“You’d rather come here than go on another Jackson Heights food tour?” I asked. Aside from the whole catching-a-murdererthing, that was the only other time I’d come out to Queens with him. It had been fun, honestly. The food had been amazing. I perked up.
“The thing is that when we went to Jackson Heights, we only got to try, like, four restaurants,” Gabe said. “Here, everything you order is only a few bites, so you can try food from a whole bunch of different places, and everything is also less than six dollars. And there are cuisines from all over the world, ones you never see in restaurants, even here in New York.”
“Great,” I said enthusiastically. “I’m excited.”
The market grounds smelled like we’d stepped inside a kitchen where they were boiling broth and baking pastries and roasting meat over an open fire. I wiped sweat off my forehead, not even minding that the fumes would stick to me because they smelled so good. I did grimace, but only because I’d sighted the bathroom facilities, and they were all Porta Potties. The one time I’d been to a concert and those were the only facilities available, I’d instantly had the family assistant call and make sure I could go backstage. Somehow I suspected similar accommodations would not be possible here.
But I could just purposely not have anything to drink tonight, and hopefully avoid having to use them. I was already eyeballing the Native American fry bread stand. I pointed. Gabe craned his neck with childlike enthusiasm, popping up and down on his toes. Thumping pop music from a DJ played in the background. “There first?”
In quick succession, we ate fry bread topped with maple syrup and strawberries, then Afghan dumplings, Korean corn dogs, and a Sichuan treat called ice jelly that was sweet and chewy and icy and fruity and like nothing else I’d ever had before. “I kind of want one in the other flavor, but I don’t really want to wait in that line again,” I said, eyeing the Sichuanese stand. It was a shame I hadn’t known ahead of time about the line situation. I could have hired a few people to handle that for us. I opened mymouth, ready to voice the thought to Gabe, because maybe there were a few people out in the park who’d want to earn a few extra dollars by standing around, then closed it, because that was not the spirit of the outing. Then opened it again. “We really have to try that Transylvanian ice cream cake thing. It could be fun to do something like that at the bakery.”
“It would,” agreed Gabe. Then frowned a little, looking over my shoulder. “Hey, Pom, isn’t that—”
“Oh my God, Pom? What areyoudoing here?” Lips hit both my cheeks as hands wrested me roughly to one side. That impressive tonal combination of genuine, sweet surprise and fake dismay could only belong to one person.
I widened my eyes, not even bothering trying to match it. I’d spent years concocting my own mix of what I hoped would come off as pleasure to the less attuned listener, but also annoyance to those who knew what to look for. “Persimmon! What a surprise! Out here in Queens?”
She was beautifully dewy in a jumpsuit from The Avenue’s last-season collection patterned with climbing ivy, which made me feel a little conscious of the way the meat sweats were already soaking through my ecru sundress. She said, smoothly, “Kevin wanted to try it, and I was all for it. Queens is the new frontier.”
“Is it so new?” I said. “I’ve been out here quite a few times already. But it’s so nice to see you here.”
Translation: I was herebeforeit was cool. Which was technically true. Kind of. I mean, Gabe had dragged me here. He’d grown up here. Did that mean Gabe was more in the know than me?
Before I could wrestle with that discomfiting question, Kevin Miller caught up to his girlfriend, panting with the effort, probably because he was old. “Pom, Gabe, so nice to see you.” He smiled at us with a mouthful of gleaming white teeth. Veneers, definitely. “Isn’t this place grand?”
He probably had a chapter in one of his stupid books about how waiting in lines as a poor child gave him the grit and strengthof character to rise above the streets to the skyscraper where he could look down on everybody else, blah, blah, blah. “So grand,” I said. “I love Queens.”
“Have you tried the yak yet?” Kevin asked. To be 100 percent honest, I wasn’t sure what a yak was. But before either of us could answer, he clapped Gabe on the back. “Come on. I’ve been dying to try it. Let’s go get in line.”
Sure enough, as the four of us were walking through the crowd toward the, I guess, yak stand, Kevin rhapsodized about how the Queens Night Market reminded him of the street fairs of his youth, when booths selling funnel cake and fried Oreos and hot dogs would shut down an entire block for the day. “It’s not the same now,” he said wistfully. “It’s stressful always getting recognized in public.”
Not a single person here had recognized him so far, but I didn’t bring that up. “I’m sure,” I said. Somebody nearby snapped what they thought was a surreptitious photo of me, despite my sunglasses and floppy hat. Nobody could take a secret photo of me. I had a radar for them.
The line for the yak was, surprisingly, at least as long as the other lines. We joined the end. I looked wistfully at a group passing by holding spools of cotton candy shaped like Pikachu. “So, Pom,” Persimmon said. “I heard about your little run-in at the Phlumes’ old town house the other day. Everybody’s talking about it. How frightening. I’m so glad you’re okay.”
“Thanks,” I said. How kind of her. “Me too.”
“Personally,” she purred, eyes glinting. Yup, there it came. “I’m so glad I’m not the kind of person who always needs to be involved in such things.”
“What things, Persimmon?” I asked wearily.
Gabe jumped in. Honestly, I was proud of him for recognizing this time that she and I were battling it out. Such growth. “Which dumplings should we try? There’s yak, yak cheese, chicken…”
“Why not all three?” Kevin asked. “That’s my philosophy.” He frowned down at his phone, then smiled wide. “Oh, excellent.”
“What is it, darling?” Persimmon abandoned our battle to cuddle up by his side. He didn’t put his arm around her, too busy scrolling. “Oh, did the deal come through?”
“Yes, Jack just texted. We got it.”
“Lovely,” she said. She beamed a toothy smile at me and Gabe. “You two will have to come visit once we’ve gotten it set up.”
“Visit where?”
“I recently purchased this charming little bed-and-breakfast upstate,” said Kevin. Not quite a private island, but probably easier to get to from the city.
Wait. I furrowed my brow. Bed-and-breakfast. Jack. Jack Wohl? My parents had mentioned him yesterday regarding purchasing a bed-and-breakfast for the family business. It could easily be two different Jacks and two different bed-and-breakfasts, but that was an awfully big coincidence if so.
Kevin was really into hotels lately—he’d approached me about the Chelsea town house too. Was he trying to break into the industry?
