We attended family dinners with Cy and Evelyn, but Nick never came.
Michael saw Nick on Wednesday nights at his poker game. The game was hosted by Christo Snow, who had gone to Englewood High with Michael and Nick. The games were high stakes, the food was catered, and Christo hired not only a dealer from Atlantic City but a security guard as well. Michael made money or lost money. Nick always made money; it was his primary source of income. One night, after the game, Michael came home with a rosy, swollen eye. Nick had punched him.
I gasped, “Why?”
“We had a fight.”
“About what?”
As was usual after these poker games, Michael was drunk. Otherwise, he would never have told me.
“About you.”
“Me?”
“He said I wasn’t right for you.”
“Not right for me?”
“Not good enough for you.”
My head swam. I remembered that Michael had long ago broken Nick’s nose, over a girl. I should have felt some sympathy for Michael, but instead my heart felt like it was being carried away by bluebirds. Nick had feelings for me.
“Well, that’s silly,” I said.
I saw Nick again the week before Christmas. He was sitting on a bench in the lobby of my office building. I was leaving for the day; we had just put the February issue to bed with its comforting soups and stews and a menu for a snow-day sledding party. I felt the same massive relief I always felt when I put an issue to bed and the issue was good, and in addition, it was Christmas, I had twelve days off from work, and there was a fancy Christmas party that night for Michael’s company, which was being held at the Morgan Library. I was in a singular mood. I didn’t love Christmas the way Birdie or Tate loved Christmas; Christmas was for children and I didn’t have any children and I was no longer a child myself-but on that day, I was in the spirit.
And then I saw someone who looked like Nick but would never be Nick, sitting on a vinyl bench by the revolving door of our office building. I got closer and saw his face, his hair, those eyes. He was wearing a black wool coat and jeans, and the security guards that manned the entrance eyed him suspiciously.
I said, “Nick?”
He gave me the look. My head buzzed. They played carols in the lobby, and the song at that moment was Burl Ives singing “Have a Holly Jolly Christmas.”
He said, “I was in the neighborhood.”
That was a lie. I worked in Midtown. Nick Morgan would never have had any reason to be in Midtown.
I didn’t know what to say. I couldn’t take my eyes off him and I didn’t want him to take his eyes off me. We stood in the marble lobby of my building with people going past in both directions and Burl Ives crooning, locked in some kind of silvery force field.
Finally, he said, “Let’s get out of here.”
We walked. He led, I followed at his elbow. We walked up Fifth Avenue amid the throngs of people. So many people, so much Christmas cheer-tinsel on lampposts and wrapping paper covering the Louis Vuitton store and sugarplum visions in the window at Henri Bendel. We walked in front of the Plaza Hotel; across the street, the line at FAO Schwarz was five hundred people long. When I walked in the city with Michael, these details interested me. With Nick, I cared only about Nick.
We walked into the park, we took the first footpath. It was cold, but I didn’t care. Nick guided me toward a tree-bare-branched, majestic, sheltering. It instantly became our tree. I turned around to face Nick and he kissed me. He really kissed me, we were kissing, and God, he was the best kisser I had ever known. More sensual than Michael-more careful, less careful. He said, “I am obsessed with you.”
This should have come as a surprise to me, but it didn’t. Although I was dating Michael, I thought of Nick every hour of every day. I dreamed about him. I fixated on the poster in Michael’s kitchen and on the pictures of Nick and Michael as children in Cy and Evelyn’s house. I created excuses to say his name.
I said, “What are we going to do?”
He didn’t answer.
I thought about what would happen if I just told Michael, Listen, I’m in love with your brother. It would be bad, certainly; there would be another swollen eye or broken nose, or worse. Cy and Evelyn would be stymied, but would they let it destroy their world? Would they disown Nick, and if they did disown him, would it destroy our world?
Nick was shaking his head. He said, “I hate the guy, I really hate him, but I love him, too, and I just can’t do that to him.”
I said, “No, me either.”
Nick said, “But I couldn’t wait any longer. I had to come to you. I had to kiss you today.”
“Okay,” I said. “Yes,” I said. We kissed some more-I could not get enough of him-and then he pulled away and turned and left-left me there in the dark park, which was something his brother, the gentleman, would never have done.
A week later, Christmas Day, I went to the Morgans’ house in New Jersey, trembling with anticipation. That morning, Birdie had made our usual holiday brunch of eggs Benedict and sticky buns, and I hadn’t been able to eat a bite. Michael and I drove south to his parents’ house, and I pretended to be napping so I didn’t have to speak. We walked into the Morgan house, which, just like Birdie’s house, was festooned with evergreen garland and smelled like cinnamon. Evelyn popped out of the living room, where there was a roaring fire and a towering tree with dozens of presents piled under it. Evelyn was wearing an embroidered Christmas sweater and red velvet pants. She said, “I’m so glad you made it. Dora’s here, but your brother’s not coming.”
“Not coming?”
“He called this morning. He doesn’t feel well, he said.” Evelyn frowned. “Though he sounded perfectly fine to me.”
Tate came home from her day of solitude at North Pond sunburned and twitching with excitement. Her joy was off-putting. How could Chess confide in her sister about “all that had happened” when her sister was so happy?
Tate said, “Come up to the attic with me. I want to tell you something.”
Chess said, “I can’t. I’m helping Birdie with dinner.” This was true: she was shucking corn. But she had only one ear left.
“I need you now,” Tate said.
Chess sighed. “One second. Let me finish.”
The attic was a hotbox. The tiny window in the eaves was open, but no air passed through it. Tate pulled Chess next to her on the bed.
“Guess what happened?” Tate said.
“What?” Chess said.
“Barrett asked me on a date. To a dinner party on Nantucket tomorrow night.”
Chess was silent. What to say?
“I know he asked you first,” Tate said.
Chess wiggled her toes. “He asked me this morning. He was only doing it to be nice. To prove that he’s not mad anymore.”
“Why would he be mad at you?” Tate asked.