“Well, it’s been too long, darling. We must get together soon and grill each other on everything. Bye-ee!” Troi blows her a kiss.
I brush past her without saying a word. Tears bloom in the corners of my eyes. I grab Troi’s hand, eager to cross Broadway before the light turns.
We run the last few steps to avoid a bicyclist. The curb snags my toe, and I tumble forward. Troi saves me yet again, sparing me from completing my fall. While able to support my weight, I instead lean against a building and erupt into a blubbering pool of self-pity. “Her? He left me for her? What a cow! After everything I did for her, she repays me by stealing my husband? This is so unfair!”
Troi cradles my head. “You deserve better, sweetie. There should be a rule about bonking someone else’s husband. Well, don’t do it would be rule number one. But if you behave like a whore, you have to have the ovaries to admit it when you’re caught. Can you believe she said she was buying baby clothes for a friend? She’s the lowest of the low, and I forbid you from shedding a single tear over her.”
“But it’s her fault I lost everything. And she saw me at my absolute worst. Why does she get to gloat over what a mess I’ve become since I’ve moved out of the penthouse on Fifth Avenue?”
“You’re not a mess, honey. I mean, in general. Today’s outfit, well, you won’t look out of place at the paint store.”
“Aren’t you a font of sympathy? I’m not going to the paint store. Being in public sucks. First Wilma proved it three days ago, and now Giselle.”
“What does one have to do with the other?”
“When I was Mrs. Brandon Davis, people respected me. I had a stellar reputation as a curator. No one ignored my advice or refused to pay me on the rare occasions I asked for a fee. Or shamed me.” I shake my head. “What does it matter? It was silly to hope that I could turn my hobby into a career.”
Troi offers me his hand, pulling me away from the wall. “You’re better than all the Wilmas and Giselles of the world. Let me recite the infinite list of why Emma is the greatest living being. Reason number one: she knows my actual age and has never revealed it to anyone.”
I wipe away a tear gliding down the side of my nose. “True. But what else? I’m hoping you can offer more significant details.”
He holds his hand to his forehead in a swoon. “I’m feeling a tad peckish. Buy me a cappuccino. And a pastry. I’m sure I’ll remember many, many more of the fabulous things I love about you once you’ve nourished me.”
“Be sure to mention my patience and generosity. Who else would put up with such a demanding queen?”
“No one. You alone have devoted yourself to the care and feeding of Troi. What you offer can be measured in each and every thing you have done to make me happy. When you can dedicate you energies to making yourself happy, well, I guarantee the world will be an infinitely better place.”
His words warm me, but they’re not enough to shush the voice in my head reminding me of my failures.
CHAPTER FIVE
I HEAR THE LOCALS AREN'T THE LEAST BIT STABBY
I FLICK THROUGH the brochure I picked up from the farm stand last Friday. The picture of cheery orange pumpkins stacked in front of an open barn reminds me that the world at large is not as bleak as Manhattan. The person in another picture carrying a basket of red peppers wouldn’t have the time to destroy the life of her former friend.
Seated in front of my laptop, I search for Jimmy Creek on Google Maps. I drop the yellow humanoid onto the town’s main street. Troi hovers over my shoulder, placing his mouth in close proximity to my ear. Each clearing of his throat or soft hmm he utters stands in for my absent voice of reason. I jerk my head away from him.
He squints at the screen. “Please tell me you’re not planning to buy property in the farmer’s sad little town.”
“I’m curious, that’s all. Where’s the harm in a vicarious trip to the country?”
I won’t confess to being more than curious. New York City offers me nothing. I live in a construction zone. My wisp of an idea for turning curating into a career has evaporated. My husband cheated on me with a former friend whom I’m sure is now telling everyone from my former life how insane and unkempt I am, post divorce.
Were I in a more rational state, the paltry, tattered collection of buildings comprising Jimmy Creek’s downtown would scare me more than the abandoned garages in Brooklyn Aunt Donna left to Lauren to convert into an apartment building. Our great-aunt was a seasoned real estate developer who knew which properties held value. I’m just a bored and aimless woman with a hefty divorce settlement.
Since nothing else in my life is reasonable, why not pretend I can curate a town? I pour over each square inch of the digital version of this tiny town in the Catskills, feeding a nascent artistic vision. Allowing myself to dream of reimagining the commercial buildings in a faded, unfamiliar town hoists me an inch or two out of my emotional quicksand.
I click forward on the street, mentally filling each rickety building on the western side of the road with an artisanal shop. I spruce up the exteriors to create a cohesive statement no one could resist.
Troi scoots his chair away from me. “I’ve seen enough. The place could be the set for the opening scene of a horror movie.”
“I’m not done.” I hit the back arrow to take another peek at the bird’s-eye view of the town. “Wait. What’s this?” I zoom in on a property across the street from a lake. “Score! The town has a resort.”
“More like a last resort. Picture this: two carefree lovers are out for a drive. They get hopelessly lost.”
I scoff at him. “No one with a cell phone can get lost anymore.”
“But they’re deep in New York’s backwaters. They’ve lost their cell signal. The sun is setting. They stop in front of the lake, placing more importance on taking the perfect selfie than on their survival. The whinier of the two—”
“Oh, so it’s an autobiography?” I snicker at Troi.
He crosses his arms, scowling at me. “Now that’s just mean. What I meant to say was the woman complains she’s hungry and too tired and scared to find her way home in the dark. Her boyfriend spots the sign for the local inn across from the lake. They check in. Worst decision ever! I won’t dwell on the gory details, but it’s worth mentioning that a man who refuses to wear anything besides a bear costume lives in the forest behind the inn. And he does the bidding of the ladies auxiliary of the local church. They equip him with knitting needles. No stranger checking into the inn has ever checked out. Bwa ha ha!”
“Lovely. While you spun your tale, I checked the listing for the Jimmy Creek Resort on Trip Advisor. It has a two point six rating based on three reviews. While people call it depressing, thread-worn, and decidedly uncrowded, I see no reference to the local denizens being the least bit stabby.”
“Book a getaway, then. It’s my picture-perfect dream hotel.” His eyebrows slide from their sky-high sarcastic arch into the bridge of his nose. “Do you really want to own a town in the Catskills?”
“What I want is to sink my teeth into a meaningful project. But I’m totally not feeling the whole making a career out of curating exhibits for people like Wilma. Quite frankly, I’m not feeling Manhattan anymore, either.”