Page 46

I examine the picture, noticing the ways in which Nick resembles his great-grandfather—same smile, same granite jaw—and the ways he does not, such as in the eyes. Nick’s are softer, less hawkish.
“They also lived in the Bartholomew?”
“This very apartment,” Nick says. “Like I said, it’s been in my family for years.”
I continue flipping through the album, the pictures passing in no discernible order. It’s a hodgepodge of images in various shapes, sizes, and tints. A color photo of a little boy blowing bubbles—young Nick, I assume—sits beside a black-and-white one of two people huddled together in a snowbound Central Park.
“Those are my grandparents,” Nick tells me. “Nicholas and Tillie.”
On the next page is a striking photograph of an even more striking woman. Her gown is satin. Silk gloves reach her elbows. Her hair is midnight black and her skin an alabaster white. Her face is made up of sharp angles that, when joined together, merge into something arresting, even beautiful.
She stares at the camera with eyes that are at once foreign and familiar. They seem to pierce the lens, looking beyond it, directly at me. I’ve seen that look before. Not just in another photograph but in person.
“This woman looks a bit like Greta Manville,” I say.
“That’s because it’s her grandmother,” Nick says. “Her family and mine were friends for decades. She lived in the Bartholomew formany years. Greta’s whole family has. She’s what we call a legacy tenant.”
“Just like you.”
“I suppose I am. The last in a long line of Bartholomew residents.”
“No siblings?”
“Only child. You?”
I glance again at the picture of Greta’s grandmother. She reminds me of Jane. Not so much in looks but in aura. I detect restlessness in her eyes. An urge to roam.
“Same,” I say.
“And your parents?”
“They died,” I say quietly. “Six years ago.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Nick says. “It’s tough. I know that from my own experience. We grow up expecting our parents to live forever until, one day, they’re suddenly gone.”
He transfers the pizza onto two plates and carries them to the round table in the dining room. We sit side by side, positioned so that both of us can look out the window at twilight settling over Central Park. The arrangement gives it the feel of a date, which makes me nervous. It’s been a while since I’ve done anything resembling a date. I had forgotten what it feels like to be a normal single person.
Only nothing about this is normal. Normal people don’t dine in rooms overlooking Central Park. Nor is their dinner companion a handsome doctor who lives in one of the most famous buildings in the city.
“Tell me, Jules,” Nick says, “what do you do?”
“As in for a living?”
“That’s what I was getting at, yeah.”
“I’m an apartment sitter.”
“I mean other than that.”
I take a bite of pizza, stalling. My hope is that Nick will lose patience and move to a different topic. When he doesn’t, I’m forced to swallow and admit the sad truth.
“I’m between jobs at the moment,” I say. “I was laid off recently and haven’t been able to find something else.”
“No harm in that,” Nick replies. “You could even look at it as a blessing in disguise. What would you really like to be doing?”
“I... I don’t actually know. I’ve never given it much thought.”
“Never?” Nick says, dropping his slice of pizza onto his plate to punctuate his surprise.