Page 33 of Caught in a Storm

When she pushes through the glass door to her apartment building, her doorman Jimmy is standing behind the desk, the knot of his tie loose. “Oh, hey, Miss H. Good timing.”

Margot doesn’t break stride. “Hey, Jimmy. I think I’ll need a cab in a bit.”

“No problem. But, uh, first things first. The kid’s back.”

Margot finally stops. “The kid?”

“Dude, seriously, enough with that. I’m twenty-six years old.”

“Sorry,” says Jimmy. “Miss H., I believe you know Miss Yang.”

Rebecca stands in the lobby wearing her Chuck Taylors, a different vintage sweater this time. “Hey, Margot.”

“You said you were twenty-five.”

“Monday was my birthday,” says Rebecca.

This is annoying, because a little clearing of sympathy forms now in Margot’s anger.

Jimmy clears his throat. “This okay? I could ask her to leave if you want.”

Jimmy has been her doorman since she and Lawson bought the place. He was like this back then: protective of her. He’d shoo away photographers, close the door quickly behind her when she entered, shake her packages. Seeing him take that posture again is sweet, but weird, especially now that he’s become an old man. “It’s okay, Jimmy.”

“In that case, happy belated, Miss Yang,” says Jimmy. “Got a few lollipops back here if you want one.”

If Rebecca is trying not to look young, taking a sucker and immediately jamming it into her mouth probably isn’t a good idea, but that’s exactly what she does. “Can we talk?” she asks. “Can I come up or something?”

Margot looks at the elevator. “No, not up. But, here…sit.”

They settle onto the old leather lobby couch under a painting of Central Park. “I’m in a hurry. I don’t have time to—”

“I’m sorry,” says Rebecca.

On the other side of the lobby, Jimmy pretends not to be listening.

“I didn’t get why you bolted, back in Baltimore. Then I saw that door between our rooms. You heard him, didn’t you? Axl.”

“I heard both of you.”

“Margot, he’s my boss. I’m sorry I didn’t defend you. That was shitty. I was afraid he was mad at me for getting you catfished. I thought I was about to get fired. But he was being a total dick—that stuff he said. And I’m sorry if he hurt your feelings. If I hurt your feelings.”

Axl is a weird-looking little man with a dumb-ass ponytail. But Margot knows how important he is—she was scared of him when she was young, too. “His real name is Stuart, by the way,” she says.

“What? Axl?”

“Yeah. Next time he makes you feel bad, just think of him as little Stuart Albee.”

Rebecca smiles. “I will. Anyway, the official reason I’m here. Requests are coming in.”

“Requests?”

“Yeah,” she says. “Appearances. Google wants to use ‘Power Pink’ in a commercial. A new phone or something. I guess it’s pink. Also, are you familiar with that show where famous people perform in elaborate costumes and people try to guess who they are? They want you as a guest.”

None of that sounds interesting. Worse, stopping, as she feared, has made her re-rethink her nonplan of a plan. Maybe Rebecca has Billy’s number—or at least his son’s. But no, Poppy was right. Margot doesn’t want to talk to him on the phone. Margot hates the phone. She wants to see him. Oddly, she wants to see Baltimore, too. She was only there for half a day, but it was nice.

“Rebecca, I have to go.”

“Really? Don’t you want to talk about—”