The Vanishing Year by Kate Moretti

Author:Kate Moretti
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Atria Books

CHAPTER 15

I leave Washington Square and hop on the F train at the West Fourth Street station. The subway is mostly empty because it is two o’clock on a Monday. In April, people walk. They’ve been confined to subways and cabs for four months, so come spring the sidewalks flood with people: no distance is too long. A lone violinist hunkers down in front of the subway door, his bow crying a haunting melody that I don’t recognize, the upturned baseball hat at his feet is empty. When the brakes squeal at Twenty-Third Street, I bend down and fold two dollars behind the brim. He gives me a watery smile and returns to his swaying.

Once I emerge on street level, I join the throng of moving people and walk north for five blocks until I reach Manhattan’s flower district. The street is filled with tall green trees, grass, even a large, tilting palm, potted in thick black plastic, its fronds cupping the hood of a Lincoln Town Car. The jungle street, we always called it. The macadam is wet from the misters, the damp pavement and lush greens providing a unique perfume. The early morning rush has dissipated, leaving only the workers, the warehouse movers, designers, shop owners, and a few passers-through.

I hesitate outside the door, just long enough for Javi to spot me and whistle. His fishnet shirt is pulled tight against his bulging chest and he’s paired it with white cutoffs and a pair of nude patent leather high heels. He slinks like a cat and, when he smiles, I can almost see the canary, caught and fluttering between his pointed teeth. I roll my eyes and straighten my back. Some ribbing will come.

“Well, well. I hardly recognize you, guapa.” He tsks at me and then calls over his shoulder, “Elisa! Eliiiiisa!”

When she appears in the doorway, she’s wiping her hands on a black work towel that is clipped to her waist. Her blonde hair is streaked with white and secured with an oversize blue bow. She hovers in the doorway, framed by protruding pink orchids and purple lisianthus. A sixty-year-old Alice in Wonderland. She steps aside and motions me into the shop.

“Zoe. Lydia said you’d come. I didn’t believe her.” Elisa has one tone. Clipped. Her diction always seemed slightly Eastern European to me, but years ago, she had family come to visit from Texas and Lydia swore they’d said she’d grown up there.

“Elisa,” I breathe out. I’m in her world now. This woman, who had on occasion reduced me to tears because the hydrangeas were not precisely the blue she’d “had in mind.” An image comes to mind of late nights in the warehouse, pulling leaves and bleeding as she towers over me, clucking with soft disapproval.

She straightens to her full five feet, her childlike hands patting down her pockets like she’s forgotten something. Soft, thin lines pucker around delicately painted petal-pink lips. A pair of butterfly glasses balances on the bridge of her nose.

“Are you back to work?”

“Not today.

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