Page 55 of Only Lovers in the Building

“No. It just looks like one,” he replied. “It’s our Ellis Island. Back in the fifties, Cubans who’d arrived on Freedom Flights were taken here to be processed, hence the name.”

They left the car with the valet and climbed the steps to the lobby. They were talking and laughing and might have missed the easel to the side of the entrance with a message from the Day Foundation welcoming the guests, championing the cause (art education), and announcing the keynote speaker, Benedicto Romero.

Lily stopped in her tracks. Pointing to the board, she cried, “Ben! Have you seen this?”

He gave her a weary look. “I’ve seen it.”

It all made sense. This was a function, not a fun night out. If he was nervous, she could help him loosen up.

“I’m so honored to be here,” she teased, “I could cry.”

“That’s enough, Lily.”

He steered her toward the elevators, but the supply far exceeded the demand, and the line was out the door. Their choices were to wait forever or take the stairs to the event room. To her mind, there was but one choice. The keynote speaker could not arrive late, not on her watch.

“Stairs?” she suggested.

He pointed to her stilettos. “In those shoes?”

She took his hand and led him to the stairwell. There, she twisted into a pretzel to loosen the tiny buckles of the ankle straps. It would’ve been easier to sit on the steps, but her fitted dress had no give and wouldn’t allow it.

“Let me help you.”

Ben kneeled before her, as if proposing marriage or guiding her foot into a glass slipper. The dim stairwell created an intimate setting. She grabbed onto the handrail for support and watched him work. Was it her imagination, or had his fingers lingered at her ankles as he loosened the stubborn straps? The thrill that ran through her was not imagined. The glow in his eyes when he looked up at her wasn’t imagined, either.

“You look beautiful tonight,” he said.

Lily’s grip tightened on the rail. “Thank you.”

Ben straightened up and shoved her shoes into the pockets of his jacket. He glanced at the steep steps. “Are you sure you’re up for this?”

“I used to live on the fifth floor of a walkup,” she said. “I can handle this.”

“Show me.”

Lily charged the stairs with Ben, laughing close behind. When they made it to the top, panting, he returned her shoes and helped slip them on. Then he helped straighten her dress, smoothing the fabric at her hips. She dabbed at the shine at his temples and made sure he looked all right. He was the man of the hour, after all.

“Thanks,” he said.

“No problem.”

“I mean for coming tonight. It’s going to be a circus.”

She took his arm. “In that case, you’re in good hands.”

They entered the ballroom. The hostess checked their names off a list: Benedicto Romero and Guest. She pinned a Keynote label to his lapel. They were offered champagne and escorted to the main table. It was all going great, until they took their seats. From then on, after some brief introductions, Ben fielded questions from all sides. Most concerned his father. How was he coping with the loss? Had he read the exposé in The New Yorker about the famous poet? Did he know that PBS had greenlit a documentary about Caribbean writers which would feature his father? And what of the grant he’d won—wouldn’t his father be proud? What was the plan?

“Lily and I are reading romance novels all summer,” he said smoothly. “That’s the only plan.”

All eyes darted to her. As a thank-you, Lily kicked him under the table.

“Who did you say you are?” someone asked.

There was no distinguishing one from the other. Men and women in suits, sequin gowns, jewels, watches, cuff links, and Guerlain’s Shalimar, her mother’s preferred perfume.

“Lily Lyon, Ben’s neighbor for the summer.”

“Are you a critic? Or a writer?”