Chapter 55: The Purification Ritual That Caused a Fire
Downtown Manhattan, 145 West Broadway, The Odeon. Its classic French-bistro dishes and rich history make it a singular, unmistakably New York date spot.
Outside, Valentine's Day snow drifted silently, softening Broadway's lights. In a corner by the window, Bruce and Grace were lost in their own tender world.
Bruce was describing the penthouse suite they would check into later: "It's on the 71st floor, a glass box in mid-air, three walls of windows. The East River sparkles below, the Hudson curves around Manhattan, and the city spreads like a constellation at our feet." He paused, catching the spark in Grace's eyes. "The bathroom is floor-to-ceiling marble, a round dimmable chandelier right in the center. They scatter rose petals in the tub before you arrive, champagne chills in a silver bucket, the sheets are high-thread-count Egyptian cotton..."
Grace set down her fork, tilting her head. "We haven't checked in yet; how do you know the exact placement of the petals?"
Bruce grinned. "Hotel brochure. You think I've taken someone else there?"
Grace said, "You recite it like you've rented the place before."
"Sixteen hundred a night, more on holidays. Unless Miramax cuts me in on Inglourious Basterds' profits, it's not happening again."
His pager beeped. He pulled the black device from his pocket: his own apartment's number on the screen. "Jocelyn?" He caught Grace's eye, then went to the front desk to use their phone.
Monica answered. "Hey, Bruce? Something happened—you need to come back, okay?"
"What's wrong? Where's Jocelyn?"
"She's right here, she's fine... it's your apartment. The four of us were... well, we started a small fire."
"Jesus—is everyone okay?"
"Tiny fire, already out. But the firefighters need the tenant to confirm we weren't trespassing or they'll have to call the police."
"I'm on my way."
He hung up and returned to the table. "Monica and Jocelyn set off a little fire. It's out, but they need me to confirm they're authorized to be there. Stay here, enjoy dinner—I'll be quick."
"A fire? I'll come with you." Grace stood up.
"No need. I won't let a hiccup wreck Valentine's. Probably minimal damage. I'll hurry back." He gently guided her back into her chair.
Still, Bruce found his foot heavier on the accelerator than usual.
At his apartment, he pulled a folder from the desk and showed the lease—tenant: Bruce White, landlord: Hudson Property Investment Trust—confirming the women were authorized guests.
The firefighters logged it and headed out. Monica, wringing her hands, led him to the scene. "Over here... I'm so sorry."
In the empty spare bedroom, soot floated on puddles. Center stage: a knee-high metal bucket from Monica's bathroom.
It was half-full of black water, with half-burned items—photos, greeting cards, a baseball cap—floating like guilty evidence.
Above, the ceiling bore a scorched circle. "We were doing a purge ritual," Monica explained. "Break the bad-boyfriend cycle. We tossed ex-boyfriend stuff in and lit it. Then Phoebe poured in some of her ex-boyfriend Paolo's leftover grappa—the flames shot up to the ceiling."
"I'm just glad none of you got hurt. I thought you were going out for girls' night—why here?"
"We ate at Via Carota in the West Village. My friend Abby waitresses there; she swears Valentine's Day purge rituals are magical for moving on."
Jocelyn added, "We needed an empty room—your spare bedroom was perfect."
Bruce raised an eyebrow. "You carried Mark memorabilia to New York?"
"Just one photo in my wallet—ashes now."
"Ladies, sorry it went wrong. Finish up if you need to—just don't burn down the building. Grace is waiting for me."
"Bruce!" Monica called. "I'll hire a painter for the ceiling. Go—don't keep Grace waiting."
"Forget the ceiling—I'll take care of it. I've got to go."
Halfway down the stairs he heard Jocelyn: "Bruce, come back—Grace is on the phone!"
He returned and picked up the receiver. "Grace? Just finished—heading back now."
"Good thing you hadn't left yet. Our night's cancelled. I have to take care of Audrey—she might need the emergency room."
"Is she sick?"
"Building super called—Audrey came home drunk, making a scene in the stairwell. Neighbors threatened to call the cops. I'm sorry, Bruce—I have to go."
"Hey, Valentine's isn't about a hotel room. Wherever we are, it's perfect. Wait for me; we'll go together. If she needs a hospital, you'll want backup."
Grace hesitated. "I'll take a cab over now. You drive to my place—carefully, no rush."
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