Ms. Taken. Jo Leigh
Maybe it would be more productive to daydream about men she stood a chance with.
She sighed as she stepped over to her kitchen counter, pressed the button on her coffeemaker, then leaned over the tiny table and turned on her shower. It actually wasn’t bad, having the tub in the kitchen. She could cook breakfast and get clean at the same time. She wondered what Charles was doing now. As if it mattered. But still, what was the harm in wondering? Of course, his bathrooms would be extravagantly large. His kitchen bigger than her whole apartment. Not that she’d been to his place, but she knew him and his taste. It wouldn’t surprise her if he had one of those bathtubs. You know, the kind with the steps and the Jacuzzi whirlpool nozzles?
She wandered over to the radiator and banged it a few times with a tire iron she’d found on Forty-second Street. The gurgle from the basement told her heat was on its meandering way. Then it was back to the shower, which would be warm enough by now. She tossed off her clothes and scurried into the tub, pulling the circular shower curtain around her.
Halfway through washing, she forgot the business with the tree. She forgot that she was just Jane. Instead, she was in the shower with him. He washed her hair with his long, strong fingers. Her knees grew weak as she leaned slightly back to feel his wet, warm body against her spine….
CHARLES ADJUSTED his gray silk tie, then picked up his hairbrush. The speakerphone in the bathroom hummed with white noise while he waited for David to come back on the line.
“You still there?”
“Yes.” Charles finished the last of his ablutions. “And I’m leaving in about two seconds.”
“Oh, keep your shorts on. It was an important errand.”
“Your coffee?”
“Yes.”
“For God’s sake, David, you know—”
“I know you don’t like distractions in the morning, but too bad. I need to know what you’re doing on Christmas Eve.”
“It’s not for a week. I don’t know yet.”
“What do you mean, you don’t know yet? Your life is planned so far in advance you probably know the day you’re going to die.”
“I don’t know, David.”
“Well, figure it out. Sarah wants you to come to dinner, and she won’t leave me alone until I get it confirmed.”
“Why don’t you tell your sister she needs to get out more?”
“This from a man whose last date was what, a year ago?”
“David, I’m hanging up now.”
“Wait. First tell me if today’s the day.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Does the ad come out today?”
“Yes.”
“What are you going to do if she calls?”
“I’m going to answer the phone.”
“Ha ha. Very amusing.”
“I’m hanging up now.”
“Don’t you do it! Don’t—”
He did. David would get over it. His former roommate and closest friend had several annoying habits, like calling in the morning when Charles needed the line free for his brokers. The Asian market didn’t care about his Christmas plans, and neither, frankly, did Charles. The holidays were highly overrated and damned inconvenient. Business ground to a halt each year for the weeks before, during and after. But then, this year might be different. What he hadn’t mentioned to David was that he hoped to be getting married during the lull. If Holly called. If she wasn’t married already. If…
What the hell was he doing?
The thought came from nowhere, the words not even his. It was David in his head, warning him away from his very sensible plan. David, who thought his license as a psychiatrist gave him some kind of unique insight into the human condition. But David was a sentimentalist.
Still, the echo of a doubt lingered. Charles had never figured out why he’d broken up with Holly. That was all. Once they met again, it wouldn’t matter.
At least, he hoped it wouldn’t matter. The last thing on earth he wanted to do was date. The mere word made him quake with dread. The fact was, he was bad at it. He didn’t like to do things he was bad at.
He left the bathroom and found his breakfast on the dining room table: a six-minute egg, one slice of unbuttered toast and coffee. The New York Times was already laid out, courtesy of Ellen, his housekeeper, who was at that moment putting away dishes from the dishwasher.
“Morning, Mr. Warren,” she said.
He nodded as he took his seat, then his gaze landed on the headlines. Ellen vanished as he started to read.
ONE CHICKEN LEG. Seven cashews. Three celery stalks. An apple. Half a sesame bagel. Excellent. Jane closed her lunch pail and flicked the lock into place. She’d go by the newsstand before she hit the subway. The ad was due out today. A shiver of apprehension raced up her spine when she thought about Holly Baskin. Would she read the magazine? Would she look in the personals? Would she call?
As Jane trotted down all six flights of stairs leading to the street, she wondered yet again if she should have substituted her want ad for his. She didn’t like to think of herself as selfish. But then, Charles didn’t even know she’d written an alternate ad, so where was the harm? She’d done as he’d requested. Period. No explanations would be needed.
Even though she hadn’t done anything wrong, she still felt guilty. Not robbing-a-bank guilty, but enough to make her uncomfortable. If she really loved him, she would have substituted her ad for his. Because with real love, you’re supposed to care more for the other person than you do for yourself, right?
She did love him, that much she knew. But sometimes it wasn’t easy. He was so busy. Under such stress. He worked too hard, that’s for sure. And he laughed way too seldom.
She walked out onto the street and pulled on her gloves as she headed toward the corner. The snow under her feet had turned mushy and brown, slippery, too. It was a good thing she’d left a few minutes early. Charles hated anyone being late. It was really a thing with him. It wouldn’t do her a bit of good to use getting his magazine as an excuse. Lateness, according to Charles, had no excuse.
At least she had time to look at the Christmas decorations in the windows. Her mother was appalled that she lived in Harlem, positive Jane would end up dead in some alley, but her mother didn’t understand Brand Avenue. Although Jane hadn’t met many of her neighbors, the ones she did know were as nice as they could be. Mrs. Franklin, who lived over the butcher shop, had helped her find some gorgeous velvet once, which Jane had used to make her favorite purse. Teddy at the newsstand sometimes liked to talk about books. Very nice people, indeed. Real people.
Even the butcher shop looked festive this morning with all its pretty decorations. The dead chickens hanging in the window almost looked like reindeer.
“Good morning, Miss Jane.”
“Hi, Teddy. How are you?”
The older man, she had no idea how old, shook his head. “Not great, Jane. Not great.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothin’ but old. Old hurts.”
“It doesn’t have to. I know you don’t eat well, and I’ll wager you don’t take any vitamins, either.”
“Vitamins? Are you crazy? You don’t know what they put in them things. They’re hauling pills off the counters every day.”
“You’re talking about herbs. I’m talking One-A-Day multiples.”
“The only thing I need once a day is a piece of apple