Honey Read online

  They settled into a pattern, meeting weekly, more often when his ever-shifting work schedule allowed it. Either way, he made it a point to touch base once a day, preferably by phone but at least by text, not only to say hi but most importantly to make sure that she was all right, that Drew hadn’t hurt her again. So far as Marc knew, he hadn’t. According to Honey, who was still infuriatingly tight-lipped on the subject, Drew was slammed at work, including managing a new private investment pool he’d set up for middle-income people to have access to making money in the market. Marc was happy to hear it. Hell, he’d welcome another crash if it meant keeping Winterthur occupied and away from her. Every time he watched her walk off, he wondered if their next meet-up would be in the ER or worse, the morgue. Until she decided to leave—and it was, he reluctantly admitted, her decision, not his—they would play things as safely as possible, including steering clear of any place in the vicinity of midtown or Wall Street.

  With the weather warming up, more and more their clandestine catch-ups occurred outdoors in public parks, or at least they started there. Sometimes their rendezvous segued to brunch or dinner. When that happened, Marc always paid. Along with being raised by his mother to be a “gentleman,” he’d noticed that Honey didn’t carry much cash, though she did have a credit card, which she very rarely used, at least not in his presence. It might or might not be in her name, but he bet anything the monthly statement went to Winterthur. He wasn’t a psychiatrist but he’d seen and read enough to know that control was a big-driver issue for most abusers. Keeping Honey on a short leash financially was likely one of the ways Winterthur exerted his.

  Still, despite his “friendship” with her, little had changed. She was still living in Winterthur’s Park Avenue apartment—and under his thumb. Knowing the bastard must make at least occasional love to her, if you could call using someone’s body for sport, and occasionally as a punching bag, “making love,” had him seeing red. The thought of Honey in the bastard’s bed and at his mercy made Marc want to punch things—starting with Winterthur’s face. But since doing so would bring on all kinds of trouble for Honey, he settled for a substitute. Going back to boxing at his local gym wasn’t going to move any mountains, but at least the workouts helped him release the tension and anger in a safe, healthy way. Too bad Winterthur didn’t try it.

  The tension wasn’t only anger; it had a strong sexual component as well. Honey might be just his “friend,” but the desire to be more to her hadn’t gone away just because he’d found his mislaid morals. If anything, it was stronger than ever. But right now she didn’t need a second lover complicating her life. What she needed, all she needed, was a friend who had her well-being at heart. Marc focused on being that for her.

  That didn’t mean it was easy.

  He descended the curved steps from the statue of Mahatma Gandhi to where Honey had finally stopped snapping pictures of him with her iPhone camera. Situated on the periphery of the park’s southwest corner, the bronze depicting the renowned Indian leader was set against a backdrop of magnolia trees in full blossom. Eyeing the stalls of the green market, where not only fruits, vegetables, and meats were sold but also an array of artisanal cheeses, wines, and baked goods, all of them locally sourced, Marc heard his stomach rumble. Earlier he’d suggested they put off picture taking, pull up a bench, and make a picnic of the goods they’d bought.

  But Honey could be stubborn when she felt something to be sufficiently important, a character trait that gave Marc hope that her days as an abused kept woman might well be numbered. Noting the fire in her eyes and the firming of her mouth, he recognized this was one of those times—and that he didn’t have a chance.

  Those blossoms, she pointed out, flinging a slender arm back toward the tree, were as fragile and fleeting as they were beautiful. One good rain would send most of the petals dropping. A slightly overcast sky and the weather forecast calling for midday thunderstorms bore her out. Marc resigned himself to more posing.

  “You must be the worst model ever,” she declared, softening the complaint with a smile. “Besides being a fidget, you’re a blinker.”

  Marc admitted to both. “I’ve singlehandedly managed to mess up every family Christmas and Fourth of July photo for the past two decades. My mother says I was drawn to emergency medicine because it always keeps me in motion. I’ve never admitted it before, but I think she may be right. A desk job would kill me. Unless I’m reading, I seriously hate sitting still. Even then I’m more likely to pick up my tablet and start pacing.”

  He paused there, belatedly wondering what had started him babbling. Honey was incredibly easy to talk to. Over the past months, he’d probably strung more words into sentences with her than he had in the last five years of dating. And she was fun, seriously fun. Be it something as simple as strolling through the city on a quest for the perfect angle, light, backdrop—whatever—she was a great companion, a great friend, a great …

  Rather than go “there,” he glanced down at her hands. “Can I see?”

  “Sure, but remember to be gentle. I’m still … learning.” She held out the phone.

  He took it from her, flipping through the last few photo frames. “Whoa, these are really good. You have a real eye.” The compliment wasn’t only intended to boost her self-confidence. He meant it.

  She dismissed his praise with a shrug of her slender shoulders. “I’m just an amateur.”

  Not for the first time it struck him how often she prefaced her passions and accomplishments with “just,” as if by getting the jump start on minimizing herself, she might divert some knockdown blow.

  “Everybody starts out that way. You think the Sistine Chapel was Michelangelo’s first time picking up a paintbrush? That Frank Lloyd Wright started out with Fallingwater as his inaugural project? That he didn’t maybe, you know, try designing something simpler like a tree house first?” He would have referenced a famous photographer too, but off the top of his head he couldn’t come up with any.

  But he had her laughing, and that was something. Shaking her head, she shot him a smile. “You really are sweet, but I’m hardly in the same league.”

  At times like this, Marc could have shaken her—gently, of course. “My point is to stop being so hard on yourself. How do you even know what league you’re in until you try? Why not take a class, one class, and see how that goes? There’s the New School or SVA or … ” He stopped when he saw her gaze glazing over.

  “Classes and camera equipment cost money,” she said, looking beyond him toward the green market which showed signs of winding down.

  So do shoes, Marc felt like saying, but for once kept his mouth shut—sort of. “Why not make like the Nike ad and ‘Just Do It?’”

  She slid the phone back into her purse and looked back up at him. “Maybe I will … someday.”

  In Marc’s assessment, someday usually equated to never, but tough as it was, he kept his lip buttoned and his judgments to himself—for now. Instead, he said, “You know I may still be a lowly ER resident, but I do okay for myself. I have some money set aside, and I’d be happy to—”

  “I will not take money from you.” Her fierce look took him aback. He hadn’t seen anything like it since that first day, the morning when he followed her back to the Park Avenue apartment.

  “At least hear me out first before deciding.”

  “I’ve already decided,” she said, her expression softening, though her voice held firm. “Besides, you disapprove of me. Don’t trouble yourself to deny it. It’s true.”

  “I do not … well, who cares what I think? I just—”

  “I do not accept money from disapproving gentlemen,” she answered gamely.

  Mark bit back a groan. Another Audrey quote! From Breakfast at Tiffany’s, he believed. In the spirit of being a better … friend to her, a couple of weeks ago he’d streamed it from Netflix and watched the whole thing through. Though he’d neve
r been a fan of old films—the whole “Sally Tomato” subplot was supremely silly—this one was more entertaining than he had reason to expect. Or maybe it was his knowing how much the movie meant to Honey that had made it of interest to him.

  “Consider it as a loan if that makes you feel more comfortable,” he conceded, though he never meant for it to be anything but a free-and-clear gift. That Honey wasn’t prepared to accept it in that way called for some creativity on his part. He paused to regroup, an idea tickling the corners of his mind. “Or maybe we could work out some sort of barter agreement.”

  Her gaze narrowed. “What kind of barter?”

  Her suspicion was as apparent as her uniquely pretty mouth. A few months ago he might have been offended, but not so now. Now he got it—her. It wasn’t that she distrusted him specifically. It was men as a whole. Not for the first time, he wondered what relationships might have preceded the one with Winterthur. Though he couldn’t put his finger on exactly why, he was starting to suspect she hadn’t ever had a real adult boyfriend.

  Marc circled back to her question. What could he reasonably—and respectably—have her do for him that, above all, wouldn’t get her into hot water with Winterthur? Jiggling his knee, he thought for a moment. Eureka—he had it. His mother, when she visited, was always on his case about his apartment. Not only was it a “wreck” so far as mess went, but apparently it was so uninviting as to merit being called Spartan, or so she complained. Along with being low on time and patience for fixing it up, Marc was afraid he didn’t have the taste. Fabric swatches, paint chips, draperies, and home décor items—it was all part of a foreign world he couldn’t begin to figure out.

  But he bet Honey could. He thought back to his first, and only, time inside her apartment. Despite her “boyfriend” busting the place up along with her, he remembered it as sophisticated but also charming. Someone had obviously taken considerable time and care in searching for unique, not cookie-cutter, furnishings and pieces. Marc seriously doubted that person was Winterthur.

  Hoping he could sell her on the idea, he steered them over to an empty bench. Settling onto it, he shifted to face her. “I bought my place a few years ago. The building is early twentieth century and doesn’t have all that much in the way of amenities, but it gets great light and it still has most of the original features.”

  Her face lit. “I love prewar apartments. They have such great bones.”

  “Yeah, well the problem with my place is that it’s so barebones. It still looks like I just moved in and with my work schedule—”

  “I’d love to help you redo it.”

  “You would?” Could convincing her really be this easy?

  She nodded. “I’m no expert. Whatever I know is completely self-taught. But I do have a … friend with a background in interior design. He works in Manhattan as a window dresser for Ralph Lauren.”

  Until now, Marc hadn’t heard her mention having any friends of either gender. For a fleeting, not very self-flattering moment, he felt a twinge of actual jealousy. Tamping it down, he nodded. “Ralph Lauren, wow, that’s great.” To Marc, one designer was the same as another; still, the Ralph Lauren brand was so strong, even he knew the name.

  She nodded. “It really is. He has all sorts of imaginative ideas. Who knows, he might even lend us his employee discount. I’d have to ask him about that, of course.”

  “That’d be great, but no pressure. I mean I don’t want to put anyone on the spot.” He hesitated. “When uh … do you think you might want to come by and, you know, have a look?”

  She hesitated. “I’ll have to check my … schedule. Can I let you know tomorrow?”

  By her schedule, what she meant was Drew’s. But it was what it was—for now.

  “Sure,” Marc forced himself to answer. Pulling one of the croissants he’d bought earlier out from the white paper bag, he handed it to her.

  “Yum, thank you,” she said, taking a big bite.

  For the next few minutes, they ate in companionable quiet. Feeling a drop on his nose, Marc looked up. Clouds were moving in, no doubt about it. “Looks like we’re getting rained on after all,” he observed.

  Honey sent him what he now recognized as her I told you so look but otherwise she refrained from rubbing it in. “The wind is picking up,” she said, reaching up to deal with the loosened hair lashing her face.

  Marc couldn’t resist. He reached over and tucked a thick caramel-colored lock behind the shell of her ear, his hand lingering on her jaw.

  “Thanks,” she said, looking down—looking shy. “I should go back to wearing hats.”

  Marc dropped his hand. Drinking in the sweet silhouette of her downturned face, he felt a pang of real regret. Had he been too quick to jump to “just friends” as their only solution? Once Winterthur was out of the picture, and Marc hoped to God that wouldn’t be much longer, might it be time to revisit what he’d already come to think of as their relationship?

  “You look great in hats, only maybe not the really big ones. They hide too much of your face.”

  “Maybe sometimes I like hiding.”

  Marc swallowed hard, his throat knotting. “You shouldn’t have to.”

  She looked up at him, smile fleeting, eyes not so much sad as … wistful. “What next?” she asked, changing the subject. “Or do you have to get back?”

  “I have some time.” Actually he had a thousand things on his plate—errands to run, cleaning chores to do (his apartment might as yet be no showplace but that didn’t mean it had to be filthy), groceries to buy—but none of them seemed anywhere near as important as spending this precious one-on-one time with Honey. “I know it’s supposedly spring but how would you feel about heading across the street to Max Brenner’s for a real, non-Starbucks hot chocolate?”

  Brightening, Honey smiled, this time without reservation. “‘Chocolate by the bald man’—how can I possibly resist? So long as you don’t mind making a fast stop first, that would be divine.”

  *

  Leaving the park with Marc, Honey crossed 14th Street and headed for the vendors lining the sidewalk from Designer Shoe Warehouse to Juicy Couture. Only it wasn’t knockoff handbags or sunglasses or any of the sundry New York-themed tchotchkes sold with tourists in mind that drew her. It was the rescue cats and kittens displayed for adoption.

  Six days a week, rain or shine, the weathered African woman with the brightly colored head scarves and weary eyes set up her folding table, pet cages, and supplies in the same spot of sidewalk across from the park. Since discovering her by chance almost a year ago, Honey had made it a point to stop by at least once a month, more if she could manage it. Regardless of the season, the rescuer always had a new supply of cats and kittens in desperate need of homes, always a new heartbreaking true story of cats that had been abandoned or otherwise abused, not just in Manhattan but throughout the five boroughs. Honey had a hard time hearing those stories, but because she felt it was important, deeply important, neither to turn her back or close off her ears to animal suffering, she made a point of listening for as long as she could. Welling tears were her signal to herself that she was approaching the limit of what she could bear. Then and only then did she make her excuses and move on. Hearing the hard-luck stories was the difficult part; cuddling one of the kittens was a delight to which she looked forward all month.

  The visits always ended the same way, with the woman holding out a sweet-faced kitten and imploring, “Please, won’t you give this baby a home?” And each time Honey would shake her head and explain that she didn’t have time to take care of a pet, her building didn’t allow them, her roommate was allergic et cetera. Whatever her fib du jour was, seeing the woman’s look of disappointment slashed at her heart. Feeling the telltale prick of tears, she’d hurry to hand over whatever spare money she’d mustered and make her getaway before she might weaken.

  Drew might not be allergic, but he
detested cats. He wasn’t particularly fond of dogs either. He was always complaining that the Yorkie for whom Katharine had paid top dollar to a breeder upstate was a farter. But cats he truly hated. He barely tolerated the stuffed animal, Mr. Pinky, Honey kept on her nightstand.

  She glanced to Marc. “I won’t be but a minute.”

  He shrugged. “Take as long as you like.”

  The way he’d let her lead him over without question or complaint warmed her. Despite his crazy busy schedule, he never acted as though he was in a rush, let alone more important than anyone else. His humility was yet another thing she loved—liked—about him. Before meeting Marc, she hadn’t acknowledged the extent to which six plus years of stroking and otherwise supporting an epic ego such as Drew’s had drained her. And Marc was soooooo patient. With all those winning qualities stacking up, it was becoming harder and harder to think of him as “just a friend”—or to want to. Even his helping her with her hair back in the park had sent her senses seesawing, the practical if not precisely impersonal touch tempting her to lean in and claim what she craved—more of those heart-melting, breath-stealing, altogether amazing kisses he was so good at giving.

  And he’d been so sweet about the whole photo thing, posing for her even though he admitted to hating having his picture taken. His modesty was yet another endearing trait, especially since he came with chiseled features and a hot body that many a professional model might covet. If she happened to find out he liked cats, too, it might well push her over the edge of reason. As it stood, keeping her hands to herself, meaning “off him,” wasn’t getting any easier. Her new “gig” as his unofficial interior decorator would likely stretch her self-control to the limit; still, the opportunity to spend more time with him in private was too golden to pass up.