Brooklyn Gothic, page 8
“Oh, why hadn’t I thought of that?” he sneered. “Fight an inoperable aneurysm. Yes, let’s get out our boxing gloves. Thank you for that bit of advice, Dr. Matos.”
Then he barked, “Get out with your hope and your fight! There’s nothing left to discuss.”
His tone electrified her. The only thing she had left to salvage was a modicum of dignity. Sweeping her jacket off the back of her chair, she snatched her tote from beside her desk.
When she got to him, she felt like spitting. “This is wrong. Firing me like this.”
He didn’t look at her.
“You need to finish this project. It’s unfair not to.”
“Don’t tell me what’s unfair. I’ll finish this project.”
“And we never see each other again.”
“Correct.”
Not wanting to cry or yell at him, she nodded tightly, and started down the stairs.
“Please understand,” he called from behind her. “It’s for your own good.”
Halfway down, she turned, pointing up at him for emphasis. “If it’s for your own good, I understand that. But don’t tell me what’s for my own good.”
She took the remaining stairs in such a reckless blur she almost tripped.
In the foyer, Miss Brock was holding a dust ruffle, her frosty expression crossed with mild astonishment and a little disapproval.
“Good luck to you,” Casey said, pulling open the heavy wood door, the intense white of a cloudy spring morning searing her eyes.
She was standing at the corner, waiting for the cars to pass, and one emotion hadn’t won out, they sparred with each other for prominence. She was furious, tired, hyper-alert, even cynically amused (did you think you’d get what you wanted?).
Something grabbed her arm and it was so unexpected she jumped. Miss Brock was next to her and her palm was out. In it was Casey’s clip, the one she’d lost.
“I found it when I was cleaning,” Miss Brock said. “I’d been meaning to give it to you, but didn’t remember until now.”
Casey took it from her and looked back to the street. “Thank you,” she said. She thought about darting into the passing traffic to get away from her, but this was Brooklyn. Even on this side street, the cars were moving pretty fast. Why wasn’t Miss Brock leaving? Refusing to be embarrassed anymore, she looked straight at her shiny metallic eyes. “And?” she demanded.
“You seem smart,” Miss Brock said. “Prove it. Don’t be a fool. Stay away from him. He’s not what you think.”
Stunned to the point of silence, she watched as Miss Brock turned and walked back towards the mansion.
15
“Heyyyy, Casey.”
That scratchy yet smooth baritone, she couldn’t forget it.
“Hi, Rowdy. What’s up?” In the background, she thought she heard a soft clinking sound, perhaps Rowdy stirring his chamomile tea.
“I wanted to let you know I heard from John and Mandy, the couple who run Last Chance. That foundation paid off their vet bill and gave them a donation. They were able to take in a bunch of dogs from a fight ring.”
“That’s great.” Casey was happy, but also sad that she would no longer be part of the mechanism that had delivered these animals from their cruel fate. “Give them all a big woof for me.”
“I will, and listen. John and Mandy are having a small party to celebrate. They’d love to meet you. If you want, I can pick you up. You ever ride a Harley? Nothing like it.”
Casey laughed a little. “That sounds fun, but I’m not working with the foundation anymore.”
“Ah, that’s a shame. Come anyway. Nothing fancy, but should be a good time. I’ve got an extra room if you need it. And don’t worry about me. Been married twenty years. I’m harmless. You can meet Jake and Tara.” He chuckled. “And my wife.”
“This all sounds tempting, but I have a couple of job interviews lined up and I should stay in the city in case something else comes through.”
“I understand. Hey, listen. We can’t thank you enough.”
“Don’t thank me. It’s the foundation.”
“Well, thank them.”
After hanging up the phone, Casey stared at the uninteresting job listings she’d pulled up. She was more determined than ever to go to graduate school for social work, the project had sealed her decision. But she had to find another job, and she wasn’t going to be picky. She wanted one fast so she could start saving money again.
As promised, Mr. Foster had sent her a check. It came inside a folded sheet of paper on which he’d written: “Casey, as the project was estimated to be six months, I pay you the remainder and a small bonus. Not too much, as I know not everything is about money. Samuel Foster.”
She had yet to cash it, irritated with receiving money for a project she hadn’t completed. Irritated with him for throwing money at her, as if that erased her being fired. She would cash it; she had to. Her rent had gotten ridiculously high, her health insurance premiums had always been ridiculously high, and she didn’t know how long it would take to find another job. But she could barely look at the “Remembrance Foundation” check with its slash for a signature, the corner poking out of some papers on her desk.
One day, she hoped to have a career that would make her feel the way Rowdy had just made her feel, as if she was making a positive impact on the world. That was why she’d originally gone into journalism, though, ironically, this hadn’t been clear until she’d left journalism. It was through the foundation that she realized she didn’t want to be in an industry that center-staged mankind’s worst traits, but she wanted to help clean up the mess those worst traits made.
And Mr. Foster. She’d liked the way she’d felt with him too. In his presence, it was as if a low-grade restlessness she hadn’t known was inside of her had been hushed. Two weeks after her firing, she felt trapped in a dome of heavy mist, leaving her foggy-headed and irritable.
And she couldn’t forget Miss Brock’s parting shot. Stay away from him. He’s not what you think.
As usual, she had no idea what was going on in Miss Brock’s brain or what she was trying to communicate. But she supposed Miss Brock was correct. Her being fired proved Mr. Foster was not what she’d thought.
And yet, she couldn’t stop thinking about him.
16
“Here she comes,” Casey said, grasping the wrist of the man next to her.
Casey and Astrid’s new boyfriend, Tyler, craned their necks over the chic crowd and clapped like Christmas morning kids as Astrid slinked down the runway, her head stationary while her hips bobbed up and down like a buoy at high tide.
“Whooo, Astrid!” they hooted.
Astrid took a sharp turn at the end of the runway in the middle of the large tent, jutted one hip out from her pelvis, and pranced like a mad pony in the opposite direction. Casey wasn’t keen on Astrid’s ostrich-inspired outfit or her albino alien hair and makeup, but she was proud of her roommate for booking a fashion show with an up-and-coming designer.
Tyler—the actor slash waiter—was not only very easy on the eyes, but nice, and seemed devoted to Astrid. Casey liked him.
Thanks to a stroke of incredible fortune—an acquaintance that had gotten her resume in front of an editor at the right time—Casey had been working for a month at TrendBuzz, one of the most popular sites on the Internet.
She’d cold-sent her resume to the usual suspects who still engaged in long form journalism—The New York Times, Wall Street Journal, Atlantic, The New Yorker. But if they were hiring, it was a secret they kept to themselves.
A fellow writer at TrendBuzz was mildly flirting with her, but her last experience with workplace boundary busting made her determined not to repeat that mistake.
The trio left the after-party around 11 p.m. Both Casey and Astrid had to be up early.
No one wanted to risk waiting for the subway this late, and they managed to snag a yellow cab as a group drunkenly stumbled out of it. Casey closed the door, laughing at something Tyler had said, and idly gazed on the milling crowd in Bryant Park.
That’s when she saw him.
Even gauzed in shadow, she knew it was Mr. Foster. She knew the broad silhouette of his shoulders and the way he walked was permanently ground into her memory.
She watched as he held out his arm and a tall, blonde woman eased into the fold of it. Casey couldn’t quite make out the woman’s face, but the long, blonde hair and height quickly pegged her as Sharon, his foundation person who’d come to the mansion and brushed Mr. Foster’s hair off his forehead.
He put his arm around Sharon’s shoulder and she turned, cupped his chin, and kissed him on the lips. He opened the backdoor of a black car for her and made a waving gesture. Before Sharon disappeared into the backseat, she looked up at him and smiled with flashing white teeth, and Mr. Foster got in and closed the door after them.
The walls of the taxi closed in. Casey couldn’t get enough air into her lungs and was shocked at the visceral assault on her stomach.
“I might need to get out,” she said. But the cab was pulling away from the curb.
“Case, what’s wrong?” Astrid asked, leaning over Tyler.
Casey pressed the window’s lever and flared her nostrils to take in the night air. It wasn’t until she’d touched the lever she realized her hands were shaking.
“Something I ate, maybe.”
“No get sick,” said the cabbie. “You want, I pull over.”
“No, please. I’m fine.”
If she said anything on the long, dreadful ride back to Brooklyn, she didn’t remember what.
17
Casey took the day off work. She shouldn’t be doing that this early on, but the energy for even simple tasks had leached out of her. There was nothing inside of her but a ransacked hollowness, as if a scoop had been dragged under her skin. All night, the scene refused to stop replaying in her mind’s eye.
He was out of the mansion. He was out with Sharon. It wasn’t that he couldn’t be with anyone—it’s that he didn’t want to be with her. She now realized Sharon must have come to the mansion to get try to get back together with him after a break-up. And they had gotten back together.
We must talk about what’s happening. You can’t keep ignoring me. I care about you.
After Casey sent an email to work claiming sickness, the morning got more surreal, her mood more angry, her thoughts more ranting.
Why did he point to a brain scan and say he couldn’t be with her for her own good rather than telling her the truth, that he preferred to be with someone else? She wouldn’t have collapsed. She would have liked to keep her job. They could have gone back to being strictly colleagues. Yes, they could have!
Maybe Mr. Foster’s aneurysm story had been a lie, something he trotted out to get rid of women, and in this case, to get rid of Casey. Maybe the image he’d showed her of those curvy white vessels on the black background—the thing he said was going to kill him—had been pulled from the Internet!
She yanked on her clothes and scooted out the door. It was almost nine-thirty a.m. At Grand Army Plaza, she walked to his cross street and stood at the rear of the mansion, knowing the route he took for his morning jog.
Then it occurred to her Sharon had probably spent the night. They would walk around the corner, sharing a laugh, glowing from their passionate reunion, headed to brunch to replenish the energy they’d spent making love. For some reason, Casey hadn’t considered this scenario until this very second. She scanned the stoops of the brownstones, wondering where she could hide. Where was a garbage can when you needed one?
Her heart thumped as she eyed her phone to check the time. She was about head back down the street when she saw Mr. Foster coming around the corner in his usual workout attire, not jogging but walking. Thank God he was alone.
Halfway down the block, he locked eyes with her and slowed to a stop. She walked up to him, determined to speak calmly.
“I saw you in Bryant Park last night.”
“Hello to you too, Casey. Why didn’t you come say something?” He didn’t seem upset to see her. He seemed almost happy to see her, or she was imagining that.
“I didn’t want to disrupt your date.”
He squeezed his bottom lip and shot her an indecipherable look. “I guess you’re referring to Sharon.”
“You said you couldn’t get involved with anyone because of your health and you obviously are. So you fired me for no reason at all. I wouldn’t have insisted on a relationship, you know.”
He looked at her as if she’d misunderstood something important. “I never thought you would. You know Sharon runs the foundation. She flew in to consult on it. This is an enormous amount of work.”
“I saw her kiss you.” The thing was out of her mouth before she could stop it.
He looked down and shuffled his feet. “She may have kissed me, but I didn’t kiss her.” He stopped shuffling, and peered up at her impishly. “Is this jealousy I’m witnessing?”
“Not at all.”
“In the jealous family? Its cousin once-removed or great-aunt?”
“This is indignation not jealousy.”
“Hmm. You seem rather jealous. I don’t think I’m imagining it.” He was clearly enjoying this moment.
“You’re being egotistical,” she said. “I only want know if you were telling the truth. About the aneurysm.”
“Everything I told you is true. Unfortunately.” Now his dark eyes were tender, apologetic. “I’m not dating Sharon. She’s married and has a child. We’ve known each other a long time, and she’s seen me through a lot. She arranged to get me back here after the rupture. I don’t know what I would have done without her. Another one of my lawyers was with us last night, but he had his own car. So, you see, there’s no reason to be standing here with flames of jealousy shooting out of your ears.”
Casey shook her head. He was being so mischievous that she couldn’t help but smile. “Whatever you say, egomaniac.”
“It’s fine,” he said. “I really enjoyed it. And I’d been debating getting in touch with you, but I didn’t want to cause any more problems. I thought you’d like to know the first payments have been dispersed to the Nonez children. And Maya, she was living in Arizona with her son and new husband.”
“That’s great,” she said, eager to divert the subject from her non-existent jealousy.
“Would you like to grab a coffee? I might as well tell you this and it shouldn’t be done on the street.”
At a round wooden table in the French boîte, they put in their order for latte and an espresso.
“How have you been?” he asked. “How long has it been since I’ve seen you?”
She shrugged, as if having no idea it was almost seven weeks exactly. “You have something to tell me?” she asked, officiously.
He dropped his eyes to the table. “A lot has happened since you left…”
“You mean since you fired me?”
He pulled his gaze to hers and she realized he didn’t look good. There was a loss of fleshiness in his face, giving it a slightly caved-in appearance. There was at least a week’s worth of long black bristle on his jawline, and brownish circles under his eyes, as if he hadn’t been sleeping much.
“Things aren’t going well health-wise. The artery wall has bulged more, pressed up against my brain stem.” He waggled two fingers at the back of his skull. “I’ve been told not to jog, so I walk, though I’m not sure why I bother. Guess I’d rather die from an aneurysm than cabin fever, or should I say mansion fever.”
He looked at her expectantly, as if she might laugh. She didn’t.
“Mr. Foster, I’m very sorry. It’s horrible you have to go through this...”
“Will you please call me Samuel? I don’t know why I let that go on for so long, I had this idea it would instill some distance.”
“I’d rather not. I don’t want to think we’re friends or anything. I made that mistake once before.” She hated that she couldn’t rise above her petty feelings of rejection to be convivial with a man who might drop dead before their coffees arrived, but apparently she couldn’t. “Is there any reason you’re telling me all of this? I would have preferred to not know about it.” Unable to look at him anymore, her attention fixed over his shoulder at the barista greeting a customer.
“There’s a reason. I’m leaving you some money in my will.”
She fiddled with the zipper chain up by her chin. “I told you, I’m not interested in your money.”
“Legally, the money is free and clear and you can do what you like with it. But—”
The cheerful waitress interrupted them, plunking down their orders. “Anything else I can get you?” she asked.
“Not right now, thanks,” Mr. Foster said, smiling at her.
They examined the frothy brown liquid in front of them, silent. Mr. Foster shook a couple packs of sugar into his miniature cup and took a sip. Then he picked up his thread. “I’d like you to dole out money out here and there to people who are struggling. I want to get to those who can’t rely on big charities. I read these online fundraisers. There’s so much suffering out there. There’s a woman in Colorado. Her face melted off in a grease fire, and her husband abandoned her and their baby.” He grasped his forehead and wilted into his arms. “I can’t stop thinking about it.”
Bile bubbled in Casey’s gut and she couldn’t take one sip of her latte. He was going to make himself insane trying to single-handedly take on the world’s problems, and she didn’t want to catch his insanity. “Can’t you ask someone else? What about your lawyers? Or Miss Brock?”
“She’s spent her life taking care of other people and wants to get on with her retirement. After I die, the foundation is to be managed by a big law firm. I wouldn’t trust a big law firm to find new beneficiaries. They’ll take an annual percentage of what’s being managed so they’ll make sure to manage it as long as possible. I’ve read all kinds of stories of firms misusing foundation funds. This will be easy for you, you read about people like this every day. And I trust you.”
Then he barked, “Get out with your hope and your fight! There’s nothing left to discuss.”
His tone electrified her. The only thing she had left to salvage was a modicum of dignity. Sweeping her jacket off the back of her chair, she snatched her tote from beside her desk.
When she got to him, she felt like spitting. “This is wrong. Firing me like this.”
He didn’t look at her.
“You need to finish this project. It’s unfair not to.”
“Don’t tell me what’s unfair. I’ll finish this project.”
“And we never see each other again.”
“Correct.”
Not wanting to cry or yell at him, she nodded tightly, and started down the stairs.
“Please understand,” he called from behind her. “It’s for your own good.”
Halfway down, she turned, pointing up at him for emphasis. “If it’s for your own good, I understand that. But don’t tell me what’s for my own good.”
She took the remaining stairs in such a reckless blur she almost tripped.
In the foyer, Miss Brock was holding a dust ruffle, her frosty expression crossed with mild astonishment and a little disapproval.
“Good luck to you,” Casey said, pulling open the heavy wood door, the intense white of a cloudy spring morning searing her eyes.
She was standing at the corner, waiting for the cars to pass, and one emotion hadn’t won out, they sparred with each other for prominence. She was furious, tired, hyper-alert, even cynically amused (did you think you’d get what you wanted?).
Something grabbed her arm and it was so unexpected she jumped. Miss Brock was next to her and her palm was out. In it was Casey’s clip, the one she’d lost.
“I found it when I was cleaning,” Miss Brock said. “I’d been meaning to give it to you, but didn’t remember until now.”
Casey took it from her and looked back to the street. “Thank you,” she said. She thought about darting into the passing traffic to get away from her, but this was Brooklyn. Even on this side street, the cars were moving pretty fast. Why wasn’t Miss Brock leaving? Refusing to be embarrassed anymore, she looked straight at her shiny metallic eyes. “And?” she demanded.
“You seem smart,” Miss Brock said. “Prove it. Don’t be a fool. Stay away from him. He’s not what you think.”
Stunned to the point of silence, she watched as Miss Brock turned and walked back towards the mansion.
15
“Heyyyy, Casey.”
That scratchy yet smooth baritone, she couldn’t forget it.
“Hi, Rowdy. What’s up?” In the background, she thought she heard a soft clinking sound, perhaps Rowdy stirring his chamomile tea.
“I wanted to let you know I heard from John and Mandy, the couple who run Last Chance. That foundation paid off their vet bill and gave them a donation. They were able to take in a bunch of dogs from a fight ring.”
“That’s great.” Casey was happy, but also sad that she would no longer be part of the mechanism that had delivered these animals from their cruel fate. “Give them all a big woof for me.”
“I will, and listen. John and Mandy are having a small party to celebrate. They’d love to meet you. If you want, I can pick you up. You ever ride a Harley? Nothing like it.”
Casey laughed a little. “That sounds fun, but I’m not working with the foundation anymore.”
“Ah, that’s a shame. Come anyway. Nothing fancy, but should be a good time. I’ve got an extra room if you need it. And don’t worry about me. Been married twenty years. I’m harmless. You can meet Jake and Tara.” He chuckled. “And my wife.”
“This all sounds tempting, but I have a couple of job interviews lined up and I should stay in the city in case something else comes through.”
“I understand. Hey, listen. We can’t thank you enough.”
“Don’t thank me. It’s the foundation.”
“Well, thank them.”
After hanging up the phone, Casey stared at the uninteresting job listings she’d pulled up. She was more determined than ever to go to graduate school for social work, the project had sealed her decision. But she had to find another job, and she wasn’t going to be picky. She wanted one fast so she could start saving money again.
As promised, Mr. Foster had sent her a check. It came inside a folded sheet of paper on which he’d written: “Casey, as the project was estimated to be six months, I pay you the remainder and a small bonus. Not too much, as I know not everything is about money. Samuel Foster.”
She had yet to cash it, irritated with receiving money for a project she hadn’t completed. Irritated with him for throwing money at her, as if that erased her being fired. She would cash it; she had to. Her rent had gotten ridiculously high, her health insurance premiums had always been ridiculously high, and she didn’t know how long it would take to find another job. But she could barely look at the “Remembrance Foundation” check with its slash for a signature, the corner poking out of some papers on her desk.
One day, she hoped to have a career that would make her feel the way Rowdy had just made her feel, as if she was making a positive impact on the world. That was why she’d originally gone into journalism, though, ironically, this hadn’t been clear until she’d left journalism. It was through the foundation that she realized she didn’t want to be in an industry that center-staged mankind’s worst traits, but she wanted to help clean up the mess those worst traits made.
And Mr. Foster. She’d liked the way she’d felt with him too. In his presence, it was as if a low-grade restlessness she hadn’t known was inside of her had been hushed. Two weeks after her firing, she felt trapped in a dome of heavy mist, leaving her foggy-headed and irritable.
And she couldn’t forget Miss Brock’s parting shot. Stay away from him. He’s not what you think.
As usual, she had no idea what was going on in Miss Brock’s brain or what she was trying to communicate. But she supposed Miss Brock was correct. Her being fired proved Mr. Foster was not what she’d thought.
And yet, she couldn’t stop thinking about him.
16
“Here she comes,” Casey said, grasping the wrist of the man next to her.
Casey and Astrid’s new boyfriend, Tyler, craned their necks over the chic crowd and clapped like Christmas morning kids as Astrid slinked down the runway, her head stationary while her hips bobbed up and down like a buoy at high tide.
“Whooo, Astrid!” they hooted.
Astrid took a sharp turn at the end of the runway in the middle of the large tent, jutted one hip out from her pelvis, and pranced like a mad pony in the opposite direction. Casey wasn’t keen on Astrid’s ostrich-inspired outfit or her albino alien hair and makeup, but she was proud of her roommate for booking a fashion show with an up-and-coming designer.
Tyler—the actor slash waiter—was not only very easy on the eyes, but nice, and seemed devoted to Astrid. Casey liked him.
Thanks to a stroke of incredible fortune—an acquaintance that had gotten her resume in front of an editor at the right time—Casey had been working for a month at TrendBuzz, one of the most popular sites on the Internet.
She’d cold-sent her resume to the usual suspects who still engaged in long form journalism—The New York Times, Wall Street Journal, Atlantic, The New Yorker. But if they were hiring, it was a secret they kept to themselves.
A fellow writer at TrendBuzz was mildly flirting with her, but her last experience with workplace boundary busting made her determined not to repeat that mistake.
The trio left the after-party around 11 p.m. Both Casey and Astrid had to be up early.
No one wanted to risk waiting for the subway this late, and they managed to snag a yellow cab as a group drunkenly stumbled out of it. Casey closed the door, laughing at something Tyler had said, and idly gazed on the milling crowd in Bryant Park.
That’s when she saw him.
Even gauzed in shadow, she knew it was Mr. Foster. She knew the broad silhouette of his shoulders and the way he walked was permanently ground into her memory.
She watched as he held out his arm and a tall, blonde woman eased into the fold of it. Casey couldn’t quite make out the woman’s face, but the long, blonde hair and height quickly pegged her as Sharon, his foundation person who’d come to the mansion and brushed Mr. Foster’s hair off his forehead.
He put his arm around Sharon’s shoulder and she turned, cupped his chin, and kissed him on the lips. He opened the backdoor of a black car for her and made a waving gesture. Before Sharon disappeared into the backseat, she looked up at him and smiled with flashing white teeth, and Mr. Foster got in and closed the door after them.
The walls of the taxi closed in. Casey couldn’t get enough air into her lungs and was shocked at the visceral assault on her stomach.
“I might need to get out,” she said. But the cab was pulling away from the curb.
“Case, what’s wrong?” Astrid asked, leaning over Tyler.
Casey pressed the window’s lever and flared her nostrils to take in the night air. It wasn’t until she’d touched the lever she realized her hands were shaking.
“Something I ate, maybe.”
“No get sick,” said the cabbie. “You want, I pull over.”
“No, please. I’m fine.”
If she said anything on the long, dreadful ride back to Brooklyn, she didn’t remember what.
17
Casey took the day off work. She shouldn’t be doing that this early on, but the energy for even simple tasks had leached out of her. There was nothing inside of her but a ransacked hollowness, as if a scoop had been dragged under her skin. All night, the scene refused to stop replaying in her mind’s eye.
He was out of the mansion. He was out with Sharon. It wasn’t that he couldn’t be with anyone—it’s that he didn’t want to be with her. She now realized Sharon must have come to the mansion to get try to get back together with him after a break-up. And they had gotten back together.
We must talk about what’s happening. You can’t keep ignoring me. I care about you.
After Casey sent an email to work claiming sickness, the morning got more surreal, her mood more angry, her thoughts more ranting.
Why did he point to a brain scan and say he couldn’t be with her for her own good rather than telling her the truth, that he preferred to be with someone else? She wouldn’t have collapsed. She would have liked to keep her job. They could have gone back to being strictly colleagues. Yes, they could have!
Maybe Mr. Foster’s aneurysm story had been a lie, something he trotted out to get rid of women, and in this case, to get rid of Casey. Maybe the image he’d showed her of those curvy white vessels on the black background—the thing he said was going to kill him—had been pulled from the Internet!
She yanked on her clothes and scooted out the door. It was almost nine-thirty a.m. At Grand Army Plaza, she walked to his cross street and stood at the rear of the mansion, knowing the route he took for his morning jog.
Then it occurred to her Sharon had probably spent the night. They would walk around the corner, sharing a laugh, glowing from their passionate reunion, headed to brunch to replenish the energy they’d spent making love. For some reason, Casey hadn’t considered this scenario until this very second. She scanned the stoops of the brownstones, wondering where she could hide. Where was a garbage can when you needed one?
Her heart thumped as she eyed her phone to check the time. She was about head back down the street when she saw Mr. Foster coming around the corner in his usual workout attire, not jogging but walking. Thank God he was alone.
Halfway down the block, he locked eyes with her and slowed to a stop. She walked up to him, determined to speak calmly.
“I saw you in Bryant Park last night.”
“Hello to you too, Casey. Why didn’t you come say something?” He didn’t seem upset to see her. He seemed almost happy to see her, or she was imagining that.
“I didn’t want to disrupt your date.”
He squeezed his bottom lip and shot her an indecipherable look. “I guess you’re referring to Sharon.”
“You said you couldn’t get involved with anyone because of your health and you obviously are. So you fired me for no reason at all. I wouldn’t have insisted on a relationship, you know.”
He looked at her as if she’d misunderstood something important. “I never thought you would. You know Sharon runs the foundation. She flew in to consult on it. This is an enormous amount of work.”
“I saw her kiss you.” The thing was out of her mouth before she could stop it.
He looked down and shuffled his feet. “She may have kissed me, but I didn’t kiss her.” He stopped shuffling, and peered up at her impishly. “Is this jealousy I’m witnessing?”
“Not at all.”
“In the jealous family? Its cousin once-removed or great-aunt?”
“This is indignation not jealousy.”
“Hmm. You seem rather jealous. I don’t think I’m imagining it.” He was clearly enjoying this moment.
“You’re being egotistical,” she said. “I only want know if you were telling the truth. About the aneurysm.”
“Everything I told you is true. Unfortunately.” Now his dark eyes were tender, apologetic. “I’m not dating Sharon. She’s married and has a child. We’ve known each other a long time, and she’s seen me through a lot. She arranged to get me back here after the rupture. I don’t know what I would have done without her. Another one of my lawyers was with us last night, but he had his own car. So, you see, there’s no reason to be standing here with flames of jealousy shooting out of your ears.”
Casey shook her head. He was being so mischievous that she couldn’t help but smile. “Whatever you say, egomaniac.”
“It’s fine,” he said. “I really enjoyed it. And I’d been debating getting in touch with you, but I didn’t want to cause any more problems. I thought you’d like to know the first payments have been dispersed to the Nonez children. And Maya, she was living in Arizona with her son and new husband.”
“That’s great,” she said, eager to divert the subject from her non-existent jealousy.
“Would you like to grab a coffee? I might as well tell you this and it shouldn’t be done on the street.”
At a round wooden table in the French boîte, they put in their order for latte and an espresso.
“How have you been?” he asked. “How long has it been since I’ve seen you?”
She shrugged, as if having no idea it was almost seven weeks exactly. “You have something to tell me?” she asked, officiously.
He dropped his eyes to the table. “A lot has happened since you left…”
“You mean since you fired me?”
He pulled his gaze to hers and she realized he didn’t look good. There was a loss of fleshiness in his face, giving it a slightly caved-in appearance. There was at least a week’s worth of long black bristle on his jawline, and brownish circles under his eyes, as if he hadn’t been sleeping much.
“Things aren’t going well health-wise. The artery wall has bulged more, pressed up against my brain stem.” He waggled two fingers at the back of his skull. “I’ve been told not to jog, so I walk, though I’m not sure why I bother. Guess I’d rather die from an aneurysm than cabin fever, or should I say mansion fever.”
He looked at her expectantly, as if she might laugh. She didn’t.
“Mr. Foster, I’m very sorry. It’s horrible you have to go through this...”
“Will you please call me Samuel? I don’t know why I let that go on for so long, I had this idea it would instill some distance.”
“I’d rather not. I don’t want to think we’re friends or anything. I made that mistake once before.” She hated that she couldn’t rise above her petty feelings of rejection to be convivial with a man who might drop dead before their coffees arrived, but apparently she couldn’t. “Is there any reason you’re telling me all of this? I would have preferred to not know about it.” Unable to look at him anymore, her attention fixed over his shoulder at the barista greeting a customer.
“There’s a reason. I’m leaving you some money in my will.”
She fiddled with the zipper chain up by her chin. “I told you, I’m not interested in your money.”
“Legally, the money is free and clear and you can do what you like with it. But—”
The cheerful waitress interrupted them, plunking down their orders. “Anything else I can get you?” she asked.
“Not right now, thanks,” Mr. Foster said, smiling at her.
They examined the frothy brown liquid in front of them, silent. Mr. Foster shook a couple packs of sugar into his miniature cup and took a sip. Then he picked up his thread. “I’d like you to dole out money out here and there to people who are struggling. I want to get to those who can’t rely on big charities. I read these online fundraisers. There’s so much suffering out there. There’s a woman in Colorado. Her face melted off in a grease fire, and her husband abandoned her and their baby.” He grasped his forehead and wilted into his arms. “I can’t stop thinking about it.”
Bile bubbled in Casey’s gut and she couldn’t take one sip of her latte. He was going to make himself insane trying to single-handedly take on the world’s problems, and she didn’t want to catch his insanity. “Can’t you ask someone else? What about your lawyers? Or Miss Brock?”
“She’s spent her life taking care of other people and wants to get on with her retirement. After I die, the foundation is to be managed by a big law firm. I wouldn’t trust a big law firm to find new beneficiaries. They’ll take an annual percentage of what’s being managed so they’ll make sure to manage it as long as possible. I’ve read all kinds of stories of firms misusing foundation funds. This will be easy for you, you read about people like this every day. And I trust you.”
