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Thirty-eight years ago
Harlem, NYC
Ophelia slides onto the stool in the near-empty bar. The golden early evening light shines through the grimy windows, adding a sense of magic to the downbeat surroundings. A thin man stands hunched over an arcade game in the corner; a less thin man sits at a table in the window, turning the pages of a newspaper without seeming to be reading it. She stares at the man behind the bar. He wears a gray T-shirt, a plaid overshirt, jeans. His long hair is tied back, and his hand is stuffed inside a glass mug as he shines up its exterior with a cloth.
“What can I get for you?” he asks.
Ophelia feels it hard, the certainty that this man is the one she’s been looking for, the one who can save her.
Finally.
She smiles and says, “Could I have a tequila sunrise? Thank you.”
“Oh!” says the barman. “A Brit!”
“Yes. Yes, I am.”
“Whereabouts are you from?”
“Oh, all over really. But I was born in Portsmouth. On the south coast.”
“Nice.”
He turns the clean glass over and stacks it on the shelf behind him, then gets to work on her cocktail. She watches him. He has a broad back, narrow hips, ears that protrude slightly from his head. He’s tall and she likes the way he moves. As she watches him, she becomes aware of a song playing in the background.
She’s got perfect skin….
She’s heard it before, she thinks.
Cheekbones like geometry, eyes like sin…
The barman turns back to face her, and she is struck again by how exactly right he is. She’d followed his scent across an entire ocean to find him, and here he is, standing before her looking like the most normal guy in the world. No one would guess what makes him tick, she thinks, no one would ever think it of him. Only she knows the truth about him.
As if reading her thoughts, he smiles and says, “So, what brings you to New York?”
“Oh, just adventure. Fun. Never been, always wanted to.”
“Well, welcome to the City That Never Sleeps,” he says, tipping tequila into a highball. “It’s good to have you here.”
She considers him for a moment and then leans into the bar. “I’ve been waiting all my life for this.”
“Wow.” He raises an eyebrow at her. “That’s a bold statement. I’d better make this a good cocktail, then.”
She smiles at him. He has no idea, she thinks, just how long she has waited for this. No idea whatsoever.
He pours orange juice over the tequila and stirs them together. Then his hand reaches for the grenadine from the shelf behind him. It glows red and fresh. She watches as the grenadine hits the orange juice, watches it sink slowly to the bottom of the glass.
Her eyes go to his and she smiles. “Looks like blood, doesn’t it?”
His gaze locks hard onto hers, and a flash of desire passes through his eyes. “Yes,” he says to Ophelia. “I guess it does.”
THREE
THE FINCH IS a narrow townhouse squeezed between two wide townhouses. It has long thin windows with frames painted taupe and a heavy bower of pink silk flowers looped over the front door. The signage describes it as an energizing, welcoming space for every woman.
A young woman sits at the front desk behind an oversized vase of green and pink hydrangeas. She wears black overalls and red lipstick and glances up through thick-framed glasses. She smiles widely at Jessica, who appears to have passed muster in a black blouse, black jeans, a black leather jacket, and a perfunctory attempt at makeup.
“Hi!” says the woman. “How can I help you today?”
