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I couldn’t read Felicia as we toured the second apartment. The first she hadn’t liked at all. It was too narrow, with very little natural light. I hadn’t bothered to point out that was the nature of a brownstone. With this one, she was very quiet. She wasn’t verbalizing any dislikes. But she wasn’t saying she liked it either.
Her mood had been off all day and I hated to see her so stressed.
To me the logical thing to do was to get married but I wasn’t going to push it. She’d made it pretty damn clear that was not something she wanted to do. Not today, anyway. Or even tomorrow.
The real estate agent was pointing out how high tech the apartment was.
Which was great, but not the most important thing. You could update or upgrade anything, but you couldn’t change location, which with this brownstone was amazing. You couldn’t change the overall footprint either and I had no complaints on the bones of this townhouse.
To me, this place was a slam dunk. The outdoor space was beautiful and private, with very little upkeep required. Getting a garden in Manhattan was a major score. The doors to the backyard were accordion style, so when the weather was nice, you basically eliminated the wall to the outdoors. I could see entertaining in this place, with its huge kitchen and massive island. I could see having kids here, running up and down between the kitchen and family room level and the garden level.
I saw all of those things with Felicia.
But I couldn’t tell you what she saw, if anything. I felt like in a month I’d gotten to know Felicia as deeply as if we’d spent a year together. Then there were times she remained a mystery. She claimed it was because she was British and trained by her mother to keep her feelings private. I had no idea if that was true or not, but I did find it frustrating sometimes. Now was one of them.
I felt like the real estate agent agreed with me. She was a woman named Krisha, in her fifties, very polished, looking for any sort of clue as to what Felicia was thinking.
“Who is the cook in the relatio
nship?” she asked with a smile.
“We don’t really have one,” I said. “Though I can make something work as needed.”
“I can’t stand to cook,” Felicia said. “So much work.”
The agent laughed. “No wonder you’re so thin, then.”
“It is a gorgeous kitchen,” Felicia said, running her hand across the quartz countertop. “It’s really perfect for entertaining, isn’t it?”
I wasn’t sure who was more excited, me or the agent, to have her positive reaction.
“Top-of-the-line appliances, which even if you don’t cook, are perfect for having a personal chef or caterers in. It’s so rare with a brownstone to have the width for such a deep island. This one is truly an anomaly.”
“I really like the outdoor space,” I said. “What do you think, sweetheart?”
She nodded and smiled. “It’s all very nice. Can we see the bedrooms?”
“Absolutely.” The agent ushered us toward the stairs. “Is this your first home together?”
I waited to see if Felicia would answer and she did. “We live together now but it’s a flat Michael shared with his first wife. I want something we picked out together.”
Did Becca really bother her that much? I wasn’t even really sure.
“So understandable,” the agent said. “Memories are like cobwebs. You think you’ve got them all cleared out and then you find some lingering.”
“Exactly. Is there a powder room?” Felicia asked, suddenly sounding brisk. She set her purse down on the island. Or more accurately, threw it.
“There is one right by the front entry, next to the study. So convenient to have a bathroom on every floor.”
Except Felicia wasn’t asking as a buyer. She jogged across the house, a desperate look on her face. She didn’t even have a chance to close the door behind her before we heard her throwing up.
“Oh, dear.” The agent looked sympathetic. “Morning sickness?”
I shook my head. “No, she’s not pregnant.”
She looked like she had a differing opinion on that. “You might want to look into it to be sure. I hope it’s not the flu.”
I chewed on that as I went to check on Felicia. She was hovering over the toilet, pale, breathing deeply. “Hey.” I smoothed her hair back off of her face. I wasn’t stupid enough to ask if she was okay, when she clearly was not. “Do you need some water or a cold cloth or something?”
