Author's note: Although ratings are nice, nothing beats a comment or two about what you liked or disliked about a story. Please take a moment to leave one. Thank you.
*
Stephanie Wells relaxed on her favorite bench in Washington Square Park, enjoying the unexpected warm weather that a late Indian Summer had brought to the third week of October. In the eleven months since she had moved to New York City to attend the Manhattan Culinary Institute, the small concrete and green oasis had become one of the twenty-two-year old's favorite places in the city. Situated halfway between her apartment and the school, she often stopped off on her way home to relax and review the day's class notes.
The notes she'd carefully inscribed in the old-style writing tablet rarely needed correction, but the practice gave the five-foot two brunette an excuse to enjoy both the weather and her surroundings. Greenwich Village was a far cry from the small Connecticut town she'd grown up in, and she still marveled how much her life had changed in only a year. Changes that had been both the result of hard work and an unexpected stroke of fortune. The first had led to her acceptance into the graduate course at the celebrated school, and the latter gave her an amazing place to live just a short walk away from it.
Actually, while luck had indeed been involved, much of the credit for her apartment had to go to her grandmother, Shirley. When Stephanie's letter of acceptance had come last Fall, one of the first questions her parents raised was, where was she going to live in New York? The information packet that had accompanied the letter made it clear that, if needed, student housing was available, but having gone that route already during her undergraduate years, Stephanie was less than eager to repeat the experience.
When she went online to explore her options, however, it became apparent that Manhattan and affordable rent seemed to be mutually exclusive terms -- at least in her price range. After a bit more research, though, she found that non-resident students who wanted to avoid the shoebox sized studios that passed as academic housing, did so by seeking rooms in the outer boroughs. Saving money, but at the cost of twice daily commute and more often than not, having roommates as well, a prospect that also made the idea also less than appealing.
That was when her grandmother had intervened, contacting an old college roommate, Margaret Johnson, who had moved down to New York after graduation to attend medical school. Recently retired from her practice, the never married Dr. Johnson now spent more time traveling than she did in residence in her Lower West Side apartment.
Timing as they say is everything, and when Shirley called, Margaret had just been putting the finishing touches on what was going to be her most ambitious foray yet -- a nine-month excursion, starting in England and then working itself across the continent, visiting friends and family along the way. In almost no time at all, they'd worked it out that Stephanie could stay in Margaret's guestroom for the length of her schooling, in exchange for her tending to the day to day minutiae that tended to pile up during the globetrotter's absences.
-=-=-=-
The distant chime of a clock tower brought Stephanie back to the present, reminding her that she still needed to stop at the market before heading home. She slid her notebook back into her carry bag, then rose to her feet, taking a moment to adjust her off the shoulder, olive hued blouse and straighten out the denim skirt below it. Comfortable and functional, it was one of her favorite outfits, more so because since she had such a small frame, only weighing ninety pounds. She was able to buy it in the girls' department for considerably less than what they charged for the same outfit in an adult size.
It was already ten past six when, with carry bag over one shoulder and a grocery bag in her hand, Stephanie stepped through the double doors into Ashmore Court's large lobby. From the beginning, she had liked the fact that most people knew the building by its name rather than its address; it gave the old pre-war structure a character you really didn't find in more modern edifices.
Moving down the long central hall, she continued past the stairs to the recessed alcove where the mailboxes were situated and removed a half dozen envelopes from the one marked 2B. Then she retraced her steps and started up the stairs, forgoing the six-story building's elevator. She never saw the need for it unless she was going higher than the second or third floor or had packages to carry.
Entering the apartment, she dropped her carry bag onto the dining room table, then proceeded to put away the groceries. The mail could wait until she'd had a snack, having skipped lunch in expectation of dinner with Jason Brown, a fellow student at the Institute. A dinner unfortunately canceled at the last minute.
Jason, a native New Yorker, lived with his family out in the Bayside section of Queens and had become a sort of quasi-boyfriend. They explored the city together during their free hours, helped each other with their studies during their not so free ones, and occasionally shared a bed -- even if their romps only occasionally brought more than simple release.
That they had fallen into a sexual relationship, however casual, was something that Stephanie thought ironic because, when she'd first met the twenty-four-year-old redhead, she'd been almost certain he was gay. An assumption she hadn't been alone in making, as two male students had asked him out in the first month of class. It was possible that he was gay but in denial about it, she'd considered, but if that was the case, it wasn't her place to press him about it. Besides, her more selfish half was always quick to remind her, the man had a cock that put most porn stars to shame and, even if she had to do most of the work, she might as well enjoy it as long as she could.
Her appetite satisfied, Stephanie turned her attention back to the mail, pulling out the bills that she knew would be automatically paid from Margaret's household account. As she had been instructed, she opened each and made sure that the bank had dutifully paid the previous month's charges, so that she wouldn't find some essential utility unexpectedly shut off.
That left a few personal letters for Margaret, which Stephanie put aside unopened, and two letters addressed to her, one from her mother and one from the school. Or so she thought until, opening the letter from the school, she found that there was another envelope stuck to the bottom of it. An envelope addressed to one Olivia Norton who also lived at Ashmore Court, but in apartment 6D.
During the two weeks before Margaret had left for Europe, the older woman had introduced Stephanie to a number of her new neighbors, and also mentioned a few others who it might be better to avoid for one reason or another. The name Olivia Norton hadn't been mentioned in either category.
From what she could see through the cellophane address window, it looked to Stephanie like the envelope contained a check. Something she found surprising in this age of direct deposits and electronic transfers, but she guessed there were still instances where people did get checks in the mail. If that was what it was, she really shouldn't stick it on the edge of the mailbox marked 6D, which is what she'd seen people do when they'd gotten a misdirected letter. No, the best thing to do, she thought, was to bring it up to 6D and hand deliver it.
-=-=-=-
This time Stephanie did take the elevator, exiting onto the sixth floor in the center of the long hallway. Without having to look, she knew that 6D would be to her right, as every floor had identical layouts. Ringing the small bell situated just under the peephole that allowed tenants to screen callers, Stephanie waited for a response. A minute passed, then almost a second, by which time it seemed that, despite the hour, no one was home.
'I guess I could just slip it under the door,' Stephanie thought, adding that perhaps she should also leave a note with it.
She was just reaching into her purse for something to write with when there was a sound from behind the door. A sound that she quickly identified as footsteps on a hard wood floor, growing in volume as their creator came closer. They faded abruptly, only to be replaced by the soft click of the peephole as it opened for a few seconds, then slammed shut. Finally, the sound of locks being undone filled the air, followed by the movement of the heavy wooden door as it slowly swung open.
"My, aren't you a pretty thing," the woman standing at the threshold said as she took a better look at her caller than the small viewer had afforded. "What is it that I can do for you?" she added.
At least a head taller than Stephanie, the woman stood five nine and weighed at least a hundred and fifty pounds, nearly all of it muscle. She wore black slacks and a long sleeved white button-down blouse, the top few buttons of which were open and exposed a prodigious bust that had to be at least four inches and a full cup size larger than Stephanie's. Shoulder length blonde hair framed a deceptively youthful face, one that didn't quite match the thirty-nine years reflected on her driver's license.
"Can I help you?" the woman repeated when Stephanie failed to reply to her initial inquiry.
"Are you Olivia Norton?" Stephanie asked, finally finding her voice.
"I guess that depends on who's asking," she replied with a smile.
"I'm Stephanie Wells, from 2B, down on the second floor, and ..." she said, then paused in midsentence as she realized how stupid that sounded. Of course, 2B was on the second floor.
"And how may I help you, Stephanie Wells from 2B, down on the second floor?" Olivia asked, clearly enjoying the younger woman's momentary discomfort.
