“The exterior of the building is on the register. The apartments are not.
Residents are entitled to do anything they want with them,” Enid said.
“That’s too bad,” Brenda said. “If the apartment were part of the national register, you’d attract the right kind of buyer, someone you’d probably want in the building. Someone who appreciates beauty and history.
They wouldn’t be able to destroy these deco moldings, for instance.”
“We’re not going to turn it into a museum,” Mindy said.
“How much is it worth?” Enid asked.
“My guess? Intact, around twenty million. If you split it up, you’ll hurt the value. Each floor will probably be worth three point five.”
In a fluster, Mindy went down to her apartment. The still air was stifling; in the afternoon on a bright day, when the sun was angled just right, a strip of light illuminated the back of the rooms, which looked out onto a small cement patio. The patio was eight feet wide, and she and James were always thinking about fixing it up, but never got around to it. Any kind of construction had to be approved by the board, which wouldn’t have been a problem, but it also required materials and workers to do the job, and the logistics of organizing such an event were too much on top of everything else she had to do. So, for the ten years she and James had lived there, the patio had remained the same — a cracked cement patch through which stubborn tufts of grass grew. A small Weber barbecue grill and three folding chairs completed the picture.
Mindy went into her office. Finding her latest bank statement, she added up their assets. They had two hundred and fifty-seven thousand in savings, four hundred thousand in a retirement account, thirty thousand dollars in checking, and maybe ten thousand dollars in stocks. A long time ago, James had wanted to invest in the stock market, and Mindy had said, “Do I look like someone who wants to throw away her money? The stock market is nothing more than legalized gambling, and you know how I feel about gambling. And the lotto, for that matter.”
Adding up all their cash, they had barely seven hundred thousand dollars. Mindy knew this sum was more than what most Americans had, but in their world, it wasn’t much. It cost thirty-five thousand a year to send Sam to private school, and it would take at least a hundred and fifty thousand dollars to send him to college. On the plus side, their apartment — which they had bought slowly in pieces and put together during the real estate downturn in the mid-nineties — was worth at least a million dollars. And they’d paid only two hundred and fifty thousand. Altogether, their assets were close-ish to two million dollars. If they wanted to buy just one floor of the penthouse, they were still one and a half million short.
Maybe they should sell everything and move to the Caribbean, Mindy thought.
How much could a house in the Caribbean cost? A hundred, two hundred thousand dollars? She could swim and make salads and read.
James could write pathetic novels about the local goings-on. They’d be giving up, but so what? The only glitch was Sam. He’d love it, but would it be good for him? He was a genius and such a nice boy. Not the least bit arrogant about his intelligence, unlike some of his friends. But if they left New York, it could throw Sam’s whole educational career off track, meaning he might not get into an Ivy League school. No, Mindy thought, shaking her head. We will not give up. We will persevere. We will stay in New York with our fingernails digging into the cement, if only for Sam’s sake.
The buzzer rang, and she jumped up, wondering who it might be.
Probably James, who was out buying overpriced food at Citarella and who’d probably forgotten his keys.
Instead, it was Enid Merle.
“Is Sam home?” Enid asked. “I need to install some new software, and I was wondering if he could help.” Sam was the building’s resident computer expert; whenever anyone had a problem, they called on Sam, who was a computer genius and had built up a cottage industry in the building.
“Sam isn’t here,” Mindy said. “He’s away for a few days.”
“How nice for him. Where?”
Mindy stood in her doorway, blocking Enid’s entry. She didn’t want Enid to see her apartment. She was private about her space, but also embarrassed. Plus, her hostility toward Philip often extended to Enid, as she was his aunt. “He’s gone upstate with friends. I’ll tell him to ring your buzzer when he gets back.”
Enid didn’t move away. “What do you think?” she asked.
“About what?” Mindy said.
“It might not be a bad idea to break up the apartment.”
“I don’t know why you’re interested,” Mindy said.
“I’ve lived in the building for over sixty years. Naturally, I’m interested in everything that goes on here.”
“I appreciate that, Enid. But you’re no longer on the board.”
“Not technically,” Enid said. “But I have a lot of friends.”
“We all do,” Mindy said, although in her case, she wasn’t sure this was entirely true.
“If we split up the apartment, we could probably sell to people who already live in the building. It could save you a lot of headaches,” Enid pointed out.
Ah, Mindy thought. Enid wanted the bottom floor for Philip. It made sense. Philip could break through from his own apartment. And he probably had the money. Not enough for the whole apartment but enough for one floor.
“I’ll think about it,” Mindy said. She closed the door firmly and went back to her accounts. No matter how she added them up, they were still short. That was that, then. There was no way she would allow Philip Oakland to get the bottom floor of that apartment. If she and James couldn’t have a floor, why should he?
“Check out Sanderson vs. English,” Annalisa Rice said into the phone. “It’s all very clear. And of course there’s the moral element, which always sways juries. It’s like an Aesop’s fable.”
“Damn, Rice,” said the male voice at the other end. “Why’d you have to go and move to New York on me?”
“Change, Riley,” Annalisa replied. “It’s good, remember?”
“I know you,” Riley said. “You’re probably already on to the next big thing. Are you running someone’s campaign? Or running for office yourself?”
“Neither.” Annalisa laughed. “I’ve made a U-turn, to put it mildly. You won’t believe what I’m doing right now.”
“Helping the homeless?”
“Consorting with the rich. I’m going to the Hamptons for the weekend.”
Riley laughed, too. “I always said you were too glamorous for Washington.”
“Damn you, Riley,” Annalisa said. “I miss you guys.”
“You can always come back,” Riley said.
“Too late,” Annalisa said. She said goodbye and hung up the phone, twisting her auburn hair into her trademark ponytail. She went to the window and, pushing back the heavy gold drapes, looked out at the street.
It was a long way down. She pushed at the window, longing for some fresh air in the overly air-conditioned suite, and remembered that the windows were bolted shut. She looked at her watch; it was three o’clock. She had two hours to pack and get to the heliport. It should have been plenty of time. But she didn’t know what to pack. What did one wear to a weekend in the Hamptons?
“Paul, what should I bring?” she’d asked that morning.
“Oh, hell. I don’t know,” Paul had said. Paul was her husband. He was engaged in getting out the door by seven A.M. on the dot, sitting on the edge of a hassock, pulling on thin silk socks and Italian loafers. Paul had never worn proper shoes before. He’d never had to, before New York.