New York - The Novel

It’s not raining any more.”
    “But there’s no light.”
    “Maybe the office has a backup generator.”
    “And if not?”
    “I’ll get some candles.”
    “What floor is your office on?”
    “The thirty-second.”
    “You’re going to walk up thirty-two floors?” Gorham asked. Maggie seemed to hesitate. “I guess this is how firms like Branch & Cabell test the commitment of their associates.”
    “Very funny,” she said drily.
    They drank their coffee. People passing in the street told them that every light in the city was out. Fifteen minutes went by and then Juan and Janet said they thought they’d be getting back. After Gorham and Juan had insisted they split the check between them, and Maggie had thanked Gorham, they all came out onto the sidewalk, and Juan and Janet turned northward.
    “So,” Gorham said, “are you really going to your office?”
    Maggie stared south at the total blackness of Midtown. “I need to. But I guess not.”
    “Suggestion. We walk down Park toward my apartment, which is in the Seventies. If the lights come on, you can proceed. If not, I will give you a drink and then walk you safely home. Is that a good deal?”
    “You are suggesting I enter a darkened building with a man I hardly know?”
    “A Park Avenue co-op. One of the best.”
    “When has that ever protected a lady?”
    “Never, as far as I know.”
    “Just a drink. You have candles? I’m not sitting in the dark.”
    “You have my word.”
    “What floor? The elevator won’t be working.”
    “Third.”
    Twenty minutes later, she started laughing. “You said you were on the third floor.”
    “No I didn’t, I said fifth. We’re almost there. Look.” He pointed the flashlight the doorman had given him. “Just ahead.”
    When they got into the apartment, he put her in the living room and returned a few moments later with a pair of handsome silver candlesticks. Placing these on a table and lighting them, he then went to the closet near the dining room and pulled out every one of the large number of silver candlesticks that Charlie had inherited from his mother. Soon the hall, kitchen, living room and dining room were filled with bright candlelight. Maggie sat on the sofa watching him.
    “Nice apartment.”
    “Thank you. I inherited it. What would you like to drink?”
    “Red wine.” In the candlelight, Maggie’s red hair took on a magical glow. Her face looked softer. Her manner seemed to relax a little, too. “Maybe you could whip up a little soufflé.”
    “I’m a terrible cook.”
    She got up and had a look around while he got the wine. Then she sat down, cradling the wine glass thoughtfully.
    “So,” she said with a smile, “this is your technique, is it? You invite the girl round for a drink, so she can see the beautiful apartment. Then you take her out for dinner telling her that you’re too helpless to cook. By thistime, she has decided that you and your apartment need her tender loving care.”
    “Absolutely inaccurate. If true, I’d be married by now.”
    “Poor defense.”
    They talked very easily. He told her how he’d always planned to live in the city since he was a little boy, and asked her why she had come there.
    “Actually, it was my brother. He lives down in the Village, and one Sunday he took me out, and we walked into Soho. This was early in ’73, when the World Trade Center towers had recently been completed. It was an overcast morning, but the sun was trying to break through the clouds. And there was this great, gray tower in the sky below Soho, kind of grainy, and as the sunlight caught it, the tower seemed to change its texture. It was one of the most magical moments in my life. That’s when I decided I had to come to New York.”
    “I thought you didn’t like that kind of architecture. The international style.”
    “I usually don’t. But the towers are different somehow. It’s the surface I guess, the play of the light.”
    “Is your brother married?”
    “No. Actually, he’s gay.” She paused. “My parents don’t know.”
    “That must be difficult. When did you find out?”
    “Eight years ago. Martin and I are very close, and he told me. That was 1969, the year of the Stonewall riots after the police raided that gay bar in the Village. I was still at school.”
    “Isn’t it time he told your parents?”
    “Yes, but it won’t be easy. It’s going to be a big shock to Dad, because Martin’s the only son, and Dad’s relying on him to