The sound of Laure’s own feet pounding out a rhythm on the treadmill brings a familiar and much-needed peace to her perspective. After a luxurious run at the New York Athletic Club, she’s both astonished and not completely surprised that women had been alienated from membership until 1988, over 120 years after it was founded.
The blue and gold crest of a double-winged sandal within a laurel wreath is world renowned, and has sired hordes of male gold medalists and professional athletes. The twenty-four floors of the cornerstone monolith that overlooks Central Park is still quite a mystery to her, and at seven in the morning the locker room is bustling. Hordes of attendants are handing out towels and steaming clothes, while ladies wait their turns for massages and herbal wraps in between Pilates classes. Several guest members accompanied by their stylists are in the throes of being blown out, and Laure immediately feels under coiffed and underachieved. Grabbing her unadorned department store backpack, she heads out the door to a market on Columbus Circle. Gaining her stride, wondering whether anyone brought up in the middle class can ever be unsuspecting of the finery of uber wealth, it brings to mind the trouble at hand and how she’s going to deal with Aalin. Since their arrival in New York, her relationship with Tyler has come full circle; they’re thriving, thinking, and living like a committed couple. But her frustration with his family is something she simply cannot understand, never mind resolve, and it’s hovering like a dark cloud.
Distractedly picking up some breakfast items, she heads back to the apartment. The promise of a warm day, reinvigorating her confidence as the ever-vigilant bellman greets her cordially, “Did you have a nice run, Miss Giovanni?”
“Yes, thank you, Kyle. By the way, I have a couple of paintings being delivered today. Would you mind overseeing they get placed in the foyer while we’re out?”
“Of course, anything for the boss.” He smiles at her with his head down, then presses the elevator button for her.
“Thanks.” The elevator door closes and his comment sends a swirl of racial and class concerns to the heart of the matter. When the door reopens, she overhears Tyler on the phone. Making her way into the kitchen, she unpacks the bag of groceries.
The fact that he’s speaking Arabic is a concern for her as he steps in to steal a berry and a kiss before moving back out in front of the floor to ceiling windows overlooking Central Park. Thankfully, the conversation seems easy and familiar to her as he signs off.
Quietly placing two small bowls of yogurt with fruit on the Jaques Adnet Art Deco dining table that dominates the dining room and divides the living room from the kitchen, she catches her reflection in the dark green, glass top. Smiling at the domesticity of it all, she then ponders out loud, “Did you know that the bellmen call you “the boss”?”
His eyebrows raise in a jerked response as he sits down casually.
“It’s not a reference to Bruce Springsteen, is it?” her New Jersey inflection leading the way, she places a spoon in front of him.
“No.” He smiles, moving his chair in closer to the table.
Laure waits a moment with her brows raised.
“I own the building.”
“You own the building?” she repeats scrunching her face. “That’s just not right.”
He laughs. “Yeah, you’re right– it’s not.”
Swallowing a spoonful of berries, Laure then asks, “What time are you meeting your uncles today?”
“Four o’clock.”
“Will Aalin be there?”
“You shouldn’t worry about this. It’s just a formality. Nothing has changed and nothing will.”
Laure nods, “So, that’s a no?”
“Yes. That’s a no. What are your plans for this afternoon?” He changes the subject stiffly.
“I’m not sure. I have an action list for Mad Hatter. Steph and Remy are headed out to Sacramento today, and I need to be sure the facility is ready for them. It’s a mess out there. They’re failing all of their tests.” She finds herself rambling before she notes Tyler’s transitional aloofness, and decides to change the subject. She had been hoping to mend the subaqueous riff between Tyler and her friends; the stress of their discord lays heavy on her heart. But it’s all a great big unknown. “After that, I may run downtown to check out a gallery or two. Oh, several paintings are being delivered today,” she adds excitedly “I hope you like them. I think you will; anyway, if you don’t, they’re on loan. So, no biggie.”
He smiles. “I’m sure I will like them. Let me know where you are. I’ll meet you.”
“That would be nice.” She beams.
“Thanks for breakfast.” Walking over he squats down next to her arm chair, “I’ll see you later,” said more like a question than a statement his emerald green eyes wash over her.
“Yes.” She blushes, but once the elevator doors close, she maneuvers into kitchen like a ninja and grabs her phone. After two rings, Aalin picks up. “I think we should talk,” Laure resounds.
An hour later Laure files into Missy Kiki’s Cake Shop on the Upper East Side. The all- white interior is unsettling in a dystopian kind of way, but the place is packed and the coffee smells good. Aalin waves to her from the back of the long and narrow space as Laure navigates the massive rush-hour line. “Hey.”
“Good morning, Laure.”
Noting the two coffees and gateau au chocolate dominating the marble tabletop, she plots her strategy, “This looks nice.”
“I took the liberty of ordering. I hope you like chocolate?”
“Who doesn’t like chocolate?” Taking off her wool, Ted Baker black wrap-around jacket, she settles into the seat across from Aalin while managing a bite of the delectable persuasion in front of her, “Wow, that’s amazing.”
“I know. I will have them delivered every morning.” Sober, Aalin’s voice is edgier than Laure remembers.
Putting down her fork, Laure steadies herself, “You wanna tell me why you really came to New York? I need to know your long game.”
Smiling at her directness, Aalin answers contritely, “Freedom.”
“Okay. And why is your freedom more important than Tyler’s?”
“Laure, he’s a man. They never lose their freedom.”
Laure considers the truth of that statement, and places another bite of chocolate in her mouth.
“Once I’m married. I’m free,” Aalin states, placing her fork down on the table.
“What are you? Subway Sandwich? Cause your motto makes no sense at all.”
Aalin, laughs for a moment, “You are so full of life and vigor. I see why he loves you so much.” Scooping up the last bite of gateau, she places her oversized hand on top of Laure’s, continuing, “We’re going to be like sisters.”
“No. You don’t get it.” Pushing her chair back with a resounding scrape, Laure definitively states, “If Tyler marries you, I’m gone. How’s that for vigor?” Grabbing her coat, she walks out, the taste of chocolate bitter on her lips.