Win kissed me. “Very.”
“Why did you anyway? Pursue me, I mean. I’m pretty sure I kept telling you to go away.”
Win nodded. “Well, it’s simple really. The first time I saw you, you were dumping that tray of spaghetti—”
“It was lasagna,” I interjected.
“Lasagna. Over Gable Arsley’s head.”
“Not my finest hour.”
“From where I was sitting, I liked the looks of you. And I liked that you stood up for yourself.”
“That simple?”
“Yes, it was. These things usually are, Annie. It had become clear to me that you and your boyfriend had parted ways. I knew you’d be in Headmaster’s office at the end of the day so I contrived a reason to go there myself.”
“Admirably duplicitous of you.”
“I am my father’s son,” he said.
“Was it worth it? You did end up shot.” I put my arms around his waist.
“That was nothing. A flesh wound. Was it worth it for you? All the trouble I caused you. I feel almost”—he paused—“guilty sometimes.”
I thought about this.
Love.
There were so many kinds of love. And some of them were forever like the kind I had for Natty and for Leo. And other kinds? Well, you’d be a fool if you tried to guess how long they’d last. But even the ones that weren’t necessarily everlasting were not without meaning.
Because, when it came down to it, who and what and that you loved was your whole life. And when it came to love, it could not be denied that I’d received more than my portion: Nana, Daddy, my mother. Leo, Natty, Win, even Theo. Scarlet. Scarlet.
I furrowed my brow.
“You’re making a face,” Win said.
“I just realized that I’m going to have to forgive Scarlet.”
I looked at Win, and he looked at me.
“What I mean to say is, I’m going to have to ask her to forgive me.”
“I think that’s sensible.”
“I liked your speech today,” I said.
“I appreciate that,” he said. “You really don’t want me to stay in New York?”
“Of course I want you to stay … I just don’t want you to end up hating me.”
“I couldn’t end up hating you. It’s as impossible for me as slamming a revolving door. I’ll walk you and Natty home.” He picked a bloom from the trellis and then he tucked it into my hair. Summer was here.
XX
I PLAN FOR THE FUTURE
MY FATHER HATED THE SUMMER because summer was the worst time of year for dealing chocolate. The heat made distribution like running a gauntlet. A train delay or a malfunctioning refrigerated truck could mean that entire shipments were spoiled, i.e., melted. Daddy always said that people lost their taste for chocolate in the summer anyway—that chocolate was a cold-weather food, that people would rather have ice cream or even watermelon in the heat. The cost of shipping, expensive at all times of the year, was even more exorbitant in the summer. According to my father, the one thing that could have significantly eased the summer months was if it had been legal to create chocolate stateside: “Sure, we can’t sell it here, but why do they care if we make it?” I knew that Daddy often fantasized about Balanchine Chocolate going on hiatus from May through September. But as soon as he’d said this, my father would shake his head: “Not to be, Annie. If we force people to go three months without chocolate, they might lose their taste for it altogether. The American buying public is as fickle as a teenager’s heart.” I was not yet a teenager, so I didn’t bother taking offense at this analogy.
Though it was June, I was not thinking of any of this. My most immediate concern was helping Natty pack for her second summer at genius camp. I was in the middle of rolling a T-shirt when the phone rang.
“Did you hear the news?” He didn’t bother to introduce himself but I was more practiced at recognizing Jacks’s voice than I had once been.
“Phone calls are expensive, Jacks. You shouldn’t waste your weeklies on someone who doesn’t want to hear from you.”
Jacks ignored me. “Word on the street is that Balanchine Chocolate isn’t going to supply chocolate in the summer anymore. Fats thinks it’s too costly. He’s saying that he thinks chocolate should be a seasonal business. The dealers are about ready to kill him.”
I told him that Daddy had often said the same thing, and that seasonal or not, it wasn’t my business.
“You can’t be serious. Fats is running the business into the ground, and you don’t think it’s your business. Let me tell you, you backed the wrong guy with Fats. The only thing that guy cares about is his speak—”
“I’m finally out, Jacks. What do you want me to say?”
“You know I got no one else to call, right? Now that Mickey’s unreachable and Yuri’s dead, no one else will even take my call. And I’d like to have a job to go back to when I’m out of here.”
“Maybe you should consider a different line of work?”
“You finding it real easy to move on, Annie? It’d be about a million times harder for me, you know.”
“You’re not my problem,” I said, and then I hung up the phone.
I went back into Natty’s room, where she was folding up a raincoat. She wanted to know who had been on the phone. “No one,” I said.
“No one?” she repeated.
“Jacks. He’s worried that Fats is…” I let my voice trail off. If Fats was running Balanchine Chocolate into the ground, it wasn’t necessarily my problem, but it could definitely be my opportunity. “Excuse me, Natty. I have to go make a call.”
I went back out to the kitchen. If I were to make a go at this, I’d need a lawyer. I thought about calling Mr. Kipling, but we hadn’t been on the best of terms since Simon Green’s return. I thought about calling Simon Green, but I didn’t trust him. The greater problem with Mr. Kipling and Simon Green was that both men had spent their whole careers defending people from the wrong side of the law and what I needed right now was someone who played for the angels.
I thought about calling Charles Delacroix. In terms of drawbacks, he had thrown me in a reformatory twice, and also, Win would hate it.
It really did make the most sense to call Mr. Kipling. Maybe we’d had some hard times, but he was a good man and he was always on my side. At the very least, Mr. Kipling would be able to point me in the direction of the kind of lawyer I thought I needed.
I picked up the phone. I was about to dial Mr. Kipling when I found myself pressing the numbers for Win’s apartment instead. Win answered the phone. “Hello,” he said.
I didn’t reply.
“Hello,” Win repeated. “Is anyone there?”
I could have abandoned the idea right then. I could have just asked Win if he wanted to come over. I could have at the very least told him what I was thinking. But I didn’t do any of these things.
This might sound low to you, but I decided to disguise my voice. I made it deep and husky and a bit New York. “I’m calling for Charles Delacroix,” I purred. I was no vocal chameleon and part of me expected Win to burst out laughing and say, Annie, what are you playing at?
“Dad!” I heard Win yell. “Telephone!”
“I’ll take it in the office!” Charles Delacroix called back.
A second later, Charles Delacroix picked up the phone, and I heard Win hang up. “Yes?”
“It’s Anya Balanchine,” I said.
“Well, this is a surprise,” Charles Delacroix replied.
“I’m going to do it,” I said. “I’m going to open the medicinal cacao dispensary.”