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Before I can retrieve my key, the door opens and Ms. Talisman steps outside. She’s eighty years old and very self-sufficient. As always, she’s dressed in her finest as if she’s on her way to church, a matching hat perched on top of her head. She wears her white hair short, and her skin is dark as night, as are her sharp, shrewd eyes. “Kennedy, what are you doing home at this hour? Shouldn’t you be at work? Is everything okay?”
“Everything’s fine. I left work early because I’m flying to Cincinnati this afternoon. I’m going to go meet my new godson.”
“How nice.” She pats my shoulder. “Have a safe trip, dear. A young lady travelling alone can’t be too careful.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
As she continues on her way, I step inside the building foyer and stop to collect my mail—all junk mail flyers, unfortunately, which go straight into the recycling bin. Then I race up the stairs to the second floor, where my studio apartment is located. There are four apartments on each floor of my three-story building. I share the second floor with two sweet old ladies who have taken me under their wings and a young couple who work for a nonprofit agency in Brooklyn.
I let myself into my apartment, set my purse down on the tiny dining table that seats two, and quickly change out of my suit into a pair of tan cotton shorts, a white blouse, and sneakers. I grab the suitcase from underneath my bed and start packing.
I’m not sure what I should bring, so I throw a little bit of everything into my case. I’m going only for a weekend, so I do my best to pack lightly—one pair of slacks, a pair of jeans, two pairs of shorts. It’s summer, so it’s hot. I pack a couple of sleeveless tops and one casual dress. At the last minute I toss in a pair of sandals. I grab my cosmetics bag, shampoo, and razor and throw it all in. Last, and most important, my tablet and charger go into my carry-on bag.
I arrange for an Uber to take me to the airport. John F. Kennedy International Airport is located in nearby Queens, so it’s not a long trip by bus or train, but I don’t want to risk being late for my flight. While I’m waiting for my ride, I grab Betty, my spider plant, and run across the hall to knock on Mrs. Philbin’s door.
I wait patiently for her to answer. She uses a walker to get around, so she’s not moving very quickly these days.
Mrs. Philbin opens her door. “Kennedy!” She smiles brightly, then her gaze drops to the plant in my hands. “Are you going somewhere?”
“Yes, ma’am. I’m going to visit my friends in Cincinnati this weekend. I was wondering if you’d watch Betty while I’m gone.”
“Of course, honey. I’d be happy to.” She steps aside to let me enter. “Put her in the usual place.”
“Thank you so much.” I set Betty on a small table near a window. “I’ll be back Sunday afternoon.”
Mrs. P grabs my hand and squeezes it hard. “Now, you be careful, young lady. Keep your eyes open and watch out for nefarious characters.”
I smile because she reminds me so much of my grandma. “I will. I promise.”
When my driver arrives, I lug my suitcase downstairs to the curb. The trunk is already open, so I drop my luggage inside and close the lid. Then I slide into the backseat.
“Kennedy Takahashi?” the driver asks.
“Yes. To JFK, please,” I say, confirming the destination.
And then we’re off, heading to Queens.
After buckling my seatbelt, I lean back and take a moment to catch my breath. Today has been a whirlwind day, and it’s not even half over.
Chapter 2
Connor Murphy
Nearing the end of a rather turbulent flight from Heathrow to JFK International, I’m more than a little relieved when the airport finally comes into sight. I gaze out the small round window on my right at the large expanse of asphalt as we make our final approach. When the wheels touch down, the plane shudders, and the tires screech until finally the aircraft comes to a stop.
I relax in my seat in business class as the plane eventually taxis to the gate. When the seatbelt light turns off, passengers stand and start collecting their belongings to disembark.
As I’m surrounded by American accents, I can’t help thinking of Kennedy. I loved her American accent. I’d make her repeat words just to hear it. We’d play a silly game by which I’d say a word, and she’d say the American equivalent.
“Lift,” I’d say.
“Elevator,” she’d reply.
“Chips.”
“French fries.”
“Crisps.”
