Chapter 40
The breeze whips my hair around as I walk along the Hudson River to the pier. So much for styling it. The water is choppy, turbulent, like my stomach. Breathe, breathe. The wind whistles through my sweater. No coat today. A sweater and a miniskirt would have to do. I’d sweat too much in a coat when pleading my case. Abandoned wood pilings that used to support a pier stand alone, the waves slapping against them, slowly wearing them down.
My thigh-high boots click-clack on the walkway.
A tall figure is standing at the end of the pier, his back to me. He’s even earlier than I am. Maybe I should have mailed the annual report to him. No, I want this chance to talk in person.
He turns around as I approach.
The wind is ruffling his hair, but his eyes look warm. A guitar case leans against the fence. It can’t be his. He’s holding a bento box. If he had two, I’d feel more hopeful.
“I don’t want to break up,” I say. “I heard about what Peter said to you, but I don’t want to date Peter, I want to date you.”
He smiles. “I don’t want to break up either. I wanted to give you a clean slate to date Peter if you wanted to, but I regretted it immediately.”
We’re standing there, staring at each other. I want to hug him, but I’ve got the wrapped collage under one arm and my bag with my annual report.
“Good. You should regret it. But I want you to also know why we work, so you don’t doubt our relationship.” I put down the painting, leaning it against the iron, chain-link fence. The waves thwack against the pier, and the air smells salty. “I’ve prepared an annual report.”
“An annual report?” His eyebrow quirks upward.
“I wanted to explain it to you in your language.” I walk over to a nearby bench. He follows.
I pull it out of my bag. I read my annual report out loud, not daring to look at him:
The relationship of William Haruki Matsumura and Miranda Langbroek was a venture that operated successfully in the private investigation, music, art, and accounting fields. It was supported successfully in its private investigation endeavors by Officer Johnson, Tony Langbroek, and Takashi Matsumura. But most importantly, this relationship between William and Miranda brought out the best of both. It encapsulates the accounting principles of:
That’s not to say there aren’t Risk Factors—I am emotional, hot-tempered, easily jealous. You can be reserved, which makes me wonder what you are feeling. You don’t like to be controlled. But known risks are always easier to manage.
When I finish, he stares at me, his eyes soft and glistening.
“That’s brilliant,” he says.
Then I show him the chart illustrating dual-aspect accounting. “There are so many things you’ve done for me. You defended my painting when Edmund and Annabelle came over. You told me I would succeed as an artist, and you hugged me and calmed me down when I was about to explode about the forgery. I think you’ve given me far more than I’ve given you, but I will make that up.”
“No, you’ve given more to me. I feel like you let me be myself. I’d really lost confidence after my breakup with Juri.” He smooths my hair down. “You showed Kiyoko I’m not some boring accountant when you made me sing ‘Barbie Girl.’”
“She was already interested in you before that,” I say.
“My singing ‘Barbie Girl’ didn’t do it?” He grins at me knowingly and hands me the bento box. “I made this for you. I love you.”
“I love you,” I say.
I open it up. There are four compartments. A picture of my painting from the Tribeca gallery, cut out from the catalog, sits in the first one. I pick it up, and an I cut out from a newspaper is taped to the bottom. A tiny photo of Playing Around 1:30 is in the largest compartment. Underneath it, LOVE is taped to the bottom. Next to it is a photo of the Kimimoto, and beneath it, YOU. The final compartment has a miniature spray of cherry blossoms made by Penelope.
“I asked Penelope to make those,” he says.
“This is amazing.”
“I love your annual report.” He holds my stapled papers to his chest.
“Do you?” I remember my collage. “I made one other thing for you.” I unwrap the piece and hand it to him, watching for his reaction.
He traces the details of our relationship. He pulls the handkerchief out of the sweatshirt pocket. “Why is this all balled up? And damp?”
“I was angry at you for not fighting for our relationship.”
“I’m sorry. I won’t make that mistake again.” He looks deep into my eyes. “Is this collage for me to keep?”
“Yes.”
He leans over the collage and kisses me. I thread my hand through his hair as I lose myself in his kiss.
He puts the painting down on the bench next to him and pulls out a piece of paper from his pocket.
“I can’t paint, and I’m not familiar with the art world. But I thought I should tell you what I felt and saw when I looked at your paintings yesterday. They’re like a diary of your life, and I teared up just looking at Tears 4:40. I’m so sorry I put you through that.” His hands cradle my face, and our glances hold. His eyes are watery, and my eyes tear.
“It’s okay.”
“And Off-Limits had struck me before—before I knew it was called Off-Limits. I’m presuming that refers to us?”
I nod, too choked up to speak.
“And there was so much electricity and buoyancy and joy, and yet also uncertainty. I think it’s super powerful what you can evoke with colors and brushstrokes. Your talent takes my breath away. And I could see how much you feel for me. You didn’t need to do an accounting presentation. I could see it in your artwork, especially in W 2:30. And W 12:30.”
“And W with SP 8. Was it obvious when there were so many W paintings?”
He kisses me. “I love you.” He pulls me in close for a hug. “I missed you.”
I grip him tightly. I’d been worried that I would never feel his arms around me again.
He lightly traces my cheekbone with his finger. It smells of salty air. I can hear the waves lapping against the promenade.
“What’s the guitar case for?” I ask. “You don’t play guitar, do you?”
“Tessa told me you can’t resist men who sing and play guitar,” he says. “I can’t really sing, but I have taken some guitar lessons. I thought I’d better bring it as a backup.”
“Now you have to play it.”
He takes the guitar out and strums a love ballad. He is absolutely terrible. I nod encouragingly and smile, hoping he can’t see me gritting my teeth.
He winces as he plays, even as he concentrates on the chords and his fingers. That effort gets me. It makes me love him even more.
“Did it work?” he asks when he finishes, looking up hopefully.
“Definitely.” I kiss him.
We walk slowly back to my apartment, holding hands and stopping to kiss. It feels like we’re solid now.
As we approach my apartment, Edmund is standing outside. Officer Johnson warned us that he was already out on bail.
William stops short when he sees Edmund. I may need to move if I keep getting these unwelcome visitors. William puts his arm around me.
Edmund raises his hands up. “I come in peace,” he says. “I just wanted to explain. I was going to give you back your painting—before the exhibit. I was going to help you find it.”
“And save the day?” I ask.
“Yes, like I did in Brooklyn. So you would support my suit with Annabelle and so Annabelle would be impressed that I helped you.”
“That’s why you stole it?” I shake my head. “Then why copy it? Why tell The Squirrel I stole it? Don’t deny that you also wanted to hurt me and to see me crumble.”
“I don’t deny it,” Edmund says. “I did blame you for Annabelle rejecting me. And I wanted to see you hurt the way you hurt me. You’ve never liked me.”
“What were you going to do with the Kimimoto?” I ask.
“I was going to give that back too. Eventually.”
“After you sold some fake copies of it on the black market, right?”
“I was going to give it back eventually,” Edmund says again. “I just needed some money because of the bad harvest in Italy. Don’t press charges.”
“It’s not up to me, Edmund.” I focus on his face, willing him to understand. “You committed a crime. It’s the prosecutor who makes the decision to press charges.”
Edmund’s face crumples.
William steps between me and him.
“It’s not your decision.” Edmund nods and turns away. Then he turns back. “Do you think Annabelle will represent me?”
He pulls out his phone. William and I hurry into my building.
“Should you warn Annabelle?” William asks.
I text Annabelle. She replies that she’s on it. Then William picks me up and kisses me again.
“I really wanted to kiss you when I was carrying you around that day,” he says.
“Well, put me down for these stairs. Tessa is at work, so the apartment is ours. You’re going to need all your energy when we get upstairs.”