Now Felice and Emerson fall into a syncopation, they talk as if they’re catching up — rushing to fill in gaps — together watching the gradual, particulate shift of the light. Felice feels a wistful happiness: getting something that is not exactly what she’d expected. A sense of lowering the guard, of risking something, and of gently forgetting something important, though she couldn’t say exactly what.
Brian
IT KEEPS COMING BACK: THIS MORNING’S FIGHT with Avis. She’d become distraught over what she’d called his “coolness.” He’d merely used the usual gentle logic to discourage her from going to meet Felice. “Setting yourself up,” he’d chided. Avis had lapsed into such a bright, cold stare he wondered if she actually saw him at all. Later, he heard her crying through the bathroom door.
The Dixie Highway sun bounces hard off of car hoods and fills the interior of his SUV with the scent of footballs and shoe leather. And now this. It comes over him at unpredictable moments. A not unpleasant sensation, a bit like fainting: the sense that the solid matter of his body is spontaneously reverting to a gas, joining the fumes and exhaust contrails burning all around him.
Brian squeezes his eyes shut, but a blaring in his right ear jolts him. He swivels in time to see a wrathful face in a white ragtop convertible come too close to his passenger side. The driver thrusts out his finger; Brian catches a burst of some ferocious rap recording in the background (and those startling whiffs of old songs that pop up like snatches of perfume in a crowd). “Fuck you asshole.” Barely muted by the car window. “Go the fuck back to Jersey.” A girl cranes forward from the passenger side, hair long and dark as his daughter’s, snapping in the wind. He forces himself to slow down, eases to a creep along with the other drivers all glazed on their phones, and the young men, barefoot and shirtless on motorcycles. He makes it without further incident into the covered parking for the Ekers Building, but something seems to have shifted within his chest. He smooths his tie, notes Jerry Howard’s black BMW M6; Javier Mercado’s baby blue Jag convertible, and, on the other side of the cement pylon, the smart gray trunk of Esmeralda Muñoz’s Mercedes coupe. He tracks this private competition — prefers not to be first (though certainly not, say, the eighth) among the cars to slip into these privileged air-
conditioned spaces.
He leans on the side of the Benz as he climbs out, then slams the door shut. For some reason he thinks again of Avis crying in the shower. No. Not that.
The open-air marble walkway from the garage to the building: a spell of heavy air and brine, views of towering royal palms that line the walk. Rufus leans into the glass door, giving Brian that shrewd, evaluative glance, before dropping his eyes and mumbling to the floor, “G’mornin, Mr. Muir.” Rufus has been there for two years. For the first eight months, Brian stopped, smiled, and said, “Please, Rufus, just Brian.” For nearly sixteen years, Rufus’s predecessor, Pavel, used to smile and say in his dignified way, “Hello, Brian, how are you?” One day Pavel never showed up for work. There were a couple of lackadaisical temporary doormen. And then there was Rufus. After a while, Brian gave up on Rufus. Now, every morning, that beat of sourness, just as he enters the building and begins his day. One morning Esmeralda happened to arrive at the same time and as they walked in together (“G’mornin’ Mr. Muir, G’mornin’ Ms. Muñoz”) she picked up on Brian’s discomfort and said, “Why does it bother you? He’s just being respectful.”
Personal assistant to Jack Parkhurst, Esmeralda is nearly seven years older than Brian, from one of those cultures where everyone is so conscious of class and family and respect, etc. “Old World.”
He walks through the door that Rufus holds for him, neither man looking at the other. And there is the memory of Avis weeping again. No.
The trick, he reminds himself, is to discipline the mind. It’s what one does during the toughest times that proves one’s mettle. Arguing before a zoning board, negotiating fees with county commissioners, placating citizen action committees. This is the true reason to work, he thinks: to train oneself. His son understood this almost intuitively. But his daughter. Spiraling disappointment. Across the lobby, Celia and Esmeralda are chattering in front of the elevators: they’ll be speaking Spanish, they’ll stop, politely, as he approaches, and ask in English, “And how are you, today?” At first he hangs back, not eager to talk to anyone this morning. But then he notices that Fernanda Cruz has come in from the Biscayne Boulevard entrance and, impulsively, quickens his step.
The elevator doors slip open. “Wait, wait,” he calls. He bounds across the lobby and into the elevator. “Going up? How is everyone this morning?”
“How are you, Brian?” Celia asks, a sweet glance from the corner of her eyes.
“Hey Brian.” Fernanda gives that little wave.
He nods at both of them, glancing at Fernanda — new manager of the Investor Relations division. She’s been using one of the offices down the hall from Brian — a corridor nicknamed “the bullpen”—while her own wing is being remodeled.
For eighteen years, Brian had looked down that hall into Hal Irvington’s office as Irvington sat hunched, forehead lowered to his interlocking fingers, his mournful gaze locked on The Wall St. Journal Investor’s Edition. Then, for a year it stood empty. One day Brian looked up, expecting the usual darkened window, instead discovering this lily of a shoulder, this lightly downturned mouth, a fringe of lashes. Every day for the past two weeks, Brian has looked up from his screen, eyes ticking to the right, down the hall, to see Fernanda Cruz’s white shoulder delineated from her neck by a dark curtain of hair, the first three knuckles of her right hand resting on her telephone set, all set off by the modernist glint of the swooping office window.
She’s been at Parkhurst, Irvington & Benstock for five or six months and Brian finds he’s forming a steadfast affection. She waves at him on her way in or out of the office, a clipped, girlish gesture. It’s what sets her apart from the usual parade of brazen Miami beauties: that wave. She seems sweet and retiring — a throwback to some earlier ideal. Now Celia and Esmeralda stand side by side, backs against the elevator wall like sentries, while Fernanda stands close to the door, near the buttons; her hair spills forward, partially obscuring the side of her face.
Brian says to the general assembly, “Could boil an egg out there — just wave it through the air.”
Celia and Fernanda laugh deferentially. Esmeralda adjusts her coral button earrings, slides her finger along the curve of her ear. Her smile deepens but doesn’t quite touch her eyes. He notices her glance tick from Fernanda back to him again, an icy glimmering. “How is that new office working out for you, darling?” she asks her.
Fernanda flicks her hair back across her shoulders. Her face brightens. “It’s weird over there. Must be three times the size of my regular office. It’s like a cave.”
A cave! Brian studies the laces in his shoes.
“It’s a little lonely,” she adds. “Up there.”
“You know you can always come talk to me,” he blurts. Brian catches a look between Celia and Esmeralda. He glances at Fernanda then; the elevator light touches her hair: gossamer strands of blue light on black hair. He thinks of how he used to slide his fingers along the nape of Avis’s neck, warm hair slipping between his fingers. He picks up some familiar strand of honeysuckle. Then Fernanda sniffles and rubs under her nose, the roseate tinge of the rim of her nostrils, with the back of one knuckle.