The elevator slows, andbing!—the doors slide open. Scooter and I step off.
As we walk down the long carpeted corridor, I urge myself to accept that it’s time for me to stop talking to my late boyfriend in the ceiling, or the sky, or wherever he is—because even if he’s watching me, I’m fairly certain that he would want me to move on, to live a full life, and to be happy.
I reach apartment 1605 and knock. It takes a while for Nate to answer, and when he finally opens the door, he’s not smiling.
“Sienna,” he says in a cool tone.
I’m immediately unnerved, but I smile anyway and hold up the wine. “Hi. I brought this.”
“Thanks. Come in.” He takes it from me and turns away.
I hesitate briefly and wonder if he’s one of those hot-and-cold people who make you feel constantly on edge, worrying that you did something wrong. But despite my reservations, I push on. I lead Scooter inside and unhook the leash from his collar. I kick off my flip-flops and walk into the bright, sunlit living room, where I see two people sitting at opposite ends of the sofa.
Nate gestures toward them. “Sienna, these are my parents, Bill and Joan Palmer. This is Sienna MacKay,” he says to them.
They both rise, which gives me a moment to gather my composure as I move forward to shake their hands.
Joan is an attractive woman with impeccable taste and style. She wears her blond hair in a loose bun, and her pale-yellow dress complements her complexion. I’m guessing it’s Italian linen.
As for Bill, based on Nate’s description, he’s not quite what I expected. He’s partially bald and a few inches shorter than Joan. I can’t help but think, as I hold my hand out across the coffee table, that Nate got his good looks from his mother’s side of the family, while his controlling father looks like a little weasel.
“Mr. Palmer,” I say. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
“Call me Bill.” His handshake is firm.
I shake Joan’s hand as well, and they both sit down again.
Sensing some bad energy in the room, I quietly take a seat.
“Can I get you a drink?” Nate asks as he examines the label on the bottle of wine I brought. “This looks good. We might as well open it now.” He retreats to the kitchen and speaks over his shoulder. “Mom? Dad? Would you like some?”
“No thanks,” Bill says. “We can’t stay.”
Yet they remain on the sofa, staring at me as if they’re sizing me up.
I glance around the room politely. It doesn’t look like a student apartment. All the furniture is crisp and new, and the walls are tastefully adorned with modern art. I wonder if Nate’s parents hired a decorator, or perhaps Joan, with her exquisite taste, took care of furnishing the place.
“This is a lovely apartment,” I say.
Thankfully, Joan initiates a conversation. “Nate tells us you’re an interior designer.”
“That’s right.” I relax a little and sit back. “I started my own company last year.”
“That was ambitious of you,” Joan replies, while Bill simply watches me with hard eyes.
I shrug a shoulder. “Not really. I come from a family of entrepreneurs, so it seemed like the right way to go.”
“Your father’s a plumber,” Bill asserts.
I clear my throat. “Yes. That’s his trade, but he runs his own company.”
Bill lounges back on the sofa and scrutinizes me with narrow eyes, as if he wants to run me over with his car.
Thankfully, Nate returns with a glass of wine and hands it to me. I take hold but set it on the coffee table because I don’t want to be the only one drinking.
Still standing, Nate glances at the gigantic clock on the wall. Then he looks at his mother. “You said you have to get going?”
Joan observes him for a few seconds, then taps her knee and speaks jauntily. “Yes, we’re off to the Chester Yacht Club to meet some friends.”
