Page 69 of The New Couple in 5B

“Did they give you a charm for that, too?”

He leans in close to me. “Don’t be mad. I just wanted to share it with—someone. You have people you talk to—Max, Hilary, Amy. I don’t.”

I guess that’s true. Strange that the introvert has a gaggle of friends, varying in degrees of closeness. But the extrovert who has lots of contacts and people he knows has few people he’d confide in other than me. No one really. Ivan was one. But he’s gone.

I lace my fingers through his. Will our baby have his stunning eyes, his knock-’em-dead smile? Boy or girl? Creative? I try to feel for the energy of the little life inside me but no—there’s just my own joy and excitement.

“Are you going to tell your family?” We’re at the point in our relationship where we read each other’s minds now.

I don’t answer right away, take a sip of my herbal tea.

“Maybe,” I say finally. “I don’t know.”

We sit as the room grows lighter and a wash of well-being and peace moves through me. We’re in the right place, doing the right things. Growing careers, a growing family. Not all moments in life feel this right. I let myself enjoy it.

After Chad heads off for a breakfast meeting with his agent, I try to reach Max again, but my call goes straight to voice mail.

Once.

Twice.

I’m worried about him. But it’s also selfish. I want to talk to him about the book. I have no idea who my new editor will be or how that relationship will evolve. In the last book, I bounced almost everything off Max.

I call him a third time and leave a message. “Hey, maybe you just want to be alone right now, and I get it. But call me. I’m worried about you.”

Finally, I press back my worry for Max, my joy for Chad, for the baby on the way to us. I force myself to sit at my desk and work on my outline.

In 1920, The Church of the Holy Name burned to the ground, a five-alarm fire that all but decimated the structure, leaving just the stone exterior. There were no fatalities. The fire was ruled an arson, though no perpetrator was ever named. It sat fallow for five years until architect and builder Marc LeClerc bought the lot, demolished what remained of the building, keeping the foundation and some of the stones, as well as the gargoyles that stood sentry over the front door.

The Windermere opened and the first residents moved in in 1930 at the beginning of the Great Depression. But these were wealthy people, and the pains of the city and the world did not affect the construction of the building, or keep any of its residents from moving in.

Little did they know that Marc LeClerc was heavily impacted by the stock market crash on October 29, 1929. Black Tuesday. After struggling to recover and failing, in 1932 he threw himself from the roof of the Windermere and fell to his death on Park Avenue.

I am going to start here, with Marc LeClerc’s death. With his ties to the occult, a mother who was a psychic medium and the effects of the Great Depression on his life and ultimate decision to kill himself, he is the perfect subject to set the mood for the book—history, psychology and the mystical.

Things were peaceful at the Windermere after the initial tragedy until a promising young actor, Frank Malone, shot himself just weeks before he was about to star in his first major role on Broadway in 1950. Then in 1952, Sylvia Monroe, a self-proclaimed psychic, was strangled in the basement, her killer never caught. In 1958, Roberto Estella, a star pianist, fell from a window. His death was ruled an accident, but there was suspicion of foul play involving his male lover. In 1963, a young boy fell down the elevator shaft when it was out of order.

Also in 1963, tragedy befell the Winters. Right here, in this apartment, once owned by Charles and Ella Aldridge; then Ivan purchased it a couple of years later.

There were several other deaths in the building—a heart attack, a stroke, two more suicides, an overdose, one crib death and an incident of auto-erotic asphyxia.

I go through my notes and decide on sections Murder, Accident, Suicide, Natural Deaths.

Here are my major questions: Are some places cursed? My grandmother would say yes. That darkness invites darkness. Dr. Black would surely have a different perspective. Maybe a historian will tell me that I’ll find similar histories in other buildings that have been standing for nearly a hundred years—just microcosms of the human condition. Are there dark forces at work at the Windermere? The burning of the church, LeClerc’s ties to the occult, seem to set the stage for a horror movie scenario—cults meeting in the basement, human sacrifice. What does each loss of life tell us about life in general—that it’s fragile, that it’s a struggle, which some of us can’t manage, that it slips away, that it can be wrested from us? How do these crimes, suicides, accidents fit into a larger picture of the city’s history, its criminality?

As the morning passes, I flush out and rearrange the outline I went over with Max the other day. When I am done, I can finally see it. The book I am about to write. I have a lot more research ahead, months, maybe a year of digging through archives at the New York Historical Society, the New York City Municipal Archives, the New York Public Library, to get all the details right, to dig in deep to my subjects. I’m still looking for more details on the Winters. But the essence, the bones, as we say, are falling into place.

At lunchtime, I run out for another pregnancy test, still using the service elevator and back door. When I get back, I pee on the stick again and sweat it out, eating Ella’s delicious chicken soup for my lunch as I wait. It’s savory and with the note of a flavor I can’t quite place—something almost sweet. I eat way too much. They’re so good to us. Of course it’s okay that Chad told them we’re trying for a baby.

When I check the test, I’m thrilled to find another positive result. I email Hilary asking for the name of her obstetrician “for a friend.” And she zaps it over right away, assuring me that it’s just between us, and that she’ll call and make sure they fit “my friend” in right away. Still, when I call, the earliest appointment I can get is next week.

I call Max again. No answer. I’m considering a run out to Brooklyn when the intercom buzzes.

“What is it, Abi?” I say, pressing the button.

“It’s George, Ms. Lowan. Abi’s off today.”

Oh, so Abiishuman, not some undead gatekeeper of my building. Good news. I haven’t met George. But I’ll make a point to later. Maybe he’ll be more malleable, and I can talk my way into that back office. And maybe I can use him to get a message to Xavier, who hasn’t responded to the message I left in the chat forum or the one I left with Abi. Nor has Ella come back with his number.

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