The Apartment

Chapter 1

Claire Kelly hurried up the stairs, as best she could, carrying two bags of groceries, to the fourth-floor apartment she had lived in for nine years, in Hell’s Kitchen, in New York. She was wearing a short black cotton dress and sexy high-heeled sandals with ribbons that laced up to her knees. They were samples she had bought at a trade show in Italy the year before. It was a hot September day, the Tuesday after Labor Day, and it was her turn to buy the groceries for the three women she shared the apartment with. And whatever the weather, it was a hike up to the loft on the fourth floor. She had been living there since her second year at Parsons School of Design when she was nineteen, and it was home to four of them now.

Claire was a shoe designer for Arthur Adams, a line of ultraconservative classic shoes. They were well made but unexciting and stymied all her creative sense. Walter Adams, whose father had founded the company, staunchly believed that high-fashion shoes were a passing trend, and he discarded all her more innovative designs. As a result, Claire’s workdays were a source of constant frustration. The business was hanging on but not growing, and Claire felt she could do so much more with it, if he’d let her. Walter resisted her every step of the way on every subject. She was sure that business, and their profits, would have improved if he listened to her, but Walter was seventy-two years old, believed in what they were doing, and did not believe in high-style shoes, no matter how fervently she begged him to try.

Claire had no choice but to do what he wanted her to, if she wanted to keep her job. Her dream was to design the kind of sexy, fashionable shoes she liked to wear, but there was no chance of that at Arthur Adams, Inc. Walter hated change, much to Claire’s chagrin. And as long as she stayed there, she knew she would be designing sensible, classic shoes forever. Even their flats were too conservative for her. Walter let her add a touch of whimsy to their summer sandals sometimes for their clients who went to the Hamptons, Newport, Rhode Island, or Palm Beach. His mantra was that their customer was wealthy, conservative, and older and knew what to expect from the brand. And nothing Claire could say would change that. He didn’t want to appeal to younger customers. He preferred to rely on their old ones. There was no arguing with Walter about it. And year after year, there were no surprises in the merchandise they shipped. She was frustrated, but at least she had a job, and had been there for four years. Before that, she had worked for an inexpensive line whose shoes were fun but cheaply made. And the business had folded after two years. Arthur Adams was all about quality and traditional design. And as long as she followed directions, the brand and her job were secure.

At twenty-eight, Claire would have loved to add at least a few exciting designs to the line, and try something new. Walter wouldn’t hear of it, and scolded her sternly when she tried to push, which she still did. She had never given up trying to add some real style to what she did. He had hired her because she was a good, solid, well-trained designer who knew how to create shoes that were comfortable to wear and easy to produce. They had them made in Italy at the same factory Walter’s father had used, in a small town called Parabiago, close to Milan. Claire went there three or four times a year to discuss production with them. They were one of the most reliable, respected factories in Italy, and they produced several more exciting lines than theirs. Claire looked at them longingly whenever she was at the factory, and wondered if she’d ever have a chance to design shoes she loved. It was a dream she refused to give up.

Her long, straight blond hair hung damply on her neck by the time she reached the fourth floor in high heels. After nine years, she was used to the climb, and claimed that it kept her legs in shape. She had found the apartment by accident, by walking around the neighborhood. She had been living in Parsons’s freshman dorm at the time, on Eleventh Street, and had wandered uptown through Chelsea, and continued north into what had once been one of the worst areas of New York, but had slowly become gentrified. Since the nineteenth century, Hell’s Kitchen had had a reputation for slums, tenements, gang fights, and murders among the Irish, Italian, and later Puerto Rican hoodlums who lived there, in a constant state of war. All of that was gone by the time Claire arrived from San Francisco to attend design school. It was the same school where her mother had studied interior design in her youth. It had been Claire’s dream to attend Parsons and study fashion design. Despite their tight budget, her mother had saved every penny she could and made it possible for her to enroll and live in the dorm for her first year.

By second semester, Claire had been looking for an apartment for a while, and had heard of Hell’s Kitchen, but never ventured there until a spring Saturday afternoon. Stretching from the upper Thirties to the Fifties, on the West Side, from Eighth Avenue to the Hudson River, Hell’s Kitchen had become home to actors, playwrights, and dancers, for its proximity to the theater district, the famed Actors Studio, the Baryshnikov Arts Center, and the Alvin Ailey American Dance Theater. Many of the old buildings were still there, some of them warehouses and factories that had been turned into apartments. But in spite of its modest improvements, the neighborhood still had much of its original look, and many of the structures still looked run-down.

She had seen a small sign in a window, indicating an apartment for rent, and called the number listed on it that night. The owner said he had a loft available on the fourth floor. The building was an old factory that had been changed into living space fifteen years before, and he said it was rent stabilized, which sounded hopeful to her. When she went to see it the next day, she was stunned to find the space was vast. There was a huge loftlike living room with brick walls and a concrete floor painted a sandy color, four large storerooms that could be used as bedrooms, two clean, modern bathrooms, and a basic kitchen with the bare essentials from IKEA. It was far more space than Claire needed, but it was bright and sunny and in decent condition, the building had been modestly restored. The rent was exactly twice what she could afford, and she couldn’t imagine living there alone. The halls of the building were a little dark, the neighborhood still had a slightly rough quality to it, and it was located on Thirty-ninth Street between Ninth and Tenth Avenues. The owner told her proudly that it had been one of the worst streets in Hell’s Kitchen forty years before, but there was no evidence of it now. The street just looked shabby and still somewhat industrial, but she was excited by the loft. All she needed to do was find a roommate to live there with her and pay half the rent. She didn’t say anything about it to her mother, she didn’t want to panic her over the expense. Claire had figured out that if she found someone to share the rent with her, it might be cheaper than the dorms.

The following week she met a girl at a party, who was a creative writing major at NYU. At twenty, she was a year older than Claire, and had grown up in L.A. Abby Williams was as small as Claire was tall. She had dark, curly hair and almost black eyes, in contrast to Claire’s long straight blond hair and blue eyes. She seemed like a nice person and was passionate about her writing. She said she wrote short stories and wanted to write a novel when she graduated, and she mentioned casually that her parents worked in TV. Claire later learned that Abby’s father was the well-known head of a major network, and her mother had had a string of hit TV shows as a writer/producer. Both Abby and Claire were only children, and were dedicated to their studies and ambitions, determined to justify their parents’ faith in them. They went to see the apartment together, and Abby fell in love with it too. They had no idea how they would furnish it other than at garage sales over time, but they figured out that it was within their budgets, and two months later, with their parents’ cautious blessing and signatures on the lease, they moved in, and had been there ever since, for the past nine years.

The two women had shared the apartment for four years, and after they graduated, in an effort to rely less on their parents, be more independent, and cut costs, they decided to take in two more roommates, to reduce their expenses even further.

Claire had met Morgan Shelby at a party she went to on the Upper East Side, given by a group of young stockbrokers someone had introduced her to. The party was boring, the men full of themselves, and she and Morgan had started to talk. Morgan was working on Wall Street, and had a roommate she hated in an apartment she couldn’t afford and said she was looking for an apartment farther downtown that would be closer to where she worked. They exchanged phone numbers, and two days later, after talking to Abby, Claire called her and invited her to come and take a look at the apartment in Hell’s Kitchen.

Claire’s only hesitation was that she wondered if Morgan might be too old. She was twenty-eight at the time, five years older than Claire, and had a serious job in finance. Morgan was pretty with well-cut dark hair and long legs. Claire had been in her first job at the shoe company that later folded and was living on a tight budget, and Abby was waiting on tables at a restaurant and trying to write a novel, and they both wondered if Morgan was too “grown up,” but she loved the loft the minute she saw it, and almost begged them to let her move in. The location was much more convenient for her job on Wall Street. They had dinner with her twice and liked her. She was intelligent and employed, she had a great sense of humor, her credit references were solid, and six weeks later she moved in. The rest was history, she had been there for five years, and now they were best friends.

Abby met Sasha Hartman through a friend of a friend from NYU, two months after Morgan moved in, and they were still looking for a fourth roommate. Sasha was in medical school at NYU, hoping to specialize in OB/GYN, and the location worked for her too. She liked all three women living in the loft and assured them that she’d never be around. She was either in class, at the hospital, or at the library studying for exams. She was a soft-spoken young woman from Atlanta and mentioned that she had a sister in New York too, living in Tribeca. She failed to mention that they were identical twins, which caused considerable consternation the day she moved in, when her sister suddenly appeared, with the same mane of blond hair, in the same T-shirt and jeans, and the three residents of the apartment thought they were seeing double. Valentina, Sasha’s twin, enjoyed confusing them, and had done so regularly in the five years since. The two sisters were close, Valentina had a key to the apartment, and they were as different as night and day. Valentina was a successful model, involved in a high-powered world, and Sasha was a dedicated doctor, whose wardrobe consisted mainly of hospital scrubs, and was in her residency at NYU Langone Medical Center five years after she’d moved in.

They were like unusual and unexpected ingredients and component parts of a fabulous meal. For five years the four roommates had lived together, helped each other, loved one another, and become fast friends. Whatever the recipe was, as different as they were, and their lives were, it worked. They had become a family by choice, and the loft in Hell’s Kitchen had become home to them. Their living arrangement suited all four women perfectly. They were busy, had full lives and demanding jobs, and they enjoyed the time they spent together. And all four still agreed, the apartment Claire had discovered nine years before was a rare find, and a gem. They loved living in Hell’s Kitchen, for its history and still slightly seedy quality, and it was safe. People said it looked a lot the way Greenwich Village had fifty years before, and they could never have found three thousand square feet at that price anywhere else in the city. The area had none of the polish and pretension and astronomically high rents of SoHo, the Meatpacking District, the West Village, Tribeca, or even Chelsea. Hell’s Kitchen had a reality to it that had been dulled or lost in other places. All four women loved their home, and had no desire to live anywhere else.

There were inconveniences to living in a walkup, but it didn’t really bother them. They were a block away from one of the more illustrious firehouses in the city, Engine 34/Ladder 21, and on busy nights, they could hear the fire engines scream out of the station, but they’d gotten used to it. And they had all chipped in to purchase air-conditioning units that took a while to work in the vast space they used as a living room, but the place cooled down eventually, and the heat worked fairly decently in winter, and their bedrooms were small, cozy, and warm. They had all the comforts they wanted and needed.

When they moved in together, they brought their dreams, hopes, careers, and histories with them, and little by little, they discovered each other’s fears and secrets.

Claire’s career path was clear. She wanted to design fabulous shoes, and be famous in the fashion world for it someday. She knew that was never going to happen designing for Arthur Adams, but she couldn’t take the risk of giving up a job she needed. Her work was sacred to her. She had learned a lesson from her mother, who had left a promising job at an important New York interior design firm to follow Claire’s father to San Francisco when they got married, where he started a business that floundered for five years and then folded. He had never wanted Claire’s mother to work again, and she had spent years taking small decorating jobs in secret, so as not to bruise his ego, but they needed the money, and her carefully hidden savings had made it possible for Claire to attend first private school and then Parsons.

Her father’s second business had met the same fate as his first one, and it depressed Claire to hear her mother encourage him to try some new endeavor again after both failures, until he finally wound up selling real estate, which he hated, and he had become sullen, withdrawn, and resentful. She had watched her mother abandon her dreams for him, shelve her own career, pass up bigger opportunities, and hide her talents, in order to shore him up and protect him.

It had given Claire an iron determination never to compromise her career for a man, and she had said for years that she never wanted to get married. Claire had asked her mother if she regretted walking away from the career she could have had in New York, and Sarah Kelly said she didn’t. She loved her husband and made the best of the hand she’d been dealt, which Claire found particularly sad. Their whole life had been spent making do, depriving themselves of luxuries and sometimes even vacations, so Claire could go to a good school, which her mother had always paid for from her secret fund. To Claire, marriage meant a life of sacrifice, self-denial, and deprivation, and she swore she would never let it happen to her. No man was ever going to interfere with her career, or steal her dreams from her.

And Morgan shared the same fear with Claire. Both of them had watched their mothers diminish their lives for the men they married, although Morgan’s more dramatically than Claire’s. Her parents’ marriage had been a disaster. Her mother had walked away from a promising career with the Boston Ballet when she got pregnant with Morgan’s brother, Oliver, and then with Morgan soon after. She had regretted giving up dancing all her life, developed a serious drinking problem, and basically drank herself to death when Morgan and her brother were in college, and their father had died in an accident soon after.

Morgan had put herself through college and business school, and had only recently finished paying off her student loans. And she was convinced that sacrificing her career as a dancer, to get married and have kids, had ruined her mother’s life. She had no intention of letting that happen to her. Her parents’ violent fights and her mother drinking until she passed out, or being drunk when they got home from school, were all Morgan remembered of her childhood.

Morgan’s brother, Oliver, was two years older, and had moved to New York from Boston after college too, and worked in PR. The firm he worked for specialized in sports teams, and his partner was Greg Trudeau, the famed ice hockey goalie from Montreal who was the star of the New York Rangers. Morgan loved going to games with Oliver to cheer for Greg. She’d taken her roommates a few times, and they’d all enjoyed it, and the two men were frequent visitors to the apartment, and were beloved by all.

Sasha’s family situation was more complicated. Her parents had had a bitter divorce, from which their mother had never recovered, after Sasha graduated from college and Valentina was already working as a model in New York. Their father had fallen in love with a young model in one of the department stores he owned, and married her a year later, and had two daughters by his new wife, which enraged the twins’ mother even more, proving that hell hath no fury like a woman whose husband leaves her and marries a twenty-three-year-old model. But he seemed happy whenever the twins saw him, and he loved his three- and five-year-old daughters. Valentina had no interest in them and thought their father was ridiculous, but Sasha thought their half-sisters were sweet and had remained close to her father after the divorce.

Their mother was a divorce lawyer in Atlanta, and was known to be a shark in the courtroom, particularly since her own divorce. Sasha went back to Atlanta as seldom as possible, and dreaded speaking to her mother on the phone, who still made vicious comments about Sasha’s father years after he remarried. Talking to her was exhausting.

Abby’s parents were still married and got along, and their busy careers in television had kept them from being attentive to their daughter, but they were always supportive of Abby and her writing.

The four women’s careers had gone forward at a steady pace in the five years they’d lived together, Claire at both shoe companies she’d worked for. She dreamed of working for a high-end shoe company one day, but she was making a decent salary, even if she wasn’t proud of the shoes she was designing.

Morgan worked for George Lewis, one of the whizzes of Wall Street. At thirty-nine, George had built an empire for himself, in private investment management, and Morgan loved her work with him, consulting with clients on their investments and flying to exciting meetings in other cities on his plane. She admired her boss immensely and at thirty-three, she was meeting her goals.

Sasha was doing her residency in obstetrics, and wanted to pursue a double specialty of high-risk pregnancies and infertility, so she had years ahead of her at the same frenetic pace. And she loved coming home to her roommates for conversation and comfort when she finally got off duty and came back to the apartment to sleep and unwind.

The only one whose path had altered considerably was Abby, who had abandoned her novel halfway through it three years before, when she met and fell in love with Ivan Jones, an Off Off Broadway producer who had convinced her to write experimental plays for his theater. Her roommates, and parents, had preferred her fiction and prose to what she was writing for Ivan. He had assured her that what she was writing now was far more important, avant-garde, and likely to make a name for her than the “commercial drivel” she had written before, and she believed him. He had promised to produce her plays, but hadn’t done so yet after three years, and only produced his own. Her roommates suspected he was a fraud, but Abby was convinced he was talented, sincere, and a genius. Ivan was forty-six years old, and Abby was working as his assistant, vacuuming the theater, painting scenery, and working the box office for him. For the past three years she had been his full-time slave. He had never been married, but had three children by two different women. He never saw his children, because he said the situations with their mothers were just too complicated and interfered with his artistic flow. And through all his weak excuses about why he never produced her plays, Abby was still convinced he would, and believed him to be a man of his word, despite evidence to the contrary. She was blind to his sins and faults, among them the promises he constantly broke. And much to her roommates’ dismay, Abby was always willing to believe him and give him another chance. Ivan was like playing a slot machine that never paid off. The others had lost patience with him long since. They didn’t find him charming, but Abby did. She was trusting and loving and hung on his every word. Her roommates no longer discussed it with her, because it upset them all. She was totally under Ivan’s spell, and sacrificing her life, time, and writing to him, and getting nothing in return.

Her parents had asked her to come back to L.A., to work on her novel again, or to let them help her find work in feature films or TV. Ivan told her to do so would be to become a commercial sellout just like them, and he insisted that she was better and more talented than that, so she stayed with him, waiting for him to put on one of her plays. She wasn’t stupid, but she was loyal, needy, and naïve, and he took full advantage of it at every turn. None of her roommates liked him, and hated what he did to her. But they no longer said it to Abby—there was no point. She believed everything he told her. And they knew he had borrowed money from her several times, and never paid her back. She was certain that he would when things were better for him. He didn’t support his children either. Their mothers were both actresses who had become successful after their affairs with him, and he said they were far better able to provide for the children than he. He was a man who shirked responsibility at every turn. He had bewitched Abby, and they all hoped she would wake up soon. She hadn’t in three years. There was no sign of her awakening from the nightmare of Ivan yet. Her roommates, however, were wide awake, and hated him for the way he used and lied to her.

And it wasn’t the first inadequate relationship Abby had had. She was their resident collector of wounded birds. In the five years they’d all lived together, there had been an actor who was dead broke and could never get a job, even as a waiter, and had spent a month on their couch until the others complained. Abby had been in love with him, and he had been in love with a girl who was in rehab for six months. There had been writers, and other actors, and a down-on-his-luck though brilliant British aristocrat who had constantly borrowed money from her, and a series of losers, aspiring artists, and men who had disappointed her constantly until she gave up. And unfortunately she wasn’t ready to give up on Ivan yet.

Claire had only had casual dates for the past several years. She worked so hard she rarely had time to date and didn’t care. She worked late at night and on weekends. Her career as a designer meant more to her than any man. She was burning with the ambition her mother had never had. And nothing and no one was going to take that from her. Of that she was sure. She rarely had more than a few dates with any man. She had never had a serious love affair, except with the shoes she designed. Men were always surprised to discover how passionate she was about her work, and how unavailable she became once they got interested in her. She saw any serious romance as a threat to her career and emotional well-being. She kept a design table in the corner of the living room at the apartment, and often was still sitting there after the others had gone to bed.

And while in medical school, and now as a resident in OB/GYN, Sasha had no time to date. She had brief relationships from time to time, but she lived a life and a schedule that made any kind of personal life nearly impossible. She was either on duty, exhausted, or asleep. She was spectacular-looking, but she literally had no time for a man, and spent her life in hospital scrubs, unlike her equally beautiful twin, who partied all the time. Sasha liked the idea of marriage and a family in theory, but for her it was still years away. And in reality, she often thought that staying single would be simpler. And the men she went out with occasionally got tired of the demands on her within weeks.

Of the four roommates, only Morgan had a serious relationship, and fortunately they all liked him, since he frequently spent nights at the apartment. Max Murphy had an apartment of his own on the Upper West Side, but theirs was more convenient for him for work, since his restaurant was around the corner. They had all met him at the same time, one night a year after Morgan and Sasha moved in, when the four of them went to try out the brand-new restaurant, which had been an old broken-down neighborhood bar he had bought and transformed into a popular hangout with a lively bar and great food. He and Morgan had started dating three days later. In the four years since, the restaurant was booming and a major neighborhood success. “Max’s” was keeping him busy day and night. He was there until two A.M. every night, and back at work by ten in the morning to get ready for lunch.

Max was a great guy and they all loved him. He was a sports nut, a great chef himself, and a hard worker. He was an all-around nice person from a large Irish family that was always fighting but basically loved each other. At thirty-five, he would have loved to get married and have kids, but Morgan had told him clearly right from the beginning that marriage and children were not in her plans. Max thought she might soften on the subject, but she hadn’t in four years, and he didn’t push her. She was thirty-three years old, he figured they had time, and he was busy with the restaurant, and hoping to open at least one more, which was expensive, so he was in no hurry either. But he had come to realize how adamant Morgan was about never getting married or having kids. Their relationship was warm and solid, but Morgan’s career meant everything to her, and she had no intention of putting it at risk.

—

Claire changed into shorts and a T-shirt and flat sandals when she got home from work, and Abby walked in a little while later, wearing overalls over a torn tank top, covered in paint. She had some of the paint in her hair and a blue smudge on her face, as Claire glanced up from her drawing board and smiled at her. Morgan usually came home late from work after meeting with clients, often over a drink, and Sasha came home from the hospital at all hours, depending on her shift, and stumbled straight into bed.

“Hi,” Claire said with a warm smile. “I can guess what you did today.”

“I’ve been breathing paint fumes all day,” Abby said with a tired groan as she collapsed on the couch, happy to be home. Ivan had a meeting with a potential backer that night, but had said he might call her later. He lived in a studio in the East Village barely bigger than a closet. It was rent-stabilized, a sixth-floor walkup, and he had sublet it furnished from a friend.

“There’s some stuff in the fridge,” Claire told her. “I bought groceries on the way home. There’s sushi that looks pretty good.” They took turns buying basic food for everyone, which worked better than trying to figure out who had eaten what. They were generous and good-natured, and never quibbled over money. They were respectful of one another, which was why their living arrangement worked so well.

“I’m too tired to eat,” Abby said, and the paint had made her feel sick. Ivan had changed his mind about the color of the scenery four times. And he was playwright, director, and producer, so he had a right to dictate how the scenery should look. “I think I’m going to have a bath and go to bed. How was your day?” Abby inquired, as Claire thought, as she always did, that it was nice coming home to people who asked, and cared. At home, her parents never talked to each other and hadn’t in years. It was easier that way.

“Long. A running battle,” Claire answered, with a discouraged look. “Walter hated all my new designs and wants them ‘modified’ to suit their style. And I have a new intern, the daughter of a friend of his in Paris. She looks about twelve years old, and hates everything about the States. According to her, it’s all better in Paris, and no one here knows what they’re doing. Her father is a banker, and her mother works for Chanel. I think she’s all of twenty-two and knows it all. Walter is doing her parents a favor, so I got stuck with her.”

“Maybe she’d like to paint scenery,” Abby said with a grin. “Or vacuum the theater. That would whip her into shape.”

“She’d rather criticize my designs,” Claire said, correcting something on her drawing board, as Morgan walked in. She was all legs and high heels in a navy linen suit with a short skirt. Her dark hair was fashionably cut to her shoulders, and she was carrying several takeout containers from Max’s restaurant. She set them down on the industrial metal table Claire’s mother had found for them at a terrific price online.

“Those stairs are going to kill me one of these days. Max gave us roast chicken and Caesar salad.” He was always sending food for them, or cooking for them on Sunday nights, which they all enjoyed. “Have you guys eaten?” Morgan smiled at them, as she sat down next to Abby on the couch. “Looks like you’ve been painting scenery again,” Morgan said matter-of-factly. They were used to seeing her covered in paint. She didn’t look like a writer—she looked like a house painter most of the time. “You know, you could get a job painting for a contractor. At least you’d be union and get decent pay,” she teased her, as she kicked off her high heels and stretched her legs. “The restaurant was jammed tonight,” she commented.

“It always is,” Claire answered. “Thanks for the food.” She got up from her drawing table, lured by the delicious scent of what Max had given them. The chicken smelled delicious.

The three of them went to the kitchen, got out plates and cutlery, and Morgan opened a bottle of wine for them to share, as Abby went to get napkins and glasses, and a minute later they were seated at the table, laughing and talking, as Claire described her new intern to them. Nothing ever seemed as bad when they could laugh about it, or talk about a problem. Their exchanges were always good-humored, there was no jealousy between them, they were just good friends with no ax to grind, and they knew each other well, their weaknesses and their strengths. They were forgiving, tolerant of occasional bad moods, and were a strong support system in the challenges that they faced. All of them had demanding jobs that added stress to their lives.

They had just finished eating when Sasha walked in, her blond hair in a rubber band lumped on her head with two pens sticking through it and a stethoscope around her neck. She was wearing clogs, and the familiar scrubs that were the mainstay of her wardrobe. Claire couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen her in a dress.

“I delivered triplets today,” she announced to the three women sitting at the table, as she sat down next to Morgan.

“At least you did something useful,” Claire said admiringly, and Sasha shook her head when Morgan offered her a glass of wine.

“I’m still on call. I may have to go back later. We almost lost one of the triplets, but there were three OBs in the room. They let me close the C-section, but it was pretty impressive. We had three pediatricians too. The mom was forty-six—they were IVF babies. They were two months premature, but it looks like they’re going to be okay. I don’t know why anyone would want triplets at her age. Her husband’s in his sixties—he’ll be in his eighties when they graduate from college. But they were ecstatic, first babies for both of them. They got married last year. Instant family. She’s a big deal on Wall Street, and he’s a CEO of something. Maybe that’ll be us someday,” Sasha said with a smile as she helped herself to some of the Caesar salad. She’d had a sandwich at the hospital, but she could never resist the food Max sent home with Morgan. It was always delicious.

“Don’t count on me,” Morgan said, finishing her wine, at the thought of having triplets in her forties. “I’d jump off a bridge first.”

“I’d love to have a baby,” Abby said softly, “just not yet.”

“And hopefully not with Ivan,” Morgan said honestly, “if you want him to support it. You need a guy with a job, if you want to have kids, and be involved with someone responsible,” which Ivan wasn’t. They knew that Abby’s parents still helped her at twenty-nine, which she was embarrassed about. She wanted to be independent, but so far no one had bought her work.

Claire made a decent salary, and Morgan worked hard to make what she did working for George Lewis. Her parents had been dead broke, and she and her brother had had jobs since they were kids. They both knew what it had been like to grow up with too little money. Abby and Sasha had been born into wealthy families, or at least families who had money and were very “comfortable.” But the different circumstances the four roommates had known as kids didn’t separate them. They were open about their previous lives and histories and were well aware that no life, with or without money, was as easy as it appeared from the outside.

“I don’t want kids for a long time,” Abby said thoughtfully.

“You too can have a baby at forty-six,” Sasha said with a grin, helping herself to a piece of chicken. They all looked pleased to be together, sharing a meal, and relaxing at the end of their day.

“That seems a little late,” Abby said, looking pensive. She took everything literally, just as she believed Ivan’s lies.

“No shit,” Sasha said, and laughed. “Remind me not to have babies when I’m nearly fifty.” But she couldn’t imagine having kids anytime soon either. She still had years of studying ahead of her, with the specialty she’d chosen. “I don’t know what the answer is. Life moves so damn fast, and then you wake up one day and suddenly you’re old. I can’t believe I’m already thirty-two. It feels like I was eighteen about two weeks ago.” Sasha shook her head as she thought about it.

“Don’t whine to me—I’m a year older than you are.” Morgan spoke to her directly, and then looked at the other two women seriously. “And you guys are just babies.” She was five years older than Claire, and four years older than Abby. “It all goes by too fast, and there’s so much I still want to do, to get where I want to be.” She had come a long, long way in the years since she’d graduated from business school, and by most people’s standards she was very successful, but Morgan had always set the bar high for herself.

Sasha stood up from the table then with a yawn, and walked her plate into the kitchen to put it in the dishwasher. “I’d better get to bed in case they call me later,” she said, and disappeared into her bedroom a moment later, after thanking Morgan for the dinner.

Abby went to take a shower after that, to try and get the paint off. And a little while later, Morgan went to bed with some reading to do for work, and Claire went back to the drawing board. It had been a nice evening. It was rare for all of them to be home for dinner together. It made the day seem gentler and the bumps in it less unpleasant. Claire smiled to herself, thinking of her roommates. They were all good women, and the people who meant the most to her, other than her mother. They each supported one another in their endeavors. It was exactly what a family should be, Claire thought, as she came up with a detail she really liked on one of her drawings. And the best part for all of them was that this was not the family that they had been born with, this was the family they had chosen. And it worked for all of them.

As Claire thought about it and continued drawing, she hoped they would live there together forever, or for a very, very long time. The apartment was quiet as she mused about it. The others were asleep by then. She was the night owl in the group, and she liked working late. It was after two in the morning when she turned the lights out and went to her bedroom. She brushed her teeth, put her nightgown on, and climbed into bed a few minutes later. She hadn’t realized it would turn out this way, but this was the home and the family she had always wanted. No one was bitter, no one was angry, and they had never disappointed each other. No one had made sacrifices they would resent silently forever. And the apartment in Hell’s Kitchen was the safe haven that each of them needed in order to pursue her dreams.