Rushing Waters Page 3

  “It was pretty awful,” Ellen confirmed. “My mother’s building was very badly damaged. I wanted her to move uptown after that. But she wouldn’t. She loves living downtown.”

  “It sounds dangerous to me,” Charles said, watching the wind whip the trees as they sped along toward the city, but the rain had let up, and as they got into Manhattan, the wind didn’t seem as fierce. Charles was just grateful to be back on terra firma. And they spoke of more innocuous things for the rest of the ride. Ellen tried to pay for half the trip when they got to her mother’s building in Tribeca, and Charles wouldn’t let her.

  “Don’t be ridiculous—you’ll need the money for therapy for your arm,” he said, and she laughed.

  “My arm is fine. And you’re very kind to let me ride with you. I hope you have a wonderful time with your girls,” she said warmly.

  “And you with your mother,” he said with a smile, and seemed like a normal person, and not the basket case he had been on the plane, when he was convinced they were going to crash. “And I hope you’re right and there won’t be a proper hurricane while we’re here.” The driver got out, took Ellen’s bag out of the trunk, and handed it to the doorman, who smiled when he recognized her and hurried inside with the bag.

  “Thank you again,” Ellen called out to Charles as she smiled and waved at him from the sidewalk. The driver started the cab again and drove off, as Charles waved back at her. He was grateful to have been sitting next to her on the plane and was sure he would have lost his mind without her.

  All he could think of now was seeing Lydia and Chloe. He turned his cell phone on as soon as he thought of it, and called their mother’s number, but all he got was her voicemail. He left her a message to say he was in New York, at the Soho Grand, and hoped she’d call him back so he could see the girls over the weekend. And as he headed to his hotel, Ellen used her keys and let herself into her mother’s apartment. Grace called a few minutes later and promised to be home soon. Ellen went to unpack, and an hour later her mother walked into the apartment and put her arms around her with delight when she saw her. Grace wasn’t as tall as Ellen, but she was a striking woman, with red hair and green eyes, and features very much like her daughter’s. She looked distinguished and aristocratic, but in no way snobbish. She was wearing black slacks and a black sweater with her long hair in a braid down her back, which she frequently wore when she was working. And a little white Maltese had come in with her and was barking frantically at their feet as mother and daughter embraced and smiled happily at each other. It was obvious that Grace was thrilled to see her.

  “Take it easy, Blanche, it’s only Ellen.” The little ball of white fur was dancing around in circles, showing off for the familiar visitor. The dog was the love of her mother’s life and her constant companion. Blanche even went to the office with her, and Grace took pride in saying she had become a weird old lady with a little white dog, and didn’t seem to mind the image. Grace Madison was above all herself and made no apology for it.

  Ellen looked around the familiar apartment as they sat down in the living room on the enormous, oversized white wool couch she’d gotten for her mother. There were two large white hand-woven rugs on the floor, striking modern furniture mixed in with a few mid-twentieth-century pieces, and colorful contemporary paintings. Grace had designed the apartment herself, on two levels, and it felt more like a house than an apartment. And despite the modern feel to it, it was warm and inviting. She lit a fire in the glass fireplace, and the coffee table was a single block of glass that she had had made in Paris. It was beautiful, as was the rest of the apartment, which was on the ground floor with a spectacular view of the Hudson River and the lights on the other side. It had taken a hit during Sandy, but she had staunchly refused to move afterward, even if there was a risk of it happening again. This was her home. She had had all the post-Sandy damage repaired.

  Blanche hopped up on the couch next to Grace, as the two women held hands, and Grace asked Ellen about the flight.

  “It was bumpy but fine. I guess the hurricane is coming,” Ellen commented, but her mother looked unconcerned.

  “It will wear itself out before it gets here. They always do.”

  After they’d been talking for two hours, Grace asked, “Do you want something to eat?” They wandered out to the kitchen, which was as beautiful as the rest of the apartment, and they nibbled from the fridge, but Ellen wasn’t really hungry. It was one in the morning for her by then, and she’d eaten enough on the plane. But she kept Grace company while she ate a salad. And as they sat talking for another half hour, Ellen forgot all about Charles Williams and how terrified he had been on the flight. Talking to him had helped pass the time during the bumpy end to the flight, but now she was home with her mother, and thoroughly enjoying her company.

  They were still catching up when Grace left her in the guest bedroom. Grace could hardly wait to spend ten days with her, and share a few easy, relaxed dinners. She kissed Ellen goodnight, and as soon as Ellen brushed her teeth and put on her nightgown, she climbed into bed, sent George a text telling him she had arrived safely, and she was asleep before her head hit the pillow.

  —

  And at the Soho Grand, Charles sent his ex-wife Gina one last text before he went to bed, and hoped she would respond in the morning. This was not a scheduled visit, and he had come at the last minute. He knew she didn’t have to answer him if she didn’t want to, but all he wanted to do was see his girls and spend some time with them. He felt, as he always did, that he had gotten a new lease on life when the plane didn’t crash, and now he wanted to see them more than ever. It was like being resurrected, after he had been so sure he would die on the flight. In his mind, they had been spared. And all he had to do now was get hold of Gina, and see his girls. He missed them constantly now that they were living in New York. Charles always felt as though Nigel had stolen not only his wife from him but his children and his life. And despite being exhausted and the time difference, it took him hours to fall asleep, worried that Gina wouldn’t call.

  Chapter 2

  It was pouring rain outside when Ellen woke up in the comfortable bed the next morning, in her mother’s guest room. Her mother had sold the apartment on Park Avenue that Ellen had grown up in when she moved to London and married George. Grace had moved downtown then, and loved the unusual two-level apartment she had found and reconfigured, in an old warehouse in Tribeca that had been turned into co-op apartments. There were twenty in the building, each one different, and Grace’s was the most unusual of all. The building was fully staffed, and like most of the apartments in Tribeca and the highly desirable areas downtown, units sold for a fortune. Grace felt totally at home in the lively atmosphere of the neighborhood, with families and young people living there, and she enjoyed the views along the river. She considered the Upper East Side too stuffy now, and went there as seldom as she could, except for her office, which was on Fifty-seventh Street and Park Avenue. Everything she needed and wanted to do socially or to relax was downtown, and Ellen always loved staying with her.

  Her mother was at her desk, checking her computer and paying some bills, when Ellen walked into the study her mother used when she occasionally worked at home. Since it was Saturday, Grace was wearing jeans and a red V-neck sweater with black ballet flats. She had a slim figure and was very fit. She had done yoga for years and still did. She had the erect posture of a dancer, which she attributed to years of ballet in her youth, before she discovered yoga. She had tried to get Ellen interested in it but never could. She thought it would be good for her and help her relax.

  “Nasty weather,” Ellen commented to her mother, glancing out the window as she sank into a comfortable chair. “What are they saying about the hurricane? Is it still heading this way?” They could see the slim trees outside swaying in the heavy wind, but it wasn’t unusual for end-of-summer storms.

  “More or less,” Grace said vaguely, clearly not worried, “and no matter what they say now, they’l
l declare it a tropical storm before it gets here.” Grace still kept a “go bag” buried in a closet somewhere, with clothes, a few minor medicines, and whatever she might need if they were ever evacuated again. But storm warnings in August and September were considered more of a nuisance than a serious threat.

  The building Grace lived in was in Zone 1, which had been categorized as the prime flood zone five years before, which was inevitable since it was on the river. And the building had added an emergency generator four years before, after Sandy, which was reassuring, and Grace really never gave it any thought. She wasn’t a person who dwelled on past hardships—she turned her mind to the future and moved on. She was a practical person with a positive point of view, which had influenced Ellen’s outlook on life since her youth.

  In her mother’s opinion, there was nothing one couldn’t do, a view that had fortified Ellen during the past four years as she doggedly pursued pregnancy, convinced that sooner or later their dreams of a family would come true. She kept her mind on the goal, that she and George would have their own baby one day. Although her mother had wondered for the past year if they might be wiser to come up with a more realistic alternate plan, like adoption, she hadn’t voiced her concerns to Ellen and didn’t want to discourage her. She thought their courage and determination admirable, even if a little desperate at times, and she was impressed that her son-in-law was still willing to go along with the plan, despite the poor outcome so far. Grace thought that most men would have given up by then. She and Ellen’s father had tried to have a second child for several years and after numerous miscarriages had decided that one child was enough for them, and she had never regretted not pursuing it further. The thought of what Ellen had gone through for the past four years seemed horrifying to Grace, although she could understand the desire to have at least one child, but adoption also seemed like an acceptable plan to her, and didn’t to them. She assumed their aversion to adoption had something to do with George’s traditional views about carrying on his own bloodline, as well as with her daughter’s stubborn refusal to give up. She was her mother’s daughter in many ways, in a slightly modified version. Both women were known for their strong wills, hard work, and perseverance.

  “What would you like to do today?” Grace smiled at her daughter across the desk, as they listened to the wind howling outside.

  “Whatever you want,” Ellen said easily. “I’m just happy being here with you. Do you have any errands we need to do?” They liked going shopping together, wandering around SoHo and Tribeca and stopping at some small restaurant for lunch, although it didn’t look like a great day for that. “Do you suppose we should stock up on some supplies in case the stores close and we get stuck at home for several days?” Ellen knew the drill for preparation for big storms.

  “Let’s not panic yet.” Grace dismissed the thought. “The storm warnings on the news will have half of New York lining up at supermarkets today, and then the hurricane will take a sharp turn somewhere and go out to sea at the last minute, and we’ll wind up with a mountain of bottled water and food we don’t need. I have flashlights, candles, batteries, and everything else. I hope they don’t get everyone all riled up again—they do it now every year. Like the boy who cried wolf. It took me months to drink all the water I stocked up last time, and I gave all the food to a homeless shelter to get rid of it. Let’s face it—how much canned tuna and peaches can you eat?” Ellen smiled at her mother and decided she was right. “A little shopping?” Grace suggested. “I need a new sweater for Blanche—she ate all the rhinestones off her old one.” She looked slightly annoyed, and Ellen laughed.

  “She has more clothes than I do. It’s a shame I don’t wear her size,” Ellen teased her. Her mother was unashamed of how much she loved the little dog, and readily admitted that she spoiled her rotten. There were dog toys all over the otherwise pristine living room, and most of the apartment.

  “We could do some shopping for us too,” her mother said thoughtfully. She was always generous with her daughter, and frequently sent her gifts in London when she saw something she thought Ellen would like.

  “I wouldn’t mind looking in at some of the vintage and antique stores. I have two clients to shop for while I’m here,” Ellen commented. And occasionally she made unexpected finds in some of the shops downtown, of unique items she couldn’t find anywhere else. Ellen liked pursuing unusual resources and made frequent trips to Paris, to the auction rooms at the Hôtel Drouot, where she had bought some fabulous things for her clients and even her own home. Going to Drouot was like a treasure hunt—you never knew what you would find. But she had had good luck over the years in SoHo too, although the weather wasn’t too conducive to shopping, but neither of them was daunted by it.

  Ellen had brought running shoes with her, and she knew she could borrow a raincoat from her mother. She made herself a cup of coffee, and they agreed to leave half an hour later. Ellen thought of calling George, but it would be lunchtime at the country home where he was staying, and she didn’t want to disturb them. She turned on a small TV in the kitchen and switched it to the Weather Channel to listen to the news. Weather maps in different colors were showing the hurricane’s path and speed, indicating that it was heading toward the shores of New Jersey and New York, but she knew that that could change at any moment, and often did. The announcer on the screen said that the city would be issuing hourly statements, but there were no plans to evacuate residents or shut down public transportation yet. It would be almost inevitable if the path the hurricane was on didn’t alter, but the storm was still far offshore in the Caribbean and much could still change, and it could be downgraded to a tropical storm long before it reached their shores. There was no cause for alarm yet, as Ellen switched off the TV and went upstairs to dress. She sent George a text message so as not to interfere with his activities or hosts. She knew he was staying at the crumbling old Tudor manor that had been in their friends’ family for years, which lent itself perfectly to the big weekend parties they liked to give, and which George enjoyed so much. Ellen sometimes found them a little overwhelming, among people who formed a tight clique many years before, but everyone was always pleasant to her, even if she wasn’t one of them, and she was part of the group now. Most of them had known each other as children, and even married childhood friends.

  Sometimes feeling like an outsider among them was a bond she shared with her friend Mireille. They laughed about it privately and made fun of them sometimes. Many of their social group were titled and could trace their ancestry back for half a dozen centuries with ease. It was a frequent topic of conversation among them—who had married and given birth to whom, legitimately or otherwise, and who had been the monarch at the time. It was a little hard to follow, didn’t interest Ellen a great deal, and seemed silly to her. But the others all took it very seriously, especially George. Ellen was more interested in the present, her activities, her life with George, and her work.

  Grace and Ellen left the building half an hour later and walked through Tribeca in the strong wind, as leaves blew off the trees and papers flew around their feet, but it wasn’t particularly unpleasant, and the slight chill in the air was invigorating. The temperature had dropped slightly the night before, and Ellen was comfortable in the sweater she had worn and the raincoat she had borrowed from her mother. Grace was wearing a slicker and shiny black Wellington boots, with her mane of red hair blowing in the wind. She didn’t seem to mind it, and they talked and laughed as they stopped at various shops Ellen knew in SoHo, although many of them were closed. No warnings had been issued, but people were uneasy, and some had stayed closed as a precaution and taped cardboard inside their windows. The greatest danger with heavy rains and wind was that branches would break off, flying from the trees, or trees would fall as their roots weakened in the wet earth. Ellen was careful not to walk under any and warned her mother to do the same. They were experienced New Yorkers who lived with hurricane warnings every fall and knew what to do. They had left t
he dog at home, because Grace said she hated the rain, although she had the wardrobe for it, with several raincoats and a set of tiny boots.

  “She won’t wear them, but she looks so cute in them.” Grace grinned as Ellen rolled her eyes.

  “Mom, don’t tell that to anyone—they’ll think you’re nuts.”

  “What can I tell you? She’s good company, and I love her. So what if people think it’s silly? I’m not hurting anyone.” Ellen knew it was true. There hadn’t been a man in her mother’s life in at least a dozen years. The last man Grace had dated had been a well-known architect too. They had worked on a joint project together and been quietly involved for several years, until he died suddenly of a heart attack, and there had been no one since. Her mother seemed to philosophically accept that women her age were not in high demand, and men in their sixties and seventies were usually involved with women half their age. “A great mind is no match for young thighs,” she said practically, “and I can’t blame them.” So she lavished her affection on Blanche, enjoyed her daughter when she saw her, loved her work, stayed busy, and had many friends. She was satisfied with her life and had stopped longing for a partner, although now and then she admitted that it would have been nice, however unlikely. And she said men her own age were too much trouble. At this point in her life, she didn’t want to be someone’s nurse, having missed all the good years with them. She always said she didn’t want to appear onstage in the last act. It was easier to just keep things as they were. And her work as an architect was still as all-consuming as it had ever been.