“I can get it this time,” Rachel interjects.
“No, it’s my turn. Here, try this one,” Vivian says, handing the waiter another credit card.
Rachel, wisely, now says nothing.
When Vivian returns to her apartment, the concierge smiles broadly. “Your secret admirer strikes again,” he says, handing her an envelope with her name.
“Thank you.” She can’t remember his name despite interacting with him precisely a dozen times the previous day. The building has recently changed management companies, and there are so many new faces.
She walks toward the elevator and, as she waits for it to descend, decides to open the envelope. She could use a little good news.
But the letter is not from Peter.
PLEASE STAY AWAY, the note reads, in block letters. An arrow points upward to the symbol embossed on the stationery: a top hat with a flower rim. The symbol for the Knox.
It’s unsigned.
“Who delivered this?” she demands, marching over to the concierge.
“I don’t know. Is something wrong?”
“You didn’t see the person?”
“I went to the bathroom, and when I came back, it was sitting here on the counter.”
Vivian scans the room. “Are there no cameras here? There—that camera, in the corner. Can you replay footage?”
The concierge flushes. “I’m sorry, Ms.Lawrence, it’s broken, and this model has been discontinued, so we are switching manufacturers and awaiting its replacement.”
“I didn’t know this.”
“Yes, it was in the notice that went out to all the residents last week.”
She must have missed it amid all her other fun-news emails, like the one from Brookline Bank requesting loan repayment for her second store buildout. Her failed second store.
Vivian turns on her heel and manages to catch the elevator door right before it gets called to another floor. Her building is extremely charming—and extremely old. The elevator is as slow as molasses, giving her ample time to reread the note.
PLEASE STAY AWAY
Is this a plea or a threat?
Taylor
A week has gone by since Taylor resigned from the hospital, and, like clockwork, her aunt reaches out every other day.What about a job in the IV clinic?Aunt Gigi texts.No weekends, no night shifts, no holidays. Easy peasy. Or labor and delivery? Do you like babies? Or you could do research and work on clinical trials? Or what about the West End Clinic, something in substance abuse (much help needed there!)?
Either Aunt Gigi is feeling guilty for getting on Taylor’s case a few times about her nursing performance, or she truly cares. Maybe a bit of both.
Occasionally, Taylor gets tempted. She’s been scoping out potential job opportunities—in something other than nursing—and the results have been disappointing. A few openings in retail that won’t even cover her utilities. A listing for a receptionist position at an art gallery, which doesn’t guarantee enough hours. A dog-walker position with Peace + Paws, which requires prior experience. A pharmaceutical sales position to which she applied on a whim but hasn’t heard back. She’ll have to cobble somethingtogether soon; her savings are fast disappearing, and her bills continue to pile up.
One morning, a forceful knock on the door startles her. Taylor hopes it’s not her aunt, and she wonders if she should pretend that she’s not home. But the knocking persists, and so she cracks open the door.
To her surprise, it’s Anna, the landlord. Her cane hangs midair, and Taylor wonders if that is what she was using to rap on the door.
“There’s this place in Beacon Hill looking to hire someone,” Anna says. How Anna knows she needs a job, she’s not sure. It seems Boston is strange like that, people and channels interconnected in ways beyond her grasp.
There’s also the possibility Taylor’s dad reached out to Anna. Taylor hopes not; she’s not twelve, after all. She knows Aunt Gigi told him about her quitting, because he left her a disappointed voicemail she has yet to return.
“You waitressed before, right, Taylor? At your dad’s restaurant?”
