You Were Meant For Me (24 page)

She put the phone down, trying to find some way, any way, to comfort herself. In the closet, she pawed around until she found her tattered copy of
The Best-Loved Doll.
How many
times had she read this book or had it read to her? One hundred? Two hundred? More? The spine was fragile and some of the pages loose. But the story of the plain little doll who trumps all the others—even those who walk, talk, or had the most exquisite clothes—had an inevitable sense of rightness, and she read the words out loud as if Lily were in the room to hear them. Soon she would be.

Tomorrow she would see the baby girl she'd found in that subway station, the girl who was, against all odds, meant for her. Supah had phoned earlier and would be bringing her in the morning. Miranda had asked for the day off, so they would be able to spend it together. And it was this thought she carried with her, like a precious vessel, as she lay down—fatherless as well as motherless now—and surrendered herself to sleep.

T
he vast studio in Queens where Evan was shooting the pet supply catalog resembled Noah's ark: there were pairs of Siamese, Angora, and calico cats, along with pairs of Dalmatians, dachshunds, Scotties, poodles, and Pekinese. There were also several rodent duos: gerbils, hamsters, and black, lop-eared rabbits. There was even a pair of parrots, their feathers a blazing mix of teal blue, green, and red, squawking and spitting nutshells onto the floor of their cage. The only exceptions were a trio of affable mutts (“mixed breed” was the term of choice around here) and a single, sixty-pound bulldog, all jowls and wrinkles. “Can you bring the lights over here?” Nat, the art director, gestured to a spot near the windows. Evan picked up the light stands, each clamped to a tripod and tucked into its own soft box to better diffuse the light, and began arranging them in a loose circle. The last tripod was wobbly, and when he attempted to adjust it, the bulb fell clean
out of the socket and crashed onto the floor. The bulldog barked, a deep, gruff sound that muted the string of curses Evan let loose. Fuck. Shit. How had
that
happened? He surveyed the wreckage—four hundred bucks' worth of glinting shards—before hurrying off to find a broom.

He managed to cut himself—twice—while sweeping the glass and smeared blood on the white no-seam paper he was using to shoot the animals. But so what? One of the Dalmatians peed on it, so he tore off the soiled part and rolled down the paper—it hung on a roll suspended by two hooks like a giant toilet paper dispenser—and started again. This time the other Dalmatian began to chew on the edge of the no-seam, which resulted in his vomiting up the chewed paper in a frothy white puddle. Another swath torn off and tossed.

“I thought you said this dog was well trained.” Nat turned to Bobbi, the animal handler.

“The agent swore up and down he was perfect.” Bobbi was busy cleaning up the mess the Dalmatian had made; Evan felt for her.

“Perfect pain in the ass,” sniffed Nat. He looked back at Evan. “Let's try it again.”

Six miserable hours later, Evan packed up his lights—now minus a bulb he'd have to replace—and the rest of his equipment. He couldn't wait to get out of there. True, he'd have to return tomorrow, but it would be without the animals. He would be shooting kibble and the rawhide chews, birdseed and catnip—a veritable piece of cake when compared with today. He'd have to leave early though. He needed to stop off at B&H Photo for that bulb.

Traffic was terrible getting back to Red Hook—of course; why wouldn't it be?—and he broke one of his cardinal rules
about answering his phone while behind the wheel. It was not like he was driving; he was sitting. As soon as he started to move, he would hang up.

He recognized the number. “Hi, Mom.”

“How are you? You didn't sound so good last time we talked. You had me worried.”

“I'm fine. Really. Don't worry so much.”

“Mothers worry,” she said. “It's part of our job.”

“How's Dad?” Evan tried to redirect the conversation.

“On the golf course. As usual.”

“That's good. Isn't it?” Evan's parents had retired to Scottsdale, Arizona, a few years ago. Golf was a big part of the equation.

“If you call chasing a tiny ball with a skinny stick around a lawn good, then yes, I suppose so.”

Evan waited a beat. The first two gambits had failed; what else could he trot out?

“How are you, Mom?” The traffic remained stagnant.

“It depends.”

“On what?”

“You. A Jewish mother is only as happy—”

“As her least happy child.” It was easy to finish the sentence; he'd heard it about a thousand times.

“Look, Evan, honey, I know you're disappointed about that girl you were dating, Melinda—”

“Miranda, and she's thirty-five, Mom. She's not a girl; she's a woman.”

“Girl, woman—whatever. You don't have to jump down my throat; I'm just trying to help. Now, have you called Thea?”

Thea was the New York–based daughter of one of his mother's Scottsdale friends. “As a matter of fact, I did.”

“And?” Her voice scaled up several decibels.

“And we're going out tonight. Okay? Are you happy now?”

“I'm happy if
you're
happy, darling. She's a wonderful girl. Woman. Tall—like you! Pretty. Whip smart. Oh, Evan, you'll love her.”

Suddenly the car in front of him surged ahead, and Evan had to focus on driving. “Can't talk now, Mom. I'll call you soon.”

Evan got home, showered, and changed into a fresh shirt and jeans. Which of them was more pathetic here? His mother, for still meddling in his love life? Or him for allowing it? But he'd been missing Miranda a lot and did not want to go back onto eHarmony—or any other online dating site—for fear of seeing her profile. And he was lonely. So he'd reluctantly taken the number his mother had provided and called Thea. They were meeting—for drinks, not dinner—at a place downtown. Drinks were good; if the date went well, you could extend it into dinner. If not, you could bail and not have invested an entire evening. He remembered these strategies from eHarmony, strategies he hadn't had to employ while he'd been seeing Miranda.

Evan walked into the bar three minutes before the appointed time of seven o'clock. He carried with him one long-stemmed red rose. He knew it was a cliché, but what the hell. It was a nice thing to do, and Evan prided himself on being a nice guy.
Too nice,
Audrey would have said.

At five past seven, Evan began to peruse the menu; at quarter past, he decided to order a drink. If she didn't get here by the time he finished it, he'd go. He'd tell his mother it hadn't worked out and he'd be off the hook. The waiter had just popped the top off the bottle of Heineken he'd ordered when a very tall, very slender woman approached his table.

“Evan?” She extended a hand and he took it. “Thea. So sorry I'm late!”

“That's okay.” He stood and handed her the rose.

“How sweet!” She smiled at him and then touched a finger to the flower. “Thank you.”

After she sat and ordered a beer—he always liked it when a woman drank beer—she filled him in about the rudiments of her life and asked him about his. She was divorced, worked in marketing and public relations, lived in the East Twenties. She was not his type physically—way too thin, with knobby wrists and thighs that hardly seemed wider than her calves. A beanpole. Skin and bones.

But when she regaled him about a recent trip she'd taken—on safari in Kenya—and compared notes on some of her favorite film directors—
Ingmar Bergman is one of my gods,
she'd said—he began to warm toward her. And though her body didn't appeal, her face did: greenish gold eyes, lots of tiny freckles peppering her cheeks and nose, thick, reddish brown hair cut in a choppy way; it kept falling in her eyes and he kept wanting to brush it away.

They decided to extend the drink into dinner and when they'd ordered, he asked her if she liked to cook.

“I don't cook,” she said. “I burn.”

He laughed but felt a funny little twist inside. Miranda. The scones, the pistachio pesto, the way she turned the humblest meal into a ceremony. But Miranda had betrayed him; he and Miranda were through.

“What about you? Do you like to cook?” Thea asked.

“About as much as you do,” he replied.

Later, after dinner, he insisted on seeing her home. And when she turned to him at her door and gave him a soft, sweet kiss, he was pleasantly surprised. So she was not afraid to
make the first move. Nice. Very nice. It was so easy to kiss her back, he thought as he moved into her arms. Easiest thing in the world.

*   *   *

The
air, warm and moist as a steam bath, was the first thing Jared noticed when he got off the tiny prop plane and walked across the tarmac. Tripp was waiting for him inside the terminal; no doubt he preferred the air-conditioning to the saturated heat outside.

“Hey, man.” Tripp grasped his hand in a tight shake. “How was the flight?”

“Which one?” Jared had to change planes twice to get here.

Tripp laughed. “Yeah, this place is kind of off the radar.”

“Way off.” Jared picked up his bag. “I hope your car is right outside. I don't want to hike through the soup.”

As Tripp drove and talked, Jared gazed out the window. Everything was so densely, almost surreally, green down here: even though it was mid-September, the trees were still in deep summer mode and dripping in kudzu; he saw lurid-colored flowers all over the place, not that he knew their names: orange, magenta, scarlet, yellow. He started seeing houses, just a few at first and pretty dilapidated, and then more and more. It sure as hell didn't look like the Hamptons, but at this point, Jared didn't care whether he ever saw the Hamptons again. Tripp's invitation to fly down to Louisiana to discuss a new business venture was perfect timing.

Finally, Tripp pulled into a town center. Or what once had been a town center. Four main streets led into an overgrown grassy circle; at the center of the circle was a statue of a rider whose horse was rearing back so far it was practically vertical. The rider himself was headless and he was also missing an arm.

When they parked and got out, Jared saw that most of the buildings—wooden, with nice ornamental detailing—were empty. The few that were occupied housed a liquor store, a couple of pawnshops, and a gun store.

“Where the hell are we?” Jared had only just gotten here, but he was ready to take off again.

“Welcome to Gilead,” said Tripp. “Incorporated in 1836.”

“And when was its demise? Not too long after, from the looks of things.”

“I didn't bring you here to talk about that.” Tripp looked around; clearly he saw something other than what Jared was seeing. “I brought you here to talk about its resurrection. And you're the guy to bring it back from the dead.”

“Are you kidding? Even Jesus couldn't bring this town back to life.”

“I can't speak for Jesus,” said Tripp, “but I have a lot of faith in you.”

Jared had absolutely no faith in Tripp. But he followed him across the sorry-ass town square, past a ruined gazebo and more empty storefronts. They turned down a side street, and Tripp led the way into a luncheonette that, given the way the rest of the town looked, seemed surprisingly lively.

“Hey, Lulu,” he called out. “This is the friend I was telling you about. And he's very hungry!”

A fortyish woman—her riotous dreadlocks were contained by a red bandana—poked her head from around a corner. When she saw Tripp, she came running over. “Good to see you!” She hugged him and then turned to Jared. “Welcome, stranger. Any friend of Tripp's is a friend of mine.”

“He's no stranger, Lulu,” said Tripp. “At least he won't be for long.”

Lulu led them through the restaurant to a booth at the
back. The place had a casual, funky vibe: walls painted china blue, lots of thrift store and paint-by-number art hanging on them. Mismatched chairs and napkins, empty soda bottles and jam jars filled with the same kinds of crazy flowers Jared had seen from the car. When they were seated, Lulu said, “The usual, Tripp?”

“The usual!” He looked at Jared. “Get ready to dine, my man. Get ready to
feast
.”

Tripp was not exaggerating. The food just kept coming. Gumbo and po'boys, pickled this and spicy that. Sweet potato fries, stewed tomatoes. Pecan pie with house-made ice cream. A bread pudding so light it almost levitated off the plate.

“How did you ever find this place?” Jared asked. He wasn't hungry anymore, but everything was so good he kept eating.

“I was in New Orleans and I read about it on some foodie blog. Drove sixty miles to get here. Then my damn car breaks down and I'm stuck. Stranded! But the meal I had here that first night made it worthwhile. And Lulu let me sleep in the apartment above the restaurant. She had it fixed up to rent, but as our little tour of the downtown might suggest, she didn't have a lot of takers.”

“Yeah, I can see that she wouldn't.” Jared helped himself to a bourbon-filled chocolate, compliments of the house.

“We got to talking about this town. What it had been and what it could be again. I made some calls, contacted some people. And I came back six, seven, eight times. Spoke to the town council—all of three people, one of whom hadn't left his house in a decade. I petitioned everyone I could think of to petition. Got some backers in New York to pony up some money; parlayed that into some government funds down here. We're right on the cusp, Jared. Right on the cusp. And I think you're the guy to bring us over.”

“That's what you've been telling me. But you haven't explained exactly what or how.”

“I wanted you to see it first. To get a feel for the place.” Tripp moved his plate aside and planted his elbows on the table. “What I need is a facilitator. Someone who knows the real estate market, who understands how neighborhoods—and cities—evolve. You've got that degree in urban planning, right? Well, it's time to put it to use. Plus you're a born salesman; you've got the gift. And that's kind of what we need down here—someone with a gift, someone who can swim in more than one sea.”

“So how do you envision it?”

“We're looking at a mixed-use model, some residential, some commercial, maybe even some light manufacturing. A new mix of small businesses, artists—because we know they can turn a neighborhood into gold—and cultural organizations. It's a mixed population here; there's a good balance of black and white; we don't want to lose that. But if this town is going to survive, it needs to change.” He looked like a zealot as he outlined his plans.

“I've got funding. I've got tax incentives. I just need someone who can pull it all together. Match the right tenant or buyer with the right property for the right reasons. Keep an eye on the overall picture. Provide big-city expertise to a small-town venue. What do you say, Jared? You in?”