The ex-wife had secured her place as the mother of Gabe’s only child. They had shared something once, but it was over now. It was the girl who elicited the most powerful response in Nat. Without any effort, this young woman was number one in her father’s life, would be always. Nat’s status was tenuous, ephemeral. Would she trade the intimacy she shared with Gabe for the effortless security that Violet Turnmill enjoyed? The knowledge that she was a permanent fixture, that her role in her father’s life was untouchable? If she could get rid of Violet Turnmill and take her place, would she?

Nat brushed away the rhetorical question. She had not been born into luxury or privilege, but she was here, on Park Avenue, naked beneath Gabe’s shirt. Her lover cared enough about her feelings to hide these photos from her view. He cared enough about her well-being to deal with Cole. She heard the creak of the bedroom door. Gabe would emerge soon. Hurriedly, she returned the photos to their spot behind the TV.

Gabe entered the living room dressed in a smart navy suit, his damp hair curling up at the collar. His eyes were slightly red from lack of sleep, but he looked handsome, young, fresh. “Morning.” He kissed her lips like it was normal for her to be there, like he enjoyed her presence.

“Cappuccino?” she asked. “I’ve figured out your state-of-the-art coffeemaker.”

“Sure,” he said, playfully smacking her butt as she headed to the kitchen. “I could get used to having you around.”

Nat could get used to it, too.

27

The Sex Trade

That Saturday, Nat spent the day on campus with Ivan and Keltie. They were working on a collage project that was due on Monday. Ava, the fourth member of their team, was gone, and they had to make up the shortfall. Afterward, they’d gone for a couple of cheap beers (okay, four cheap beers), at a dive bar on Second. Nat had been happy to pick up the tab. Keltie and Ivan had half-heartedly objected, but in the end, they were too grateful to grill her about her finances. They had to have noticed the shift in Nat’s circumstances, her new clothes, her highlighted hair, her pricey leather bag, her newfound generosity . . .

Now, she was on the train, heading back to Brooklyn. She was tired, a little drunk, but content. While she missed Gabe on weekends, she appreciated the time to focus on school and her friends. And she understood his need to spend time with his daughter. Violet . . . that pretty girl with smooth brown skin and luminous eyes; the strong resemblance to her mother, so sophisticated, almost regal. Nat’s mood was shifting to a darker place as she thought about those hidden photographs. She shook her head, trying to dislodge the images of that woman. That girl.

Exiting the train at Jefferson, she hustled through the darkened streets. The neighborhood was safe—fairly safe—but this was not Park Avenue. She allowed herself to imagine going home to Gabe’s apartment . . . to Gabe. They could open a bottle of wine, order some food, and then climb into his deep bathtub together. But it was the weekend. Violet would be with her father.