CHAPTER ONE #2
She had packed two suitcases, three boxes of essential cookware, her laptop, tax records, passport, grandmother’s recipe notebook, and the framed photograph of her parents laughing beside a collapsed picnic table.
Lena had promised to arrive at noon with her car.
The cake ingredients had been returned to the refrigerator, although the pears remained on the counter because Nat could not bring herself to subject innocent fruit to evacuation conditions.
She changed into dark jeans, a clean green blouse, and the only jacket she owned that suggested she occasionally understood appointments.
The cheap silver ring she found in the back of her jewelry dish fit her right hand but not her left.
After a brief and unpleasant struggle involving cooking oil, she got it over her knuckle and decided circulation was a problem for later.
The brownstone on Juniper Street was not fake.
It stood midway down a tree-lined block, its warm brick fa?ade softened by climbing ivy and two white-trimmed bay windows.
A short iron fence enclosed a front garden where late-summer flowers leaned toward the morning light.
The brass number beside the door had been polished recently.
Even the front steps looked trustworthy.
Nat climbed them with the wary excitement of someone approaching a dessert that might contain either chocolate or poison.
A man in a charcoal suit was already waiting beside the door.
He was tall, dark-haired, and so precisely assembled that for a moment Nat wondered whether the building provided him as part of the security system.
His white shirt was unwrinkled despite the heat.
His tie was straight, his shoes were polished, and a slim leather portfolio rested beneath one arm.
He glanced at his watch as she reached the top step.
“It’s ten twenty-nine,” she said.
His gaze moved from his watch to her face. His eyes were gray, cool, and surprisingly expressive for a man who otherwise appeared to have been constructed from clean lines and responsible decisions. “I didn’t say anything.”
“You looked at your watch.”
“I wanted to know the time.”
“There’s a clock on your phone.”
“There’s also one on my watch.”
Nat nodded. “Excellent. If one fails, you won’t be cast helplessly into the future.”
His mouth moved slightly—not quite a smile, but evidence that he knew how. “Are you here to see the apartment?”
“I am.”
“So am I.”
Her optimism dimmed. “You’re the ten thirty?”
“I’m Michael Conroy.”
“Natalie Tremaine.”
He offered his hand. His grip was warm and firm, which seemed unfair. A man this controlled should have had colder hands.
“Mrs. Gable scheduled us together?” he asked.
“Apparently.”
“That’s unusual.”
“Maybe she enjoys watching strangers compete for shelter.”
Michael looked toward the brass knocker. “The listing said applications would be considered in the order they were completed.”
“You brought an application?”
“I downloaded it.”
“There was an application?”
“It was linked at the bottom of the listing.”
Nat remembered seeing a line of tiny blue print beneath the photographs and assuming it was a warning about cookies. “Of course it was.”
Michael opened his portfolio and removed a neatly clipped packet. Every field appeared to be filled in. Colored tabs marked the supporting documents.
She stared at it. “Did you bring your birth certificate?”
“No.”
“Good. That would have made you seem overeager.”
“I brought proof of income, references, and a credit report.”
“You brought your own credit report to an apartment viewing?”
“I don’t like preventable delays.”
Nat glanced down at herself. Her proof of income existed somewhere in the cloud, her references had not been warned they were references, and her credit report was probably fine as long as no one asked it difficult questions.
“I don’t like delays either. I simply prefer to encounter them naturally. ”
Before Michael could answer, the door opened.
Mrs. Gable was a small, silver-haired woman wearing a lavender dress, pearl earrings, and an expression that made Nat instinctively stand straighter. She looked first at Michael, then at Nat, then at the space between them.
“Mr. Conroy,” she said. “You told me you would be attending alone.”
“I am attending alone.”
“Then who is this?”
“Natalie Tremaine,” Nat supplied. “You gave me the ten-thirty appointment.”
Mrs. Gable frowned. “I did no such thing.”
“We spoke at eight thirty-four.”
“I told you ten thirty?”
“You did.”
Mrs. Gable removed a small notebook from her pocket and examined it. “I wrote ten thirty beside both names.”
“That explains why we’re both here,” Nat said.
“It explains the scheduling error. It does not explain why neither of you mentioned you were single.”
Michael’s head turned. “I did mention it.”
“You said you required an apartment immediately because your former roommate had relocated.”
“He accepted a position in Singapore with nine days’ notice. The lease was in his name, the landlord is selling rather than renewing, and I have to leave Friday.”
There it was: a complete housing crisis arranged in chronological order. Nat suspected Michael could make an earthquake sound like a quarterly report.
Mrs. Gable’s disapproval deepened. “The advertisement clearly stated my preference.”
“It stated that the apartment was suitable for a professional couple,” Michael replied. “It did not state that single applicants were ineligible.”
“I believed that was understood.”
“It was not.”
Mrs. Gable looked at Nat. “And you told me your fiancé worked.”
Nat felt Michael’s attention settle on her.
“I said he worked,” she corrected weakly.
“Does he?”
“I sincerely hope so.”
Mrs. Gable looked at Nat. “And when I asked whether your fiancé would attend, you allowed me to believe there was one.”
Nat glanced at the cheap silver ring cutting off circulation to her finger. “I was under considerable pressure.”
“You lied.”
“I answered creatively.”
Michael’s eyebrows rose.
Nat could already hear Lena telling this story for the rest of their lives. Assuming Nat survived long enough to have a rest of her life, which would require finding somewhere to sleep by six o’clock.
Mrs. Gable drew herself up. “I’m afraid this apartment would not be appropriate for either of you.”
“May we at least see it?” Nat asked.
“There would be no purpose.”
“I came across town.”
“So did I,” Michael said.
Mrs. Gable regarded them for a long moment, then stepped back with obvious reluctance. “You may look. Five minutes.”