Page 2 of Misfortune and Mr. Right

“Nope. It’s good luck … fortune … kismet … whatever you want to call it. This is meant to be. You’ve been waiting to hear about an apartment opening up here for years. And what’s the likelihood that you would overhear a couple talking about an apartment at The Serendipity while standing in line to pick up a bowl of chowder on your lunch break nearly ten blocks from here?”

“I’m sure the likelihood is pretty high. Everyone knows about The Serendipity. Apartments opening here are a rarity. It’s not kismet or karma or whatever voodoo-moodoo mojo-hojo you want to attribute this to. It’s a matter of proximity and supply and demand.”

“So you say.” Megan winks at me with a nearly patronizing smile. “Don’t doubt the magic.”

She dramatically waves her hands in the air and blinks and then flicks her pointer finger in my direction as if it’s a wand.

“Right.” I deadpan my reaction. “The magic.”

Meg practically skips up the cement steps to the front door.

I stand at the base of the stairs, taking in the brickwork, the decorative stone carvings, the familiar architecture. The building feels like a second home to me. I can nearly hear my gran’s voice—especially her laughter—and see the twinkle in her eyes whenever we opened our fortune cookies after finishing the takeout I brought for us to share every Sunday. It was our tradition. Chinese to-go and an afternoon of stories and laughter. Gran was my safe place to land, my cheerleader, and the quirkiest little woman—a lot like Megan. They shared a love of whimsy and the ability to fully believe in anything absurd or delightful. Not a skeptical bone between them.

“Are you coming?” Megan asks. Her hand rests on the front doorknob.

“Yeah. Yes. Of course.” I skip up the steps.

“It’s locked,” Megan announces, jiggling the knob.

I lean in, peeking through the glass. There’s a guy at the bank of mailbox cubbies in the lobby.

I knock. He looks over and regards us.

Megan waves at him and yells, “Yoo-hooo. Sir?”

He walks toward us and pulls the door open.

“May I help you?” he asks, looking between Megan and me.

“She’s here to get her apartment. 2B. That’s hers. She just needs an application to make things official.” Megan smiles at the gentleman.

“2B.” He looks between us.

“Or whatever apartment is open, but that’s really the one she wants,” Megan adds, possibly realizing how presumptuous her first impression might have appeared.

He lives here, obviously. It’s not like he’s the one who’s going to rent us the apartment. But actual details rarely dissuade my bestie. She’s going to get me that apartment, and as far as she’s concerned, this guy owns the building.

“Applications are completed online,” the man says, rattling off the web address.

Megan glances around the lobby, over at the row of built-in phone booths that line the left wall and the library in the front corner of the building, then at the welcome desk in the center of the space, and finally at the spiral staircase leading off to our right.

Megan came with me to Gran’s a number of times, years ago. Outside of the Sundays I guarded to keep just for me and Gran, I loved times when the three of us sat around talking and laughing in Gran’s living room. Megan and Gran were two peas in a pod. They spoke the same fantastical language of the heart. Kindreds, as Anne Shirley would have called them.

I cherished my Sunday afternoons alone with Gran, so I probably unwittingly gave off a vibe that told Megan not to even consider asking to tag along. My life was crammed with commitments the rest of the week back then, but sometimes I’d stop in when I could on an afternoon after school, and Megan would come with me.

I glance around. The building looks the same but fresher somehow. New paint? Something’s different. And yet, it’s still the same old Serendipity.

“Do you know if Galentine is here?” I ask the man.

“Galentine?” The man looks confused.

“She was the manager … or owner? I don’t know. I thought I’d get the application from her.”

“Archer is the owner. Has been since before I moved in, but I’m new here. I never met a Galentine.” He pauses and then adds, “Sorry.”

“No worries,” Megan says on my behalf. “We’ll just fill out the application online. Nice to meet you.”

The man smiles at us, tucks his mail under his arm, and walks across the lobby to the elevator.

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