Page 77 of The New Couple in 5B

“Is Paul off to his retreat?” asks Ella.

“Yes,” I answer, pulling a sad face. “I’ll be on my own for a couple of weeks.”

“Lucky you,” she says, giving me a wink. “You must come for dinner.”

I put a gentle hand on Miles’s head and he yanks away from me, earning an eye roll from Ella.

“That’s rude, Miles,” she chastises.

He opens his mouth to say something but then we lock eyes, and he presses his lips together. Smart boy.

When I look back at Ella, she’s watching me with something like mild suspicion, curiosity maybe, but it quickly fades into her practiced polite smile.

“Enjoy your freedom while it lasts,” she says, eyes drifting down to my belly. I put my hands there in answer. “And do call us if you get lonely.”

Then she sweeps them all out to the street and they’re gone.

twenty-three

Astrology night. I balance the warm tray of baked ziti as I ring Ella’s buzzer. The aroma wafting up is heavenly. I can’t take credit—this is baked ziti I picked up from the Italian restaurant and pizzeria that was Ivan’s favorite. A bit of a cheat, but oh, well.

I hear laughter from inside the Aldridges’ apartment, ring the buzzer again.

My nausea has subsided some, but I’m aware of a low buzz of anxiety—the pall cast by Dana’s death, the detective’s unsettling visit, even the simmering joy of my positive pregnancy test.

I’m about to ring again when Ella opens the door, resplendent in a green Pucci shirtdress and Ferragamo flats, her hair back in a thick headband.

“Oh, dear, how long have you been waiting? I didn’t hear the bell. What is this now?” she says, taking the ziti. “Silly thing, you went overboard. For appetizer, you could have brought cheese and crackers.”

She says it lightly with a kind smile. But as we move inside and approach the table of food, it’s clear I’ve screwed up. My aluminum tray of gooey pasta looks like a poor relation amid the spread of elegant glass platters, ceramic roasting dishes, wood charcuterie trays. Ella makes room for my contribution on the dining room table. Voices drift from the living room.

“I’m sorry,” I say.

“Nonsense,” she says, uncovering it. “It looks divine.”

“It’s from Sal’s,” I admit, chronically honest.

She smiles, puts a hand on my shoulder. “Of course. You’re a busy working woman, while the rest of us just sit around all day coming up with things to do.”

There’s an undercurrent to the statement. It’s somehow a compliment and a dig, isn’t it? As if I haven’t earned or fallen into a life of leisure. As if that’s a goal all people have, to do nothing.

“I’m just happy you found time to join us tonight,” she says.

We enter the living room where some of the people from the welcoming party have gathered again—Anna the sculptor, Oga the heart surgeon: Charles is standing by the mantel. I look around for and finally spot Xavier, chatting in the far corner of the room with a man I don’t recognize. I’ll corner him before I leave here tonight.

A woman with wild steel-gray curls and icy eyes sits in one of the big wingback chairs. She is as erect as a dancer, but full bodied, a voluminous skirt spread around her. There’s a small table in front of her; another woman in jeans and oversize white shirt, with long blond hair, sits on a colorful pouf before her.

“When we want something different to happen,” the gray-haired woman is saying, “we have to do something different.” Her voice is smoky and soft.

“For Virgo, this month is a time of changing, shifting, growing. We let go of the things that no longer serve, invite in more of what nourishes this month. Does that resonate?”

“It does,” says the younger woman. “I’ve been thinking of changing jobs. My workplace has grown toxic.”

“That’s Miranda,” whispers Ella. “She’s our medium, astrologer and card reader.”

I nod, smile inside at Miranda’s generic advice. My mother said most everyone is looking for the same things. They want to be loved. They want to be safe. Some people think they want to be rich, or famous or powerful. But it’s really the feeling they think those things will give them that they truly crave. And everyone broadcasts a thousand different things about themselves, easy for a certain type of person to read. What you wear, how you carry yourself. Do you bite your nails, dye your hair, wear too much makeup, none? The little details speak volumes to someone who knows how to read people. It’s not psychic to be observant, to have a deep knowledge of the human condition. It’s just that so few people are paying attention, it seems like something otherworldly.

“The time is now,” says Miranda. “I’m picking up that there’s an opportunity or dream. One that is tempting. But something is holding you back.”