Intersection

By Kathryn

Itd been a couple years since Sybil filed for divorce. As an attorney married to a surgeon, she found herself pregnant. Dr. Nicholas Amaraz knew it wasnt his child, but he didnt want to end his marriage either. He didnt believe in divorce.

He lived alone, and his days were long and somewhat lonely until the day he walked into Pepes Restaurant. The cuisine was impressive, the atmosphere was pleasant, and the owner, Peter, was an inquisitive, congenial and faith-based individual who learned that faith-based Dr. Amaraz was also an excellent chef.

One evening, as he was leaving Pepes, Dr. Amaraz crossed paths with a lady whose etiquette was sorely lacking. Intrigued, he asked Peter about her. Peter was well aware of Baileys shortcomings, but he also knew she had secrets. Dr. Amaraz persisted, and eventually he and Bailey began a rocky relationship. When Dr. Amaraz was invited to a medical symposium in Israel, everything changed. The lives of Peter, Bailey, and Nicholas could, or would, never be the same again.

• Language: English
• Publisher: WestBow Press
• Release date: Dec 9, 2016
• ISBN: 9781512763669

Kathryn

Upon retiring from medicine, Kathryn began writing. Through her imagination she delves into an array of relevant aspects of todays society as well as some of the more recent unique medical conditions that plague mankind.

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Copyright © 2016 Kathryn.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Author photo by Diane Street

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

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ISBN: 978-1-5127-6367-6 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5127-6368-3 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-5127-6366-9 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2016918626

WestBow Press rev. date: 12/09/2016

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Early Last Night

1

A highly respected and prosperous gentleman opens a door for a distraught and guilt ridden woman and something happens.

He’d learn that his wealth of character, faith and professional expertise was in direct contrast to the self inflicted shame she’s lived with since her high school days.

What neither of them could’ve imagined as they began dating was that a path initiated by his mother would expose Nicholas to harm and Bailey to a loss she couldn’t comprehend.

Then everything went black.

Thank you, Sherry, for being my

extraordinary and faithful friend.

1

I t all started so innocently. He had wanted to try a different restaurant for some time. Being tired by the time his day of work was over, his dinner would exist of heated leftovers from the previous day. On his shorter work days he’d go to a restaurant or fix himself an elaborate meal at home.

He had heard Pepe’s Restaurant served fantastic meals with a diversified menu. It wasn’t a long drive from the hospital; he’d passed it several times on Sundays when it was closed.

Pepe’s Restaurant was owned by a gentleman by the name of Peter Gallagher. Peter was actually Italian from his mother’s side, but he looked Spanish from his father’s side. His English was perfect. Soft spoken, tan skinned with eyes that missed nothing in his kitchen, he was not only amiable but could be quite funny. He wasn’t short in stature but he wasn’t tall either. His physique was slight and his movements measured. As the chef of a high end restaurant, he decided ‘Pepe’ sounded less aloof than Peter; thus, Pepe’s Restaurant.

Once an individual ate at Peter’s restaurant they returned often. His clientele had been growing steadily since he opened his eatery seven years prior. Besides himself, he employed one other chef, Craig, two chef interns, Bud and Cliff, a receptionist and three hostesses. His hours of operation were limited, from 3 P.M. to 11 P.M. However, he was in the kitchen by ten every morning they were open.

Because he was Catholic, he was always closed on Easter, Thanksgiving, Christmas and New Years and every Sunday and Monday. Mondays were just because. From the first day he opened his clientele accepted the reality of his schedule and never complained. Occasionally on Mondays, Peter would prepare food that could be made ahead of time so that on Tuesday there wasn’t a rush to prepare the exquisite meals for which the restaurant was known.

In seven years, Peter still had the same personnel and chef that he employed when he had the name of the restaurant emblazoned on the front of the building. Currently, he was utilizing his second round of intern chefs. Peter Gallagher was highly respected, a formidable friend, a loving and faithful husband and father, and a presence to be reckoned with; his insight into people was phenomenal. He could expound for a minimum of a half hour on the disposition of any individual that he saw walking into his restaurant just by reading their body language.

His clientele was extremely diversified: construction workers, blue collar personnel, nurses, doctors, mothers, housewives, old folks, white collar upper crust managers, farmers, fishermen, but no children. The menu was too pricey for what children normally left on their plates.

People of different nationalities and backgrounds, color and religion ate at Pepe’s and Peter made it a point to meet each one over the course of time, especially a new partaker of his excellent fare. It was obvious to anyone paying attention that Peter loved people and frequently, when time permitted, he would leave the confines of his kitchen, joining them at their table, talking and sharing his life with theirs. He was an excellent listener, imparting advice on a need to know basis.

When he walked in the door, through the one-way mirror that fronted the kitchen, Peter spotted him immediately as a new patron. He had never seen a man so tall, so well built with not a pinch of fat on his torso. Peter tried to identify the image before him. He was too tall to be Italian. He could’ve been Irish with the cleft chin and dimples that he wore. And yet his complexion reminded him of another fellow who occasionally frequented the restaurant whose lineage was Peruvian. This gentleman was more handsome than most, very sure of himself and yet, unpretentious. He moved with the agility of a skater, only slower.

When he removed his sunglasses, Peter surmised his eyes may well be blue. He wasn’t sure why he had such a thought; perhaps he’d have a chance to clarify it later.

Peter watched him as he asked the receptionist for a place to be seated by a window on the far side of the restaurant. He was gracious to her, giving pause before he seated himself. This was definitely a man Peter wanted to meet and get to know. Peter himself was a cultivated and honorable man; it was men who exhibited the same qualities he chose to befriend personally. It would be interesting, to say the least, if this gentleman would return. Entirely too busy to think about it at the moment, he let it pass. He’d pay attention to what he ordered; sometimes Peter could tell more about the person from what they chose to eat than how they were dressed.

Back in the kitchen, Peter ruminated over the gentleman’s persona. His dress was casual, wearing a summer weight sweater and a pair of pleated slacks. The belt he wore was shiny black as were his shoes, highly polished but comfortable kilties that matched his mane of black hair.

After the newest patron had finished his dinner, having paid the hostess, he started to leave as quietly as he walked in, stopping only to say something to the receptionist at the front door.

At closing time, Peter walked up to the receptionist as she removed the cash drawer, which was subtlety positioned behind a half wall.

Macy. That guy, the friendly giant, the one who’d never been here before, did you get his name?

"No, but Peter, was he good looking or what! And the tip he gave the hostess, wow! He even stopped to tell me he was very pleased with the service and the cuisine. I didn’t think people knew how to use the word anymore. Cuisine! " she said as she waved her open hand in the air, like a propeller on a windmill.

Really! Did you get his name?

"Are you kidding? My false teeth were rattling so loud I had all I could do just to say thank you. I was sssooooo nervous!" Macy continued with the chores she had every night at closing time. But Peter was still intrigued by the man.

I wonder what he does for a living, I mean, Peter said, quietly.

Well, I’ll tell you this. He had the most beautifully manicured hands I’ve ever seen. Large hands! Long fingers. Nails! Clean as a whistle! Trimmed and everything. Wanted to scratch them, see if they were polished! As she walked away with the tray and the receipts, she added, Wonder if he cleans his nails with Clorox?

You’d have been able to smell him if he did. Peter laughed. Cleaning hands with Clorox was something even he didn’t do. Seriously looking at his hands and nails, he speculated again out loud. Wonder what he does for a living?

2

H aving worked for Senator Levi Strauss from Ohio for two years, Esther Cohen believed she had the best that life could offer.

Her parents, Israeli by birth, were both schooled in law, graduating from Yale Law School. With their temporary United States status over, they returned to Israel and became instrumental in the politics of what many of their fellow citizens referred to as the Holy Land.

While still living in Israel, after Esther was born, it became her parent’s goal to officially immigrate to the United States for the benefit of their daughter. Israel, being in a state of flux since its inception, was in turmoil with their surrounding countries. War always seemed to be imminent with Israel pushing for legalization of their statehood. Upon accumulating enough monetary means to move, the three of them left Israel in 1945, two years before the War of Independence, giving Israel its freedom. At seven years old, Esther said goodbye to the only society she’d ever known. Instilled with a deep religious belief held fast by her upbringing and her unusual intellect, she looked at the move as an adventure.

Having come to America from Israel at an early age, Esther settled in with her new language, new school and her new surroundings. Being an only child helped her a great deal when it came to having indelible time with her parents.

Upon graduating from the University of Illinois at eighteen in international studies, Esther went to work for Senator Levi Strauss. For both it appeared to be an excellent match regardless of where either of them had been born. Impressed with the knowledge and acumen of his new hire, Esther became a part of his family as well.

As for her part in the world of politics, Esther was thrilled when asked to accompany the Senator and his wife wherever they traveled and whenever there was an important function to attend. Since her knowledge of Israel was ingrained in her, both from her studies and the history of her family, she became Senator Strauss’ closest advisor. For someone so young to be considered worthy of the position, Esther magnanimously resigned herself to being a political liaison between the Senator and the people of Ohio for the foreseeable future.

Then, without pretense, she met Kagan Amaraz.

3

N icholas David Amaraz. A distinguished name to say the least, one that meant everything to his parents. Nicholas’ father, Kagan Amaraz, was Peruvian by birth. Although he was born into poverty, he migrated by strength and wit to the growing and prosperous United States, settling in southern California. Settling in those days meant working in the fields by day and sleeping where no honest man should’ve laid his head, in the horse stalls along with whatever animals decided to creep in and make their bed. Built slight in frame what meat he had was muscled and determined, disciplined in body and mind to be in a better place both physically and academically than he was when he left Peru.

He was paid little and ate less; it was of his own choosing. What little he had was shared with those men who had brought their wives with them and especially with those men who had children to feed. Being in a warm climate, he wore the same pants, filthy and worn from sweat, until they fell off. It was only then he replaced them with whatever the landowners chose fit to throw away. Being small in stature he could wear a small boy’s trousers, which simply meant he appeared to have newer and cleaner clothes to wear, changing more often than the more husky men.

Initially his shoes were well worn already small for his growing feet when he left home. Eventually, he threw them in a sandy ditch just before crossing the Rio Grande on his way to America. After convincing the landowners he could work in the fields barefoot, he set out to prove to himself and to others that the mud his feet accumulated after a rain could be washed away and the ground on a warm day was better for his feet than any shoes that didn’t fit.

Living as a young single man, working from dawn to dusk was back breaking and arduous, was in itself was quite satisfying since he had no intention of doing it for the rest of his life. Someone somewhere had told him about the colleges and universities that existed in the eastern United States: if he could speak English, if he could make his way there, if he could get a good paying job, if he could find a benefactor, if he could save what monies he could afford to set aside. Then he could attend one of the institutions of higher learning and never have to work in the fields, barefoot, again.

It was an enormous dream, one he’d had from the first day on his own, a dream holding him captive day and night, hungry or starving, warm or freezing. Whether working or sleeping, dreaming or awake, he determined that eventually he would become a citizen of these United States, would have a wife, clothes to wear and discard, shoes that fit, a house to sleep in and a profession to which he could return every day and be fulfilled. And if all his prayers were answered, a son to call his own.

With sweat rolling off his face, his head covered in wet thick black hair, calluses on his palms and fingers, ears parched from the sun, his back blistered and bruised, his feet bloated and sore from the unforgiving earth, he committed himself to changing his circumstances while leaning on his tilling hoe in a potato patch. Looking over the acres of fields with nary a hill or rise in sight, with a smile on his face, he visualized the day when he could look back at his present state and say thanks for all he’d been given.

How could he have possibly dreamed or known one day he would serve the United States as Ambassador to his formerly native country of Peru, and have a son named Nicholas David Amaraz.

4

T he following week the gentleman with the gorgeous hands, nails to be exact, returned to eat at Pepe’s. He requested a table close to the door that opened into the kitchen. It was about nine in the evening and the clientele was beginning to thin out. Peter took immediate notice of him as he walked in, already positioning himself to make time to meet his new patron. After all, Peter ruminated, since he had returned he certainly must have been impressed with the food, as he had previously told Macy, as well as the atmosphere of the cozy but busy upscale restaurant.

After Peter washed his hands and removed his smock he walked up to the table, extending his hand in friendship, introducing himself.

How do you do. I’m Peter. And just to let you know, I really like to get to know the people who frequent my restaurant. Peter never waited to be asked to sit down; he didn’t like to speak to someone sitting while he was standing over them. Few had been the occasions when he had felt he’d overstepped his boundaries. After all, it was his restaurant and it was his gift to welcome a new patron, regardless of their standing in the community. The clothes people wore intrigued him because he had learned eons ago that clothes meant nothing when evaluating someone’s character.

After shaking hands, Nicholas replied with Glad to meet you. My name is Nicholas but I’d prefer you call me Nick. Peter immediately noticed Nicholas’ voice as soft, smooth, like melting butter, with an undercurrent of strength.

Welcome, Nick, to my home away from home. Peter moved his arm as if to say this is my whole establishment.

I’m impressed with the quality of the cuisine and like the personal attention your personnel gives to all your patrons. It’s a rare commodity these days.

Peter smiled. This was no ordinary man whose nails were manicured and whose hands, though large, looked as soft as a baby’s behind. His delivery intimated to Peter his possible higher education as the majority of Pepe’s patrons were educated.

Thank you. That’s nice to hear. May I ask you a personal question? Peter zeroed in on Nicholas’ blue eyes while Nicholas looked around a bit to make sure they weren’t being overheard. I couldn’t help but notice your hands. Perhaps I’m being too personal but what exactly do you do for a living?

Nicholas hadn’t given his hands any particular attention other than the scrubbing they got prior to entering surgery. From the moment Peter introduced himself, Nicholas liked him; he was at ease with his presence. But to ask someone what they did for a living and noticing someone’s hands, well, it aroused his interest as to where this conversation was going. Does it matter what I do for a living? Your hands are just as clean.

I’m really sorry I was so forward. Peter, for all his good judgment, knew he’d stepped over the invisible line between propriety and political correctness, which always raised its ugly head at the most inopportune occasions. I guess I was just curious.

I’m a surgeon by profession and a chef at home. Nicholas gently opened his hands and laid them on the table in front of him. I really do need clean hands, just like you.

"A chef? Wow! You like to cook?" Peter was impressed. Nicholas had just told Peter he was a surgeon but all he picked up on was a chef at home.

Nicholas smiled to himself, allowing a grin to float across his face, causing the deepening of his dimples. A lot of what I cook I learned from my mother, who is a wonderful cook. Nicholas had already removed his hands from the table, waiting for Peter to perhaps ask another question. For all Peter’s inquisitiveness, Nicholas wasn’t put off by the man sitting across the table from him. He actually found it refreshing, a man who had no airs about him, no apparent agenda except to know a new patron of his establishment, a man with no discernible desire to impress his personality upon another. Peter was just interested in people, their character, their livelihood, their social charisma. Nicholas paused before saying, Your mind is going a mile a minute. Anything important?

I was just wondering. Ever have weekends off, maybe a Sunday?

Just about every week, unless I’m on call.

How would you like to go fishing?

5

T wo weeks later, Peter and Nicholas were riding over roads that had never been graded, ruts deep as the tires themselves, in Peter’s beat up pickup having long forgotten its better days. For practical purposes, Peter loaned Nicholas some of his fishing gear including a pole, in addition to furnishing the flies they’d use. It wasn’t until Peter hit an unforgiving rut causing Nicholas to hit his head on the ceiling, which he could’ve avoided had there been any seatbelts in the old truck, that Peter laughed.

Better hang on tight! Old Bessie lost her springs a few years ago but she hangs in there when we go fishing. You alright? Peter leaned forward and patted the dashboard.

Nicholas had to laugh. It wasn’t as if Peter hadn’t warned him about his old Bessie or the roads or the triumphs of catching bass, sometimes trout, on the Luckiamute River. The fact he’d decided to take Peter up on going fishing, which he’d never done in his entire life, was a miracle in itself. However, it paled in comparison to miracles that happened in the surgical suites in which he did his work. At the moment comparing the two Nicholas couldn’t decide between the miracles which one was the most dangerous.

How long before we get to the river?

Not long now. It takes a good hour or two. It’ll be worth it.

Nicholas could only wonder what an hour or two meant to Peter since they’d been on the rutted road for at least that long. Did you bring some of those waders for me as well? A hiccup, another rut!

I have everything you’ll need. Why?

Just wondering.

You scared?

No. Just wondering. Never caught a fish before, much less did any fly fishing.

It’s easy. You’ll catch on fast.

Peter parked in the trees just off bank of the river. After unloading the gear, a short walk took them to Peter’s favorite spot. Over there, Peter pointed, is a small hole they like to sit in. Let’s get our waders and vests and I’ll show you how to attach a fly.

Attaching the fly was easy. Walking into a running stream was definitely different, something Nicholas never thought of doing before he met Peter. In the river with the water almost to the top of their waders, Peter said, I’ll throw my line out and you watch what I do. Better stand behind me a bit, to my left.

Nicholas stood amazed at the grace and agility with which Peter floated his line above the water. Like a string of Christmas lights, the morning sun glinted off the line, forming a trail of flowing shadows above the water. Nicholas stood and watched; it didn’t appear to be difficult, swinging the fishing line back and forth, surmising a bass might find it intriguing and jump out of the water to catch the helpless fly on the end of the line. Peter had told him anyone could catch a fish by sinking a line in the water. But to get the bass or trout to jump for the bait, well, that was when the real satisfaction of fishing occurred.

Pulling on his line, he turned to Nicholas. Here. You try it. Showing Nicholas how to hold his line loose and free, he said, The action is in your wrist, slow and easy. Nicholas pulled his line out as he had seen Peter do his. Raising the pole, he snapped his wrist. Losing the fly in the brush along the edge of the river was a first, at least for Peter. He’d never fished with anyone who’d lost a fly! Pulling the line back to get it untangled was a major task. Nicholas kept his cool and wanted to try again. Peter decided to be gentle and patient.

"Nick, Nick. The action of your wrist. Nice and easy. You’re not hammering a nail! You’re throwing a Frisbee! Try again now, nice and easy." After attaching another fly, Nicholas truly wanted to allow his line to flit across the water.

After the sixth time of everything going wrong that could possibly go wrong, Nicholas, frustrated with watching his pole dipping too low over the water, his finger too tight on the reel, his line getting tangled, losing fly after fly, stepping in a hole allowing water to invade his waders, watching the bass jump out of the water, it was time to take a break. The fish are laughing at my frustration. The radiance of the sun was well above the horizon, glowing brightly, making the water shimmer like gold. Would you like to break for a while?

Peter wasn’t sure if Nicholas could ever become a fly fisherman; he was trying so hard but something just wasn’t clicking. After undoing the impossible of every conceivable disaster Peter thought imaginable between a man and a fishing pole, sitting on the bank having a sandwich sounded like a good alternative.

It was turning into a warm, inviting day, despite the fishing problems. As they ate their sandwiches, Peter asked, Where’d you come from before you moved here?

Nicholas was enjoying himself despite his fishing problem frustration. I lived in Ohio, went to school there. My parents are still there, retired though. When discussing his own life, it made sense to him to keep it vague. Anyone wanting to know more could ask. He wasn’t the type of individual who got a high from expounding on his accomplishments. Indeed, the less people knew about him both professionally and personally, the greater the mystery, the greater the pleasure of anonymity.

"Wow! Oregon was certainly a change for you. You like it here?"

Yes, I do. He paused for a moment. You live here all your life?

I have. Born and raised here. Went to school here, married my high school sweetheart and now, the father of six children. Peter chuckled out loud. They’re the reason I have ole Bessie. She’s got so many dings and bruises from my children a few more won’t hurt until they leave home, or know better. The thought of his children always brought a smile to Peter’s face. They can have fun and I don’t have to be scolding them for mistreating ol’ Bessie.

Nicholas was lost in his own thoughts. How he hoped to have children someday. Then Peter asked the question.

You married? Children?

No. Not married anymore. And no children.

"Wow! Everything about this man seemed to surprise Peter. What happened?"

My wife, Sybil, my ex-wife had an affair and became pregnant. So she left. Nicholas saw the anguished look of regret play itself out on Peter’s face. "It wasn’t what I wanted. She let me know since it wasn’t my child, I would have no say in raising it. After a pregnant pause, he added, So she left."

"Wow! What a pity. I think. I think you’d make a great father, Peter said. Any prospects? Dating anyone?"

Nicholas replied with a no without uttering a sound. He drank some of the hot coffee Peter had brought to share and upon finishing his sandwich gathered up the wrappings and empty Styrofoam cups, placing them in the tackle box. His failed marriage was not a topic he wished to discuss.

Divorce wasn’t something he planned on having in his life. Sybil was an educated successful attorney, determined to live her life as she saw fit. Nicholas, lucrative as his profession was, paid the bills but was nothing more than a spoiled house pet in Sybil’s eyes. He could’ve been a potted plant she passed every day when she came home for all the attention he received. Their maid paid more attention to him than his own wife! Nicholas decided today was not a good time to relive the disappointments he’d had during his married life of three years. He’d been through it many times, wondering if he could’ve, should’ve done something different. But the answer was always the same. She’d been the unsatisfied partner; Sybil was the most important person in Sybil’s life. There simply wasn’t any room for anyone else.

Come on. Let’s try this fishing again. Peter was glad to break the silence that ensued between them. He was sure it wasn’t anything he’d said but still he didn’t know Nicholas intimately yet. As their friendship grew Peter was sure their lives would be interconnected for the foreseeable future.

6

O n the way back to Brentwood, they laughed about more simple pleasures, experiences they’d had in their childhoods and how fond both were of their respective parents. It had been an exhilarating morning but Peter knew he’d better hustle back home to his family for Marguerite, his wife, would have a big lunch ready for him.

You really are a surgeon?

Yes. Kirkland Hospital. Been there about five years. Sybil and I moved out here from Ohio, after she passed her bar exam.

"Wow! Sounds like too much professional education in one family to me. A lot of ego trips?"

Perhaps. Don’t be too hard on us, Peter. I was raised by very conservative, hard working people, my father being from Peru and my mother, an Israeli. Nicholas waited to hear Peter’s response as many people were prejudiced against the Jewish people; they left no room to actually evaluate a person’s character before betraying their own intolerance and impudent bias against another race. When Peter didn’t respond, Nicholas continued. Sybil was one of those people, an only child, and a product of the nineties, schooled in liberalism, where everything revolved around her. I thought she might change as she grew older, but I never got the chance for the experience.

You appear to be making excuses for her. A failed marriage. Now days it seems to be the norm.

I’d like to think it isn’t. The last thing I ever anticipated for my life was to live through a divorce.

Peter ruminated over the thought of being without Marguerite. It was something he didn’t care to think about much less contemplate. Besides, their religion frowned on divorce. You must be Catholic, like me.

Actually, my father is Catholic. When I started my career in medicine I realized only a Creator, someone I really wanted to get to know, I mean, once you study the body, operate on the human body, see the cells and nerves and muscles, the reproductive organs, the heart from the inside, I came to understand that only a Creator, an immortal being could’ve put our bodies together so intricately, so majestically, so finely tuned, as to survive all the outside forces against it. He paused as if to give Peter a chance to speak. When he didn’t, Nicholas continued.

"During my first year in residency, I decided to read the Bible for myself. You know, not just recite prayers. When I got to Romans, it said that the righteous shall live by faith. I wanted to know what that meant so I started attending a Protestant church. It was a little odd at first, singing and no prayer benches!"

Peter interrupted. So you became a believer. Would it surprise you if I told you that my wife and I are also believers?

No, Peter, it doesn’t surprise me. As little as I know about you of that one thing I’m sure.

Silence is a funny phenomenon. It can be as luxurious as a warm fuzzy blanket or as vacant as the eyes of a dead animal. As little as Peter knew about Nicholas or as much he liked the man, Peter was sure the extended periods of silence between them enhanced the appropriateness of the others’ presence. Each man was secure within himself: what they’d shared today came as easily as if each had been fishing alone, with no one watching.

I told you I like to cook, right?

You sure did. How’d you like to join me sometime behind the glass, see what you can do?

Are you serious?

Serious as a judge in his frock!

Nicholas relished the idea of being invited to cook, maybe generate some pastries, possibly enlarge the menu with some of his favorites. I’ll call before I come over. I’ve got your phone number.

Anytime, Nick, anytime. Just drop in.

Dropping Nicholas off at his residence, having thanked him for a great outing, Peter couldn’t help but wonder what his penthouse encompassed based on the magnificent façade of the building itself. The Manor at 161 Collyer Place was known for housing a portion of the professionally elite and wealthy inhabitants of Brentwood, those who preferred someone else to mow the grass, trim the flowers and bushes, pick up the poop from their pets and generally allow them to live relatively free from any responsibilities other than their individual professions. For someone like Nicholas, it was a place of peace and quiet, where neighbors minded their own business and lawn mowers weren’t started at seven in the morning.

One day, Peter thought, he would have to see what surroundings a tenant at 161 Collyer Place enjoyed. He could only imagine how lavish, how comfortable it must be. Now he knew a tenant who lived there, probably surrounded with all the same amenities attributed to