The One That Got Away by Carol Rosenfeld Page A

decorated the tree. Milk? Sugar?”
    â€œBlack is fine.”
    I decided it might be time for me to make my exit. “I’ve got some filing to do in my office. Nice meeting you, Jim,” I said, although he hadn’t officially acknowledged my existence.
    â€œB.D., where are you going?” Eduardo asked. “Sit down.”
    I sat. I felt like a dog: a large, warm body with nothing to contribute to the conversation.
    Eduardo came out from the kitchen carrying a tray with three mugs. He placed it on the coffee table, handed one mug to Jim, another to me, and took the third for himself, settling into a chair opposite his gentleman caller. “Do you live around here, Jim, or are you just visiting the city?”
    â€œI live over on Greenwich Avenue.”
    â€œHow wonderful,” Eduardo said. “We’re practicallyneighbors. Perhaps you’d like to come to my annual holiday fête? A few films, lots of food, and a little bit of caroling; you can come for part of it or all of it.”
    â€œWell, I’m not sure,” Jim said. “Though it certainly sounds like fun.”
    â€œIt’s for old friends and new friends,” Eduardo said, with a slight emphasis on new. He leaned forward. “Please, let me print out an invitation for you.”
    While Eduardo was out of the room, Jim and I sipped our coffee in silence. I tried to determine if he was the kind of man who would appreciate seeing Eduardo in a long-sleeved red robe trimmed with white fur, a replica of the outfit worn by Rosemary Clooney in the finale of White Christmas .
    The coffee was finished, business cards were exchanged, and Jim went on his way. Eduardo took the mugs back to the kitchen, while I gathered up the tissue that had cradled the ornaments since the previous year.
    â€œDo you think Jim will come to the fête, B.D.?” Eduardo asked.
    I didn’t know how to answer. Sometimes it was easier to believe in Santa Claus and angels than in human beings. While the holidays held the potential for happiness, it was easy to hope for too much. I enjoyed celebrating quietly, and alone. Some people had a hard time accepting that I preferred sipping hot cider and piecing together a reproduction of a painting of angels while Christmas carols played on the radio.
    I knew that Eduardo had some quiet holiday rituals too. One was to go to the General Post Office at 32th Street and Eighth Avenue and select some letters to Santa. He would try to fulfill the wishes of the letter writers. At the stroke of midnight on Christmas Eve, he would share a toast of cider with a few of his closest friends, a tradition carried over from his childhood in Argentina. And on Christmas Day, before going out todinner, he dressed up in a Santa suit, complete with white moustache and beard, and went to a city homeless shelter with a sack of oranges, chocolate bars, clothing, and toys.

Chapter 7
    I was riding home on the subway, reading Sarah Waters’ Tipping the Velvet . After the guy who’d been sitting next to me got off the train, I felt a gentle jolt and glanced up to give the requisite glare. I never did, for I quickly realized that the woman who had slid across the seats to my side was no ordinary commuter.
    She was wearing a black down jacket, a black watch cap, and black leather pants.
    â€œLuvly book, that,” she said with a British accent.
    I smiled. “Yes it is. Are you on vacation?”
    She nodded.
    â€œFirst trip to the States?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œHow do you like New York so far?”
    â€œWell,” she said, “I’m liking it much better now.”
    She had beautiful brown eyes.
    â€œI’m Jean,” she said.
    â€œAnd I’m B.D. It’s sort of a nickname.”
    â€œSo, B.D., what can you tell me about the women’s scene around here? Are there any dances?”
    â€œThe community center has a women’s dance once a month,” I said. “How long