor during the weekly staff meeting, which seemed to put the entire office in a foul mood. Two of her writers had failed to deliver promised copy, and a very labor-intensive banana malted milk torte was knocked to the floor during a photo shoot. It had to be made all over again, which completely threw off the schedule, and Marvin, the art director, had one of his hissy fits when he found out.

Miranda had been looking forward to an evening with her friends. But Courtney's tactless comment had kind of ruined it for her; she felt flung right back in the misery that had been Luke. At least she could sleep in tomorrow. Her only commitment was not until four o'clock, when she'd agreed to meet Evan Zuckerbrot, the latest dish served up by eHarmony, for coffee. She had resisted signing up for eHarmony, but both Courtney and Lauren had been pestering her to
just do it.

Miranda had succumbed, and even though she did not think Evan was that “someone special,” she reasoned that an afternoon latte would not be all that much of a risk. The rocking of the train was making her sleepy; she rested her head against the wall and closed her eyes.
Just for a minute,
she thought.
Just one little minute.
When she opened her eyes, she was still sitting in the subway car, entirely alone and freezing. She leaped up in a panic. Clearly, she had slept right past her
stop, and several stops after that; she'd come to the end of the line. The doors were open and the platform was elevated; that's why she was so cold. But where
was
she? Coney Island–Stillwell Avenue, that's where—at least according to the sign.

Well, she'd just have to get a train going back; she could forget about finding a cab out here.

Miranda stepped onto the platform. Even from up here, she could smell the sharp, salt-laced wind coming from the ocean. It was a good smell, actually—clean and bracing. But she had to get home. She felt nervous being out so late by herself, a feeling that intensified when she went down the stairs. There were no longer any token booths, of course; she could see the phantom spot where the booth had been, its ghostly perimeter still outlined on the floor, like something from a crime scene. There was not a soul in the station, and she was just about to sprint up the stairs to the other side when her attention was snagged by a neat, cream-colored bundle that sat right by the banister.

She paused. It looked harmless enough—a folded blanket or something—but in the post-9/11 world, she had to wonder. Could a bomb be concealed in those folds? How would she know, anyway? Did she even have a clue as to what a bomb looked like? While she was debating this, she saw something else even more startling: a tiny foot peeking out from one corner of the blanket. It flitted through her mind that this was the second bare foot she'd seen tonight. Only this one belonged to a doll.

A doll. Not too likely there was a bomb in there. Miranda could see the little toes, all five of them, lined up like tiny brown nuts. What a well-made thing.

Clean too. Why would someone have thrown it away?
Then the foot
moved.
Miranda stopped, not sure she saw what she thought she saw. She was exhausted, disoriented, and possibly a little drunk. The foot was an exquisite creation, crafted from something so smooth and pliant that she could not guess what it might have been. But when it moved again—this time causing the blanket on top to stir ever so slightly—she knew that it was no mere simulation. The cold she had been feeling ever since she woke up seemed to gather speed and force; it shot right through her, like a bullet. Carefully, she lifted a corner of the blanket away.

There, wrapped in a surprisingly clean white towel and cushioned by the bottom part of the blanket, was an infant. No, not an infant, a
newborn
, with cocoa-colored skin, black hair plastered to its tiny skull, and eyes that were tightly shut against the harsh light of the subway station.
Oh. My. God
. Was it even
alive
? Should she touch it? She remained that way for several seconds until the infant opened its mouth in a yawn that seemed to devour its entire face. The eyelids fluttered briefly before closing again. Definitely alive!