Chapter 2
Freddie walked out of his terminal at JFK Airport on Friday morning to find his driver there, waiting. The driver himself was different than the one who had been there last weekend, but the placard he held up was the same:
FREDERICK WENTWORTH
“Shit,” Freddie mumbled to himself. He’d forgotten to tell his assistant to cancel the car reservation, that he’d just get a yellow cab into the city, maybe order an Uber. Anything that didn’t make him feel like a visitor to his own town.
He gave the driver a tight smile and a nod, then followed him out the terminal’s sliding glass doors.
When they reached the curb and Freddie saw the gleaming Suburban waiting, he ran a frustrated hand through his hair.
He had cropped it a few years ago, but that didn’t mean the habit of pushing it out of his face was gone, especially when he was frustrated.
But the minute the driver opened the back door and Freddie slid into the car’s plush interior, a bit of his annoyance dissolved. After a cross-country red-eye flight, he was exhausted and needed to sink into the leather seat to relax—he had to admit that a yellow cab wouldn’t have cut it.
The car pulled away from the curb, sliding into traffic as they joined the expressway headed toward Manhattan.
It was elevated, cutting right across Queens, and Freddie studied the low buildings packed close together on a never-ending grid of streets below.
Growing up, he hadn’t been privy to this view—he only knew his old neighborhood through the lenses of subway stops and the passenger seat of his dad’s plumbing van.
Even then, it was side roads, back alleys.
His first time on the expressway had been when he left the city eight years ago with only a couple of duffel bags and a one-way ticket to Buenos Aires.
Now he was back, but this time in a chauffeured car and wearing a suit that cost more than his student loans.
Would that kid even recognize him now? Probably not, and the clothes wouldn’t be the only reason why. New York was his hometown, and he never would have guessed he would stay away for so long, even if it was due to building his own business.
Still, regardless of how successful he was, how his budget travel had been upgraded to first class, the monotony of living out of a suitcase had become too much. So had the corporate meetings, the investor lunches, the suits and small talk. He needed some downtime to figure out what came next.
He needed New York.
The thought almost made him laugh—the idea that New York would offer a respite from the breakneck speed of the past few years showed how insane his life had become.
His phone pinged in his jacket pocket. He pulled it out and saw a text from his Realtor waiting.
BIRDIE CARRINGTON
Two bedroom in the East Village with views of the river! What’s not to love? Still on for noon today? This really is the one.
Freddie smiled to himself. Birdie had said that about the last thirty apartments they had viewed.
After he sold his company and decided to move back to the city, his friend Will had introduced him to his aunt, Birdie Carrington, the owner of Carrington Realty.
She had taken Freddie under her wing to ensure, as she put it, “he returned home to a true home.” Meanwhile, he just wanted to find a place so his mom would stop guilt-tripping him to stay at their house in Queens.
FREDDIE
I’ll be there. I think Sophie will be too.
Three dots appeared on-screen, then vanished, only to pop back up again. Freddie could practically see his Realtor cringing at the mention of his sister.
BIRDIE CARRINGTON
Great.
A moment later, she sent a link to the address. He clicked it and his smile abruptly faded. The building was on Avenue A across from Tompkins Square Park. He hadn’t been down in that neighborhood for years.
Not that you were ever invited there to begin with, he reminded himself. He quickly closed out of his messages.
He had spent the past eight years avoiding all thoughts of Anne Elliot; he wasn’t about to start down memory lane now that he was back. For the first time in years, he felt free, and he refused to let the past change that.
His phone pinged with another text.
He looked down, ready to see another message from Birdie, but saw one from his mother instead.
MOM
Your sister just called to tell me you two are looking at an apartment together today?
Then another ping.
MOM
YOU TOLD ME YOU WERE COMING IN TOMORROW
And another.
MOM
FREDERICK WENTWORTH, IF YOU EVEN THINK ABOUT STAYING IN A HOTEL TONIGHT I WILL PERSONALLY WRING YOUR NECK
Okay. Maybe not completely free, he thought, and let his head fall back onto the headrest.
Freddie saw his sister standing in the center of the apartment building’s lobby before he even entered. She was hard to miss—despite being just five feet tall, her bright, hot-pink bob made sure she stood out in any room. Or, in this case, from just outside one.
He stepped across the threshold, ready to give her a hard time about siccing their mother on him, but before he could open his mouth, the familiar voice of his Realtor rang through the air.
“Isn’t it just gorgeous?” Birdie Carrington crooned, appearing around the far corner, her white hair perfectly curled at her shoulders and a Birkin thrown over one arm.
She waltzed across the checkerboard floor toward Freddie, then leaned forward as if she would hug him—but a hug never came, only a brief kiss on either cheek. Behind her, Sophie rolled her eyes.
“And the neighborhood!” Birdie continued as her hand went to her chest, causing her collection of gold bracelets to clatter. “I’m so glad you could make time to see this one. You’ll love it. Just love it.”
“More than you loved the penthouse on Fifty-Second, apparently. And that condo on Fifth,” Sophie added. “I arrived a few minutes early and heard all about it.”
Birdie’s lips pursed, as if she had forgotten that his sister was there. She probably wished she could. Sophie’s running monologue during these showings had become the bane of Birdie’s existence.
“Your brother has taste,” Birdie said with a huff. “Who can fault him for being picky?”
Sophie raised her hand. “Me. I can fault him.”
Birdie gave her a sharp smile, then turned on her heel and started toward the elevator.
Freddie shot Sophie a warning look before following.
The lobby was like so many in Manhattan—clean and modern and hollow.
Ivory tiles with a beige runner led down the long room to a tall mahogany desk at the back, while on the wall to his right were rows of mailboxes and an unassuming abstract painting.
None of it would have bothered Freddie except for the fact that remnants of what had been replaced were still evident if you looked hard enough.
There was still turn-of-the-century marble wainscotting on the walls, and the mailboxes—each with its own small brass door—looked original to the building.
Birdie ignored all of it as she made her way to the open elevator. Freddie held the elevator door for his sister, then stepped in himself.
“The entire building was redone a few years ago, including a fabulous roof deck with 360-degree views of the city,” Birdie said, sliding into the elevator and pressing eight.
The gears above them groaned as the car began its journey up.
“Most of the apartments have also been remodeled with luxury amenities.”
“Most?” Sophie asked.
“Well, it’s impossible to accommodate all the apartments.
You can’t just evict longtime residents, what with rent control and grandfathered leases.
This is New York,” Birdie replied, as if they should have known the intricacies of the city’s housing ordinances.
“But there’s only a few of those in the building.
For the most part, your neighbors would only be the best of the best. And yes, it’s a co-op, but the board is supposedly very motivated.
We should have no problems greasing the wheels. ”
The comment irked Freddie, but he kept his mouth shut.
“Eighth floor!” Birdie announced as the elevator doors opened.
He waited, allowing Birdie and Sophie to exit first, then followed them into a short hallway.
“Up those stairs is a door that leads to the roof deck. Apparently, everyone in the building has access, but for you it’s right outside your door.
” Birdie waved down to the other end of the hallway as she turned left and stopped at a massive door.
“And inside is a dream. Twelve-foot-high ceilings, parquet de Versailles floors, marble en suite bathrooms, and a French scagliola fireplace.”
Sophie let out a loud, melodramatic gasp. “Scagliola?”
Birdie didn’t pick up on the sarcasm, just nodded proudly as she unlocked the dead bolt and waltzed inside.
Sophie started forward, too, pausing just long enough to whisper to Freddie, “What the hell is scagliola?”
He chuckled to himself and waved her ahead.
Morning light streamed in from all directions as they stepped into the apartment.
The main living room was massive and sat in the corner of the building, so two walls featured tall windows that were open, letting in the breeze.
Birdie wasn’t lying—the parquet floors were beautiful, as was the crown molding and, from what he could see from across the room, the marble countertops in the kitchen that opened up on the other end of the apartment.
But all of it was overshadowed by everything inside.
Freddie had seen enough apartments now to know when personal adornments—photographs, awards, even kitchen magnets—had been removed in hopes of a quick sale, and this one was no exception.
But in this case it didn’t help matters, because now there was nothing to distract from the interior design: the matching red leather sofas that were in the shape of an S.
The blown-glass sculpture in the corner. A life-size porcelain tiger by the bar.