year.”
“The wind chill is around ten degrees,” she said.
“The perfect night to do this,” he replied. “Cuts down on the tourist traffic.” When she didn’t respond, he added, “You’ll regret it if you leave the city without seeing the windows. Maybe not this year, or next, but you will.”
Pain danced under the surface of her skin, and she broke eye contact. He’d known the words would sting, if not downright burn, because any woman who’d lost her husband after just a few years of marriage had regret seared into her soul. But he was here, and she was here, in the city at Christmastime. It was time for her to face what she was avoiding.
The answer was in her eyes when she looked at him again, her expression nearly identical to the connection he felt on St. Patrick’s Day, part challenge, part desperation, part longing. Without a word he offered her his elbow. She slid her hand down to his, tucked in his coat pocket.
“How was your day?” he asked as they turned onto Sixth Avenue. Only the hardiest souls walked in this weather; long lines waited for various buses to the outer boroughs.
Through the wind-whipped fur around her face he saw the corner of her mouth lift at the prosaic question. “Busy,” she said. “The implementation’s royally fucked up. The web server and the application server have suddenly decided they don’t want to talk to each other as efficiently as they did when we were in test. And my cube’s crammed to the tops of the walls with toys and gifts I’m collecting for the December soup kitchen.”
He couldn’t have been more surprised if she’d said she got a second job as an elf at Macy’s. He gave her a quick glance. “Which one?”
“The Open Table. Cooper Bensonhurst and a couple of other investment houses sponsor the program, and employees volunteer. I missed the last organizational meeting and got assigned to be the donor dropoff point. I’ve been hauling bags home all week.”
Her disgruntled tone spurred a laugh he managed to stifle as they crossed Sixth Avenue at Thirty-Fourth and joined the straggling tail end of the queue under the awnings. “In cabs, I assume.”
She nodded as they reached the first window. “I have no idea how I’m going to get all of this stuff from my apartment to the community center,” she said, then answered her own question. “Hire a van, probably. My driver’s license is still valid, but I’ve never driven in the city.”
“Let me take care of that for you,” he said casually.
“You have a van?”
“No, but I know a guy,” he said.
“That’s such a New York thing,” she said. “You know a guy. Does your guy know a guy who’s got a connection?”
“Maybe,” he said.
“I can do it,” she said. “The company will pick up the tab. There must be places in the city that rent vans.”
“Do you have time? Sounds like the implementation’s keeping you pretty busy.” The word sounded strange on his tongue. Implementation . What the hell was an implementation anyway? She hesitated, not much, but the fact that she did told him she was snowed under and then some. “Parking will be a nightmare. Let me help, Thea,” he said gently. “I can do this for you.”
“It’s on the twenty-third,” she said. “We start cooking at two, serve the meal at four and hand out presents during dessert. Everyone’s making cookies to share.”
“You guys do a good thing there,” he said. With his job he saw everything from Park Avenue penthouses worth more money than his entire family would make in a lifetime to public housing poverty in Spanish Harlem, where the kids might not even get a meal on Christmas, let alone a present. He knew about and respected Cooper Bensonhurst’s efforts to stave off hunger and homelessness in the five boroughs. The fact that Thea, a relative newcomer to the city and the bank, was involved spoke to her commitment to share a little light with others.
Now if he could just get her to make
“The wind chill is around ten degrees,” she said.
“The perfect night to do this,” he replied. “Cuts down on the tourist traffic.” When she didn’t respond, he added, “You’ll regret it if you leave the city without seeing the windows. Maybe not this year, or next, but you will.”
Pain danced under the surface of her skin, and she broke eye contact. He’d known the words would sting, if not downright burn, because any woman who’d lost her husband after just a few years of marriage had regret seared into her soul. But he was here, and she was here, in the city at Christmastime. It was time for her to face what she was avoiding.
The answer was in her eyes when she looked at him again, her expression nearly identical to the connection he felt on St. Patrick’s Day, part challenge, part desperation, part longing. Without a word he offered her his elbow. She slid her hand down to his, tucked in his coat pocket.
“How was your day?” he asked as they turned onto Sixth Avenue. Only the hardiest souls walked in this weather; long lines waited for various buses to the outer boroughs.
Through the wind-whipped fur around her face he saw the corner of her mouth lift at the prosaic question. “Busy,” she said. “The implementation’s royally fucked up. The web server and the application server have suddenly decided they don’t want to talk to each other as efficiently as they did when we were in test. And my cube’s crammed to the tops of the walls with toys and gifts I’m collecting for the December soup kitchen.”
He couldn’t have been more surprised if she’d said she got a second job as an elf at Macy’s. He gave her a quick glance. “Which one?”
“The Open Table. Cooper Bensonhurst and a couple of other investment houses sponsor the program, and employees volunteer. I missed the last organizational meeting and got assigned to be the donor dropoff point. I’ve been hauling bags home all week.”
Her disgruntled tone spurred a laugh he managed to stifle as they crossed Sixth Avenue at Thirty-Fourth and joined the straggling tail end of the queue under the awnings. “In cabs, I assume.”
She nodded as they reached the first window. “I have no idea how I’m going to get all of this stuff from my apartment to the community center,” she said, then answered her own question. “Hire a van, probably. My driver’s license is still valid, but I’ve never driven in the city.”
“Let me take care of that for you,” he said casually.
“You have a van?”
“No, but I know a guy,” he said.
“That’s such a New York thing,” she said. “You know a guy. Does your guy know a guy who’s got a connection?”
“Maybe,” he said.
“I can do it,” she said. “The company will pick up the tab. There must be places in the city that rent vans.”
“Do you have time? Sounds like the implementation’s keeping you pretty busy.” The word sounded strange on his tongue. Implementation . What the hell was an implementation anyway? She hesitated, not much, but the fact that she did told him she was snowed under and then some. “Parking will be a nightmare. Let me help, Thea,” he said gently. “I can do this for you.”
“It’s on the twenty-third,” she said. “We start cooking at two, serve the meal at four and hand out presents during dessert. Everyone’s making cookies to share.”
“You guys do a good thing there,” he said. With his job he saw everything from Park Avenue penthouses worth more money than his entire family would make in a lifetime to public housing poverty in Spanish Harlem, where the kids might not even get a meal on Christmas, let alone a present. He knew about and respected Cooper Bensonhurst’s efforts to stave off hunger and homelessness in the five boroughs. The fact that Thea, a relative newcomer to the city and the bank, was involved spoke to her commitment to share a little light with others.
Now if he could just get her to make
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