Chapter 16 Beck #2
When she’d saved some money, Beck applied to colleges again.
Her essay about the accident and her losses swayed a number of schools, including NYU, who gave her free housing and a good scholarship.
She’d never been to New York before, and without a car (and still without a license), she needed a city with good public transportation and cabs, a city where everything you might need was within a few blocks.
Another plus—it felt far, far away from Vermont and the person she used to be.
No one in New York knew she’d once been one of the best high school basketball players in the nation.
No one knew how much her classmates had loved her.
No one knew that she’d been part of a friend group that had shown her what family could be.
And no one knew those friends had ditched her.
Then she ran into Stephen, and she belonged to someone again.
She had someone to love, someone who knew her before and after, someone who understood loss.
He was the epitome of grace—he blamed no one for the accident, carried his grief with strength and dignity, wanted to make the world a better place and follow in Dr. Kate’s footsteps by becoming a doctor.
Though Beck knew he wasn’t perfect, he sure felt that way.
They slept together a week after they’d run into each other at the Hungarian Bakery.
It wasn’t like they were strangers. He shared an apartment with two fellow Columbia students, and he’d asked her over for dinner that night, the roommates conspicuously absent.
They already loved each other as friends, and throughout Beck’s senior year, something else had hummed beneath the surface.
He led her to his bedroom, and when she eventually took off her pants, he ran his fingers lightly down her scar, then covered it in the softest kisses, making tears fill her eyes until his lips returned to her mouth, her neck.
This was not sex or a hookup or fooling around. It was love, grounded in friendship and a history of laughter and shared experiences.
Perfect, in other words. Sophomore year, Beck got an apartment with Catherine, and she and Stephen took turns at each other’s places, though they spent nights apart, too.
They didn’t talk about the past or the future.
Stephen would be heading for med school and then residency.
Beck assumed they’d stay together. She avoided the logistics of how that would work.
Instead, she tried to live in the moment, in the small, beautiful, happy world they’d made, right here, right now.
Then Stephen was accepted to Michigan and Beck got her job offer with Bastion, and it was time to face the facts. And even though she knew it was coming, it was a shock.
“But didn’t you apply to medical schools in California?” she whispered.
“I did. But, Rebecca, I can’t base my decision on where you are and if you’ll stay there.
Just like you can’t turn down this job because your boyfriend will be in Ann Arbor.
” Boyfriend. It sounded so shallow when it felt like they were soulmates.
“Besides, med school is guaranteed to be grueling. We’ve been warned about the toll it will take on relationships.
” He kissed her knuckles, then looked at her hand for a few beats.
“Go to Los Angeles. Do your thing, Rebecca, and I’ll do mine, and if we’re meant to be together, we’ll get back together.
” His eyes were shiny when he looked back up at her, but he seemed resolute.
So no long-distance relationship. No phone calls every night. It was the end of act one, and if there was going to be a second act, there would be. He had important, difficult things ahead. She had an exciting and rare opportunity.
Being Tammy Morrow’s daughter, she did not let him see her cry. “It’s a good plan,” she said. “The lack of plan is a good plan.” And she smiled, because she loved him and didn’t want him feeling obligated or guilty. That’s not what love was.
By the time Beck was twenty-eight, she’d started her own casting agency in New York, bought a decent apartment, had some great colleagues and had just adopted a gray-and-black-striped kitten she named Mr. Littlejeans.
Her mom retired to a cold, gray little burg in Germany, saying it was her favorite of all the places they’d lived.
(They’d lived in Hawaii, but to each her own.)
Stephen had sent her a note in the mail (so old-fashioned) saying he planned to stay in Michigan for his residency. A residency that would last for four years. He ended by saying I’ve seen your name in some credits . . . Always knew you’d kill it. Stay well and safe, Beck.
Beck. Not Rebecca. Message received. It took about a month for the lump in her throat to subside.
So. That was that. By then, she was used to the absence of Stephen.
She flirted with guys here and there . .
. actors were notoriously good at it. For a summer, she had great sex with an incredibly good-looking director who went on to win a BAFTA and get an Oscar nod.
An on-and-off again fling with a screenwriter.
Otherwise, Beck’s career kept her busy. Dating? Who had time?
Then one night, Beck stood in a restaurant lobby, ready to wine and dine Cadence O’Leary, a young woman she’d seen in a commercial for tampons.
Cadence had the sparkle factor (and a fabulous name, which didn’t hurt).
Beck got her contact info, called her, and Cadence had sparkled some more.
Tonight, Beck wanted to meet her in person, feel her out more, learn what kinds of roles she hoped for.
Beck had her in mind for a part in a Christopher Nolan movie, but first she had to make sure her instincts were right about the young woman.
Unfortunately, Cadence was trapped on the subway, which had stopped between stations at the whim of the MTA. She texted Beck with increasingly frantic apologies, terrified that this was messing up a once-in-a-lifetime career opportunity.
No worries, I’ll wait, Beck texted back. It’s really okay. The rest of her month was packed, so it was tonight or maybe never. Beck scrolled through her messages, and suddenly became aware of a man watching her. He’d been there when she got in, she realized.
“Your companion is running late, I presume?” he asked.
“Yes. Yours, too?”
“Mm-hmm. A client meeting I can’t reschedule.”
“Same. What line of work are you in?”
“Private equity. Would you like to have a drink while we wait? My client will be at least another half hour.”
“Sure,” Beck said.
“Oscar Hahn,” he said, extending his hand.
Beck shook it. “Rebecca Morrow. Most people call me Beck.”
Oscar was older, sophisticated, not bad-looking and had a dry sense of humor. He ordered a “Filthy martini, Bombay Sapphire, please,” and she ordered the same. They talked living in the city, restaurants they liked, walking the High Line. Forty-five pleasant minutes passed until Cadence rushed in.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “The N train picked today of all days to die. Really. I’m so embarrassed.”
“Not at all,” Beck said. “This nice gentleman has been keeping me company.”
“Oscar Hahn,” he said, standing to shake Cadence’s hand. “Beck tells me she thinks you’re quite talented.”
“Really? Wow. Thank you. Thank you both.” She flushed in pleasure.
Oscar turned slightly to face Beck. “Would it be all right if I called you, Beck?” he asked.
“Sure,” she said easily. He’d been interesting and urbane, and she’d had a nice time. She handed him a business card, paid for her own drink and then went off with Cadence, smiling at him over her shoulder.
Oscar called her the next day, and they met for dinner, the first date of many.
He took her to the Met, to gallery openings, to Yankee Stadium.
He sent lush flower arrangements to her humble little office.
She baked him cookies and took him to plays and comedy clubs.
They had fun, in other words, and the sex was pretty damn good.
Beck was four inches taller than Oscar, which he said only made him look better.
He was affectionate but not too huggy, subtle with his body language and expressions.
One night, he took her to a work dinner with an investor and her husband.
They’d laughed and told stories and drunk expensive wine, and Beck name-dropped shamelessly because she could tell it was scoring points.
When they got into the chauffeured town car Oscar used, he slid onto the seat and said, “I utterly despise that woman. And her husband is a complete boor.”
“Really? You seemed like you were having fun,” she said, surprised. She thought they’d all had a great time.
“That’s the job, darling. Faking it so people trust you.”
“Which makes you sound like a total phony with a hint of criminal thrown in. Or like an actor.”
He laughed, then changed the subject. The next day, he sent her a glorious bouquet of orchids and a note that said Thank you for making me look good last night. The Carsons adored you, as do I.
It was an exceedingly pleasant relationship.
He was indeed urbane, born in Berlin to a German father and American mother, childhood in Chicago, boarding school in Massachusetts, undergrad from a “Catholic Ivy,” an MBA from the University of Chicago.
His apartment was exactly what you’d expect for a Wall Street success story—a large, echoing space in Tribeca with expensive, neutral furniture, black slashes on canvas that cost tens of thousands of dollars and breathtaking views of the city.
They talked about their ambitions, what kind of lifestyle they wanted (both of them leaning toward career), places they’d been, places they’d like to go. Oscar thought he might want a child someday. “Just one,” he said. “If any, that is. How about you?”