Rushing Waters (23 page)

It was a relief when he got home to his typewriter and started to work on the book again. This was the one thing he knew he could do. He was masterful at it. And as he began typing, he pushed her gently from his mind, and reentered the world of fantasy he conjured up so well, where he could control it, and knew exactly how it would turn out. In real life, you just never knew.

Ellen saw eight more apartments the following Monday and Tuesday, all of them in good locations, on the East Side, where she was looking. Downtown held no lure for her, as it did for her mother. She wanted to be on the Upper East Side in a building with a doorman, with enough space for an office. She didn't need a view or a showplace, but a place that felt like home to her was beginning to feel like Mission Impossible, until she walked into an apartment late on Tuesday, and the minute she saw it, she knew that was it. It was big and sunny, in an old building in the East Seventies, facing south. It had big windows on a tree-lined street, and felt more like a house. The maids' rooms in the back would make perfect office space for her and an assistant. And it reminded her a little of the house in London that she had just given up. It had an old-fashioned, European feeling to it, and her furniture would look right in it. There was a fireplace in the living room, and another in the master bedroom. It had a small dining room, with walls that had been painted dark red, and a cozy kitchen. She could see herself living there, listening to music, and reading by the fire on winter nights. She turned to the realtor with a look of relief.

“This is it.” She was home, and she knew it instantly. Apartments were like romance, you fell in love or you didn't, and she just had. It wasn't what the realtor had expected her to like, and they'd been looking in modern buildings since she'd arrived. Ellen could already envision the living room with fabrics in warm colors, and a comfortable couch. She needed to buy one, since George had taken theirs for the flat he was going to share with Annabelle. She didn't want to think about it now. She wanted to leave the past behind her and start fresh.

She filled out the application before she left the building, and left a check for the deposit. The rent was even below her budget. No one had had the imagination so far to see what they could do with it. Its main attraction was that it was cozy. And it was available immediately. She could move in as soon as she was approved, and it was in a rental building, so she didn't have to pass muster with a co-op board. All they had to do was check her credit rating. And she put on the form that she had owned her own home in London for five years. And in the box that referred to marital status on the application, she checked “divorced” with a sinking heart. She could no longer check “married,” since she wouldn't be soon. It felt strange when she wrote it, and she looked sad when she handed the application back. But she was excited when she walked back to her mother's apartment, and she told her the good news when she came home.

“You'll be rid of me when my furniture comes,” she told her, “if they approve me.”

“I don't want to be rid of you. I love having you here,” Grace assured her. She was happy Ellen had found something she liked. It was a start for her new life.

They had a quiet dinner together that night and went to bed early. And the realtor called her two days later to say that her application had been approved. She sent an email to Phillippa to arrange to have her furniture shipped. And the day after, she called an agency to hire an assistant. It was all falling into place faster than she had expected. It was dizzying to think about. It felt like mountain climbing at times. All she had to do was get to a safe place so she could relax and catch her breath, but not yet.

And the following week, they gave her the keys to the apartment, and her mother liked it when she came to see it. Her furniture was on its way to New York on a ship, and she started looking at fabric for curtains, and ordered a couch in a warm taupe velvet like the one she'd had in London. Her attorney in London had heard from George's by then, and he was proceeding with the divorce. She wasn't surprised, and didn't expect him to change his mind, but it hurt anyway. It was all happening so quickly. One minute she'd been married, and the next it was all over. It was still hard to understand what had happened, what signs she had missed, and why he had never warned her before he gave up. She tried not to obsess about it, but the questions haunted her late at night. She lay in bed mulling it over, and wondered if he was happy now with Annabelle and her children. She was glad there was no one to tell her about it. She realized she didn't really want to know about his new life.

Ellen had dinner with her mother and Jim one night, and they talked about Bob and the book he was writing. Jim said Bob needed to get out more, he worked too hard, albeit with excellent results. Ellen hadn't heard from him again since their walk in the park weeks before, and assumed he was still working on the book.

And providentially the week before her furniture arrived, Ellen hired an assistant. Alice Maguire had worked for a well-known decorating firm, run by a dragon, and wanted something easier and more agreeable than the pressure she'd been under. Phillippa liked her when she talked to her on Skype, her references were excellent, and Ellen gave her a mountain of files to sort through on her first day, sent her to Ikea for two desks and the file cabinets they needed, and gave her a stack of fabric samples to return that her clients had rejected, and some for herself, and left to see her client in Palm Beach. They were off to a running start. Alice seemed to have everything under control when Ellen came back two days later. She told Ellen that her furniture had cleared customs, was on the dock in New York, and was due to be delivered to the apartment the next day.

“Sounds good.” Ellen smiled at her as Alice handed her a cup of tea just the way she had told her she liked it. “We're in business.”

And the move went smoothly with Alice's help. By the end of the day, the furniture was in place, the movers had unpacked the china and crystal, and Ellen was unpacking her books. It had been painful at first to see the familiar pieces from her married life, but they looked different enough in the New York apartment that she thought she might get used to it eventually, and they wouldn't remind her quite so much of George. She was trying to do everything she could to excise him from her life. And she realized, as she looked around her, that the decision to move to New York had been the right one for her. As it turned out, it wasn't a step backward, she was moving ahead, with new clients, a new assistant, and a new home.

“Wow!” Grace said when she came by that night. There were flowers on the coffee table, Ellen had arranged the furniture the way she liked it, and it looked inviting and warm, just as she had thought when she first saw the apartment. And the bedroom looked feminine and pretty, with an antique mirrored dressing table she had found the week before. “It looks terrific.” Grace smiled at her, proud of how bravely she was embracing her new life. “You should give a dinner party when you get settled,” her mother suggested. She needed to get a social life going in New York, although Ellen didn't feel quite ready for that yet.

“I wouldn't know who to invite,” Ellen said honestly. She had lost touch with her friends in New York years before. She had become totally absorbed in George's life in London, and now she had lost that too. She realized now that giving up her identity for him had been a huge mistake.

“Blanche and I would love to come to dinner,” Grace said gently, and Ellen smiled, and thought about inviting Bob and Jim. Jim had just asked them to spend Thanksgiving dinner with him, and Ellen wasn't sure she wanted to go. She wasn't in the mood to celebrate this year, and didn't feel festive, and she had told her mother she might skip it. She had decided to serve Thanksgiving dinner at one of the hurricane shelters downtown and had just volunteered. Grace was so touched that she wanted to go too. She had already given mountains of warm clothes to several shelters when she moved.

When they told Jim about it, he offered to make his dinner later, so both women could come afterward. When Jim told Bob what they were planning to do, he called Ellen and said he wanted to go to the shelter with them. It seemed the right way to spend Thanksgiving that year.

Grace still hadn't decided about the art fair in Miami. Jim was planning to go anyway, as he did every year. Traveling to Miami with him still sounded a little bold to Grace, and she had told him that if she went, she would want separate rooms at the hotel, which he said was fine with him. He was an easy person and willing to accept whatever terms made her comfortable as long as she would join him.

“You should do it, Mom,” Ellen encouraged her when they talked about it again, but Grace said she wasn't sure, and had too much work, although she was interested in seeing the art for some of her clients, several of whom were major art collectors. And the idea of being there with Jim appealed to her, more than she wanted to admit.

After Grace left Ellen's new apartment, Ellen went back to unpacking her books, and found several of George's. She wondered if she should send them back to him, and then decided not to, and put them in her bookcase. To hell with it. He had broken her heart, she didn't need to send him the books. When she finished, she looked around the apartment, and was pleased with the results. Her mother was right, and she wished she could show it to someone. And feeling very brave, she sent Bob a text. It was nearly midnight, but she knew he worked late.

“Still writing? I just moved into my new apartment. It's nice, and I really like it. Come and see it sometime.” She signed it “Ellen,” and sent it off, and he called her five minutes later. They hadn't spoken since he'd called her a week before about serving Thanksgiving dinner at the shelter.

“I didn't realize you were moving so soon. That was fast work.”

“Not really. I've been in New York for nearly a month.” She smiled to herself and took a sip of her tea, pleased that he'd called her.

“I lose track of time when I'm writing,” he said apologetically. “Did your things come from London?”

“They arrived today. I'm still up to my ears in boxes. How's your apartment coming?”

“They started knocking down walls this week. It's a mess,” he said, laughing. “Your mother is merciless. But she's good. She tells me I'm going to love the end result. I believe her.”

“You won't be disappointed,” Ellen promised.

“I'm sure I won't. I'd love to see your new place,” he said cautiously, not wanting to intrude.

“I'll invite you to dinner when I get organized,” she said, remembering her mother's suggestion.

“I really want to take you to dinner when I finish the book. I was going to call you, but I'm still trapped here. I'm useless till I finish. I can't keep the story straight if I go out when I'm working. I just hole up till I'm through.” Jim had said as much when they had dinner. It was the way Bob worked, but it was hard to argue with success. “I'm in the home stretch. Are you doing all right?” he asked, sounding concerned about her, and she was touched.

“I think so. I have to go to London soon to see some clients, but I'm settling in here. I hired a terrific assistant.” But nothing felt familiar yet. It was all new and different, even living in New York again, although she'd grown up there. But after eleven years in London, even her own city felt strange.

“I'm glad you texted me,” he said warmly. He liked talking to her. He had liked it particularly when she stayed at Jim's apartment and he knew she was in the next room and he could run into her in the kitchen and talk to her anytime. He thought her husband had been a fool to leave her, but it was hard to know what went wrong between people. “I'll call you soon, I promise.” He felt guilty for dropping the ball after their last conversation. He lost track of everyone and everything when he was writing.

“You don't have to promise. I'm not going anywhere,” she said. It was nice talking to him late at night.

“Dinner soon,” he said again, “I have to kill a couple of people first,” he chuckled and she laughed at the idea.

She thanked him for calling and walked around her apartment, feeling good about herself. She had had the guts to contact him, even though he hadn't called her in a while. And she liked the way the apartment was taking shape, and the cozy atmosphere. She could see what she needed now. A bigger desk, a couple of big comfortable chairs, maybe a new coffee table. The end tables were perfect for the new couch. And the lamps were great but needed to be wired for American current. She set her candlesticks on the mantel of the fireplace, and an antique Chinese sculpture she loved. And her English hunting scenes were going to be perfect on the red walls in the dining room. It already felt like her own home, not a compromise she had made to please someone else, neither a client nor a husband. She could already tell it was going to look exactly the way she wanted when it was finished. She went to bed that night with a smile on her face. She wasn't crying for the home she had lost, or for George, or even for the children they'd never managed to have. For the first time since George had told her the devastating news that he was leaving her, she realized that she had the one thing she needed most to get through it, and had missed for so long. Herself.

Juliette arrived at the ER on schedule for her shift at four in the afternoon. They had power again throughout most of the hospital, but some of their systems still weren't up and running two months after the hurricane, and probably wouldn't be for a while. But the ER was functioning normally again. Juliette had just been off for two days, and she smiled at Will Halter at the nurses' station when she came in.

“How's it going?” she asked him as she checked the board on the wall, to see what her caseload looked like that afternoon. The streets had been icy the night before, and they had a broken hip waiting for surgery, and a broken arm waiting for the orthopedic resident. Other than that, they had three cases of the flu, and a heart attack waiting for angioplasty, and they had just sent a woman in premature labor up to labor and delivery. “Looks like an easy day,” she commented to Will. He nodded and walked away to talk to one of the nurses.

“What's with that? Are you two buddies now?” Michaela asked her under her breath.

“He's a nonevent. He's ridiculous. But so what?” Juliette shrugged and smiled at her. Ever since his apology to her the night of the hurricane, the steam had gone out of her anger at him, and she really didn't care how big a narcissist he was.

“You're in a good mood,” Michaela said, watching her. She had been for weeks, particularly so after her days off. “New guy in your life, Dr. Dubois?” The two women liked each other, but Juliette kept her private life to herself.

“Maybe.” She smiled at her.

“It's written all over you,” the head nurse teased her.

“A girl's gotta have some fun on her days off,” Juliette said as she grabbed a chart and headed for a room.

“Is that so? That's a new tune for you,” Michaela called after her. She had been that way for two months. She and Sean Kelly had been dating since the hurricane, and it seemed to be working, despite their crazy schedules, and what he called their careers based on catastrophic events. He had dealt with a major gas leak that caused an explosion and killed three people, a bomb threat at another hospital that had forced them to evacuate the building in a blizzard, and the endless fallout from the hurricane that wasn't cleaned up yet. Some of the buildings in lower Manhattan were still flooded, and there were pumps on the streets everywhere, trying to empty basements, and one subway line still wasn't running. And while he handled major emergencies, she was busy with the day-to-day at the ER. And somehow in the midst of it, they were managing to spend time together and have a good time. He'd gotten a promotion after the hurricane, and had a new title, a raise, and a bigger truck. And he tried to stop by to see her when he had time, and they'd have a quick cup of coffee together or even lunch.

When they both had time off, they went to movies, or out to dinner, or he cooked dinner for her at his apartment, which was bigger, tidier, and more pleasant than hers, and he was the better cook.

“Let's hope they never expect you to feed someone your own cooking in the ER—you might kill them,” he teased her after the first meal she cooked for him and burned beyond recognition. It had set off all the smoke alarms. He took on cooking duties from then on. But despite her lack of domestic skills, he had never enjoyed any woman as much in his life, and their stressful jobs hadn't impacted their private life so far.

When they were together and both off duty and off call, they turned their cell phones off and concentrated on each other. And when they were working, they were dedicated to their jobs. They were compatible in more ways than either of them had expected. And they loved going bowling, and playing pool at a bar near her apartment. She played pool even better than he cooked, and beat him almost every time. She had taught him some pointers that had made him a star among his friends at the OES on boys' nights out.

“I have brothers—what do you expect?” she said proudly the first time he saw her play. They had learned a lot about each other in the two months since the hurricane, and liked everything they knew so far.

“You were right,” she said to him one day while he made her breakfast before they both went to work.

“About what?”

“One can actually have a private life and do good work. I never thought that was possible,” she said as she started to eat the bacon and eggs he had made.

“You just have to want it badly enough,” he said as he sat down at the table with her. They stayed at his apartment more often than hers, since hers still looked like a bomb had hit it, and he realized now it always would. She somehow never managed to tidy it up, and it looked like a dump. “That's probably the secret to most of life. If you want something badly enough, you make it work.”

“And you want me that badly, huh?” she asked, smiling at him, as she munched on a piece of toast.

“Desperately, but not badly enough to eat your cooking.”

“Good. Then you can always do the cooking.”

“Sure. You can wash my truck.”

“In your dreams,” she said as he kissed her. “I'm a doctor. I don't have to wash trucks
or
cook.”

“Who says?”

“The Hippocratic oath. It's in there somewhere. No cooking,” she said smugly.

“It says ‘Do no harm,' ” he corrected her and then thought about it. “I guess in your case, that's the same thing.” He kissed her again and looked at his watch, wondering if they had time to go back to bed before they went to work.

“No,” she said, “I can't. If I'm late for work, Halter will kill me.”

“Screw him—he's a jerk.”

“Yes, that's true, but he's still my boss and he can tell time.”

“Spoilsport.” He kissed her longingly, and they cleared the dishes together, rinsed them, and put them in the machine. She made more of an effort at his apartment than she did at her own. “See you tonight?” he asked her, and knew the answer even before she said yes. They were spending all their off-duty hours together, and their schedules were tacked up side by side on his bulletin board so they could coordinate their time off.

They hated to leave each other when they went to work, and then got lost in their jobs all over again. They loved what they did
and
being together. And happiness was written all over her now when she went to the ER for her shifts. Michaela had noticed, and so had everyone else.

He had offered to make Thanksgiving dinner for her, a real one with homemade stuffing and a turkey and sweet potatoes with marshmallows, creamed spinach, and pumpkin pie, but she had to work, so he had promised to have dinner in the cafeteria with her, and cook a real dinner for her on her next days off.

He met her in the cafeteria for turkey sandwiches at midnight on her dinner break, and they were talking quietly at a table in the corner when his cell phone beeped with a 911 code following the ID number. It was his boss. He listened intently, said he'd be there in three minutes, and got up.

“I'm gone,” he told Juliette. “Fire at the power plant on Fourteenth Street. Five alarm. They're worried about an explosion.” He was halfway across the cafeteria by then while she followed him with her sandwich in her hand.

“Be careful, will you…Sean, please…” He turned back for only a split second and kissed her.

“I love you—I'll call you later….Happy Thanksgiving.” He left the hospital at a dead run, put his siren on, and headed north to Fourteenth Street. There were fire engines everywhere when he got there, OES vehicles, and police. He slipped his heavy coat on as he jumped out of his truck, and threaded his way through the crowd to the other OES workers who were talking to the fire chief on the scene. The fire was still out of control, and an explosion was becoming more likely by the minute.

Juliette went to the waiting room to see if it was on the TV there, and she saw it, a burning ball of fire, and firemen everywhere. She hoped Sean was okay, as she felt her heart pound. It was the one miserable thing about his job—she was constantly worried about him, and he was always in the most dangerous places. She didn't like it, but she knew how much he did. And she wandered in and out of the waiting room all night between patients to see what was happening, trying not to panic as she watched the fire get worse. A wide area had been cleared and hundreds of buildings evacuated in case of an explosion. She felt dizzy as she saw it on TV.

The fire was continuing to rage at five o'clock in the morning, and at six, the explosion they feared finally happened. The announcer said shortly afterward that several firefighters had been injured in the blast. It said nothing about the OES workers. It never did. They were the unsung heroes at every disaster in the city. She was seized by panic when she saw it on the news, and they both heard and felt the blast of the explosion at the hospital. Tears filled her eyes every time she sneaked into the waiting room to watch the TV. What if he died or got injured? She had never been as happy in her life or loved any man as she did him. Everything about him suited her to perfection, except that he risked his life every day. She felt sick until he finally called her after nine o'clock that morning. Two of the firefighters were in the ER by then, badly burned, waiting to be transferred to a burn unit, and she was breathless when she answered his call.

“Are you okay?” she asked when she heard his voice after hours of agony, praying for him. “I was worried about you all night. I saw it on TV.”

“I'm fine. It was nasty, and a lot of guys got hurt. It's under control now. But I'll probably be here all day.”

“I'm on until ten o'clock tonight,” she told him, feeling calmer than she had in many hours. She didn't want to admit to him how terrified she had been.

“I'll meet you at my place whenever I get home.” She had a key to his apartment, and spent all her nights off there. “See you later. I love you,” he said, and hung up, but she was relieved to have spoken to him and went back to work with a lighter heart. It was a crazy way to live.

When he came home that night, he was filthy and exhausted, but not too much to take a shower and make love to her. And then he fell asleep in her arms. She wondered sometimes how long she would be able to stand worrying about him all the time. What if he was one of the ones who got injured, or killed? But she couldn't imagine him doing anything else, at least not for now, and neither could he. He needed to feel useful and know he was saving lives, which was what she did, but she was never at risk, and he always was. But at least he was safe, asleep next to her in his bed, and she couldn't ask for more. The hurricane had blown him into her life, and she had no intention of letting go. He was the best thing that had ever happened to her.

Ellen and Grace put on jeans and old sweaters and were down at the hurricane victims' shelter at noon on Thanksgiving. Bob met them there, and they were assigned to separate tables to serve food to the hundreds of people still living there. Bob was assigned to the crew carving the turkeys that had been donated, while the two women ladled the food onto plates, which the residents accepted gratefully. Bob had finished his book at six o'clock that morning, and looked exhausted but thrilled.

The three of them put in a seven-hour shift, working nonstop, and arrived at Jim's apartment just before eight, filthy and tired, smelling of food, but looking pleased. Jim was filled with admiration for them, as his staff served an exquisitely prepared meal. One of the most famous chefs in the city was in his kitchen.

And over dinner, Jim mentioned a benefit he'd heard about being organized for hurricane relief. It was a gala event being scheduled in the coming months, and Ellen and Grace both said they'd like to volunteer for one of the organizing committees, and Bob and Jim said they might too.

After that, Grace commented that progress in her apartment was moving slowly—there were so many jobs under way downtown that it was hard to hang on to construction crews for long, and they were spreading themselves too thin. She was beginning to think it might even take a year to complete the work. And Bob said he hadn't sold his apartment yet. No one wanted to live on the river in Zone 1. Except Grace.

The Thanksgiving meal the chef had prepared was delicious, and they toasted Bob for the book he'd finished. His current one was still on the best-seller lists, and this one would be too when it came out. It was always a given with him, despite his modesty about it.

He mentioned then that he was going to L.A. the following week to check on his latest movie deal and work out some details. They were casting and wanted input from him on that and the screenplay. He wasn't writing it, but had approval of the final script, as he always did, thanks to Jim's negotiation of the contract. And Bob was going to see his kids while he was there.

“They're coming here for Christmas,” he said quietly. “I'd like you to meet them,” he mentioned casually to Ellen, which Grace found interesting. She had never met them when they visited him in Tribeca. Ellen knew that they were in their mid-twenties, building and busy with their careers, and that Bob had had them when he was very young. And he had told her how proud he was of what they were doing and how hard they worked. His son had a good job and was on a career path as an assistant director, and his daughter was an entertainment lawyer at an important law firm, and had been since she graduated from law school at UCLA. “They'll be here for a week,” he added, and would be staying at Jim's too.

“I'm going to London this week,” Ellen told them. “I have to see some clients, and my attorney.” They were filing the papers for the divorce, in response to George, who seemed to be in a rush.

“Will it all be unpleasant on this trip?” Bob asked with concern.

“Some of it, probably. But it'll be nice seeing my clients.”

“Will you have to see George?” He was sympathetic.