She thought of her ladies’ committee, how the historian had spoken with such reverence about the architecture. “Do you have to rip it apart?”
“Time marches on. There’s no money to fix it up, so the alternative is to let it collapse in a heap.”
“I guess we don’t want that. How soon do you think they’ll start building the skyscraper?”
“Whenever the court case wraps up. Hopefully, next year.”
“Terrific. I’ll make sure my steno is up to snuff by then.”
A cloud of confusion crossed his face.
“For my new job, remember?”
He laughed, and she breathed a sigh of relief. “Of course. We can’t have you stuck in that information booth forever. You can count on me to get this building up and running. It’s in the bag.”
“How’s that?”
“I’m working with the numbers guy, and it’s all about the numbers.” He leaned in, as if the waiter was in danger of eavesdropping. “We’ve put together the financials to show the terminal’s upkeep is a huge burden on Penn Central, one that’s draining all our resources. These liberals say it should be a landmark, but it’s not like we get any economic benefits from the landmark designation. It’s killing us. Once we win, we’ll use the building as a base for something better. Just like the Romans used to layer villages one right on top of another.”
The reference to ancient Rome made her less worried about the idea of the terminal being totally subsumed. “Progress, then?”
“Progress. Just goes to show that you can be a corporate stiff and be creative at the same time.”
“What do you mean?”
“Let’s just say we’ve had to massage the numbers some, to increase the likelihood the court decides in our favor.”
“Is that legal?”
He laughed. “We’re lawyers; of course it’s legal.”
She poured a good helping of ketchup on the edge of her shepherd’s pie as Dennis changed the subject to his favorite television shows. They both liked M*A*S*H, and she made him laugh with her impression of the uptight nurse Margaret Houlihan. She told him he reminded her of Trapper John.
“You’re easy to talk to.” He took the bill from the waiter and reached for his wallet. “Even if you can’t surprise me with anything when it comes to Grand Central. You’re talking to the expert, here.”
She racked her brain for something he might not know. “Did you know about the ghost?”
“What ghost?”
“There’s a ghost that haunts the old art school, up in the east wing of the seventh floor.”
“What art school? That’s all storage space.”
She’d got him. “The map of the terminal calls it a storage space, but in fact, it’s a school of art, frozen in time. I was in there yesterday—I took a wrong turn on the way to the bathroom—and it’s amazing inside. Later, the guys in the info booth told me that it’s haunted.”
“Is that so?”
She couldn’t hide her delight at his surprise. “So there. I’ve topped you. I know something you don’t.”
“You could be fooling me.” He reached across the table and took her hand, rubbing his thumb so lightly over her skin she shivered. “Prove it.”
“You want me to show it to you? It means returning to the scene of the crime.”
“You up for that? I’ll take care of you. I promise.” Was that a double meaning behind his words? “Come on. Now you’ve got me intrigued. Let’s go explore.”
Virginia had second thoughts as Dennis led her across the concourse. He squeezed her hand and pulled her slightly closer to him, as if he sensed her reluctance. Anyone in their right mind would be reluctant, entering Grand Central after hours like this, when the mob of commuters had thinned out. The waiting room, never safe on a good day, was filled with homeless people lying on benches, some even stretched out on the sticky floors. A fight broke out between two of them, something about stolen shoes, and she was glad when they made it safely into the alcove of elevator banks. Dennis pressed the button to the seventh floor before pulling her close and landing a soft kiss on her lips.
She’d been unprepared and couldn’t relax enough to enjoy it. When the elevator doors opened, she pulled back with a giggle of relief.
They walked down the hallway, made a right, and she counted to the fourth door before fishing in her pocketbook for the bathroom key, which she’d never returned.
Inside, she clicked on the hallway light switch and watched him explore. In the darkened studios, the light from the skyscrapers surrounding the terminal poured in through a line of skylights, giving off an eerie glow.
“Did you see a ghost when you were here?” Dennis asked.
“No. But it’s easy to imagine a ghost of an artist wandering through, right?”
“Wearing a beret and a smock, no doubt.”
“I think it’s wonderful, that it’s unchanged.” There was something romantic about this place, forgotten yet preserved, that pleased her. She touched a set of brushes on a workbench. “It seems so odd that people would come up here, in a train station, to paint.”
“You know anything about art?”
“I was an art history major in college. But my focus was on art from the Middle Ages. Frescoes and mosaics and that sort of thing.”
“I knew you were a smart one.” Dennis had shifted so he was standing behind her, his hands on her waist. She leaned back slightly and pressed her back into him, and he responded by wrapping his arms about her stomach. She hadn’t experienced a man’s touch for so long, and she’d missed it. They stood together for a while, his chin resting on her head, and as long as she could cover his arms with her own, keep them from sliding up, she was fine. But the thought of him trying to touch her chest made her want to run screaming out of the room.
She couldn’t reveal the scar to him. It was too long a story to tell. The concerned way her doctor looked at her as he prodded her breast. The visit to the oncologist, to the surgeon. Trying to remember what they were saying and then putting a positive spin on it over dinner with Chester and Ruby. The lovely sensation of going under on the operating table, like she’d just drunk seven martinis, followed by the pain and confusion of waking up.
The recovery, putting on a brave face with Ruby when she came home from school that first week at home, pretending that she wasn’t in terrible pain, and refusing to take the pills the doctor had prescribed because she didn’t want to lose control.
For once, here in this strange room with practically a stranger, she wanted to lose control. Everyone else did these days. Why couldn’t she indulge like most of America was doing, from the suburban key parties to the sex clubs downtown?
Because she was deformed. No one would want to touch her.
“You’re beautiful,” he murmured as he slid his hands upward.
If she had to distract him with another body part, so be it. Virginia leaned down and pulled up her skirt, turning her head to look at him with what she hoped was an enticing smile.
Dennis stepped back, caught off guard. Her actions made her look like a brazen hussy, as her mother would’ve said, but at least they kept his hands off her chest. A hunger in his eyes soon replaced his surprise, and he ran his hands along her bare thighs, slowly.
Now, this wasn’t so bad, after all. She’d forgotten the kind of electricity that passed between two people when they were on the precipice of something new.
Just to her right stood a large storage cabinet. She slid sideways and hinged slightly at the waist, placing her hands on the shelf in front of her. While Dennis fumbled behind her, she caught sight of a tattered copy of Virginia Woolf’s To the Lighthouse on the shelf at eye level. Virginia had read it in college, and for the first time all semester raised her hand during class. She couldn’t remember what she’d said, but low snickers had traveled around the room when she mispronounced the ch in nonchalance as a hard k sound. She’d never heard the word spoken out loud, only read it in books. The embarrassment had derailed her confidence the rest of the year, until she’d met Chester.