Chapter 7 An Unlikely Truce
An Unlikely Truce
Catherine
Catherine's phone had buzzed seventeen times that hour. Possibly more. She'd stopped counting somewhere after Simon's fourth voicemail.
The latest text preview glowed accusingly:
Simon
Shall I call your mother? Will that get through to you?
Catherine set the phone on the counter, suppressing an eye roll. The notion that her mother was someone to call when she needed support was, frankly, absurd.
Bernadette Matthews, Bernadette and never Bernie, a distinction she had enforced since approximately 1974, would make none of this better. She would make it significantly and irreversibly worse.
And yet here Simon still was. When Frank had called up from the lobby earlier that evening to say Mr. Wilkins was downstairs, Catherine had brushed him off with the same tone she reserved for people trying to sell extended warranties. It hadn't worked then either.
Her phone lit up again as she pulled on her coat.
Catherine glanced at the screen, then left it where it was and walked out.
No buzzing in her pocket. No Simon. Nothing to check or answer or explain.
It felt like driving a little too fast on an empty road at night and not slowing down. Freeing, and just dangerous enough.
The elevator descended in silence. Catherine watched the floor numbers decrease in their steady progression, aware of her own reflection in the polished doors.
Her hair was still pinned, her coat properly buttoned, nothing in her appearance suggesting flight or distress.
She looked, as she always did, composed.
The lobby was empty except for Frank, hunched over a sudoku puzzle at his desk. He glanced up as her heels clicked across the marble. "Evening, Miss Matthews."
"Good evening, Frank." She nodded, pulling her coat tighter.
His eyes flicked to the clock on the wall, which read 01:32, but he just gave a small smile and returned to his puzzle. No questions, no judgment. Catherine made a mental note to slip him an extra two hundred at Christmas.
The cold hit her as soon as she stepped outside. The mid-March wind cut down York Avenue, sharp enough to make her eyes water.
Catherine walked north with her hands in her pockets, her breath forming small clouds that dissipated before her next exhale.
The streets weren't empty; this was Manhattan after all, but they were quiet in the way late night allowed, with traffic reduced to occasional taxis and delivery trucks.
She walked three blocks before she even realized where she was headed.
Yorkie's stayed open twenty-four hours, its lights visible from the corner, like a beacon amongst the closed shutters and dark windows. Catherine had been there dozens of times since she’d moved into The Lenox, usually during the day to pick up milk or sticky notes, or occasionally late at night when insomnia made staying in her apartment feel unbearable.
A two-note electronic chime announced her entrance, the sound hanging briefly in the quiet store.
Dim fluorescent panels washed everything in that particular yellow-white that belonged exclusively to places open in the early hours.
It smelled of pine cleaner and coffee that had been sitting too long, and from the back wall came the low, persistent drone of the refrigeration units, steady enough that Catherine imagined it had become part of the bodega's fabric by now.
She wandered the aisles without much purpose, her gaze drifting over shelves of chips and cookies, canned goods lined up in tidy rows, boxes of pasta and rice.
She picked up a can of tomatoes, read the label, then set it back again.
There was something calming about the routine of it.
Just browsing, passing time, being somewhere without needing to decide anything.
It loosened something in her chest that had been tight since Simon’s first missed call.
She was standing in front of the beverage cooler, staring at rows of plastic bottles without really seeing them, when the door chimed again.
Catherine glanced toward the entrance, her body turning before her mind registered who had walked in.
Theodora stood just inside the doorway, dressed in dark jeans and her oversized hospital fleece, her copper hair pulled back in a braid that was coming loose. She looked tired, more than tired, actually. Exhausted.
They saw each other at the same moment, surprise flickering across both their faces.
“Relax,” Theodora said, one corner of her mouth lifting as she walked over. “I’m not here to gloat about my Keyed In win this morning. I was planning on doing that later with a sticky note, but I’m down to my last few, and I’m saving those for something special—like when you finally get evicted.”
Catherine exhaled through her nose. Slowly.
“I have some spares. I could loan you a few. But in exchange, I want no gloating, no complaining, no critiquing my playing with your newfound piano expertise, and no more replacing my doormat. ‘Don’t stop be leaving’ is bad enough.
Luis actually knocked and asked me where I got it from. ”
Theodora snorted. “How generous. But I laughed way too hard when Frank told me he thought he was a big Journey fan until he saw your mat. Now he thinks you’re an obsessive groupie, which has made my year, so I’ll have to decline.”
Catherine rolled her eyes, then looked at her more closely, taking in details she couldn’t pick up through walls or text messages, and the humor faded from her expression.
"Have you eaten yet?" Catherine asked.
Theodora's mouth opened, then closed. She hesitated, which was answer enough.
"When did your shift end?"
"Twelve-thirty, but I hung around for a bit talking to Harry, one of my patients.”
Catherine's lips pressed together briefly. She moved past Theodora toward the hot food counter at the back, her decision made before she'd fully considered it. "There's a table by the window," she said without looking back. "Go get us a seat."
"I can order my own—"
"I know you can." Catherine reached the counter where a tired-looking man in his fifties stood, wiping down surfaces that didn't need wiping. "But I haven't eaten, and you look like you're about to fall over. So go sit."
Theodora didn't argue. Catherine heard her footsteps moving toward the front of the store and the slight squeak of the plastic chair as she sat.
Catherine ordered a chopped cheese, a cheesesteak, and two drinks. The man behind the counter nodded and turned to the grill, which hissed as the meat hit the heat.
He slid her change across the counter. “Give me a couple minutes.”
Catherine thanked him and dropped the bills into the tip jar.
She grabbed two bottles of Sunkist from the fridge, the glass cool in her hands, the orange soda almost too bright under the lights. Carrying them over, she set one down in front of Theodora and slid into the seat across from her.
Theodora glanced at the drink, then back at Catherine, a smile tugging at her mouth. “I would’ve bet good money on filtered sparkling water.”
"What can I say?” Catherine asked as she slid a stack of napkins across the counter, “I contain multitudes."
"Clearly." Theodora twisted the cap off her bottle, the carbonation releasing with a low hiss. She took a sip, then set the bottle down. "So, do you often find yourself in Yorkies at close to two in the morning, or is this a one-off?"
"Occasionally. When I need a distraction, and my piano has been placed off limits."
"Who would do such a thing?” Theodora smirked.
"Someone," Catherine said, "with very poor boundaries and an extremely high opinion of her own authority."
"That sounds like slander."
"It sounds like accuracy."
"Those aren't mutually exclusive."
Catherine looked at her for a moment. "No," she said, and something in her voice had shifted just slightly. "I suppose they're not."
"Order up," the man called from the back.
Catherine rose and collected their food, carrying both wrapped sandwiches back to the counter. The paper was warm in her hands, grease seeping through the wrapping. She set a random one in front of Theodora, then unwrapped the other.
Theodora stared at the chopped cheese for a moment before picking it up. "Thank you, Catherine."
"It's just a sandwich."
"Still."
They ate without speaking, the food disappearing in bites that suggested neither of them had eaten properly in hours.
Catherine's cheesesteak was exactly what she'd expected: greasy, oversized, the bread soaked through with meat juice and melted cheese.
For most of her adult life, there had always been someone with an opinion about what she ate.
Her mother first, then management, different people with the same voice.
The careful portioning, the things that disappeared from her plate without discussion.
But this was neither careful nor portioned.
It tasted like late nights and bad decisions and the comfort of food that made no pretense toward high-end cuisine. She found she quite liked it.
When Theodora finished half her sandwich, she set it down and took another sip of Sunkist. She glanced at Catherine, then away, then back again, as if gathering herself to speak.
She lifted the Sunkist bottle, studying it with exaggerated suspicion.
"Seriously, though. I had you pegged as a Perrier woman.
Maybe San Pellegrino if you were feeling rebellious.
" She took another sip, her expression thoughtful.
"But this? This is an unexpected choice. "
Catherine considered that. “It’s not a choice. It’s a tradition.”
"A tradition?”
"Mhm. My mother allowed me one bottle before recitals. Sugar and carbonation to settle the nerves, she’d say." Catherine's fingers traced the edge of her own bottle, the glass slick with condensation.
Theodora's teasing expression softened into something more attentive. “Are you close with your mom?”