Author's Note: This is a long and very slowly building story. Please consider yourself warned—or promised if you like a slow build. Thanks for reading.
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I switched off my phone and tossed it in the bottom of my bag like I hated it, like it was to blame for the phone call I'd just abruptly ended. I shoved my students' papers into my bag and shrugged on my coat, feeling an all too familiar anger rise up inside me.
That asshole. That stupid, lying asshole.
I was waiting at the elevator, savagely pressing the call button just for something to hurt, before I realized not having my husband around—even if it meant he was off somewhere with some other woman—was actually preferable to having him home. We rarely spent any time together these days, and when we did it was tense with unvoiced accusations and simmering resentment.
I didn't love him anymore. I didn't even like him. But, the betrayal still hurt, and the transparent lie of a last-minute meeting out of town, just made me feel like the fool I was for letting him get away with it, for staying with someone with so little regard for me. Every time he lied, I berated myself for not leaving. The marriage was obviously over. It had been for years. So, why was I still with him?
It took the ride down to the ground floor for me to push my anger and hurt down far enough I could ignore it. Once I was outside, in the crisp October air, I turned my thoughts to the night I might have before me, unhindered by my husband's oppressive presence. Dinner out? Maybe a movie? Or, I could pick up some take-out on the way home and watch something on Netflix. I decided to leave it for a few blocks, see if anything else came to mind, lying to myself that this was what freedom felt like.
I walked slowly, letting the window displays snag my attention, noting crimson was the color for dresses this winter. I'd become quite skilled at not feeling anything for too long, at pushing my resentment aside when I grew exhausted with it, or too close to tears. Soon I was feeling light again—or at least no longer weighed down by emotion—and decided I'd pick up a bottle of wine and stop by one of the markets on my way home for something easy for dinner.
A gourmet food shop had a window display of Guittard cocoa tins that stopped me in my tracks as I walked by. I studied the display and felt a warmth creep through me as a memory surfaced: I was 13 years old and sitting at the kitchen island on a high stool watching as Danny, my family's cook, filled two demitasse cups with steaming hot cocoa. One he pushed across the counter to me, the other he lifted to his lips and together we took the tiniest sip of the fragrant creamy drink. It was too hot to really drink, but the scent was impossible to resist, and though that first sip almost always burned the tip of my tongue, the bitter sweet flavor made it all worthwhile.
I couldn't help but smile; it was a simple ritual from my childhood, and one that I hadn't thought about in years, but it was a special one to me. My childhood hadn't been without strife, but that memory was completely unspoiled, and it warmed me to my toes. On impulse, I ducked into the shop and bought a tin. It was possible it would languish in my cupboard, unused, but it was also possible the sight of it would make me smile, and anything that did that these days was worth having around.
A block from the subway I passed a coffee shop. Normally I didn't drink coffee in the afternoons, not since my preferred afternoon drink had become wine. Maybe it was the cold, maybe it was the memory of that long ago hot beverage, but I soon found myself making my way to a small table on one side of the room, cappuccino in hand, my mind again turning to memories of my childhood.
I grew up on the upper west side of Manhattan with my parents and my older brother, Mark. My dad worked on Wall Street, and was more or less absent throughout most of my childhood. We weren't close at all, but as a little kid I was always trying to find a way into his heart.
When I got older, my resentment toward my dad grew and turned to anger. A large part of that was seeing how he treated my mother, whom I adored. He wasn't violent, just neglectful. He paid so little attention to her needs; in his mind his were more important. I never quite understood why my mom was with him, why he was still with him after all these years when they obviously hated each other, though now, as an adult, I understand sometimes situations are less about choice than habit once you're in them.
My mom worked at Columbia University in an immunology research lab. She was a kind person, very generous, with a lot of energy, and she worked hard to make sure my brother and I didn't suffer as a result of her career or my dad's apathy toward the family situation.
She was a beautiful woman, with long, dark, wavy hair that gleamed, and brown eyes that were bright with interest and enthusiasm. She was taller than average with a feline grace in her long, slender figure. I'd been lucky enough to inherit her looks, and, though I hated to admit it, I'd inherited her bad taste in men as well.
When I was 12 my mom hired a cook: Danny Rousseau. She worked full days just like my father, but he still expected her to take care of dinner every night. She did, for six years before deciding to hire a cook to come a few times a week and prepare meals she could just put together quickly once she got home.
I sometimes wondered if it was only Danny's talent and enthusiasm that made her choose to hire him in particular. He was also handsome, a young man in his mid-twenties with deep auburn hair, bright blue eyes, a boyish face and a quick smile. It wasn't until I was married myself that it occurred to me she hired him to irk my father.
I'd had such a crush on Danny. That hair! Those eyes! And always a smile that made me melt. He had the most beautiful, graceful hands I'd ever seen, and I loved to watch him work, marveling at how effortless and intuitive all his motions were. The fact that he fussed over me, making me special treats, and acting interested in whatever I was learning in school at the time only added to my attraction to him.
He was only at the house three days a week, four hours each day, but for the first couple of hours after I got home from school I had him all to myself. I would rush into the kitchen and park myself on the high stool and watch him work. My mom hired him right around the time I discovered boys (and all the feelings they stirred up in me), so a few hours alone with a good-looking guy who smiled at me, joked with me, and made me cookies was so much fuel for my adolescent fantasies. It was a schoolgirl's crush—waves of dizzying excitement and persistent longings I was just starting to figure out how to address.
I smiled to myself remembering how special those hours had been for me, and how giddy he'd made me feel. To Danny they were probably just part of his job, maybe even an irritation at times, but to me they meant a lot. I found myself wondering where that giddy, romantic girl went. It felt like forever since I'd been that excited over anything in my life.
I happened to be staring absently in the direction of the cafe door when a man walked in. My eyes followed him without intention as he made his way to the counter to place his order. He was tall and thin, and nicely dressed in a black overcoat, slim trousers, and beautiful leather shoes. Red hair peeked out from under a dark newsboy cap, making me think again of Danny. He looked my way as if he'd felt me staring, and I felt my stomach drop in recognition and disbelief.
He held my gaze for only a second and then looked away, unknowingly presenting me with his profile. I continued to stare, knowing it couldn't be him, that my mind was just playing tricks on me; there was no way this could be Danny, it was too improbable to imagine. Still, I couldn't take my eyes off him as he waited for his coffee at the counter, checking the screen of his smartphone. He was certainly the right height and build—tall and lean—and the hair, which was such a distinguishing feature, even hidden under the cap, was familiar. But when he looked in my direction again, the shock of recognition nearly took my breath away.
He paused for a moment to put something in his coffee and I could see his brow furrow, the corners of his mouth turn down slightly, and then he looked at me one more time, either curious or irritated by my open stare. It was that slight motion of his mouth that convinced me.
I stood, called out his name, and took a step toward him. His brow twisted in confusion, but he turned his body toward me and I knew.
"Oh my God," I said, giddy excitement squeezing my voice. "Danny is that really you?"
"Danny?" he repeated.
He sounded so confused, I thought I'd gotten it wrong, but I could see him clearly now and there was no doubt in my mind it was really him. I pressed on, moving closer.
"It's Eleanor...Eleanor Wagner, remember? Ella? From, like, twenty years ago? You worked for my parents."
