Katwalk (6 page)

“Ah, so you’re a creative type too,” Grace said with a nod. “My kind of person.”

Katrina shook her head. “Actually, no. I worked in the finance department.”

Shana looked surprised. “Really? You don’t strike me as that
. . .
personality type.”

“Definitely not,” Grace said.

Katrina hoped that was a compliment. No one but Deb had ever questioned how her chosen profession matched up with her personality—aside from herself, of course.

“Do you have friends who live here?” Grace asked as she took another sip of her beer. “New York City can be a bitch to navigate solo.”

Katrina gave Shana and Josh a hopeful look. “Do you two count?”

Shana smiled. “Of course we do.”

“Then I have three friends, counting the cabdriver I met tonight. Or four, if I can count you too?”

Grace shook her head. “Thanks for the offer, but I don’t think so.”

Shana laughed and put a hand on her shoulder. “Be nice, Gracie.”

Grace held up her glass to Katrina. “Totally kidding, dude. Count away.”

Katrina smiled. “Then I guess I have four friends here.”

“That’s more than enough to get you started in this town,” Shana said. “You’ll see.”

When she got back to the apartment later, Katrina changed into her pajamas and promptly headed to the bathroom to perform her nightly routine.

Remove eye makeup with cotton ball.

Wash face with gentle foaming cleanser.

Apply night cream.

Floss and brush teeth.

She climbed into bed and gazed at the pretty flowers on the quilt as she listened to the sounds of the street outside and reflected on her first night in New York. Sh
e’d
been in town only a few hours and she already had friends, a more lively social life than at home, and a new name.

It certainly hadn’t begun the way sh
e’d
planned, but maybe everything was going to turn out okay after all.

Chapter Four

The next morning, Katrina laced up the brand-new sneakers sh
e’d
bought for the trip and went for a stroll around the neighborhood.

The surrounding blocks were a blend of brownstones, row houses, and bland apartment buildings, some better maintained than others. The myriad trees dotting the sidewalks were still leafy and green, and she was surprised at how many there were smack in the middle of Manhattan, which sh
e’d
so often heard described as a “concrete jungle.”

She walked along Twenty-First Street toward the East River. After crossing First Avenue, she found herself approaching a development whose signage identified it as Peter Cooper Village. Enclosed by a fence and connected by a series of crisscrossing cement pathways, the handful of brick high-rises inside formed a small campus that reminded Katrina of college dorms. She wondered if the residents had a similar feeling about the enclosure—if by living there, they enjoyed a sense of a small community inside such an enormous city. Maybe that was the secret to New York—carving out your own niche within the vast metropolis.

She crossed the busy six-lane FDR Drive, then walked a few blocks south along the narrow esplanade hugging the riverbank below. Several cyclists passed by in either direction, as did a couple of ferries full of tourists cruising along the East River, on the other side of which lay the skyline of what Katrina suspected was Queens. Or was it Brooklyn? She made a mental note to look it up on a map when she got home. In the meantime, her already tired legs were reminding her how out of shape she was. At least sh
e’d
bought comfortable sneakers. Maybe she could use her time here to finally get into an exercise routine.

For no reason in particular, she veered west on Sixteenth Street, and eventually found herself at a park enclosed by a wrought-iron fence with open gates on two sides. A placard near the east entrance said
S
TUYVESANT
S
QUARE
. She wandered in and took a seat on one of the many benches dotting the colorful garden. Although it hadn’t been mentioned in any of her travel guides, she found it tranquil and quite pretty.

After Katrina had been sitting there for a few minutes, a young couple approached her, and the woman held out her phone. “Excuse me. Would you mind taking a picture of us?”

“Sure. No problem.” As the couple positioned themselves in front of the fountain in the center of the park, Katrina noticed the tower of Saint George’s Episcopal Church in the background and adjusted her angle to include it in the photo.

She waved good-bye to the couple and gazed back up at the historic church, admiring the nineteenth-century architecture nestled between the more modern neighboring buildings, all a stone’s throw from this beautiful public garden. The juxtaposition was surprising, yet somehow welcoming, as if it were somehow stating that this was a city with room for everything.

With room for every
one
.

Suddenly, Katrina had an urge to paint. It had been years since sh
e’d
touched a canvas, but there was something in the peaceful coexistence of such dissimilar entities that called out to her. Why not give it a go right now? She pulled out her phone to look up the closest art store, then rushed off to buy some supplies.

Nearly three hours later, Katrina put the finishing touches on her painting of the church and gardens. Though she was clearly a bit rusty, it wasn’t bad. The painting captured the essence of how this place made
her
feel, which was all she really cared about. It wasn’t like anyone else was ever going to see it. Sh
e’d
stopped showing her work to anyone long ago.

After carefully packing up her easel, paints, and brushes, she picked up the canvas, preparing to go home. As she exited the park, she turned her head to look back up at the church tower one last time.

A centuries-old church, an oasis of serenity in the middle of a modern city.

She smiled.

On the way home her stomach began to rumble, so she wandered around until she spotted a small coffeehouse. At least it appeared to be a coffeehouse. A steaming mug painted on what looked like a homemade sign was the only outward indication of what type of business it was.

She pushed open the heavy glass door and the delicate ringing of chimes announced her entrance. She was slightly embarrassed by the attention it drew to her arrival, but no one else seemed to notice. She looked around the small shop, admiring the way the dark hardwood floor highlighted the pale-blue walls. The interior was bigger than sh
e’d
expected but still not very large, with just a handful of wooden tables occupying the open space in front of the counter. Classical music played in the background, much like at her parents’ house. In contrast to the sterile chill she always felt there, however, the vibe here was warm and inviting. Though she had yet to speak to a soul, she already felt at home.

She studied the large chalkboard mounted above the cash register. A list of menu options was displayed in bright purple. It didn’t matter what the choices were, however. She already knew what she would order, assuming they had it.

“Hi, there. What can I get you?”

She blinked and saw the man standing behind the counter smiling at her. His face was a bit unshaven but not sloppily so, his eyes green and friendly. He wore a plaid flannel button-down over a white T-shirt, both untucked, and jeans. She guessed he was probably in his mid to late thirties. She cast her eyes downward, suddenly aware of the number of details sh
e’d
ingested so quickly.

“Do you have blueberry scones?” she asked.

“Sure do.”

“
I’d
like one, please, and a skim latte.” She kept her eyes fixed on the hardwood floor.

“To stay or to take away?”

“Oh, to stay, please.” Sh
e’d
never heard either term but figured they were the equivalent of
for here
and
to go
. Her answer surprised her, as she hadn’t planned on eating here, but there was something about the place that she found so appealing that she didn’t want to leave just yet.

“You okay there?”

She forced herself to look up at him. “Excuse me?”

He put both palms on the counter and smiled again. “You look a little rattled. It’s just espresso in the latte, I promise. We run a clean operation here.”

Katrina swallowed. “Oh, I’m okay, thanks.” She realized she was almost whispering. He was clearly trying to be friendly. Why couldn’t she at least laugh at his joke? She never knew when an attack of shyness would hit, but for some reason, she felt struck with timidity by this man’s friendly overtures.

“I take it you’re not from here?”

“Is it that obvious?” She offered a weak smile and wished she weren’t so awkward around strangers, especially such amiable ones. Or handsome ones.

“Just a little. Were you just painting?” He nodded at her folded-up easel.

She felt her cheeks turning pink. “It’s not very good.”

He smiled. “I doubt that. If yo
u’d
like to have a seat, I’ll bring over that latte when it’s ready. Here’s your scone.” He gestured toward the tables and passed her a plate, and when he lifted his left hand she immediately saw the ring on his third finger. She averted her eyes again, mortified that sh
e’d
even noticed.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” he asked.

She knew she should regain eye contact, that any normal human being would simply look him in the eye, but she couldn’t make herself do it. Despite being flustered, she wanted to say something friendly in return, at least
thank you
, but all she could bring herself to do was nod politely. She turned around and silently cursed herself as she scanned the room for a place to sit.

Most of the tables were empty, so she headed toward one near the front windows and spread out the
New York Times
sh
e’d
bought earlier. Sh
e’d
always enjoyed reading it at home, but doing so in Manhattan felt so much more right. Plus she wanted to get her mind off the awkwardness of that encounter. She was all too familiar with her reaction and hated the way she came across when she got shy, but hating it didn’t make it any easier to change.

She put her head down and began to read.

“Here’s your skim latte, ma’am.” The sound of a male voice startled her out of the article sh
e’d
been reading about a new community center in the Bronx. Sh
e’d
regained control of her nerves, and this time she was determined to be pleasant, approachable,
normal
. She looked up with a semiforced smile, but the face wasn’t the same one as the friendly man behind the counter. This one belonged to a scraggly youth who looked painfully bored.

“Oh, thank you,” she said as he set down the steaming cup in front of her.

“No problem.”

As he sauntered away, she casually glanced over her shoulder at the counter.

Flannel Shirt Barista was gone.

Katrina ran into Grace on her way back into her building, carrying the same box sh
e’d
had with her the night before.

“Hey, Kat. How’s your first day here going?”

“Honestly? I think I need a nap. And maybe a massage.”

Grace held up her free hand for a high five. “Way to overdo it right out of the gate. I like it. What’s up with the art supplies?”

Katrina high-fived her back. “Oh, just a little painting I did. Nothing fancy.”

Grace raised her eyebrows. “You paint?”

“I
try
to paint. I don’t know if I actually
paint
. What are you up to?”

Grace patted the box. “Another meeting with a potential buyer. More getting my hopes up, more dreams dashed, the usual. I swear to God this is worse than online dating.”

“Is it really that hard to get someone to carry your jewelry?”

“Actually, it’s even harder than that.”

“I’m sorry, Grace. For what it’s worth, I think the necklaces you showed me last night are beautiful. I’ve never seen anything like them.”

“Do you want one?” Grace set down the box and opened it. “I have an overstock situation going on here.” She pulled out one with the interlocking circles.

“
I’d
love one! How much are they?” Katrina asked. She didn’t have much cash in her wallet.

“Shut up,” Grace said. “Consider it a welcome-to–New York gift.”

Katrina put a hand over her mouth. “Really?”

“Of course. Here you go.” Grace handed her a small plastic pouch, then bent down and picked up the box. “I’ve gotta skedaddle. Wish me luck.”

Katrina pressed the pouch against her chest. “Good luck. And thanks so much for this. I really appreciate it.”

Grace nodded at Katrina’s easel. “No problem. Maybe in return you can paint me in the buff sometime.”

Katrina’s jaw dropped.

“Kidding, just kidding,” Grace said. “See ya.”

That evening, wearing her brand-new necklace with a simple green sheath and black flats, Katrina went to have a drink with a woman wh
o’d
been an RA in her dorm during her freshman year of college. Her name was Brittany, and she worked at an investment firm on Wall Street. Sh
e’d
suggested they meet in Tribeca at a trendy Mexican restaurant called Super Linda that was a few blocks from her place. Given Brittany’s busy work schedule—and Katrina’s lack thereof—Katrina didn’t mind hiking across town to see her.