Page 23 of The New Couple in 5B

“I’m glad we kept this,” I say.

Chad puts a palm on the wood, and I do the same. “He liked it because it was solid, handcrafted, designed to last a lifetime or more,” he says. “A piece to be handed down.”

I notice for the first time a chip out of the wood at the head of the table. It’s a deep gouge that looks as if it has been sanded down and stained over. The flaw only adds to its character. I walk over and put a finger on it.

For some reason, Dana’s words ring back to me.You know what my father gave me in this life? Nothing.But Ivan gaveusthis apartment. This beautifully made table, I think with a twist of guilt.

When Chad goes to help the hunks in the kitchen, I take the pouch out of my purse, and am happy to find that the ledge above the front door is wide enough to accommodate it. It’s nonsense. Of course, it doesn’t work. And there are no evil forces working against us in the world.

But Chad’s right. We can use all the help we can get.

We tip the movers Bob and Steve generously and wave as the service elevator door closes and they disappear. Then we stand for a moment in the gray, dank hallway that we share with Ella and Charles. This is where we bring our garbage to be picked up by the super, where we come and go when the doorman is unavailable to operate the elevator. Residents pass through the mailroom downstairs to an identical concrete elevator lobby on the ground floor.

Chad wraps his arms around himself, looks around. He peers around the corner and I follow. Charles and Ella’s door is closed. “It’s cold in here,” he says. “Creepy.”

“There’s a terrible draft.” Air moving through the elevator shaft, vents, creates a soft howling.

In the corner, up toward the ceiling, a blinking red light. Another security camera. I find myself staring into it a moment before I follow Chad into the kitchen and push the door shut, and lock it tight.

In the living room Chad takes me in his arms.

“Doesn’t it feel like we’ve already lived here forever?” he asks, holding me.

“It does,” I say.

We stay like that for a while, holding each other, swaying as if to music.

He’s right. Even with all I know already about the building’s dark history, the terrible things that have happened, it feels embracing, as if it’s been waiting for us and we’ve finally come home.

seven

Thank goodness I ignore Ella’s advice tocome as you are—which would have had me in torn jeans, a Rolling Stones T-shirt and tattered Chuck Taylors.

Instead, I decided to shower, do my hair and slip into a simple black shift before we headed over to Ella and Charles’s.

This is no casual-welcome-to-the-building gathering. There must be twenty extremely well-heeled people in their apartment when we arrive, only some of whom I’ve already met.

“Sorry, darling!” whispers Ella as she welcomes me, maybe clocking my surprise. “One thing led to another. And—everyone’s so excited to have some fresh young faces in the building. You don’t mind, do you?”

“Not at all,” I lie. “It’s lovely, thank you.”

I feel rather than hear Chad issue a low groan behind me as Ella ushers us in. We’re both exhausted. But when I turn, he’s wearing his most charming smile.

“Our new neighbors,” she announces. “Bestselling author Rosie Lowan.”

I blush. That’s not exactly true. The book did well but I’m not sure I’d call myself abestsellingauthor—though these monikers are all very vague. But I’m not going to correct Ella in a room of her guests, so I swallow my discomfort and smile.

“And Chad Lowan, critically acclaimed actor and soon-to-be movie star. Now you can say you knew them both when,” effuses Ella. She’s one of those effortless hostesses who knows how to make people feel good. She’s managed to flatter both Chad and me, as well as all the discerning guests in the room.

There’s a chorus ofwelcome to the building, andso nice to meet you, andIvan was such a lovely man, so sorry for your loss.

Chad, who didnotbother changing, still manages to look sexy—those straw-colored curls stylishly tousled, his plaid shirt pressing against biceps, pecs, faded jeans highlighting toned thighs. He works the room, shaking hands and flashing that girl-slaying grin at the women—who are all older than us by twenty years at least. Still, there are a lot of fluttering eyelashes.

Charles, tall and snowy haired, soft-spoken, takes me by the arm.

“Let me introduce you to a few people, dear.”

Ogadinmah Mgbajah is a cardiothoracic surgeon from Ghana, a stocky, serious man, with wire-rimmed glasses, crisp oxford shirt and precisely pressed pants. He shakes my hand, his grip gentle but firm, skin very soft.