Miracle On 5th Avenue Read online

  “Failing in a marriage isn’t like failing an exam. You don’t get to do it all over again and aim for a better grade. At least, not in my case.”

  “Is that how you see it? As failure?”

  “There was something fundamental that was missing in our relationship. Something I failed to give her.”

  “Maybe no one could have given her what she needed. Maybe what she needed was something only she could find.” She paused. “You’ve decided you don’t ever want to love again, but what if there is a different type of love out there for you? One that lifts you, instead of crushes you? You don’t want to miss that. Life is too short and precious to be lived without love, Lucas.”

  Did she really believe that?

  Hearing her words cemented his belief that this was a giant mistake. “How have you made it this far in life without being thoroughly disillusioned?”

  “You’re assuming you’re right and I’m wrong, but what if I’m not the one who’s wrong?”

  “I’ve been in love, Eva. I know what love is.”

  “You know what love was for you last time, but you don’t know what love could be. Next time it could be different. Just think about it.”

  He didn’t know whether her view on the world was inspiring or terrifying.

  “What I think,” he said, “is that you’re living in fairy-tale land again.”

  “My friends call it Planet Eva. But it’s nice here.” Her voice was soft and breathy. “Maybe you should join me, even if it’s only for a minibreak.”

  Despite all the warnings in his head, she made him laugh and he lowered his mouth to hers and pressed her back against the bed. She was luscious and succulent, like her food. “Maybe I will.”

  “There’s only one rule. No baggage on Planet Eva. We travel light here. Hand luggage only.”

  * * *

  Eva slept through the alarm twice and woke grumpy and flustered.

  She found Lucas in his bathroom, shaving. A towel was knotted round his waist.

  “It’s late. Why didn’t you wake me?”

  “Because you’re terrible in the mornings, and even worse when you’re tired. And you had reason to be tired. You had an active night.”

  “You were there, too, remember?”

  His eyes met hers in the mirror. “I remember.”

  She backed away but he snaked out a hand and closed his fingers round her wrist. “Where are you going?”

  “To make breakfast.”

  “Not today. I’m taking you out. There’s a place around the corner. French bistro. You’ll love it.” He released her and turned back to the mirror.

  “But your book—”

  “I’ve finished a first draft. I need some space away from it before I tackle it again.”

  “You’ve finished it?” She was thrilled for him. “How many words?”

  “A hundred thousand. And a first draft doesn’t mean it’s finished.”

  “A hundred thousand?” Eva felt weak. “If I write a hundred words for my blog I think I’m doing well. Do you usually write that fast when you get going?”

  “No.”

  “But this time you were desperate.”

  “This time I was inspired.”

  Even though she’d given herself a firm talking-to about not reading more into their relationship than there was, his words warmed her insides. “Because I’m the perfect murderess.”

  The smile spread across his face, slow and sexy. “You’re the perfect something. I haven’t worked out what yet.”

  “Unless you want me to remove that towel and do bad things to you, I should probably get dressed.”

  “That sounds like a good idea. I can’t have sex again until I’ve replenished some of the ten million calories we used up last night.”

  It was another hour before they finally left the apartment and headed out.

  The French Bistro on Lexington Avenue was cozy and personal and Eva was charmed.

  “It’s like being back in Paris. How did I not know about this place?”

  “You live in Brooklyn.”

  It was obvious Lucas was a frequent visitor. The café was packed, but they were shown to a little table by the window.

  Eva shrugged off her coat and slid into her seat. “I had a text from Harry. She’s keeping the puppy for another few days, but she’s been in touch with the animal adoption center and they’re confident they won’t have any trouble finding a loving home for him.”

  “That’s good.”

  It was good. So why did she feel a tug of disappointment?

  Reminding herself that she didn’t have time to care for a dog, Eva glanced down at the menu in front of her but Lucas picked it up and handed it back to the waiter.

  Without consulting her he ordered for both of them and Eva raised her eyebrows.

  “Are you developing controlling tendencies?”

  “You’ve been deciding what we eat for the past couple of weeks. It’s my turn. And I eat here all the time. I know what’s good.” He sat back in his chair. “You wanted that puppy, didn’t you?”

  “No.” She said it firmly. “I don’t have time. We’re really busy building up the business.”

  He gave her a long, steady look but didn’t pursue it. “Do you have any work events between now and Christmas?”

  “A couple, but nothing I need to attend in person. I’m using a company called Delicious Eats, and they’re great.”

  “What about the Christmas party at the assisted living community? Are you going to go?”

  Eva wondered why he was asking her that question. “Why would I?”

  “You said that you missed seeing the people there. They probably miss you, too. Why not go?”

  It was an option that hadn’t occurred to her. “I don’t know. I thought about going to visit a couple of times after Grams died, but it was so hard—” She tested the idea and felt a flutter of mixed emotions. “I’m worried that going somewhere so full of memories will be painful.”

  “Or they might make you feel connected. I’m sure the staff and residents there have memories of their own. They might appreciate sharing them with someone who knew her and loved her.”

  The waiter appeared, delivering hot coffee, plates of eggs Florentine and French toast.

  Eva stared at her food without seeing it, thinking about Tom and all her grandmother’s friends. “I’ve neglected them. I should have gone and visited but—”

  “It feels daunting. So take someone with you for moral support.”

  “There isn’t anyone. Paige and Frankie are so busy I couldn’t possibly ask them. Matt is working on a project out in Long Island so he’s away a lot and Jake—well, Jake is great, but not the sort of guy I’d want to cry on.”

  “I’ll come with you. And you’ve already cried on me so we’ve covered that one.”

  His offer took her by surprise. “You’d do that?”

  “You’ve helped me by being here. If I can help you, then I’d like to.”

  She was touched, and part of her wondered why he’d make such a generous offer. “You’d be mobbed. One of my grandmother’s closest friends is a fan of yours.”

  “I appreciate fans. Without them, I wouldn’t have a job. The only part that makes me uneasy is when women send me their underwear.”

  “That happens?”

  “More than you’d think.” He told her a few stories about various incidents at book signings and she listened, amused and intrigued.

  “I had no idea being an author could be so exciting. You should get danger money. But Tom is ninety, so I don’t think you’d be in any physical danger from him.”

  “Eat.” He gestured to her plate. “And think about it.”

  She thought about it as they ate, and afterward as they strolled down Fifth Avenue to the Rockefeller Center to admire the Christmas tree.

  “I used to come here with Grams.” She leaned against him, watching the skaters glide around the ice rink in a blur of color, wrapped up against
the crisp, cold air. Skyscrapers sparkled behind them, dazzling in the winter sunshine. “Sometimes I’d skate and she’d watch. I wish she was here now. I miss talking to her.”

  “What would you talk about?”

  “I’d ask her advice. Sometimes when I’m not sure what to do about something, I close my eyes and try to imagine what she’d say. Does that sound crazy?”

  “No.” He slid his fingers under her chin and lifted her face to his. “What advice do you need? What would you ask her if she were here?”

  She’d ask her grandmother what she should do about Lucas.

  “Nothing specific.” She forced a smile. “I’m freezing. We should get back to the apartment so you can work. Thanks for breakfast.”

  Sixteen

  Love is a journey. Carry a map.

  —Paige

  Lucas gave up trying to stay away from her. Partly because his willpower was weaker than a single strand of thread, and partly because Eva wasn’t someone who valued emotional distance or personal space. She was like the puppy they’d rescued. Affectionate, trusting and tactile.

  He went back to work, and for the next few days submerged himself in his fictional world and his characters. They occupied his mind to such an extent that the real world faded to nothing. He knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that this was the best book he’d written to date. Now, finally, he almost had something he was excited to show to the world.

  Beyond the windows of his study the sun shone, touching the snow-covered trees with dazzling flecks of silver, as if someone had decorated the park in glitter especially for the festive season. People rushed about in the streets, keen to finish Christmas shopping. Lucas saw none of it. He wrote and rewrote, editing ruthlessly, tightening the story, deepening the characters, polishing the prose. Night merged with day and he worked such long stretches that occasionally when he glanced up and saw that it was dark again he realized he’d missed almost all of the daylight hours.

  If it hadn’t been for Eva, he would have starved or died of dehydration, but she appeared by his side at regular intervals, bearing nutritious treats that barely required him to remove his hands from the keyboard. Tiny bite-size quiches made with crisp buttery pastry and garlic-infused slivers of exotic mushrooms, crostini with roasted peppers and goat cheese, a light-as-air mousse made from smoked salmon and cream. Each piece was a feast of melting flavor, designed to be eaten in one mouthful, but without a compromise on taste and quality. Sampling her food, he had no trouble understanding how Urban Genie’s success had grown so rapidly. Eva had an innate sense of what food would perfectly complement the occasion, whether that occasion was a glamorous wedding, or an author who didn’t have time to look up from his manuscript.

  Apart from those moments where she brought him food and drink, she was careful not to disturb him, although occasionally he heard her on the phone talking to Paige and Frankie, or singing in the kitchen as she cooked.

  They always ate dinner together, but afterward he often worked late into the night. It was during one of his late-night work sessions that he heard her screams.

  He was out of his chair in an instant, heart pounding, his tension magnified by the fact that he’d been reading over a scary scene.

  He pushed open the bedroom door. The bedside light was on and he saw Eva sitting up in bed, her hair soft and tangled, her eyes wide.

  “Eva? What the hell is wrong?” He looked around the room, expecting to see masked raiders, but instead there was just Eva, shivering. “What happened?”

  For a moment she didn’t answer and then she pulled the covers up under her chin. “Can you put the light on?”

  “The light is on.”

  “I mean the main light. I want more light.” Her teeth were chattering and he flicked on all the lights in the room and strode to the bed.

  “What happened?”

  She looked white and shaken. “Bad dream.”

  “You had a nightmare?” He settled on the bed next to her and pulled her into the curve of his arms. “What about?”

  “I was in the kitchen, and I was cooking for a bunch of people, and— On second thought, I don’t want to talk about it.”

  He glanced at the nightstand. “You read one of my books?”

  “I thought it was the polite thing to do. Big mistake. You’re good at what you do, but what you do isn’t for me. Don’t be offended.”

  Far from being offended, he was touched. “I can’t believe you read my book.”

  “I wanted to know more about your writing. Now I wish I didn’t.”

  Smiling, he tightened his grip on her. “It’s fiction, sweetheart.”

  “I know, but it’s also scarily real. I don’t mind books about zombies and aliens because I don’t bump into many of those in Bloomingdale’s, but the guy in your book was charming and I don’t know if I would have spotted that he was a killer.”

  “You have excellent radar, remember? You would have detected that something wasn’t right.”

  “I might not. I’m not programmed to be suspicious.”

  “I love that about you.” He wished he hadn’t used the word love, but she didn’t seem to notice.

  She rubbed her fingers over her brow. “I’m seriously spooked. Don’t you spook yourself when you write it?”

  “Sometimes, that’s when I know that what I’m writing is good.”

  “Do you have to write with the lights on?”

  He smiled. “No. I prefer to be in the dark. Scarier that way.”

  “Do you ever read happy fiction where the characters are still alive at the end?”

  “Not often.”

  She shivered and glanced toward her phone. “What time is it?”

  “Three in the morning. I was writing. I didn’t realize it was so late.”

  “Sorry I disturbed you. You’d better go back to work.”

  “I was thinking it was time to go to bed.” He stood up, stripped off his clothes and slid under the covers with her, drawing her into his arms again.

  “Can we leave the light on?”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Yes. If there’s a serial killer in the room, I want to see him.”

  * * *

  Two days later Eva walked into his office and put a parcel down on his desk. “Merry Christmas.”

  “You bought me a gift? That’s sweet of you, but you shouldn’t have. There’s nothing I need.”

  “That’s a matter of opinion. Open it.”

  He turned back to the package and slid his finger under the paper, releasing the tape. “It’s a book.”

  “Not just any book.”

  The paper fell away and he picked up the book and turned it over. “Pride and Prejudice.” He looked up at her. “You bought me Jane Austen?”

  “You need to discover another side of reading. Relationships don’t all end in death and misery. The story is emotionally complex and, most important, it has a happy ending. I’m trying to show you that not all fiction has to end with all the characters sliced into tiny pieces, or with broken hearts. There are other options.”

  He put the book down. “Eva—” His tone was patient. “I write about crime.”

  “I know! Your book gave me screaming nightmares.” She was still embarrassed about that, but had decided there was no point in pretending to be someone she wasn’t. She didn’t want to be scared in her reading. “Thanks to you, I’m never going to be able to sleep with the light off again and I’m probably not going to be able to take a cab anywhere.”

  “It’s crime fiction. People die.”

  “But why can’t they just be injured and then cured by a kind, caring doctor?”

  He looked amused. “Because then the book wouldn’t be about a serial killer.”

  “He could meet someone kind and fall in love—”

  “Eva,” he interrupted her gently. “Don’t read what I write. Then it won’t upset you.”

  “But maybe if you wrote happier fiction, you might not have such dark, twist
ed thoughts about love. You could start with a short story where no one dies.” She looked at him hopefully and he sat back in his chair and shook his head.

  “So if this is a Christmas gift, I guess I need to give some thought to yours.”

  “There’s nothing I need.”

  “You haven’t written a letter to Santa?”

  “I wrote my letter to Santa months ago. I asked for sex— from a hot guy, not from Santa—and he delivered. And there is no point in me writing again because since I wrote my last letter I’ve been a bad, bad girl.” She leaned forward and kissed him. “What does Santa do to very bad girls?”

  “I don’t know, but I can tell you what I do with very bad girls.” He stood up and pulled her against him.

  She curled her fingers into his shirt, determined to say what had been on her mind all day. “Lucas?”

  “What?”

  “I’ve been thinking about what you said.”

  His mouth hovered close to hers. “What did I say?”

  “That I should go to the assisted living community and that you’d come with me. Did you mean it?” He eased away.

  “Of course I meant it.”

  “Sometimes people say things they don’t mean. And this is a pretty big deal. You’d be giving up a whole afternoon and I know you’re busy and it’s important you get your book done.”

  “This is more important.” He threaded his fingers through hers. “You’d like to go?”

  “Yes, although part of me is scared I’ll make a fool of myself. I haven’t been back there since I lost Grams. What if I start howling?”

  “Then I’ll sing loudly to cover the noise. Christmas carols.”

  “You hate festive music.” She smiled, wondering how he always managed to make her feel better. “Be serious.”

  “I am being serious.” He squeezed her hand. “No one is going to judge you, Ev. If you cry, you cry. I hope you don’t because I don’t like seeing you upset, but no one will blame you. And if it feels like too much and you need to leave, then we’ll make some excuse. Leave it with me. You’re talking to the guy who is an expert at avoiding social events.”