Chapter 11
CHAPTER ELEVEN
“Oh, it’s snowing,” Frannie whispers, turning to look out Henry’s living room window, the snow illuminated by the glow from the streetlights far below.
“Early for snow,” Elsa says softly.
“It’s so pretty at night,” Frannie says. She’s loath to move, but it’s the first snow. She can’t not. She slides her laptop onto the coffee table, careful to shut it lest little eyes try to sneak a peek, then pads across the room.
Out the window, Central Park is silent and peaceful in the falling snow.
She’s suddenly dreading her commute home less than usual.
Not that she’s ever eager to leave work now.
Not when there’s movies to watch, and books to read, and soft conversation to have while the kids play video games and watch movie musicals of questionable quality.
Frannie’s pretty sure Gretchen might punch Henry if they ever meet, for “keeping Frannie so late when he’s not even there!”
The thought makes Frannie frown. Henry comes back in just over a week.
She’s not ready to give this up, not at all.
She hasn’t figured out how she’ll deal with going back to normal, and it’s left a pit in her stomach that she’s trying valiantly to ignore.
It’ll hardly be so comfortable, staying late to hang out in the office.
“Come with me.”
Frannie startles, looking up to find Elsa standing next to her, palm outstretched.
She takes Elsa’s hand without thought, unable to withhold her smile as tingles shoot up her arm. Warmth suffuses her body down to her toes. Their hands fit together perfectly.
Elsa smiles back and they head into the dining room. “We’ll be back,” she calls to the kids.
Michael and Bridgette don’t even look over at them and Elsa huffs, reaching out to grab Frannie’s jacket off the back of one of the dining room chairs.
“We’re leaving the building?” Frannie asks.
Something lifts off in her chest. Has Elsa figured out a way to get out of the Dakota’s electrical circuit? Can they wander the park together? Could Frannie take them with her someday?
Elsa shakes her head, Frannie’s jacket over her elbow, and guides Frannie out of Henry’s apartment. Elsa leads her down the hall and up the grand staircase. They approach the service door Frannie went through with Bridgette, and her heart sinks.
She knows it’s not possible, but that spark of hope felt so bright, just for a moment.
On the roof, the snow is falling softly, lit by the orange glow of the streetlights and the golden shine from the windows across the street.
Elsa lets go of Frannie’s hand to help her shrug into her black, three-quarter-length wool coat.
Elsa’s hands smooth the jacket down over Frannie’s shoulders and she shivers.
“Button up,” Elsa chides.
Frannie can let her think that’s why she’s shivering, sure. She fumbles to do up her buttons, eyes tracking the snow. It’s something else to see it from this high up. Something else to see it with Elsa’s hand slipping back into hers.
Elsa tugs Frannie along behind her, the two of them climbing carefully over the low brick barriers separating this portion of the roof from the next, until they reach the flat rooftop patio that overlooks Central Park.
Elsa guides her up to the railing, and they stand there in the falling snow together.
She knows, logically, Elsa’s holding her hand to keep her invisible to anyone else.
Doesn’t stop Frannie’s pulse from jumping.
It’s a little pathetic how excited such an innocent thing makes her, but God, Elsa is beautiful there in the dim light.
She almost looks entirely solid up here, blond hair bright against the dark, eyes sparkling.
Frannie has so many questions brimming on her tongue. So much she wants to know about Elsa’s life now, about ghosts, about the building, about the future. But looking at her here in the soft orange light …
“What was it like, living here in the sixties?” she asks instead.
Elsa’s hand tightens around hers. She looks out at the park, her free hand resting on the pointed edge of the wrought-iron railing. Frannie worries for a moment that the question was too forward, too personal.
“Glamorous,” Elsa says after a minute. “It wasn’t my apartment. Joan’s father left it to her.”
“Which one?” Frannie asks.
“52. Looked out on Seventy-Third Street, which wasn’t this view, of course, but it was still here. The first time she brought me home, I just about died.”
Frannie can’t help the strangled laugh that pops out. Elsa’s lips quirk up, her fingers squeezing Frannie’s.
“The hallways don’t look that different. Brighter, with the fluorescents, but the building is pretty much the same. It’s the people who are different now,” Elsa says.
“In a good way?” Frannie wonders.
Elsa nods slowly. “Mostly. The few who are still here from then are … relics.”
Relics Elsa still likes to haunt.
“People aren’t as friendly now,” Elsa adds. Frannie squeezes her hand. Elsa glances over, smiling softly. “Well, most people, anyway.”
“Were you and Joan friends with a lot of the tenants?” Frannie asks, partly afraid to ask if Elsa’s still friends with any of them now. She wants to think she’s special, but they hardly spend every hour of the day together.
“Joan grew up here, so they were all … protective. And interested,” Elsa says, turning back to the park. “They were happy for her to have a roommate, at the beginning. Happy for her not to be alone after her father died.”
The wistful quality to ‘at the beginning’ tugs on Frannie’s heart. “How long were you two … together, before you moved in?” Frannie asks, hoping it’s not too much.
“Two months,” Elsa says.
“U-Hauling, then,” Frannie lets slip without thought.
“What?” Elsa asks, turning to look at her, confused.
Oh, it’s so much worse to have to— “Um, it’s a—a lesbian stereotype,” she says sheepishly.
“About a moving company?”
“That lesbians, well, all sapphics really, tend to meet and move in together really, really, fast. First-date fast. And since U-Haul is the most famous moving company …”
Elsa throws her head back and cackles, eyes scrunched. Her hand jiggles Frannie’s and Frannie can’t help but laugh along with her. She could listen to her laugh forever.
“That’s excellent,” Elsa says when she’s calmed down enough to speak, looking over at Frannie with a grin. “And apt. Yes, I suppose we did U-Haul. And people here were very excited, for a while.”
“And then?” Frannie asks tentatively.
“Well, then they started trying to set Joan up on dates. Both of us, eventually. It never quite seemed to click that Joan took me to all the premieres, and we dined with the theater producers together—that we were anything other than, what’s the phrase you use? Gals being pals?”
Frannie snorts. “Yeah.”
Elsa nods, face settling into a lightly wistful smile. “But we were a couple. A pretty successful one, really. We were setting up to take the world by storm, partners in every way imaginable. I never really knew why Joan trusted me with her money so much, but she did.”
“You have impeccable taste,” Frannie says easily. “I’d trust you to invest in shows on my behalf.”
Elsa’s eyes widen a fraction and her lips tilt upward. “Thank you.”
Frannie nods, turning to look out at the park, the look in Elsa’s eyes a little overwhelming. “Did anyone here know about the two of you?” Frannie asks.
“There were a few other queer couples who did, but not beyond that. Some suspected, I’m sure.”
“Like Mr. Wurch?”
Elsa nods slowly. “And there were others who were less than … discreet about their suspicions. But we were careful. They never had anything to actually complain about.”
Frannie watches Elsa looking out at the park, something pricking at her chest. “That had to be difficult,” she says, the words awkward in her mouth.
Frannie barely even came out. Her parents took the news that she was bi in high school with little more than a smile—and a bi-flag cake. But that’s just because they all like cake. More people to love, her dad said. That was it.
“It was,” Elsa says, her voice low and distant.
Frannie clutches at Elsa’s hand, wishing she had something profound or thoughtful to say. Elsa stands still for a moment, before shaking her head and turning to look at Frannie with a soft smile.
“We had a wonderful life. We ran in very accepting circles outside the building. Theater’s always been gay as hell, hasn’t it?”
Frannie smiles, surprised. “It has.”
“You’d have loved the parties.”
“Yeah?” Frannie asks.
“Sondheim, Lerner and Loewe—I think Richard Rodgers was there once.”
“Oh my God. You partied with Sondheim?”
“Yep,” Elsa says, grinning now. “It was … ‘fabulous’ doesn’t even describe it. Unreal to think about now, really. They were all so young.” Her face falls for a moment, before she shakes her head again. “We … were so young.”
“You’re still young,” Frannie says reflexively, squeezing her hand.
Elsa laughs. “I suppose. In a manner of speaking, at least. Not as hip as you.”
“Eh, my parties aren’t anything to write home about. I don’t run in anything like those circles.”
“You don’t really know that right now. Someday people are going to say they ran in your circle.”
Frannie purses her lips. “Right.”
“Right,” Elsa asserts. “And you’ll be telling someone someday about how backward this time was. Everything moves forward, eventually.”
“I hope so. I’ve been lucky,” Frannie says, looking down at their hands. “Privileged, to love who I love with almost no pushback, in a couple very blue cities. It isn’t like that for so many queer people. I’m sorry it wasn’t like that for you.”
Elsa’s shoulder bumps hers. “I’m glad it’s been that way for you—that you could stumble through this building necking with a woman and the only person who would be mad would be Henry.”
Frannie huffs out a laugh, looking up to meet Elsa’s playful gaze. “I think there’d be other people who would care.”
“Only because you weren’t in the staff elevator with her,” Elsa says teasingly.