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1
Isabel
New York in autumn was always my favorite time of the year. In the summer, the heat grows so oppressive it becomes almost a physical weight.
No matter how light and breezy your sundress, beads of sweat pop up along your back the second you stepped foot outside, running down your spine to collect in the waistband of your underwear, which remained damp and uncomfortable all day.
Winter nights were long and, since I moved out of Luis’ house, lonely; good only for curling up with a space heater and a book as wind shook the window panes. I used to love storms, loved tucking in with a long book and a cup of tea and listening to the rain and snow raging outside, while I was warm and safe inside.
But now, with the specter of Luis lurking around every corner, sudden noises made me jumpy and anxious. Inside no longer felt quite as safe as it used to.
But autumn was New York’s sweet spot, when the sticky summer months quickly faded from memory and the chill of winter still seemed a lifetime away. A crisp breeze met me as I emerged from the subway station, raising pleasant goosebumps along my arms.
I tucked a library paperback under my arm for the short walk to my office building. Though I had long ago mastered the art of reading and walking, even I was not skilled enough to navigate the streets of the city with my nose buried in a book; I was liable to walk directly into an open manhole.
I arrived at the office with a few minutes to spare before my early morning meeting with Bonita, so I ducked into the ladies room for a quick once-over.
I surveyed my reflection with a critical eye: My dark eyes gazed back at me from my slightly heart-shaped face. A bit of my eyeliner had smudged during my commute, giving me a slightly sleepy appearance, but that was quickly remedied. After applying another coat of lipstick, I gave myself an experimental pout.
Dimly in the back of my mind, I heard one of my sisters chastising my vanity, but I pushed it away as I dropped my lipstick back into my purse. It wasn’t a crime to want to look good at work, I reminded myself.
As if to prove my point, Bonita looked even more elegant and put together than usual that morning; her hair sleek and expertly styled, not a strand out of place. She wore a dark skirt suit that I suspected cost more than I made in a month, as well as designer glasses that almost made me regret my own 20/20 vision.
My mother used to warn me that if I kept reading with a flashlight under the covers, I was going to need glasses, but so far her dire predictions had proven unfounded.
Bonita glanced up as I entered her corner office.
“Give me just a moment,” she said, quickly looking back to her monitor, one perfectly manicured hand tapping an irregular beat against the desk. I nodded, though Bonita was no longer looking at me, and took a seat in one of the plush leather chairs that faced her desk.
I looked around the office, taking in the framed articles, photos, and awards that cluttered the walls. Bonita was a legend in the investigative journalism world, and there were days when I couldn’t believe I was lucky enough to work under her. I wondered if I would ever have an office like this, if I could even dream of a career that compared to Bonita’s. Someday, I promised myself then.
After what seemed like an age, Bonita finally looked up, her face breaking into a wide grin. “Sorry about that,” she said.
“It’s no problem,” I assured her. “I know you’re busy.”
“Never too busy for Isabel Perez, my star journalist,” Bonita exclaimed.
Self consciously, I ducked my head, unused to such effusive praise. I felt a warm flush begin to spread up from my neck.
“Don’t be so modest,” Bonita chided gently. “Your piece on that horse trainer out in Wyoming was truly remarkable writing. The reception has been amazing. You should be proud.”
“Thank you, I am,” I assured her. And I was. I had put my heart and soul into my article on Ruby Parker, finding the work to be a welcome distraction from my ailing father, estranged husband, and a mounting pile of bills and student loan debt. Now that the piece was finally published and I was forced to emerge once again into the real world, I was eager for a new distraction. I hoped that was what Bonita had arranged this meeting for.
“Your writing is detailed and compelling,” Bonita continued. “You have a real knack for portraying your subject in such a way that your reader comes away feeling like they really know them. I have every confidence that you’re going to go far in this field.”
