Summer in the City

Click. Click. Click.

My five-inch heels, my everyday shoe choice, echo through the renovated train terminal, their sounds competing only with the noise of the tourists’ wheeled suitcases. Other than that, there was silence. Almost a reverential silence. Like the kind you experience in a church or some libraries or museums.

Are the tourists too overawed to speak? It’s almost spooky.

I wonder if a noise deafening device has been installed during the renovation.

There should be more noise here. Especially with all these hard surfaces. I’ll have to look into that. Maybe it’s something I can use in my next book, if there even is a next book.

As I sprint through the space, I also realize, now that the renovations are complete, the cavernous space no longer reeks of piss, sweat, and unwashed bodies. Now the hall smells of freshly roasted coffee from one of the fashionable barista booths. The floors sparkle. Not a trace of crumpled up candy wrappers, ticket stubs, or used tissues littered the floor, thanks to the non-stop sweeping and vigilance of the men patrolling with their brooms and silent butlers. The new mayor’s promise that the Moynihan Train Hall would serve as a welcoming gateway into New York City for travelers from across the United States has come true. I look up at the glass domed ceiling that floods the main hall with sunlight. Light bounces off the chrome and glass structures that encircle the escalators to the train gates below, and the waiting room whose sign says Ticket Holders Only.

I wonder how long that rule will last and if the cops will enforce it at all.

Something else hits me full force. Even though I know I’m hanging on to my thirties by the teeniest tips of my fingers, I don’t think I’m invisible.

When did men stop noticing me? How long has this been the norm?

I remember telling my agent, Miranda, that I haven’t had a date in forever. If that situation doesn’t change soon, I can forget about ever having a date again, much less a relationship. I wonder why I bother wearing five-inch heels and designer clothes when men walk past me like I look no different to them than any other woman they pass on the street.

I’m panting from my short sprint through the terminal. I am so-o-o out of shape. I stop to search the arrivals board for my niece’s train.

I take deep breaths to calm myself and find the track number.

I run towards the correct escalator, and as I turn the corner, slam into the rock hard chest of a man headed in the opposite direction. When I look up to apologize, I’m staring into a face with mesmerizing navy blue eyes and one deep dimple, one I haven’t seen for a long time. My heart takes a giant leap right up into my throat and throws me back to a time years ago when I thought I could look into those eyes forever.

“What are you doing here?” They both say at the same time.

Jack! The one person I least want to see today, or any day come to think of it. And why does he still have to be so handsome? Even after all these years he never seems to age. I do not need him muddling my brain just when I’m taking on this huge responsibility for the summer.

“I asked first,” he says.

“No, you didn’t.”

“Does it really matter, Charlotte? Now why are you here? You can’t be going somewhere. No luggage.”

“I’m here to pick up my niece. I’s visiting for the summer. Why are you here?”

“Dropping off a client. I doesn’t know her way around the city and I didn’t want her to get lost.”

“Ha! An altruistic Jack. A little out of character for you, isn’t it?”

“You know, Charlotte, I’m really not a monster.”

I look at him through squinted eyes. “Maybe. Maybe not. I have to go. See you around.”

Why do I even answer him? All he does is aggravate me.

I skirt past him and head downstairs to the gate. Later, I can describe this to friends as a descent into hell. As clean and bright as the main hall is, the platforms and lower levels are equally dark, dismal, and dirty. I wonder if the mayor had bothered to go downstairs when he toured this new terminal. For this area is owned by the city’s pimps, pickpockets, prostitutes, petty thieves, and the homeless. They haven’t left the old Penn Station. They’ve relocated to its underground world.

And if I don’t get my head straightened out soon, I may be joining them.

A feeling of danger hides behind every column, or down every staircase. 

A feeling I might be able to use in my next book.

Here I am, a best-selling romance novelist with a history of over fifteen books on the New York Times Best Seller list, and I’ve decided that what I hope might be my next book, will be a psychological thriller. A new genre that terrifies and excites ne as much as this underworld does.

Earlier, I only hinted to Miranda I might try something new. In actuality, I’m well into the book, about three-quarters of the way through the story. I hope that easing Miranda into the idea is better than springing the completed manuscript on her all at once. At least I didn’t have to listen to her moan and groan over the last six months about how much she missed the usual love story she was used to getting.

But my last romance novel drained me. I had no choice but to branch out into a different type of book. And a thriller sounded like the perfect choice. A thrilling experiment. One thing I hadn’t counted on though was all the research I would need to do for this novel to make it sound realistic. It was a lot of work. However, I know this is my only hope to keep my career alive. Since romances were out, and all the other genres held no appeal, it’s either write a best-selling thriller or go back to working in an office full-time.

If anyone would even hire a thirty-nine year old assistant editor or agent. With no experience. Ha! Fat chance.

I had to make this novel work.

Or maybe I could rekindle my romance with Jack. Now that I think about it, he actually was a pretty good catch. He was always kind and considerate of my feelings. And, god knows, I had him jumping through hoops all the time. That famous temper of mine. How did he even tolerate me? Maybe all I need right now is a good solid love affair. Maybe that will stop all the self-doubts I’ve been experiencing lately. Doubts about my ability to write another best-seller. Doubts about my ability to attract a man’s attention. Doubts about ever finding love again. Like the love I shared with Jack.

Maybe it is time to give Jack a second chance. If he’ll even have me. Now there’s the million dollar question. Would he be willing to take a second chance with me? We’ve stayed friendly, or something like that, over the years, so maybe. It’s worth a shot. I’ll never know unless I try. Right?

Okay. I’ve decided. As soon as I get home, I’ll give him a call and invite him to dinner at my apartment. And we’ll see where it goes from there.

           Oh, I feel so much better just thinking about how the night will end.

Just one little snag. My niece. Why did I think inviting a seventeen-year-old to spend the summer with me was a good idea? Because my sister said she needed a break from the high school girls who were bullying her all year. And I guess I can’t change my mind now. Her train is pulling into the station.

Guess my reunion with Jack will have to wait until the fall. Or will it? Time to put my creative, and devious, mind to the task to solve this dilemma. This summer might turn out to be one of the most entertaining ones I’ve had in a long time.