Chapter 3
The next month was a blur. Between temporarily shuttering Kellynch Productions—and breaking the news to its staff—getting the apartment ready for showings, and trying to figure out where she was supposed to go herself, Anne barely had time to come up for air.
When she finally did, it was October, and an offer to buy the apartment was on the table.
In just a few weeks, someone else would be living there.
She tried not to think about that nagging detail, which was easier thanks to her father.
He had insisted that the sale be done anonymously—as if having names attached would send a bulletin out across the city about his financial straits—so information about the potential buyer was sparse.
And that was okay. Better, actually. Anne didn’t want a name.
It was bad enough thinking about some stranger walking around her kitchen, her bedroom…
Yes, but you have a plan, she thought. And that was always the first step to solving any problem, right?
Sure, her current plan only had two steps—find a job and a place to live—but she could build off that.
Just as soon as she finished coordinating the move for her father.
And wrapped up all payroll at Kellynch. And—
No spiraling, she reminded herself.
Right. She couldn’t think about any of that, not until she got through this co-op board meeting and ensured they approved the sale of the apartment. That’s if they ever actually got to that item on the agenda.
“This is censorship!” Beverly Santenello bellowed.
A collective groan rose from the group assembled in the rows of metal folding chairs currently set up in Ellis Rowley’s living room on the fifth floor.
“Bev, we voted on this last month,” Ellis replied patiently from where he stood in front of them, even as his expression looked increasingly pained. The tie he had been wearing at the beginning of the meeting was loosened, and his new wire-rim glasses were already askew.
“To clarify, that vote was regarding Labor Day decorations,” Glen Rinnard of 2B interjected from the front row. His day job as a tax lawyer meant such clarifications were just about his only contribution to these meetings.
“Right,” Beverly agreed from where she stood in the second row. All eyes were on her and her short gray hair sticking out in all directions. “And I only put Dennis out for Halloween.”
Anne sat in the back row, biting back a smile.
Beverly had lived in the building since the late sixties, and had been propping up Dennis, her life-size Satan dummy with glowing eyes, in the window of her fourth-floor apartment every October for almost as long.
Apparently, it had never been an issue until the building was renovated a decade ago, attracting a new echelon of tenants, and now every autumn the same battle was waged in the Uppercross co-op meeting.
Ellis readjusted his glasses. “Regardless of the technicalities, there have been complaints—”
“What complaints?” Beverly snapped.
“Well, there’s been some concerns about it appearing demonic and lowbrow—”
“From who?”
“They were submitted anonymously,” Ellis said, shifting his weight.
“So, it was Wendy,” Beverly replied, shooting a death glare across the room.
“It’s distasteful!” A shrill voice rose up from that direction. Anne knew it was Wendy Graham, a fairly new tenant who had moved from the Upper West Side and spent her weekends in Connecticut. “And scary!”
Beverly scoffed. “You want to talk scary? I went on a date with Lou Reed in 1968. That was scary.”
A dozen different conversations suddenly broke out across the room.
The Uppercross only had sixteen units, so despite Ellis’s efforts as co-op board president to restrict the monthly board meetings to just the board members, everyone inevitably showed up, attracted by the need to air their grievances as well as partake in the charcuterie boards that Ellis’s husband, James, laid out in the kitchen.
Over the din of conversation, Ellis found Anne and looked at her pleadingly.
He may have been the board president for the past five years, but Anne came from co-op board royalty.
Her mother had run these meetings so efficiently during her tenure as president that no one could fill her shoes, though the rest of the building regularly looked to Anne to try.
Whether it was negotiating with plumbers or talking through tenant disputes, Anne was inevitably brought in to help.
“Why doesn’t Beverly just close her curtains at night, like last year?” she offered.
Ellis’s eyes lit up. “Right! That’s right. Thank you, Anne. Why don’t we agree to have you close your curtains at night, Bev?”
Beverly considered for a moment. “Fine.” Then she sat down.
“Great! Fantastic. Moving on.” Ellis cleared his throat as he looked down at the tablet in front of him. “Next item of business is the proposed sale of apartment 8A.”
There was an uncomfortable shift through the room as a few eyes darted Anne’s way. She was used to it—she could barely traverse the lobby these days without a look of pity from one of her neighbors.
“Now, under normal circumstances, we wouldn’t put a time limit on the vetting process for applications,” Ellis continued. “But I think we can agree to fast-track this one—”
“Objection,” Beverly blurted out as she stood up again.
Glen raised his hand. “She means point of order.”
“Point of order,” Beverly continued, her tone flat. “Does anyone else think it’s funny that our president here is trying to push through this sale while he’s also conveniently the listing agent?”
Conversation erupted again as tenants talked and debated with one another, all while Ellis stood in front of them looking defeated. Anne was tempted to go up and try to help but stopped herself. That wasn’t her role here anymore, was it?
The thought sent a jolt of anxiety through her bloodstream. She stood up and slid out of her row, then headed for the kitchen’s swinging door.
The usual array of food was laid out on the countertops: glasses and plates and about five vastly different charcuterie boards.
After James and Ellis were married a few years ago, James had thrown himself into his role as first husband of the Uppercross, and as such, made sure to have each board meeting include the finest catering platters that the gourmet grocery store around the corner had to offer.
But Anne ignored all of it and went straight to the selection of wine bottles lined up along the terra-cotta backsplash.
Anne had never been a big drinker. Those times Freddie had convinced her to go out with his friends in college, it was routine for her to order a drink, have a sip or two, and then stealthily slip it to him to finish before anyone noticed.
If she had more than that, she would spend more time worrying about the inevitable hangover than enjoying the evening itself.
Not now, though. Anne took a deep sip of her wine, ignoring how it burned down her throat as she straightened her shoulders and smoothed out the front of her fitted cardigan.
This is fine, she reminded herself. It’s all under control. You can handle this.
A moment later, the kitchen door swung open behind her and James walked in.
“It’s like watching a car crash in slow motion,” he said as he reached for a bottle of red. His array of rings clattered against it as he poured himself a glass. “I’m serious, Anne. I will pay you a million dollars not to move out and leave us with those people.”
“Do you have a million dollars, James?”
It was rhetorical. James was the first to admit that being the first husband of the Uppercross was wildly underpaid.
“No, but I will find it, because if you leave, Ellis will have to deal with these psychos on his own. That means I’ll never see him, and he’ll be stressed, and then we’ll get a divorce.”
Anne smiled. “You’re not getting divorced.”
“I know. That’s why I need a million dollars,” he whined. Then he paused, eyes wide.
“Oh! What about the basement? There’s an apartment down there, right? You could move in down there!”
Anne’s brow furrowed. “You mean the laundry room?”
“It has a window,” he added, as if that helped.
The door to the small kitchen swung open before Anne could reply, and Cricket entered, mouth slack and eyes crossed like she was about to drop dead of boredom.
The expression did nothing to spoil her features, though.
Her lips only looked more perfectly full, and the tilt of her head somehow made her long mane of curly brown hair frame her high cheekbones perfectly.
Cricket lived in 4B, the apartment across from Bev, and she also happened to be Ellis’s younger sister.
This fact was the source of the building’s last great political drama two years ago when the former tenant of 4B moved out and Cricket, who wanted to move to New York to be an actress, moved in.
Bev was the first to note that the apartment, which also happened to be one of the few remaining ones in the building with rent control, had never been officially listed.
By the time Cricket had moved in and Ellis hired her to work part-time at his real estate office while she auditioned for roles, half the building was ready to revolt.
But then something incredible happened: Cricket and Bev became friends.
Or, at least, Cricket thought they did. Once she learned that the woman across the hall had slapped a police officer at the Stonewall Riots and slept with Iggy Pop, Cricket was enamored.
Soon, all objections were dropped, and Bev hadn’t been able to shake Cricket since.
“Everything all right?” Anne asked, her voice low so it wouldn’t carry to the next room.
“It’s just so boring,” Cricket said. “All they’re talking about is, like, reserve funds? Credit scores? Who even cares.”
“You know you don’t have to come to these things, Cricks,” James said. “It’s a board meeting, not a resident meeting.”