Chapter Four The Follow-Up #2
On her way to the city, Madison thought about the upcoming dinner.
She actually had a date. She always flew solo, but the opportunity presented itself, and she was willing to take a risk.
She knew she had been overly cautious with people beyond her immediate family.
It was her way of protecting herself from further disappointment and disloyalty.
But the more time she spent in Smuggler’s Cove, the more relaxed she became.
Her innate hesitancy to trust others was beginning to wane.
Maybe it was her age. Fifty was close enough on the horizon that she could see it.
The big Five-O. She knew she was older than Viggo, but did he know how much older?
Did he even think about that sort of thing?
He appeared to be very grounded. Stable.
And, from what she gleaned, he was also nonjudgmental.
The ferry continued its journey toward Manhattan; as it approached the entrance to the lower bay, it passed the Coast Guard Station on the right.
She continued her musings about the captain.
Whom did he resemble? She squinted, images coming to mind.
He had the eyes of Ryan Gosling, and the smile of Simon Baker, who played The Mentalist on TV.
Escaping into her daydream fantasy, she admitted she wouldn’t kick either of them out of bed.
Then her thoughts went to Viggo. She wondered what it would be like.
In bed. With him. It had been an incredibly long time since she was intimate with a man.
They say it’s like riding a bike, she thought, snickering to herself.
Around twenty minutes later, the ferry pulled into the dock at Pier 11 and Wall Street.
Madison gathered her belongings and Viggo’s garment bag.
She flagged one of the taxis waiting at the curb and gave him her address.
When she arrived at her building, her doorman, Hector, greeted her with a big smile.
“You’ve been spending a lot of time away from us, Ms. Madison. ”
Madison recognized that each stay in Smuggler’s Cove got a little longer.
At first it was two days. Then when summer hours kicked in, it became three days.
Recently she stretched it out to four, providing there weren’t any in-person meetings.
“I like the sea breeze,” she said with certainty. “How are things around here?”
“Ya know. Sirens, tourists, heat. Just like every August.”
“I have to admit, after a few days away, I realized how quiet other places can be.”
“Ms. Madison, I keep telling ya, you work too hard.”
“You are correct.” Madison slung the garment bag over her shoulder. “Do you have any packages for me?”
“A few. I’ll send them up to your apartment.”
“Thank you,” she said, and waved a pinky at him. “See you in a bit.”
She left her shoes by the door and donned a pair of conveniently placed slippers.
The magazine once ran an article about shoe etiquette and what we drag inside on the bottom of our shoes.
It made her cringe. While she preferred her guests to kindly remove their footwear and slip into a complimentary pair of spa slippers, she didn’t press the issue.
But they were lined up under the bench for any observant person to notice and ask.
She switched on the lights and turned the dimmers to full wattage.
Her loft seemed darker than usual. How was that possible?
Perhaps it was in contrast to the natural light at the rental.
Speaking of contrasts, she was finding more each day.
Not rushing was one of them. Her routine in the city was to catapult out of bed, feed Mario and Luigi, hop in the shower, wash her hair, hop out of the shower, dry her hair, make the bed, get dressed for work, and buzz out the door.
Next, she would hustle to the subway along with every other person scrambling to get to work.
It was a rat race, for sure, and there were quite a few of them.
The recent mayor declared war on the rat population, but he was losing the battle.
Lately she was really down on the city. The city that never sleeps.
The city that offered her an opportunity.
The city that provided culture, music, theater, and every cuisine on the planet.
Regrettably, she rarely took the time to enjoy the finer things in the city.
And finer didn’t necessarily mean more expensive; there were a lot of free activities, especially in the summer.
But she rarely took advantage of them. If she had a day off, she would spend it inside, reading magazines or catching up on some of the shows she recorded.
The best part was having Mario and Luigi curled up next to her on the sofa.
She often felt guilty about leaving her fur family alone for long periods during the day.
No wonder they rebelled and turned on the television in the middle of the night.
She knew she only had herself to blame for her routine of work, work, and more work.
When did she become this person? She was always driven by her creativity, but the job she now occupied required more paperwork and checking off the boxes.
Then there was her emotional survival. She had repressed her feelings of abandonment when her father sent her off to boarding school, and then when their mother skipped town after her father’s arrest. Yes, Gwen left them money, but they were barely adults.
Madison was twenty, and Lincoln was eighteen at the time.
Hadn’t she proven enough to herself? She learned at an early age she could never please her father. Whatever she did was never good enough. For him. So she spent the next thirty years proving things to herself.
Sitting in her pristine loft, Madison began to hum “Is That All There Is?”—the contemplative song Peggy Lee made famous over a half-century ago. It was about expectations and the disappointments.