Page 35 of Summer and the City (The Carrie Diaries 2)

“Good-bye.” I’m suddenly disappointed to see her go.

Bernard and I watch as she strides through the hallway, one hand caressing the back of her neck—a poignant reminder to Bernard of what he’s missing.

I swallow, prepared to apologize for my little show, but instead of being embarrassed, Bernard grabs me under my arms and presses me to him, spinning me around like a child. He kisses me all over my face. “Am I glad to see you, kiddo. You’ve got great timing. Did anyone ever tell you that?”

“No—”

“You do. If you hadn’t been here, I wouldn’t have been able to get rid of her. C’mon.” He grabs my hand and briskly leads me out the other end of the alley like a madman on a mission. “It’s you, baby,” he says. “When I saw you, it suddenly made sense.”

“Sense?” I ask breathlessly, trying to keep up, confused about his sudden adoration. It’s what I’d been hoping for, but now that he actually seems smitten, I’m a bit wary.

“Margie is over. Finished. I’m moving on.” We come out on Forty-fourth Street and head to Fifth Avenue. “You’re a woman. Where can I buy some furniture?”

“Furniture?” I laugh. “I have no idea.”

“Someone’s got to know. Excuse me.” He accosts a nicely dressed lady in pearls. “Where’s the best place to buy furniture around here?”

“What

kind of furniture?” she asks, as if this kind of encounter with a stranger is perfectly normal.

“A table. And some sheets. And maybe a couch.”

“Bloomingdale’s,” she says, and moves on.

Bernard looks down at me. “You busy this afternoon? Got time to do some furniture shopping?”

“Sure.” It wasn’t exactly the romantic lunch I had in mind, but so what?

We jump into a cab. “Bloomingdale’s,” Bernard directs the driver. “And make it fast. We need to buy sheets.”

The cabbie smiles. “You two lovebirds getting married?”

“The opposite. I’m officially getting unmarried,” Bernard says, and squeezes my leg.

When we get to Bloomingdale’s, Bernard and I run around the fifth floor like two little kids, trying out the beds, bouncing on the sofas, pretending to drink tea from the china display. One of the salesmen recognizes Bernard (“Oh, Mr. Singer. It’s an honor. Will you sign this sales slip for my mother?”) and follows us around like a puppy.

Bernard buys a dining room set, a brown leather couch and ottoman, an armoire, and a pile of pillows, sheets, and towels. “Can I have it delivered right away?”

“Normally, no,” the salesman simpers. “But for you, Mr. Singer, I’ll try.”

“Now what?” I ask Bernard.

“We go to my apartment and wait.”

“I still don’t understand why Margie took the furniture,” I say as we stroll up Fifty-ninth Street.

“To punish me, I suppose.”

“But I thought she was the one who left,” I venture, carefully avoiding the word “cheated.”

“Chickadee, don’t you know anything about women? Fair play doesn’t enter into their vocabulary.”

“Not all women. I would never be like that. I’d be reasonable.”

“That’s what’s so great about you. You’re unspoiled.” Still holding hands, we breeze into his building, right past the nasty doorman. Take that, buddy, I think. In the apartment, Bernard puts on a record. Frank Sinatra. “Let’s dance,” he says. “I want to celebrate.”

“I can’t dance to this.”