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His comment stops me. I stand rigid on the sidewalk, about to explode, but something prevents me. I think of Miranda and how she’d interpret this situation. She’d say it was my father who was worried about never finding true love again, but because he’s too scared to admit it, he pins his fears on me.
I grab my suitcase from the backseat.
“Let me help you,” he says.
I watch as my father lugs my suitcase through the wooden door that leads into the ancient terminal. I remind myself that my father isn’t a bad guy. Compared to most men, he’s pretty great.
He sets down my suitcase and opens his arms. “Can I have a hug?”
“Sure, Dad.” I hug him tightly, inhaling a whiff of lime. Must be a new cologne Wendy gave him.
A yawning emptiness opens up inside me.
“I want the best for you, Carrie. I really do.”
“I know, Dad.” Feeling like I’m a million years old, I pick up my suitcase and head to the platform. “Don’t worry, Dad,” I say, as if to convince myself as well. “Everything is going to be fine.”
The moment the train pulls out of the station, I start to feel better. Nearly two hours later, when we’re passing the projects in the Bronx, I’m positively giddy. There’s the brief, magical view of the skyline—the Emerald City!—before we plunge into the tunnel. No matter where I might travel—Paris, London, Rome—I’ll always be thrilled to get back to New York.
Riding the elevator in Penn Station, I make an impromptu decision. I won’t go straight to Samantha’s apartment. Instead, I’ll surprise Bernard.
I have to find out what’s going on with him before I can proceed with my life.
It takes two separate subway trains to get near his place. With each stop, I become more and more excited about the prospect of seeing him. I arrive at the Fifty-ninth Street station under Bloomingdale’s, the heat coursing through my blood threatening to scald me from the inside.
He has to be home.
“Mr. Singer’s out, miss,” the doorman says, with, I suspect, a certain amount of relish. None of the doormen in this building p
articularly like me. I always catch them looking at me sideways as if they don’t approve.
“Do you know when he’ll be back?”
“I’m not his secretary, miss.”
“Fine.”
I scan the lobby. Two leather-clad armchairs are stationed in front of a faux fireplace, but I don’t want to sit there with the doorman’s eyes on me. I spin out the door and park myself on a pretty bench across the street. I rest my feet on my suitcase, as if I have all the time in the world.
I wait.
I tell myself I’ll only wait for half an hour, and then I’ll go. Half an hour becomes forty-five minutes, then an hour. After nearly two hours, I begin to wonder if I’ve fallen into a love trap. Have I become the girl who waits by the phone, hoping it will ring, who asks a friend to dial her number to make sure the phone is working? Who eventually picks up a man’s dry cleaning, scrubs his bathroom, and shops for furniture she’ll never own?
Yup. And I don’t care. I can be that girl, and someday, when I’ve got it all figured out, I won’t be.
Finally, at two hours and twenty-two minutes, Bernard comes strolling up Sutton Place.
“Bernard!” I say, rushing toward him with unbridled enthusiasm. Maybe my father was right: I am tenacious. I don’t give up that easily on anything.
Bernard squints. “Carrie?”
“I just got back,” I say, as if I haven’t been waiting for nearly three hours.
“From where?”
“Castlebury. Where I grew up.”
“And here you are.” He slings his arm comfortably around my shoulders.
