I slip my phone in mypocket and start walking west.I avoid the taxi line that reallyonly exists for tourists too inexperienced to know that there arecountless cabs available with no line if they just walk a coupleblocks away from the chaos of Penn Station.I hail one withinminutes and head uptown to meet Thea.
I arrive at the buildingjust after nine.She's waiting in the modern, minimalist lobby,chatting up the doorman.That's Thea, always making conversationwith strangers, and I bet she'll know his kids' names and birthdaysby the time we actually move into the apartment.
I can feel her excitementas she greets me, and it stokes my own.I've only been here once,right after my Uncle Kelly bought the place, when it was completelyempty and bare.Now Thea and my Aunt Nikki have spent a lot of timefurnishing and decorating, and it's move-in ready.She's annoyinglyeager to show it to me, but it's endearing, and I feed into hermood by overselling my anticipation.
"You're gonna love yourroom, Sammy.Honestly.It's so boyish.The-"
"Boyish?"What am I?Eight?
Thea rolls her eyes."Excuse me," hertone drips with sarcasm, "I meant manly, macho,so very masculine."Her voice dropsan octave as she tries to imitate the depth of mine and Ilaugh.
"That's better," I tellher.
I knew the apartment wouldbe nice, but I'm not expecting justhownice.It seems somehow evenbigger furnished.And it's stunning.Contemporary, rich in colorand fabric, but not overly done.It's not unlike how I wouldpicture an ideal hotel suite.The foyer has nothing more than abrushed chrome lighting fixture and a console table with a beveledmirror.The living room is done up in taupes and blues, with asimple chocolate sofa set facing a gigantic flat screentelevision.
Thea's bedroom—themaster—is designed just like she is.Subtly feminine, but alsominimalist.She is one girl you could never describe as highmaintenance.And that's one of the many things I've always lovedabout my cousin.The room is a light, sea-foam green with beige andsilver bedding and accents, a mirrored dresser, and an antiquelooking wrought iron chandelier.
We spend barely a minutein her room before she drags me down the hall to show me what she'sdone with mine.It's the second bedroom, but in a luxury apartmentlike this, it's nearly as big as the master, and also includes anen suite bathroom.And it's done perfectly.The walls are a palegray, the decor and bedding stark white with deep blue accents.Itis, in fact, boyish, ormasculine, whatever.
Against the back wall sitsa king size sleigh bed with weathered, natural wood head and footboards.I turn to find Thea smirking like the Cheshire Cat, overlypleased with herself, and deservedly so.She smiles up at me,waiting for the praise she has no doubt she's owed.I muss herhair, which she hates, but I love her grump-face as she sets herred curls back in place, not that they end up any less wild aftershe fixes it.
"It's perfect, Thee," Ifinally concede.Her grin grows and she holds up her palm for oursignature high five, which I give her with an eye roll of myown.
We make our way throughthe rest of the apartment more slowly, and I let her go on aboutthe vendors and designers she selected, and the flatware and chinain the kitchen, until she finally notices the snide look on myface.But she only smiles wryly all over again, because we bothknow I'm full of shit, faking my disinterest.
Do I have an inherentinterest in these things?No.Certainly not.But I want to be anhotelier one day myself, which we both know very well, and so Itake in everything from the interior design to the stemware,considering what would be both chic and neutral, ideal for a trendyboutique hotel.
We talk about her father'supcoming project and how excited we both are to be involved.Theawill get to help with the finishes and decor, and in doing so willbe working closely with one of the world's top interior designersin the hospitality industry.Another opportunity no collegefreshman deserves, and we are both insanely grateful and eager tobe a part of it.
When we're done touringour finished apartment, and commiserating over the ridiculousnessof living in such a lavish place when our peers will be in tinyfreshman dorms, I walk Thea east where she'll meet her mom atBergdorf Goodman, and then I head down to Fifty Fifth andMadison.
I don't even need to thinkwhere I'm headed.My legs know the direction from muscle memory.I've walked it hundreds of times.Came here all the time as a kid.Any day we had off from school, weekends my dad worked through,sometimes even after school when he worked late.
I liked him at work.Hedidn't drink there.And he was the best version of himself.The onewho had a sincere interest in my day, who bragged about my academicand athletic achievements to colleagues, who occasionally evencared what I thought.
When he drank it wasalmost as if he was a completely different person.And there wasnothing likeable about that man.It's honestly part of the reason Iwas relieved that he asked to meet at his office, during a workday.It's not that I think he'd lay a hand on me now, but the violencewasn't the only reason I couldn't stand that version of mydad.
That person wasthoughtless and cruel.He didn't give a shit about the peoplearound him, least of all his family.
I walk briskly, thoughevery cell in my body wants to delay.I'm not looking forward tothis meeting, though I am looking forward to what I hope it willaccomplish, and I can only pray that at the end of the upcominghour, Rory will be a little closer to safety, if unknowinglyso.
I head into the sprawlingmarble lobby and check in with security.They scan my ID, have mestep in front of the desk-mounted camera, and in less than a minuteI'm handed a Visitor's sticker with a black and white pixelatedphoto of my face, as well as Mason, Goldberg, & Caplan—45thFloor, printed across the front.I fold it over and shove it intomy pocket, and head through the security turnstile.
The call button for theelevator is already lit, and I barely wait a few seconds before Ishuffle into one of the eight cars along with the six or so othersuits, both male and female, who thin out as they disembark on themultiple stops.
I'm the only one left whenI exit on one of the three floors that houses my father's law firm.I've rarely ever exited here, on the main reception floor—I'vealways headed straight up to 47 where his private assistant, Sue,sits like a sentinel at his reception desk, managing hisappointments and ushering clients.
I don't know thereceptionist at the main desk.She's either been hired in the pastfive years or I just never had occasion to meet her.But thenagain, there's nothing memorable about her either, so it's possibleI've met her in passing.She's one of those people who are justplain.Not plain as in ugly, just literally plain.Short, mousybrown hair, eyes so bland you wouldn't even recall their colorunless you were looking directly at her, and indeterminablymiddle-aged.She could be in her forties or fifties, and somethingtells me she's looked this way for decades.
She smiles in recognitionas soon as I tell her my name, and her demeanor shifts from that ofa poised professional to borderline sycophantic.
It's so nice to finallymeet you, Mr.Caplan!Can I get you anything?Some coffee?Tea?Youlook just like your father!Such a pleasure to have youhere!
I force a faint smile andnod vaguely, decline her offer of refreshments, and I forget hername before she even tells me that my father is expecting me and Ican head right up.
Now Sue was a differentstory.Ageless in the precise opposite way, with flawless skin asdark as night, so wrinkle-free that if you told me she was avampire I would probably believe you.Her hair was ever changing,with a new style or wig almost monthly, and a warmth and sincerityin her deep brown eyes that elicited a rare kind of comfort andease.It was her smile that stood out the most, though.Freelyoffered and big enough to take up half her face, it's one of thosesmiles that was just inherently contagious.
She's tall as a tree, andthough sweet as she could be, she had a strength about her thatinexorably drew me to her as a kid.In retrospect, it probably hadsomething to do with the contrast with how I saw my mother—weak,fragile… a victim.Though I know now how incredibly unfair thatwas.That, in fact, my mother is one of the strongest women I'veever known—a mother who thrust herself into alcohol-fueled, ragingfists so that they would not land on me instead, and I inwardlyreproach my younger self for seeing things in such childish way,even if I was only a child then, after all.
