Heartbeats
Every place has a
heartbeat. Every place has a song. And everyone has a story. New York’s heartbeat is the millions of
footsteps that walk its streets. New
York’s song is the one that Billy Joel sings.
And it’s story? There are many…
eight million people’s stories. All
wrapped up on an island. Sometimes their
stories stretch past Manhattan and sometimes they stay confined to the old
buildings for which New York is synonymous.
On
a quieter brick laden street outside of Greenwich Village, there stands a
20-story building with a doorman. It is
done in the Art Deco style. It’s
residents are an eclectic group, ranging from Wall Street types, to attorneys,
and some who’ve acquired or inherited an apartment in the building, as well as
the wealth that comes to afford the location.
The building, much like the
residents themselves, outwardly appears to be in perfect condition. However, the building has been through many
challenging times and inwardly has started to show its age. The residents of The Cavendish have as well.
For
Cecily Parker, New York City and The Cavendish had always been home. Of course, she’d spent long summers in the
Hamptons, and extensive time abroad, but this little corner of New York was the
place that she felt the safest.
On
a particular day in November, when the wind was just starting to bite, Cecily
was looking forward to spending a quiet evening alone. Alone was relatively new for her. She’d spent years in serious
relationships. The most recent had ended
only days prior. The crumbling of this
relationship was perhaps the most painful for her. She’d loved James Kirsch. He’d challenged her, brought her laughter,
and had offered the promise of a life she’d never known. While her family was tightly knit, it was
bound by duty and structure. Very much
unlike the life James knew, where hugs and moral support were doled out without
a second thought.
The
relationship had dissolved because of many things; mostly over things that
Cecily could not change. Cecily could
not change her neurotic mother. She
could not change the fact that she came from an affluent family. She could not change that James always felt
inferior to her. She’d offered him love
and support. She’d seen him through
three grueling years of law school. And
as his career and life started to find success, hers started to find
crisis.
And
so over sushi and too much sake, he’d ended their relationship. She was stunned. The few days that passed after that evening
were all a blur. She’d been busy with
work at the gallery, her youngest sister was in the throws of wedding planning,
and her mother was off, terrorizing the Upper East Side, in hot pursuit of the
most opulent venue for Rachel’s wedding.
So
on this day, all she wanted to do was retreat; wave the white flag, walk her
four-legged best friend, and spend an evening sulking alone. Ice cream and delivery were on the
agenda. A bubble bath, Pinot, and lots
of tears were inevitable.
As
she walked through the gilded doors of her building, a blur of fur and perfume
came stomping through the foyer. A tall,
slender, dark haired woman was waving her arms wildly in the air. Her face was filled with a grimace. Every word that escaped her mouth was in
hushed hisses. As Cecily discretely
watched the encounter, she noticed that the woman was Vivian Clancy, the wife
of Martin Clancy, a successful New York businessman. His reputation was not at all becoming. He was known for being a direct and ruthless
man. But at that moment, as he looked at
his wild-eyed wife, his demeanor contradicted this chatter.
Mr.
Clancy, for being such a powerful man, at that instant, looked quite small
beside his wife. His stature was
normally bold and intimidating, but as he stood in front of Mrs. Clancy, his
shoulders were slumped and his eyes were pleading.
Cecily
fumbled in her purse for her keys, or for her phone, or for whatever object she
could use as a stall tactic. Her
interest was mildly piqued. Any
opportunity to glimpse at something other than her recent misfortunes seemed
like a nice respite.
But
her cover was quickly blown. At a moment
when Martin happened to look up, Cecily did too. The look they exchanged was a knowing
one. They’d both been scolded enough in
the past few days. Cecily turned
scarlet, ashamed of her bad form. She’d
normally never eaves drop.
In
an attempt to escape the situation, she clumsily pushed the elevator button for
her floor, only realizing after that’d she pushed the wrong one. As the bell rang and the lift doors began to
open, Martin feebly walked up alone. She
blushed again, realizing she’d be alone with Martin for 18 floors, with only
silence and the knowledge that she’d been an intruder on a private but very
public row.
He
acknowledged her presence with a nod, and did what most do, by sliding into the
furthest corner. She did the same. The elevator hummed, propelling them up floor
after floor. At 18, the elevator came to
a halt. As Mr. Clancy made his exit, he
gruffly mumbled “Good Evening.”
“Good Evening,” she sputtered and
slid further back into her corner.
Safely
at home, she curled up on the sofa with her pup, Blair, thankful for the
comfort of her home. 33B at The
Cavendish was her paradise.
Several
days had passed since the awkward encounter with Mr. Clancy. It was nearly forgotten, when one morning, in
a rush out the door, late for work, she anxiously awaited for the elevator.
The
bell rang; the doors opened, and there, Mr. Clancy stood before her.
“Good
Morning, Ms. Parker “ he said, offering a sly smile. He looked much more alive than he had days
before. Polished, in a suit and tie, and
smelling of Yardley soap.
Cecily
felt startled once again. His smile
unnerved her. She couldn’t understand
her feelings. Yet she managed to muster
a paltry salutation. The doors of the
elevator opened and off they both went; out onto the street, he off to the
left, and she, to the right.
Her
work at the art gallery began to consume her days. A new installation was in the works and the
showcased artist was causing a delay.
There was still much work that hadn’t even been created yet, leaving a
large gap in the collection. Cecily
worked long hours, looking for a suitable artist to fill this void.
All
the while, her youngest sister, the baby of the family, was only interested in wedding
planning. Her mother and sister often
stopped by the gallery, bringing color swatches, endless photos of flowers, and
bridal magazines. These visits were
dreaded, not just by Cecily, but by the whole gallery. Her mother cared not much for art, and her
sister only deemed something art-worthy if it were consistent with themes in
pop-culture. Many took offense at their
blasé attitude, and found their bull-in-china shop antics unbearable. The gallery wasn’t their own personal lounge
room, despite what their behavior reflected.
The two never really understood Cecily’s interests, and didn’t believe
her career passions to be noteworthy or respected.
Most
of the time, she was able to brush aside the annoyance she felt for the
two. And over time, she was less
embarrassed at their gauche behavior; it was the way they were, and she
accepted them. But they never really
seemed to accept her.
Cecily
was not the only one spending long evenings at the office. As Clancy’s marriage began to come to a close,
he also felt comfort in keeping his head down, immersed in his work. Business had always been his first love. It had never left him like so many women had. And when it treated him badly, he found a new
one.
Because
of their similar hours, the two often found themselves sharing a ride in the
elevator. After weeks of simple
greetings, their exchanges advanced to small talk. Cecily found that she actually really liked
Martin. She thought him to be funny and
charming. He had an air of confidence
that was alluring. The Martin she was
beginning to get to know was not the same person she’d seen weeks back. The decline of his marriage had drained him
and the years of trying to make his relationship work had taken their
toll. When Vivian walked away from him
that day in the foyer, he knew his marriage was over. But what was beginning, he’d soon discover.
On
a Saturday afternoon in the spring, Cecily and her mother strolled back to The
Cavendish from a long celebratory bridal shower for her sister Rachel. Cecily’s mother, Claire, was in usual
form. She was loud and bossy, tossing
judgment wantonly at her eldest daughter.
The endless mimosas and champagne cocktails seemed to lubricate her
mothers’ filter-less mouth even more than normal.
Cecily
paid no mind. The months of separation
from James and a successful exhibit at the gallery had all been enough to
invigorate the once meek 29-year-old lady.
They walked through the foyer and towards the corridor that held the
elevator.
Claire was rambling from an afternoon of
overindulgence. And Cecily was off in
her own thoughts, away from her babbling mother, when out of the corner of her
eye, she saw Mr. Clancy walk up towards the corridor. A sudden panic began to spread throughout her
body. A foreign feeling started to erupt
within her. Cecily began to hope that
her mother would cease. Would she just shut up!
But
no, continue she did. Martin walked up
and tipped his head in a familiar but formal gesture. And then, there she went; Claire Parker began
the barrage of questions so venomous in nature that Martin began to seek the
shadows of the elevator.
“Cese, I’d really
like to see you get married someday soon!
Why can’t you find a nice guy like Rachel has? You know dear, you aren’t getting any younger. And are you ever going to tell me what
happened with James? What did you do to
chase him off…? I mean, he wasn’t my favorite of your suitors, but you two
were engaged! That’s something!”
Cecily
tried to collect herself quietly. She
was hot and flustered from embarrassment, an embarrassment she hadn’t known she
could experience. She felt her heart
beating outside of her chest. As the
elevator propelled them up through the building, she wished for the comfort of
her apartment. She wanted her mother to
leave. She wished Martin hadn’t heard
the most private details of her relationship with James.
Failure. Her mother knew how to make her feel a
failure.
As
the elevator doors swung open, Cecily looked back at Martin. He gave her a long, consoling look, as if to
say, “I’m sorry.” She stepped off and
the doors closed.
Life
went on as it always did. Cecily found
herself devoted more than ever to her work, in addition to working with
charities throughout the city. She felt
somewhat spread thin, but could not help herself from spending afternoons
working with a pet rescue charity devoted to finding abandoned animals new
homes. She loved the dogs and was also
becoming interested in another volunteer.
His name was Iver Sampson. He was
in his early thirties, athletic, and successful. He also seemed smitten with her; coffee dates
turned into lunches, lunches turned into dinners, and eventually, weekends were
spent exploring the city.
One
late summer afternoon, after a long day devoted to the New York Animal Rescue,
Iver and Cecily found their way back to the stone building that she called
home. They were both exhausted, wanting
to spend an evening with food ordered-in and movies. They were in the midst of flirty banter
whilst waiting for the elevator when Martin gingerly walked through the
corridor. Cecily’s eyes met Martins, and
immediately she felt the need for introductions.
Despite
the fact that both men displayed civility, Cecily couldn’t help but notice
Martin’s demeanor was much more reserved than usual. Iver had been more than friendly, and yet,
Martin stood back away from them both, keeping his distance. It irked Cecily. As the elevator doors opened, she gave a curt
salutation and the two made their way to 33B.
As
summer ended and the days got shorter and colder, Iver’s affections for Cecily
became warmer. The two were spending
most days with each other, most often residing at The Cavendish. Life seemed to be falling into place, yet
Cecily couldn’t help but feel like something was missing. She beat herself up for overthinking and
worked to push these feelings aside.
Thanksgiving
was approaching, and Iver early on in their short relationship had insisted
that Cecily spend the holidays at his family’s home in Connecticut. She’d enjoyed their relationship thus far,
but felt hesitation at the speed in which they were moving. It all felt so soon. But despite her apprehensions, she agreed to
be his date for Thanksgiving dinner.
Thanksgiving
morning Cecily and her dog Blair made their way down to the front of The
Cavendish to wait for Iver’s arrival. As
she made her way through the foyer, Blair yanked at her leash, causing Cecily
to lose her grip. Her heavy overnight
bags fell precariously off her shoulders on to the ground causing Cecily to
lose her balance. At that same moment,
Martin pushed through the doors from the street, his hands filled with bags,
and Blair pushed past him, making her way out onto the street. Cecily quickly abandoned her luggage and
Marin his groceries as the two rushed out of the building in pursuit of the
Whippet.
“Blaiiiiiir!!!!!,”
Cecily screamed.
The
dog ignored her owner’s calls and continued to sprint down the brick
street. Martin ran, his long, wool coat
flapping wildly, his hair matted against his head as he perspired.
Tears
and yelps of angst escaped Cecily; just as her beloved Blair had escaped
her. As Blair rounded the corner of the
building, Martin gained speed, Cecily followed closely behind. A yellow cab came barreling up to the stop
sign and in one feeble swoop Martin leapt and fell face downward; a single
finger grasped the dragging leash. The
collision between pup and cab were narrowly avoided. Cecily fell to the ground, in a fit of tears,
exhausted and relieved. She looked at
Martin, disheveled, dirty, and scratched up and felt immense gratitude. Their gaze lasted just a second too long and
both quickly rose to brush themselves off.
Martin feebly handed Cecily the leather leash and worked to catch his
breath. She stared off into the street,
and Martin paused for a brief moment.
“Happy
Thanksgiving, Cecily,” Martin managed and began his way back towards the
apartment.
“Happy
Thanksgiving,” she whimpered, as her voice trailed off.
At that moment,
Iver’s black Range Rover pulled up to the curb.
He looked at Cecily, bewildered at her disheveled appearance.
Mr. Scott, the
doorman of The Cavendish made his way down the street with Cecily’s luggage,
loading it into the back of the SUV.
Blair hopped into the back, and Cecily into the front. As they sped off, Cecily looked out the
window and saw Martin watching her leave; leave with Iver.
Thanksgiving and meeting Iver’s
family was considered a success.
Cecily’s own family gatherings were much like Iver’s; food was cooked by
the family kitchen staff, stiff drinks were poured, and slurred, raucous
discussions were had into the wee hours.
Yet despite their similarities and attraction, Cecily wasn’t quite sure
about Iver. His devotion felt too
quickly acquired. His adoration felt
overbearing; and his genuine care for her felt lacking. There were moments in their relationship in
which Iver had expressed raw, uncontrolled emotion. He’d held her hand too aggressively, or
questioned her motives and behavior.
During the
beginnings of their courtship, countless evenings had been spent at dinners and
at home. Most of these events had been
shared over bottles of wine. It was only
a little more than half a year into dating when Cecily realized that most of
Iver’s hobbies revolved around Bordeaux, Burgundy, or Champagne. Cecily loved travel; however, she didn’t love
that he traveled there every evening after 6:30. It seemed that after a couple of glasses Iver’s
intensity increased; either in her favor, or not. When these moments occurred, she often
questioned herself. Why did she stay in
a situation that seemed so good and yet seemed so bad? How could this person have been so incredibly
loving and then so volatile? Iver
Sampson was Jekyll and Hyde.
Their strained
relationship continued through the holidays.
Christmas was spent this time at Cecily’s family in Upstate New
York. Her parents had purchased an old
estate in the late 80’s when Cecily’s mother needed a project other than
tending to her children. The house was
Claire’s new baby, and was renovated in an elaborate fashion. It was there that the Parker family had spent
Christmas together for the past 20 years.
And it was this year that Iver had joined; Paul and Claire, Rachel and
her new husband, Simon, and Cecily and Iver.
The Parker family seemed to finally approve of Cecily’s new beau. Iver was smart, esteemed, and affluent, and
behind closed doors, quite moody. Cecily
wasn’t quite sure how to handle the approval of her family coupled with the
strong foreboding feeling that her relationship with Iver had an expiration
date.
A
week had passed when Cecily slipped on the gold sequin dress bought just for
New Years Eve. She spritzed herself with
Eau de Soir, slipped on her Louboutin’s and made her way to the elevator. She brushed her worries about the evening
aside and climbed into the town car that would whisk her away to 11 Madison
Park. There, she and Iver would drink
Champagne, dine on oysters, and ring in the New Year. But by the time she’d managed to make her way
through Midtown traffic, Iver was already a bottle in. He slurred his words, he spoke too loudly,
and he aggressively kissed her and grabbed her face so hard she winced in
pain. Throughout the dinner, he
continued to get louder and louder, his words clouding her thoughts, his
behavior leaving her wishing to be alone.
And
just when she thought that it couldn’t get any worse, she sees James Kirsch
walk towards her table, a smile spread across his face. Cecily felt delighted to see him and was
surprised at how un-painful his presence was for her. She rose from the table to greet him with a
friendly hug.
“James!
How are you? So lovely to see you.”
“I
just wanted to stop by and say hello.
Cecily, you look wonderful!” James replied.
“Oh,
thank you, really, and umm this is … Iver… Iver this is James.” Cecily introduced the two. Iver smugly shook James’ hand.
As
James walked away, Iver slid his arm from one side of the table to the other,
knocking over glasses of water and champagne, spilling them onto Cecily, onto
the table, and onto the floor. The room
became silent and all eyes were on Cecily’s table.
“You
like that guy???” Iver hissed. His eyes
were dark and angry, his hair unkempt, his bowtie undone.
At that moment
Cecily had reached her breaking point.
She slid to the side of the banquette and stood up, her dress soaking
wet and clinging to her form. In a fit
of rage and resolution, she threw her sopping napkin towards Iver’s drunken
face and stormed through 11 Madison Park.
Cecily pushed her way
through the exit and sobbed. She sobbed
for relief; she sobbed for joy; she sobbed because she’d left everything
behind. And she began to run. She ran down the streets of Manhattan towards
her apartment.
Her face was
swollen from tears and exhaustion, exhaustion from trying to be someone that
she wasn’t. Her vision was blurred from
the champagne and from her tears. As she
reached the entrance of The Cavendish, Martin was making his way out. In that instant, the two looked at each other
and their eyes locked. He swiftly walked
up to Cecily and threw his wool coat upon her shoulders, wrapping his arms
around her, and began to walk with her.
They made their
way through the doors of The Cavendish.
They stood in the corridor, but this time together in an embrace. The elevator doors opened. The bell rang. And up, up they went.
