“We should do all right selling. The market’s up.” Phil sounded relieved she was on board. What did he think, thatshe’d make a fuss, insist he continue paying for an apartment he didn’t live in anymore? She needed to find a new place and get on with her life. But what exactly did that look like?
Phil glanced at his watch. “Joan should be here any minute. Liam says she’s a ballbuster.” Liam was a partner in Phil’s firm, one of those supremely confident men who assumed the rest of the world was there to make things easy for them. He’d introduced Phil to Natalie, or his wife had at one of their parties.
“Well that’s good to know,” Cassie said dryly. “I’d hate to settle for competent.”
“Don’t be hostile. You want to sell this place, don’t you?”
Didshe want to sell? Andrew had grown up here and she loved the neighborhood—peaceful but still close to restaurants and Riverside Park. An easy subway ride downtown. But after the expanse of her father’s house, it felt cramped. Instead of trees outside the window, they had a view of the apartment across the way where a couple lived with two young children and all their toys.
The doorman buzzed and Phil went to open the door for Joan, who was about four-ten with spiky gray hair. Mid-sixties, smartly dressed in leggings and a stylish sweater. One of those skinny older women who looked like they never ate. But she had a grip like stone. Maybe that was where the ballbuster part came in.
Joan swept through the apartment, with Phil and Cassie hurrying behind like kids trailing after the teacher on a field trip.
“Just the one bath?” Joan said.
“There’s one in the primary bedroom too,” Cassie said. “A small one.”
“Good. Two bathrooms are a big selling point. Let’s see the closet situation.” Cassie cringed as Joan threw open her bedroom closet. A wardrobe of Manhattan work clothes—dresses, jackets, heels she hadn’t worn in ages. Those blackpatent leather boots she’d splurged on last year. She stifled a smile at the thought of traipsing around her father’s house in those.
Joan seem unfazed. “Decent space,” she pronounced, which made Cassie feel like she’d narrowly passed some sort of test.
Andrew’s bedroom still looked like he’d dashed out that morning and would be home any minute. His dresser was cluttered with mementos from childhood—the heavy silver piggy bank her father had given him for his fourth birthday, a Darth Vadar mask that used to delight him with its ghastly breathing.
Once the apartment was gone, where would Andrew call home? Whatever small space she found or his father’s busy new house with Natalie and the steps? But the truth was she and Phil both needed to move on financially, and as familiar as the apartment was, every room echoed with her failed marriage.
Shelly had advised having a good cry after Phil left, but she wasn’t a big crier. She hadn’t even cried when the divorce went through. She’d been numb by then, just wanted it over. The only time she’d cried was on their anniversary, which fell two weeks after Phil moved out. She’d believed she was okay—went for a run, grabbed the subway to work like always. It hit her midday when Phil didn’t text about their plans for the evening. When she realized with a sinking heart that she had no plans for that evening or any other. She’d envisioned all at once how the years would unfurl, how she would grow old alone. She would visit museums on a senior pass or meet a friend for an early dinner, then go home to an empty apartment. She didn’t even have a cat to keep her company. She was just another middle-aged single woman in a city full of them. She’d stumbled to the ladies’ room, locked herself in a stall and cried.
That was the low point. It got better or at least it got ordinary. She found she didn’t miss Phil that much, what she missed was having someone to check in with. Someone who would noticeif she tumbled onto the subway tracks and got flattened by a train. Who might ask once in a while if she wanted him to pick up takeout for dinner. The apartment wasn’t that much quieter than before since Phil had hardly been there anyway. But still, she was lonely. Knowing he wasn’t coming home, that she would go to bed alone and wake up alone. That she couldn’t give him a quick call about something that happened at work. Who would she tell if she screwed up or got a promotion?
The world was coupled. How had she never noticed? Men and women. Men and men. Women and women. And singles like her, hurrying along with half a sandwich and their earbuds in and no one to talk to.
She caught up with Phil and Joan in the kitchen, where Joan was frowning at the fridge. “You might think of updating. This has got to be seven or eight years old.”
“More like ten, I think.” Phil looked chastened. “But it still runs fine, right?” He glanced at Cassie for confirmation.
“Totally fine.” Cassie had a quick worrisome thought about what might be lurking inside. She’d cleaned out the perishables when she left but could have missed a stray piece of cheese.
Luckily Joan had moved on to the cabinets, which she described as adequate. “Not as modern as new construction, but the building’s bones are good. That counts for a lot.”
“So you think it’ll sell?” Phil said anxiously.
“Oh, it’ll sell. I just sold another unit in this building. More updated than this one, but on a lower floor.” She glanced approvingly out the living room window. “You have good light.”
Light was at a premium in New York. Some apartments had windows that faced other buildings so all you got was an eyeful of brick and no direct sunlight at all. And other units saw only a patch of sky. Cassie thought of her childhood bedroom in Connecticut, the way the sun splashed across the bed when sheraised the blinds. She’d groused about that as a teenager—too much light too early, but now, all that sunlight felt like a gift.
But the city had its own beauty. The old stone churches. Pockets of meticulously tended gardens. That was the problem. She missed New York and she didn’t. As difficult as things were with her dad, she was grateful to spend time with him. She hadn’t been there for the day to day with her mom. She’d only returned home for short, distressing visits. But now she saw her dad’s hesitancy every day, the way confusion slowed his step. His frustration that once simple activities had become so hard.
He needed her.
Joan had moved on to a checklist of what had to be done before they could list the apartment. “Paint everything white,” she said. “Don’t get cute with color. People don’t want yellow walls.” She eyed the living room, which happened to be a nice buttery yellow. Cassie had picked it out herself, but apparently color was out. “And you’ll want to get rid of those drapes, much too heavy. And update that main bath. It’s tired.”
“The bathroom?” Phil looked a little stunned. Apparently paint and drapery would not be enough.
“Once you find what you like,” Joan said, “I have a guy who can install. He’s not cheap but he’s good.”
“Do we need to do all that?” Cassie ventured. “Can’t we paint and call it a day?” She was coming to grips with selling, but now it appeared she and Phil would be joined at the hip with renovations. Phil, who was fidgeting with his phone, didn’t look thrilled either.
“Do what you like,” Joan said, “but you’ll get a much better price if you put some money into it. I can recommend a designer if you need help.” Were all real estate agents this bossy? For some reason, Cassie recalled Beth Tartullo, the young agent she’d met in the coffee shop in Laurelton. Too bad they couldn’thave found someone like that, a little more human-sized. But this was Manhattan. Nothing was to scale.
