New York Nights: Shaken and Stirred. Kathleen O'Reilly

after it again. However, her concentration was elsewhere, poking through the record collection, browsing the photos. In short, being everything she hated in a nosy person. So Tessa loaded up her book bag, stuck her feet into a pair of flip-flops and headed for the door.

      Sacked out on the living room couch, sleeping peacefully, without a worry in the world, was the source of her wandering concentration. It must be marvelous to take a nap in the afternoon. Her lips curved into a smile as she watched him sleep. He’d been the one constant in her life since she’d moved to New York, but she’d never seen him sleep. His chest rose and fell as he breathed, one arm flung over the edge. He even snored a little, a comfortable rumble that was low and even. She’d have to tease him about that. A plaid throw dangled from one armrest, and she took it, tucking it around him.

      Instantly the hazy blue eyes opened. “Problem?”

      Tessa jumped back, caught red-headed in the act of intruding on his space. “Heading off to Starbucks.”

      Gabe didn’t seem to notice her violation, instead rubbing at his forehead with two fingers. “Sounds great. Can you bring me back a cup?”

      “I’m going to study and then I’m heading for class.”

      He sat up, tossing the throw aside, and Tessa took another step back. Wow, twelve hundred square feet could really be tiny at times.

      “You can study here. Set up at the table or the desk in the back room. I can toss my stuff on the floor.”

      “I have trouble concentrating. It’s a self-discipline tactic. When I go to the coffee shop, I know I’m there to study.”

      “Ha. Some people go for coffee. Unenlightened plebes.”

      She was about to launch into a lecture, but he held up a hand. “I know, I know. I won’t interfere. Personal space. Sorry. This is new to me. What about dinner? I’m thinking either pasta or Thai.”

      “Don’t worry about me. I’ll grab a sandwich after class. And FYI, I’ll be back around seven in case you want to get out, or, uh, have company or something.”

      His mouth twitched. “Sure.”

      TESSA’S ACCOUNTING CLASS was at the Knightsbridge Community College in Queens, which overlooked Flushing Bay. Forty people comprised her class. Young students, old students, an ethnic smorgasbord from all walks of life. Tessa had never doubted her abilities to breeze through this class with eyes closed, but…

      Last week’s test was the first item on the menu, and Professor Lewis walked up and down the aisles, handing out papers with a smile or a frown. When he reached Tessa, he frowned.

      She frowned in return.

      Her frown grew even darker when she saw the fat red D scrawled on the top of the test. This had to be a mistake, because a failing grade was not part of her life plan.

      She waited patiently through the lecture, sneaking a peek at the paper every few minutes, checking to make sure she had read it correctly—maybe it was a half-assed B—but, no, with all the red circles, there was no mistake.

      After the clock ticked the hour and her classmates started to file out, Tessa walked up to the prof’s desk on slightly wobbly legs, reminding herself that she faced angry drunks at three in the morning. This shouldn’t be a problem. Professor Lewis was long past middle age, with a thin, ruddy face that indicated a long love affair with, most likely, scotch.

      “I wanted to talk to you about the test,” said Tessa, giving him the opening to immediately correct her grade.

      He gave a long look at the clock, as though he was ready to take off, and then started drumming his pencil eraser on the desk. Too bad, buddy.

      “There’s not much to say, Miss Hart. You stumbled over key concepts. Allowance for Doubtful Accounts and Inventory Flow, and you made a mess of the Statement of Changes in Financial Position. I was horribly disappointed in your work. Substandard. Are you sure you studied?”

      “Didn’t everyone do equally bad?” she asked, because she had spent three days going over formulas and she could feel her blood pressure elevating, possibly in anger but probably in pure ice-bitten anxiety.

      “Actually, the average was quite high. Eighty-three.”

      Which meant no curve, which meant she still had a D. Damn. Her blood pressure notched up higher.

      “Look, I don’t think you understand,” she said, trying to keep the quiver out of her voice. “I can’t make a C in this class, much less a D. It’s A or B all the way, because if I come out of community college with anything less than a three-point-oh, I’ll be screwed at getting into anyplace else. And at this juncture in my life’s journey I really need to be thinking beyond a two-year degree. I need a future. I need a career.”

      “I feel your pain.”

      Oh, I bet you do. Typical scotch drinker, always thinking of yourself.

      “Can I make this up with extra credit? An assignment, a paper, something, anything?”

      “Study hard for the final, Miss Hart. That’ll clean your grade up nicely.”

      Tessa shoved the paper low in her book bag. “Thanks,” she murmured through clenched teeth and headed outside.

      COLLEGE WAS NOT supposed to be this hard. She had aced high school, graduated with honors. This was college. A community college. Not even a four-year program. Everyone had told her that it’d be easy. Sean had told her she would finish with flying colors—summa cumma whoma. So why was she having problems?

      Tessa considered going back to Gabe’s place, but she wasn’t in full control yet. The test was burning a hole in her bag. She was going to have to convince him that everything was peachy. So she did what she always did when she wanted to regain control: she took the Manhattan apartment tour.

      She started by heading south down Fifth Avenue, the setting sun glinting on the windows. Her favorite building was the San Remo, with the two white finial-topped towers that stood guard over Central Park. The building was all 1930s art deco and class, the grand dame of co-ops in the city. Old, with a history that was older than Carnegie.

      The board was rumored to be less fussy than the one at the Dakota, but they had ixnayed Madonna as a tenant back in the eighties, so they did have some minimal standards. There was a full-time doorman, a plethora of classic six and seven floor plans and a stunning limestone cartouche that rose above the entrance like a magnificent eagle.

      Two blocks south was the Dakota, “the” address in New York. People who lived here were looking for an address, a destination in life. Personally Tessa thought it was overrated because the old building looked like a medieval prison instead of a home. There was no personality, only accoutrements out the wazoo. By the time the sun had quit the day, she had walked past the Beresford, 740 Central Park West and the Ardsley. These were the apartment buildings that defied gravity in the real-estate market.

      The buildings weren’t for her—they didn’t have the simple charm of Hudson Towers—but they were symbols of the resolution of the city. The roots that had been laid down so long ago, that no man would ever put asunder. Staring at the limestone facades that had seen so many years, so many changes, Tessa felt the calm return.

      She was here. She would make it.

      She would survive.

      It was time to go home. As she was entering Gabe’s building, her cell rang again. This time it was her brother, Robert.

      Now Tessa was starting to get suspicious, so she took the call from a chair in the lobby. Yes, her family could be overly protective at times, but they weren’t overly chatty.

      “Why are you calling a mere three hours after our mother?”

      “No reason. Just wanted to see how you were doing.”

      “I’m fine. Why shouldn’t I be fine, Robert? Why do you think I shouldn’t be fine?”