Page 16 of The New Couple in 5B

By the window, there’s a white parson’s desk, and a too-expensive ergonomic chair. On the desk is a simple glass vase of pink sweetheart roses.

My husband.

He snuck out and came up here to set up this writing space for me. He knew I would come here today and find it. That’s how well he knows me. My heart swells with love and gratitude.

And next to the desk is a box I recognize as being like the ones in the storage unit. The missing box. It must be.

Scribbled on the outside in Ivan’s scrawling hand: The Windermere.

Walking over to the desk, I can barely allow myself to believe that this beautiful place will be mine to write my book. On the gleaming white surface, there’s a note from Chad.

Welcome home, my love.I feel a rush of emotion and tears well.

But curiosity soon overwhelms sentimentality. I drop to my knees and lift off the lid of the box. The first thing I see is theNew York Journalarticle about the people who lived in this apartment before Ivan. Paul and Willa Winter, the young novelist and his Broadway dancer wife. As I start to read, the present moment disappears.

four

Willa

1963

I wait until his breath is heavy and deep. My husband is a sound sleeper. Once he has drifted off, it’s difficult to rouse him.

It’s a joke between us that the building could burn to the ground, and he’d find himself among the ashes in the morning. I watch his profile against the dim light coming in from the window, touch a tender hand to his cheek. The ticking Westclox Big Ben alarm clock on the bedside table glows, telling me that it’s late, nearly midnight. The warm air drifts in from the slightly open window. The city, its music, calls to me.

I’m the restless one, the one who can’t settle. I have trouble with sleep. It doesn’t always come for me.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper. He stirs, turns on his side and issues a soft snore. Iamsorry.

But still, I slip from bed, naked from our lovemaking. I wash in the small bathroom, slip into my shimmery black dress and kitten heels, grab some money from his wallet on the dresser and go out the back door, taking the service elevator to the street.

I never dreamed that I would be an unfaithful wife.

Especially not to such a kind and loving husband.

But here I am, scurrying up Park Avenue, like a teenager sneaking out of her parents’ house.

The spring air is warm, and people are out, strolling, laughing. They’ve been to bars and clubs, restaurants. They’re walking arm in arm. Someone’s singing, out of tune but having fun. New York City. Every dancer’s dream, the place we all come to reach for stardom. So few of us find exactly what we were looking for when we were young, told by our small-town teachers and well-meaning parents that we had talent. Wemay havehad something that others didn’t, back in the sticks where people were dull and so few had that creative spark inside.

But here, everyone who made it this far has that something special—a big talent, voracious ambition. Here, you compete with the best. And it’s brutal.

My ankle aches as I turn onto Thirtieth Street, this street quieter than the avenue, darker.

At the door to the Delmar Hotel, I hesitate, remember Paul as I left him, sleeping soundly, faithful, content in our life. I look back down the path I’ve taken, so easy just to turn around. But I don’t go home; I let the bellman swing the door wide, follow the sweep of his hand, nod at hisgood evening, miss.

A jazz piano in the corner fills the room with an unfamiliar but lighthearted tune, the young singer’s voice smoky and full of secret laughter.

He’s waiting at the bar. I see him right away, though the room is only dimly lit by candles on bistro tables.

You are the one for me, the singer croons.There’s no one else.

Again, before the man I’ve come to meet sees me, I almost turn and go back to my husband. Paul will never even know I was gone. And if he did, I could just say I slipped out for cigarettes, and he’ll be glad for it because he wanted a smoke after dinner, and we were out. It’s not too late to be the wife I wanted to be.

Paul, my husband. I love him. Ido.

It’s just that he wants to stay in always, and I want—no, Ineed—to go out. I want to move my body on stage, or anywhere, the music pulsing, desiring eyes on me. He’s quiet, a writer, always thinking about the stories in his head. And me, I don’t come alive until I’m out in the world—talking, laughing, drinking, dancing. He wants to sit by the fire, like we’re old and gray. But the city—with its nightclubs and bars, its stages and bright lights, fancy restaurants and glittering people—it calls to me, especially when the sun goes down.

I want to devour this place, this life. And he wants to watch it from the windows of our safe and lovely home.