For 100 Days(7)

Tasha stares at me expectantly while I glance between her and Claire, uncertainty gnawing at my stomach. I don’t believe in luck or cosmic favors, but it seems like the universe is handing me a life line right here. Can I really afford to refuse it? With my apartment being sold out from under me and the odds of making some money off my art anytime soon being next to nil, I don’t exactly have a lot of options.

“I’ll pay you, of course.” Claire discreetly takes an envelope out of her black Birkin bag. “Five thousand for the four months. That’s what I was going to pay my friend.” She holds the cream-colored envelope out to me and keeps her voice low. “It’s in cash. I hope you don’t mind.”

My mind sputters at the idea. Maybe people like Claire can toss around five grand like it’s nothing, but, to me, especially right now, it’s a small fortune.

No, it’s miracle money.

With the added bonus of a four-month stay of execution on my homelessness situation.

The reality of this incredible twist of fate is so overwhelming, I can hardly form words. “I, um . . .”

“She’ll do it,” Tasha interjects. “You’ll do it, right, Avery?”

I think I must have nodded. To be honest, the next few minutes pass in a blur. She gives me her full name—Claire Prentice—and jots her address on the back of her business card before handing me a key to her apartment. She takes down my name and cell phone number, then pulls a twenty out of her wallet and places it on the bar.

“That should cover the wine.” Smiling, she slides off the bar stool and pulls on her coat. “I’ll check in with you from Tokyo after I get settled to make sure everything’s good at the apartment, okay?”

My head bobs automatically. “Ah, okay.” I’m not about to argue. I don’t think she would have waited around to give me that chance anyway.

With a hurried thanks, Claire Prentice sails out the door and ducks into a taxi that arrives at the curb.

I stand there for a moment, dumbstruck, processing everything that just happened.

I have five thousand dollars cash in my hand. On the bar in front of me is a Park Avenue address. Beside that, a gleaming brass key that will grant me four entire months of shelter. Four whole months of mercy.

I’ve just been given a golden opportunity at a time when I couldn’t have needed it more.

I glance at Tasha, shaking my head in mute confusion. A small giggle erupts from my throat. Then another. It’s too much to contain—the amazement, the hope...the incredulous relief.

I cover my mouth, but my joy spills over in a ridiculous snort of a laugh. “Did that really just happen?”

Tasha takes the envelope out of my slack grasp and peers inside. “Well, you’ve got fifty Benjamins in here saying it did.” She grins at me. “Remember what I said about letting someone help you out once in a while? Yeah, you can thank me now.”





Chapter 4



Tasha insists on coming with me to check out Claire’s apartment. I hadn’t even been sure I intended to go tonight, but Tasha refuses to be swayed and I can hardly deny my curiosity either. Suddenly, the idea of waiting until tomorrow morning to see where I’ll be living for the next four months requires a patience I don’t have.

All night, the key to Claire’s apartment has been burning a hole in my pocket—even more so than the money, which I’d reluctantly stowed in the bottom of my purse in the employee locker for the duration of my shift.

After we close at Vendange, Tasha calls home to let her family know what’s going on, then the two of us set out for the Upper East Side address Claire gave me. Ordinarily, I’d think nothing of walking the handful of long blocks, even in the chill of a drizzly April night. But hoofing it a couple of miles after two in the morning with five grand in cash on me is a stupid risk I just can’t take.

As we step out of the restaurant, I motion for Tasha to follow me to the curb. “Come on. We’re splurging on a taxi. My treat.”

Manhattan is impressive at any hour, but there is something magical about this part of the city so late at night. As the taxi rolls along the divided lanes of Park Avenue with its tree-lined median, my artist’s eye greedily soaks in my surroundings. Street lamps and traffic lights spangle the wet pavement with shards of color. The mixture of pre- and post-war limestone and brick buildings on either side of the grand boulevard stand defiant beside soaring glass-and-steel residential towers and elegant five-star hotels. In front of all those buildings, the ribbon of concrete sidewalk ebbs and flows with a steady stream of pedestrians who are wearing everything from formal attire or club clothes to vagabond rags.