At twenty-seven, YouTube sensation Ben Leonards is married to his work. If he's not whipping up lasagna with a side of science experiments, he's running statistical analysis of bitcoin during explosive behavior periods.
When a friend asks him to org...
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The ride from the JFK airport to the Baxters' fifth avenue apartment takes almost as long as the flight. I answer most of the emails and start reading the texts. When we are crossing Triborough Bridge I glance up in time to glimpse the buildings of the Randals Island ahead and the blue of the East River in short snippets between the heavy grey metal posts. The next bridge teases the view of the skyscrapers, and we enter the island of Manhattan.
My eyes are back to my phone and the latest text from Mike.
Mike: I love Angie, but fuck! I'm done with escaping my home because of her fucking parents. Everything they fucking say makes me angry.
Me: Do they plan to stay long? What's the next place they were planning to travel to?
Mike: Fuck if they know. They want to wait and see.
Me: Why don't they book a hotel?
Mike: According to them, they are here to be fucking 'hands-on'. As if all of us being fucking awake all fucking night helps anyone.
The divider in the limousine goes down. "We're almost there, Ms. Baxter. I'll take your bags up for you."
"Thank you, Simon," says Linda to the driver. She turns to me and adjusts the collar of my white shirt. "Don't forget to smile. My mother is suspicious of anyone who does not smile." Linda's instructions throughout the flight on what I should and shouldn't be doing around her relatives are blending together.
"Smile," I repeat.
"And don't let them persuade you to do things you don't want to. We are going out to Del Posto, and our reservation is at six-forty-five. And the chef promised he'll be there to talk to you. And it's only for the two of us, so they can not join us. Can not, I really mean it." Linda lets go of my shirt and chews on the skin around her index finger. How afraid can she be of her own family?
"I will smile and be ready to leave at six."
"Good idea. Let's leave at six. Less chance for them to try something. We can walk there."
The building the driver deposits us at faces the Metropolitan Museum of Arts. He passes our bags to the doorman who assures me he'll be bringing them up. There is only one door on the floor we arrive at, which opens the moment we get out of the elevator, and a woman in black pants and shirt leads us through a double-height foyer up the stairs into a double-height living room.
Linda's childhood home has more art on the walls than a gallery. The sharp corners of the white rectangular modern couches contrast with the curved stone of a carved fireplace featured against a stark grey wall. The arches around the two-story windows could be replicas of the ones inside the Holy Names Catholic Cathderal Mom used to take me to.
Large swaths of green visible through the squares on the french doors and windows must be Central Park. The 'wow' Amelie attached to Linda's wealth when she heard her last name was not an exaggeration.
