Page 63 of The New Couple in 5B

“I’ll tell you what. Come to astrology night—oh, it’s just for fun, of course. Miranda is a true believer but the rest of us are just goofing around. Three of the women there have been at the Windermere more than fifty years. And, of course, Charles knows everything, everything about the building. His grandparents were the original owners of this apartment—yours and ours. And he wouldn’t miss an astrology night.”

“When is it?” I ask, grappling for any excuse.

“As luck would have it, tomorrow!” she says brightly.

“Great,” I say. I have a headache coming on. “I’ll be there.”

When she leaves, I take the soup off the stove and put the pot, still warm, into the refrigerator. Then I take a long shower, washing off the day. I think about taking the pregnancy test, but it’s probably too soon. Besides, I’m wobbly enough.

When I’m dressed again and ready to head out to meet Max, I open my laptop at the dining room table, and log on to the Windermere website. It’s a slickly designed portal in shades of purple and gray, “The Windermere” in bold across the top. I click through the menu items, check that Chad paid our first building maintenance fee, which he did. Then I scroll through the minutes of the last meeting. We were not yet owners at the time of this meeting, so we didn’t attend. And Ivan was in his last days, never one to attend building meetings at the best of times.

But the meeting minutes look straightforward enough. There’s a broken washing machine in the basement. Someone complained about the poor lighting and overburdened electrical box in the basement, which I’ve experienced firsthand. The fourth-floor foyer needs a coat of paint. There’s a leak in the roof, water coming in on ten when there’s heavy rain.

I’m struck by the banality of it. This old building where so many dark things have happened, still needs to be maintained and kept by its residents. I wonder if there’s a way to work this into the book.

In the chat forum I notice a posting from Ella on our move-in date:Welcome, Chad and Rosie! Everyone, stop by and greet our new neighbors tonight. They’re such a lovely couple.

I scroll through the comments: Heart surgeon Oga: I’ll be there. Creepy sculptress Anna: Wouldn’t miss it. A couple of other names I don’t recognize giving their regrets, Ella reassuring everyone that they’d have another chance to meet me at game night. Down at the bottom, there’s a comment from Xavier.Poor Chad and Rosie. Run while you still can.

Maybe that’s just his sense of humor, but I flash on his glassy stare, his assertion that he had things to tell me about the Windermere.

I click over to the directory tab. But there’s no list of names and contact information. Just a single sentence:Abi can leave a message for you with any of the building’s residents.

A flash of annoyance. Perfect.

I reply to Xavier’s comment on the chat:Lol! Can you call me?I leave my number.

Then I’m scrolling through the chat history. Missing packages. Gargoyle maintenance. There’s a long argument thread about the cost of maintaining an elevator that needs a staffed operator. Sounds on the roof. People want a roof deck but there’s no money in the reserves for that cost. It makes me remember that I requested the budget and financials for the building from Charles, who is the eternal board president, and have not received it.

Then near the bottom of the discussions there’s a chat entitled: Ghosts of the Windermere. I click on it immediately. But the chat box is empty except for a sentence in red:This thread was deleted by the administrator.

Who is the administrator? I wonder.

I click on the box a couple of times in frustration. It remains empty.

Ghosts of the Windermere. I’m thinking that’s the title of my book.

I spend too long down the Windermere rabbit hole and finally come up for air, realizing with a start that I’m late for Max. I grab my things and hustle out the front door.

In the foyer, I call for the elevator before remembering that I don’t want to deal with Abi. It’s too late, though; the doors are opening.

“Good evening, Ms. Lowan. There’s a chill in the air tonight.”

“Good evening, Abi. Thank you.”

He pauses as if he expects me to go back for a warmer jacket, but I step into the elevator. We ride down in silence. Then just before he opens the doors:

“I truly am sorry about the box,” he says. “Can we call it a misunderstanding?”

I marshal my resources, search for the right words.

“Abi, I’m sure you’re used to dealing with some difficult personalities in this building. And I understand why you feel the need to cover a mistake. But I’m not one of those people. And I would really appreciate knowing the truth. It means more to me than I can explain.”

He stares at me blankly for a moment. The elevator has stopped but he still hasn’t opened the doors. “I can’t offer you anything other than what I’ve already said, Ms. Lowan. You did not bring a box down with you yesterday. Not that I saw.”

There’s a strange blankness to him, a rigidity as if he’s cast from metal. We are at an impasse. At this stage, if I want to press, I have to call him a liar. And then what? An all-out battle with the elevator man, a campaign to have him fired? Xavier is my only hope.

I nod. “Okay, Abi. Let’s just agree to disagree and leave it at that.”

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