Heaven Off East 82nd

Chapter 1

“ W ait for me!” I shriek at the M86 bus that’s stopped up ahead as its doors close behind the newly onboarded passengers.

I fling myself around the subway exit and start sprinting down Broadway, despite the flashing red hand that warns me not to, desperate to make it to my new clients on time.

A handful of people waiting to cross the intersection take this as a pass to follow my lead and do a quick check both ways before jaywalking right along with me—except that they’re walking across like normal human beings, while I’m flailing at the speed of light.

“Stop! Please!” I plead, earning me a couple side eyes from the people I just screamed past, but it’s no use. The bus turns on its left-hand signal and merges back into traffic right before I reach it, leaving me panting and sweating in its wake.

Perfect. Just perfect.

I pull out my phone and weigh my available options. The next bus isn’t coming for another fifteen minutes, and I’m not sure I can wait that long given that the ride itself is an additional twenty. I glance down West 86th and huff, the bright July sun relentlessly blazing down on my forehead as I come to a depressing conclusion: I’m going to have to walk.

I definitely don’t have the money to waste on cab fare, and if I cut through Central Park, I could make it there in just under half an hour. I hike my backpack up on my shoulders like a kid on their first day of school, suddenly grateful that I opted to pack light as I start speedwalking.

Sure, I now only have about three outfits to get me through an entire two weeks, but I figure I’ll probably spend the majority of the time in pajamas anyways. Worst case, I can make a quick trip back to my apartment if ever I need more.

It’s not long before I spot lush greenery coming into view up ahead, watching tourists in shoulder bags and sensible sneakers wander excitedly into the park ahead of me.

“I don’t wanna see some dumb old park, I wanna see the Statue of Literby !” a kid cries at the entrance, tugging on his mom’s hand.

I feel you, kid.

The sound of traffic grows faint behind me as I make my way inside, and I can’t help but feel like this walk could be almost enjoyable—if I wasn’t marching at twice the speed of everyone around me and already starting to sweat through my shirt. The tall trees looming overhead aren’t doing much to shield me from the sticky summer heat, and I worry I’m creating irreparable pit stains. This is so not the first impression I wanted to make on my new clients.

Even though I’ve dog-sat about a hundred times before, I’ve never done it for anyone of such high social standing. To say that Tobias and Gigi Kaplan are rich is an understatement. They’re the cream of the crop of the Upper East Side, the most admired and envied power couple of our generation. Tobias, the newly appointed CEO of Kaplan Wealth Management, was recently featured in Fortune’s 40 Under 40 list, and his wife Gigi is the darling of the New York elite and a prominent socialite.

I’m absolutely terrified to meet them.

I’ve already spoken with Gigi a handful of times before today, but all of our conversations took place over FaceTime after a previous client recommended me to her. She apparently needed someone to look after their pup while they vacationed in the south of France for a couple of weeks, and I was more than happy to take the job. Two whole weeks in a fancy penthouse with no one except a cute little dog to answer to? Sign me up.

Hustling out from under the last tunnel before the road splits into two, I start to come up on the other end of the park. I can see the clearing coming into view up ahead and frantically check my phone, praying I’m making good time.

I’ve got exactly eight minutes left.

I pick up speed when I exit the park, veering left at the intersection and dashing down Fifth. I must look like I’m being chased as I break into a sort of crazed walk-jog in front of the MET, not daring to make eye contact with the mass of people sitting on the steps, à la Gossip Girl .

Three minutes to go and I’m turning down East 82nd, trying to read the building numbers between strides. It’s much quieter here, and I can finally hear my scrambling thoughts again. I spot the one I’m looking for and breathe a sigh of relief when suddenly, a man walking a few feet in front of me stops dead in his tracks. I, of course, don’t notice in time and immediately crash into the back of him, sending me tumbling backward.

“Hey, watch it! Don’t you know you’re not supposed to stop in the middle of the sidewalk?” I snap at him, rubbing the spot where my forehead just collided with his shoulder blade.

Must be a tourist.

Admittedly, I’m being a little hard on the guy since I’m no born-and-raised New Yorker myself. But being a slow walker—or worse, a sudden-stopper —is a cardinal sin around here, and my growing heat exhaustion has me feeling impatient.

“Sorry,” he mutters half-heartedly while barely glancing over me, before turning back in the complete opposite direction we came from.

“Oh yeah, I can tell you’re real torn up about it,” I say under my breath as he disappears around the corner.

I huff and wave it off, heading for the front door of the Kaplans’ building. A snazzy doorman in a green suit tips his hat to me and opens the doors to let me in, my jaw instantly plummeting to the floor.

This place is unreal .

The lobby is all marble floors and gold accents, the walls adorned with large abstract paintings that undoubtedly cost more than a year’s worth of my salary. There’s a ginormous chandelier hanging in the middle of it all, and I have to actively remind myself not to gape as I walk up to the front desk and clear my throat, putting on my most professional smile.

“Hi, I’m here to see Mr. and Mrs. Kaplan?”

The sleek-looking receptionist looks up from her computer and eyes me, mild disgust painting her face at how comically sweaty I am. “And you are..?”

I internally facepalm, realizing I should have started with a name. I’m definitely not coming off as a crazy stalker.

“Gemma DeLuca, they should be expecting me.”

“One moment,” she replies, holding up a perfectly manicured finger while she dials a number on the phone in front of her.

She has a hushed conversation that I pretend I can’t hear while I drum my fingers on the desk, avoiding strange looks from other guests as they walk by.

“ Of course, I’ll send her right up, ” she says before hanging up the phone and waving over an older-looking gentleman in the same green suit as the doorman. “Robert, could you please take Miss DeLuca up to the penthouse?”

“Certainly,” he smiles, the edges of his curled mustache tipping up. “If you’ll follow me, Ma’am.”

I’m reeling from being called Ma’am at the ripe old age of twenty-six when he leads me past the bank of elevators and around the corner to a hallway with a separate, singular elevator. Once inside, he turns a key on the control panel while I check myself in the mirrored back wall, and I have to do a double take at the gremlin staring back at me.

Despite the lack of a bump on my forehead from the run-in outside, I still look atrocious. My dark baby hairs have started to curl against my sweaty forehead, my clothes are all but glued to my sides, and my mascara has migrated about an inch south of where I applied it this morning.

Time to do some damage control.

I straighten out my floral blouse and black shorts, fussing with my hair as the elevator pings past floor after floor. The frizz that has gathered at the top of my head is not listening to reason, refusing to settle no matter how many times I press it down. I’m actively trying not to think about how frantic I must look to Robert when I swipe my fingers under my eyes to wipe away the black smudges, finally giving up right as we reach the last floor. I don’t look great, but definitely presentable. It’ll just have to do.

The doors ding as they open and Robert gestures for me to step off first. We exit right into the foyer of the penthouse, a cozy little alcove with rounded walls and mosaic flooring, but that’s where the coziness stops. In front of us is a long hallway lined with crystal sconces and crown molding, leading to a gorgeous glass staircase that winds up to another floor out of sight.

“Mrs. Kaplan, I have Miss DeLuca here for you,” Robert announces once he presses a button on the intercom system—yes, they have an intercom system —while I take a couple of meager steps forward.

My heart is racing and my palms are sweating, like I’m about to meet some kind of royalty. It’s not too far off; the Kaplans are basically the Will and Kate of Manhattan. A figure starts to drift down the stairs ahead, and I cross my fingers that I’m not late on my very first day.

“Gemma, wonderful to meet you!” the figure calls out with a bright, friendly voice. “I’m Gigi, you’re right on time.”

Oh, thank God.

***

“I’ve taken the liberty of drafting up my own contract,” Gigi says, lifting a stack of papers from the coffee table in front of us. “I based it off the one you sent over last week, with a few of my own stipulations added in. ”

She hands it to me and I start flipping through the pages, trying my best to focus instead of being starstruck. But I can’t help it, Gigi Kaplan is just so… flawless .

From her champagne-blonde hair to her poreless skin and whiter-than-white teeth, she is the picture of elegance and style. Her glossy Louboutin pumps match the beige belted midi dress she’s wearing, and I have to force myself to read the words in front of me instead of fangirling over her.

It’s pretty much the same contract as mine, just with some extra confidentiality clauses peppered in: no posting pictures of their home, no having friends over, no giving out their address. There’s also a section stating I’m free to use any room in the house, with the exception of their bedroom, and that I don’t get a key to the elevator. Someone from the lobby will escort me upstairs whenever I need, day or night, but I can’t blame them. I wouldn’t trust a complete stranger with a key to my place, and there’s not even anything worth stealing in that dump.

I sign the contract before handing it back so she can do the same, taking the opportunity to gawk at the room around me once more. Even after getting a tour of the main floor, I still can’t believe how incredible this place is. The living room is an open-concept seating area with high ceilings and three huge arched windows that cover the entire back wall, overlooking their breathtaking view of the city.

The sofa, lounge chairs, and curtains are all impeccably white (a bold choice for dog owners) and the coffee table, dining table, and light fixtures are all big, modern statement pieces. A sleek built-in fireplace adorns the wall across from the windows, which open out onto what I can only assume is an enormous balcony .

No heirloom antiques, classic pieces, or old money aesthetic in sight. This place is all about new money, just like Gigi herself.

The apartment I rent with Veda and Cassie in Morningside Heights is a hole compared to this place. Our neighborhood is one of the more affordable ones in Manhattan since it has Columbia University at its center, meaning the area is mostly populated by students or young professionals. Even so, I need a second stream of income to afford my share of the rent, since working from home as a copyeditor pays about as much as you might think: diddly squat. Luckily, there’s no shortage of dogs needing watching in New York (and owners who pay generously).

I hear the pitter-patter of teeny paws running down the stairs behind us as Gigi sets down the double-signed contract, and turn to find an adorable little lapdog bouncing over to us.

“And who do we have here?” I gush, watching her come our way with ample curiosity.

“There’s my girl!” Gigi beams as the pup yaps in my direction. “Princess, no barking.”

Princess . Of course that’s her name. To be fair, she is a Cavalier King Charles Spaniel, so the name kind of fits. She’s a tiny little thing, can’t be more than fifteen pounds, with a wavy white coat spotted with chestnut red-colored patches.

I lean forward and hold out my hand to let her sniff me, her nose tickling my fingers while she inspects them. She soon signals her approval with fervent wet licks, and I bend over to give her some much-appreciated scratches while I coo at her.

“Look at that, she likes you already!” Gigi exclaims, Princess’ tail wagging around excitedly. “She’s very particular, you know. She doesn’t warm to just anyone. ”

“I’m honored.”

I am that, but not all too surprised. I’ve always had a way with dogs, ever since I was little. People, on the other hand, not so much.

“On that note, I’d like you to take a look at her schedule,” Gigi says, picking up a laminated sheet from beneath the contract. “She’s become accustomed to her routine, so we’ll expect you to stick to it as closely as possible.”

I nod diligently, looking it over with one hand while the other continues to give Princess belly rubs.

PRINCESS’ DAILY SCHEDULE 07:00 a.m. — Daily walk. Check her for ticks afterward! You may take her either on one forty-minute walk, or two twenty-minute walks throughout the day. She knows to do her business outside. There’s also a piddle pad in the upstairs bathroom should she need it during the night (sometimes she has nightmares and wets the bed). 08:00 a.m. — Breakfast. Fill up her water bowl and put 3/4 cup of dry food in the other bowl. She’s a small dog so she may not eat it all (it also depends on her mood—a happy Princess is a Princess with a big appetite). 12:00 p.m. — Fill her water bowl again, if necessary, and take her on the optional second walk (unless forty-minute walk was already done). 05:00 p.m. — Dinner. Put another 3/4 cup of dry food in her bowl, and fill water again. 08:00 p.m. — Daily grooming. In the downstairs bathroom, you will find a basket containing a finger brush and enzymatic toothpaste for her teeth, as well as a slicker brush for her coat. It’s imperative that you brush her every night, or she will start to mat.

“I’ll follow this to the letter.”

“Wonderful,” she smiles, standing up and smoothing the front of her dress. “Come, I’ll show you to your room.”

She starts making her way back toward the staircase, Princess following closely behind, and I have to leg it to catch up. Gigi is a woman who wastes no time.

“We’ve just had the sheets washed and pressed, and put fresh towels in the en suite,” she announces once we’re walking down a sun-soaked hallway on the second floor, before stopping at the first door on the left. “So you should be all set. Will this suffice?”

I have to stifle a laugh at the idea of me complaining about my sleeping arrangements; anything is bound to be better than my squeaky mattress back at home, which I’m pretty sure has been deemed unsafe for human use. The room before me is complete with a king-sized bed, a flat-screen TV anchored to the wall across from it, a giant window on the back wall, and an en suite bathroom to the left.

“Umm, yes . This will be perfect.”

I seriously have to resist the urge to throw myself onto the bed and take a catnap right here. Princess trots into the room after me, sniffing around the backpack I set on the floor before losing interest.

“ Honey, have you seen my swim shorts? ” A man’s voice calls out from the hallway.

“I already packed them for you, like I told you last night,” Gigi replies over her shoulder, rolling her eyes. “Come meet Gemma!”

“Who?”

“Gemma, the dog-sitter I hired?” she repeats, annoyance straining her voice.

“Oh, yes. That’s right,” he says, appearing in the doorway with a welcoming smile. I’m ninety-nine percent sure this man has absolutely no idea who I am. “Tobias Kaplan, pleasure to meet you.”

I shake his extended hand, impressed by the firmness of it, and introduce myself. He’s handsome-looking, in the way that powerful businessmen usually are. He’s well-groomed with a close-cropped beard, perfectly coiffed hair, and smart casual attire. I know from his Wikipedia page that he’s in his mid-thirties, same as Gigi, but the pair of them don’t look a day over twenty-five.

I bet Gigi never gets Ma’am -ed.

“Are we almost ready to go?” Tobias asks his wife.

“Nearly, just give me twenty minutes,” she says, turning to me. “We’ll let you get settled?”

I nod as she heads for the door, the click-clack of her heels echoing down the hall and fading into silence. And with that, I’m left to admire the room I’ll be calling home for the next two weeks. Princess, who I’ve only just noticed is still here, saunters past me and over to the window, where she plops down to warm herself in the sun that floods in.

“You live like this?” I ask, joining her on the window seat.

She cuddles up on my lap while I pet down her back, the two of us looking out toward the skyline. The city looks unreal from up here, like I could see the whole island stretch out beyond the horizon. It’s quiet, peaceful. Like my own little slice of heaven.

“Well Princess, I guess it’s just you and me.”