Chapter 13 - THE EMPTY APARTMENT ABOVE ME
Rebecca decided not to rent 4B again immediately.
She renovated it completely.
New floors.
New balcony railing.
Fresh paint.
Every trace of Trevor removed.
Except one.
A small scratch near the kitchen door where Harold had marked Lucy's predecessor's height.
Rebecca left it.
“Some history deserves to stay,” she said.
Daniel and Lucy had actually rented 4A, across the hall from 4B.
I had assumed they were directly above me because of the tennis ball.
The ball had bounced from their shared balcony divider.
That meant 4B remained empty for almost a year.
Then Rebecca called me.
“I have an idea.”
“No.”
“You don't know the idea.”
“If it involves me buying an apartment, no.”
Silence.
“How did you know?”
“Rebecca.”
She laughed.
Her idea was simple.
Sell 4B below market value to the Margaret Parker Neighbor Fund.
Turn it into a small office and temporary apartment for elderly tenants facing financial exploitation or emergency displacement.
I loved it immediately.
Which annoyed me.
We raised money.
The building ownership donated part of the renovation costs.
Families contributed.
Even Caroline helped.
Six months later, apartment 4B became the Margaret Parker Resource Suite.
The balcony where Trevor had once stood tossing garbage onto mine now held herbs.
Basil.
Mint.
Rosemary.
Lucy helped plant them.
She took the job extremely seriously.
“No throwing anything,” she announced.
“Excellent policy.”
“Even leaves?”
“Leaves fall naturally.”
She considered this.
“Gravity.”
“Exactly.”
Daniel stood in the doorway watching us.
He smiled.
That smile had become dangerous.
Not frightening.
Just dangerous in the way good things are dangerous after you've trained yourself not to expect them.
We had been having dinner once a week.
Then twice.
Nothing officially romantic.
At least according to me.
According to Lucy, we were “old people dating very slowly.”
Daniel was deeply offended by the “old” part.
One Friday, we sat on my balcony.
The same chair whose cushion Trevor had ruined.
I had replaced it.
Daniel held tea.
I held coffee.
“You really trust me with that over your balcony?”
“No.”
He carefully placed the tea bag on a saucer.
“Better?”
“Marginally.”
He laughed.
Then became serious.
“Can I ask you something?”
“Depends.”
“Do you ever think about moving?”
I looked around.
My mother's plants.
The city view.
The balcony.
My home.
“No.”
“Good.”
“Why?”
“Because Lucy and I don't want you to.”
My heart shifted.
“That's unfair.”
“Yes.”
“You used a six-year-old.”
“She approved the wording.”
I smiled.
Daniel reached across the small table.
He did not take my hand.
He placed his palm upward.
An invitation.
Not an assumption.
I put my hand in his.
Then something fell from above.
Plop.
We both froze.
I looked down.
A folded piece of paper.
Daniel stared toward 4B.
“Nobody's up there.”
I picked it up.
A child's handwriting.
SORRY. EXPERIMENT.
Lucy appeared at the balcony divider above.
“Does paper fall straight if you fold it?”
Daniel closed his eyes.
“Lucy.”
“What? Science.”
I laughed until my sides hurt.
Then I unfolded the paper.
On the back, beneath Lucy's experiment, was old writing.
Not hers.
The paper had been torn from a notebook found in 4B.
Harold's handwriting.
One sentence:
Margaret saved my life once before Trevor ever came here.
May you like
I stared.
There was still one thing about Mom I didn't know.
