Ghosts of Manhattan Read Free Page A

many hearts.
    Gabriel folded the left page of his New York Times and peered inquisitively over the crease, as if he'd only just realized she was there. Framed in the doorway, the soft light of the morning streaming in from the hallway, she seemed to him like an angel; surrounded by a wintery halo, beautiful, ethereal. She dressed with the confidence of a woman who knew she would turn heads: a black, knee-length dress, stockings, high-heeled shoes, and a black jacket. Her auburn hair was like a shock of lightning, bright and electrifying, her lips a slash of glossy red.
    "You didn't come." It was a statement, not a question.
    "Of course I didn't come. Did you expect me to come?"
    "You were missed."
    Celeste laughed. She stepped further into the room, placing her handbag on the sideboard beside the door. Gabriel crumpled the newspaper and tossed it on the breakfast table, where it disturbed the ashtray, sending a plume of gray dust into the air. He wrinkled his nose. "Yes, it does rather make a terrible mess of one's house." He paused, as if thoughtful. "I think next time we'll stay outside. We'll all have to wear beach clothes. A bathing party, out by the pool."
    Celeste looked confused, despite herself. She offered him a wan smile. "In November? Whatever are you talking about?"
    Gabriel grinned profusely. He leaned forward in his chair. "Yes! Why not! There's that place down in Jersey selling some new-fangled contraption. A thing that heats your pool. The Johnson and Arkwright Filament, they call it. Just imagine. It would be a showstopper! I'll order one next week. A pool party in November! Oh, do say you'll come?" He knew she wouldn't come. But he had a role to play, and so did she.

    "I'm busy."
    He glanced out of the window. His voice was quiet. "Yes. Of course."
    "Oh really, Gabriel. You need a drink. And I need a cigarette."
    Gabriel smiled. He reached for the small silver cigarette case he kept in his jacket pocket. It was engraved with his initials: GC. "Do you want eggs? Henry's making eggs. Sit down."
    She sat. "No. Not eggs." She reached over and took one of his proffered cigarettes. He noticed her fingernails matched the color of her hair. She crossed her legs and leaned forward, pulling the tab on the end of her smoke so that it sparked and ignited. A blue wreath encircled her head.
    "Are you singing tonight?"
    "Yes. At Joe's. Will you come?"
    "I'm busy."
    "Yes. Of course." Her lips parted in a knowing smile.
    Gabriel grinned. Celeste was a jazz singer at a club in downtown Manhattan. That was where Gabriel had met her, six months earlier. He'd taken a pretty girl named Ariadne, a perfectly lovely young thing, all lipstick and short skirts and oozing sexuality. But Celeste had stolen his attention. It had nothing to do with romance; it was dark and harsh and exotic, an attraction of a different kind. When she'd parted her lips at the microphone the entire world had ceased spinning. Her voice carried truth. It spoke to him-not to Gabriel Cross, but to the real man who hid behind that name. It carried knowledge of the world, and poor Ariadne hadn't stood a chance.
    He'd driven Ariadne home in silence; abandoned her on the front steps of her house. She'd been sanguine yet desperate, resigned yet somehow wanting more. She still came to his parties, sometimes, floating around ethereally in her sequined dresses, catching his eye as he showered platitudes and cigarettes on his other guests. She needed a reason, an understanding of what had passed between them. She needed to know what she had done wrong, what fatal act of sabotage she had committed. But Gabriel couldn't bear to tell her the truth, couldn't bear to strip away civilities and reveal to her the hollow reality of the matter: that poor Ariadne was just another girl in just another city. That her life filled with parties and laughing and booze didn't mean anything. That she could never compare to a woman like Celeste. She couldn't see the world for what it