New Amsterdam: Julia Read online

  © 2016 by Ashley Pullo

  Print & eBook Formatting by Erika Q. Stokes

  Cover art by Molly Van Roekel

  Proofreading by Marla Esposito

  Paperback cover design by Nick Fantini

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system without the prior consent from the publisher, except in the instance of quotes for reviews. No part of this book may be scanned, uploaded, or distributed via the Internet without the publisher’s permission and is a violation of the International copyright law, which subjects the violator to severe fines and imprisonment.

  This is a work of fiction. The names, characters, incidents and places are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead or actual events are entirely coincidental.

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Julia’s Spotify Playlist

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Other Works by Ashley Pullo

  To the Humans of New York

  and their dogs.

  In the summer of 2010, photographer Brandon Stanton began an ambitious project – to single-handedly create a photographic census of New York City. The photos he took and the accompanying interviews became the blog Humans of New York (St. Martin’s, 2015).

  “One should always be in love. That is the reason one should never marry.”

  ~ Oscar Wilde

  Prologue

  In her defense, the man wearing the expensive plum blossom aftershave had it coming.

  As the days become shorter, and the humidity disappears, New Yorkers take advantage of the glorious days of autumn. Farmer’s markets and fall festivals pop up all over the city, inviting urban dwellers to experience the delight of small town charm without hopping a train or crossing a bridge. An afternoon stroll through a city park offers a preview to nature’s transformative landscape, revealing a leafy canopy drenched in sunlight. Candy apples, pumpkin lattes, and seasonal beers . . . the Cloisters, Broadway shows, and the High Line . . . bike rides, beer gardens, and cultural festivals – annual celebrations before the darkness of winter blankets the City in despair.

  But the truth is, New Yorkers ache for simplicity and tradition with a side of serendipity.

  And it’s Lower Manhattan that carries a sense of providence; a place where people can congregate on narrow streets and embrace the historical narrative of a richly diverse city. A gathering area for commerce and exchange for centuries, the Financial District is the golden nugget of the City – the core of New Amsterdam.

  This neighborhood is where the story begins . . .

  Bowling Green is the oldest public park in New York City, and also home to the charging bull – a bronze statue that symbolizes the power and aggressive attitude of Wall Street. With flared nostrils and pointed horns, it’s ready to charge and destroy anything in its path, especially the foreign tourists attempting to mount it for a photo op.

  And inside the park, the NYC Greenmarket sets up every Tuesday and Thursday throughout the year, bringing local produce and gourmet treats to anyone with a thick wallet. Like Paul Holbrook, a finance asshole who enjoys a late-Thursday afternoon snack from Martha’s Uptown Bakery. Almost as much as he likes harassing her for a date.

  “Got any of those flourless brownies?” he asks, smiling like a ravenous wolf.

  Arranging sugar cookies in a bakery box, she curtly replies, “I sold out this morning.”

  Paul reaches for a slice of pumpkin bread and says, “Go out with me.”

  Martha tucks her auburn hair behind her ear and huffs. “Like I told you last week, I’m not interested in a date, Paul.”

  “What if I buy everything on this table, then will you at least have a drink with me?” Paul removes his wallet as two men approach her booth.

  Wearing similar olive-green army jackets, and sweetly holding hands, they pick up a loaf of gluten-free zucchini bread. “Martha?” inquires the shorter, more handsome of the two. “We’re Simon and Enrique – we chatted on the phone yesterday.”

  Tying the ribbon on the bakery box, Martha smiles. “Yes! The gluten-free wedding in Brooklyn.”

  Happy she remembered them, they bob their heads excitedly. The taller, slightly bald one says, “We just love your bakery, and we would be honored if you would design our wedding cake.”

  Annoyed, Paul snaps, “Look, that’s really sweet and all, but you kinda interrupted a thing we were discussing.”

  “Oh, God, we’re so sorry,” they apologize in unison.

  “No, you didn’t. Paul was leaving.” Martha steps around from behind her table with a sketch pad and a pencil.

  Grabbing her arm, Paul snarls, “Martha, I’m not leaving until you agree to a drink.” He shoves another slice of pumpkin bread in his mouth as she cringes in disgust.

  Sensing her uncomfortable reaction, the taller one warns, “Hey, buddy? I think she’s not interested.”

  “Oh, yeah?” Nostrils flared and horns drawn, Paul takes a step closer to the couple and breathes homophobic flames of fury. “And you think she’s more interested in a couple of fags than a date with me?”

  Paul’s question is met with psychedelic darkness and imaginary cartoon birds dancing around his head. He caresses his jaw while stumbling backwards into the Pickle People’s booth. Crashing into their table, jars of pickled cucumbers and peppers shatter as he falls to the ground. Embarrassed and nauseous, he clenches his fist as he struggles to lift his head. And as Paul opens his watery eyes, sweet, little Martha peers down at his vinegar-stained shirt with a smug grin.

  Rubbing her knuckles, she shouts, “He stole from my table!”

  Simon and Enrique, the kind and forgiving souls that they are, help Paul from the ground and dust off his pants. With a snarky giggle, the shorter one declares, “Buddy, you just got leveled by a teeny tiny baker!”

  Maybe the former Israeli Defense soldier should have refrained from using her Krav Maga training, but in Martha’s defense, he had it coming.

  “The first time I saw her, I heard music. That seems like a trite cliché, but it’s hard to express a feeling when all I could see and hear was Vivaldi’s Four Seasons. Winter, spring, and summer – she’s definitely my fall.”

  Chapter One

  Shakespeare in the Park

  By: Julia Pierce

  “I never thought I’d find love in this business,” the groom said. “And I definitely didn’t think she would be a Cali surfer who could play the violin.” Christopher Eubanks, a native New Yorker, and a classical music producer, described his romantic love affair with Stella Braun moments before their outdoor ceremony.

  During the studio production of an album featuring a strings ensemble in 2013, he encountered a gorgeous violinist with a wicked sense of humor. After several weeks of flirtatious banter, Christopher finally asked Stella out on date, but she was hesitant, as her ensemble was set to return to California as soon as the album wrapped.

  Admittedly, Christopher used every trick he knew to delay the production of the album for almost four months. Casual dating progressed to a serious relationship, and by the time the album was complete, Stella had moved into Christopher’s Brooklyn
bachelor pad and made New York her forever home.

  The bride, 29, wore a whimsical corset gown designed by Vatana Watters in a creamy, ivory tulle. A small peek of Stella’s shoes was just enough to perpetuate every girl’s modern princess fantasy – berry-stained pumps by Badgley Mishka fashioned with crystal embellishments. The groom, 33, wore a Tom Ford navy pin-striped suit topped with a silk tie in the deepest shade of amaranthine. Set against the romantic backdrop of Central Park’s Shakespeare Gardens, and the saffron-drenched Japanese maples, the bride and groom exchanged their vows in front of a small gathering of friends and family. A ten-piece orchestra ensemble donning powdered wigs and historical costumes entertained the guests with the familiar sounds of Mozart and Vivaldi.

  Howard: Check your email.

  Reading a text from the managing editor, Julia minimizes her current assignment and opens her mail.

  Gotham Online

  Wedding Woes

  By: Darby Wallace

  Have you ever wondered what it takes to be featured in the wedding section of the New York Herald? Money – most definitely. Connections – absolutely. So what about the average New Yorkers with kickass love stories?

  Gotham Online recently had the pleasure of following a couple as they stumbled through the outdated application process for the wedding and celebrations column penned by reader-favorite, Julia Pierce. For Enrique and Simon, a same-sex Brooklyn couple, the entire process was frustrating and offensive. Since their romantic engagement in June, the affable pair have become the darlings of social media. With the support of friends and strangers, the two decided to submit an application to have their wedding announcement, and hopefully, their modest wedding, featured in the Herald’s prestigious Style section. But as the weeks passed waiting for a simple response, the couple received spam mail from vendors addressed to the bride and groom.

  “For a city that prides itself on being progressive, the New York Herald is a national media outlet that subtly implies that the union of marriage should fit nicely into a column,” Simon said. And he meant that quite literally, as the first demeaning task on the application was to check a box: Legal Marriage, Civil Union, or Commitment Ceremony (with same-sex marriage being a sub-category).

  Even though same-sex marriage is legal in all fifty states pursuant with the SCOTUS ruling of June, 2015, the New York Herald has yet to update their submission guidelines. “The best part was deciding which one of us would be the bride. Since the application is rooted in the 1960s, we ultimately felt that Enrique would make a better wife. His legs look better in heels, and he can make a mean tuna casserole,” Simon joked.

  Humor aside, Enrique and Simon epitomize the essence of a modern love story, and want nothing more than the opportunity to share their wedding with the faithful readers of Julia Pierce’s column. Dear Julia: It’s 2015.

  Tapping the mouse on her laptop, Julia growls, “Fuck, shit, holy shit.”

  She pastes a link to the Gotham article in an email, and then forwards it to Francine, the style editor of the New York Herald. Popping a piece of gum in her mouth, Julia runs a search for recent applications tagged as same-sex applicants. The fact that the paper even uses labels to describe applicants is beyond her comprehension, but she’s never really questioned the system that’s been in place for over three decades, long before her stint as the wedding chaser.

  Julia narrows the broad search by eliminating female applicants, but the spreadsheet still yields close to one hundred couples. Not alphabetized by name but rather sorted by the prestige of the venue, she scrolls through a list of hotels and catering events until she finds Enrique Ramos and Simon Gavin. The Brooklyn artists are set for a Halloween wedding at the Brooklyn Botanical Garden, and the pair even sent Julia a personal invitation to attend the ceremony.

  “Crap,” she sputters, blowing a bubble of pink gum and searching her file drawer for the invitation.

  “Jules, let’s go. I’m starving!” Meredith Rice, friend and fashion columnist, slaps the putty-gray partition framing Julia’s corner cubicle and grunts, “Me need the food.”

  Reading the heartfelt essay submission by Enrique and Simon, Julia smacks a bubble between her lips and waves her hand. “I need ten more minutes.”

  “You know, I somewhat admire your journalistic integrity,” Meredith teases.

  Snapping her head in Meredith’s direction, Julia arches a brow. “Am I really a journalist?”

  “Fiction sells. Let’s go before Francine finds me,” Meredith whines, clutching her stomach.

  Sighing, Julia closes her laptop and pins the neon-orange invitation to her work board. She stands from her desk and slides her phone in the pocket of her slim, black pants. Removing a wool cape from a metal hook, and a burgundy crocodile satchel from a drawer, she urges, “We have to eat somewhere close.”

  “Yeah, yeah. Close.” As the two women walk past the bull pen, an actual corral of testosterone-toting sports reporters, Meredith nudges Julia’s hip and whispers, “Yankees Alex is checking you out again.”

  Glancing in the direction of her admirer while fastening the toggle button to her cape, Julia hushes, “Two years at the Herald and he’s never asked me on a date.”

  “Then ask him!” Meredith hisses, looking back over her shoulder at the group of men.

  Pressing the button to the elevator, Julia replies, “Mere, remember the last guy I asked out?”

  “The single dad with three kids?”

  “Yeah, and he thought I was too much of a commitment.” Julia chews the inside of her cheek, watching the flashing numbers above the elevator. “And Alex and I work together – never a great combo.”

  “Alex is hot, Jules. At least sleep with him.” She glances back at the bullpen and adds, “I would.”

  “Dating a co-worker and casual sex are entirely different – and you’re engaged.”

  “Is there some rule in which an engaged or married woman can’t enjoy the masculine form of the male body?”

  Rolling her eyes, Julia scoffs, “Actually, I don’t think marriage defines any sort of rules.”

  “Always a cynic,” Meredith mumbles.

  “Do you blame me?”

  “Incoming,” she whispers.

  “Julia?” Approaching the pair with a smug grin is Yankees Alex, tall and lean, and ridiculously cocky. Leaning against the wall near the elevator, he says, “Hi, Meredith, you look nice today.” He nods politely and then returns his attention to Julia. “So, Julia, are you free tomorrow night?”

  Fidgeting, Julia stammers, “Oh, I um, I have a few deadlines . . .”

  Meredith bumps Julia’s hip and clears her throat. “Do it,” she sputters through a cough.

  “But I could push some things back. What do you have in mind, Alex?” Anything but baseball, Julia thinks.

  Alex scratches his stubbly chin and asks, “Would you like to go to the Yankees game with me?”

  With a blank stare, Julia finally replies, “Sure, I’d love to go.” She remembers to smile . . . and blink. “Would you believe I’ve never been to Yankees Stadium?”

  Before he can respond, the elevator doors open and several people exit. Meredith pulls Julia into the elevator as Alex shouts, “I’ll text you tonight.”

  Squeezing into the back corner of the elevator, Meredith screams below a whisper, “Julia’s got a day-ate.”

  “Yeah, great.” She tilts her head and exhales.

  “What’s wrong with you?”

  “Sorry, I’m cranky. My week is crazy busy, I know nothing about baseball, and I have to deal with a negative online article.”

  Concerned, Meredith asks, “What happened online?”

  “Gotham blasted my column.”

  Buzz. Buzz. Buzz. Elbowing Meredith, a robust man with a bright red face retrieves his cell phone from his jacket pocket. “Hello? Martin! I’m still at the office. Yes. Ha! Columbus Circle . . . pumpkin spice . . . acid reflux.”

  Ignoring her obnoxious neighbor’s digestive problems, Meredi
th consoles, “Gotham is basically a New York entertainment blog for hipsters. Why do you even care?”

  “I guess, but their reach is growing into the millions. And Gotham reporters are real people writing about real stories that matter. New Yorkers love them.”

  “Jules, everyone loves you, and legit journalists would kill for your crappy job.”

  When the door finally opens to the art deco lobby of the Rothschild building, Julia groans in frustration and mutters, “But how did I become the wedding chick?”

  “Because the Herald offered you a ton of money.”

  Julia arches an eyebrow and shrugs her shoulders. “Remember what Professor Adams preached? Follow a paycheck,” she begins.

  “Not a story,” Meredith finishes. “God, I hated that asshole.”

  “But he was right . . . and look where I am now.”

  “Julia Pierce is a caricature you created when you had no other option. But to me, you’ll always be Jules, my best friend from Long Island, and a broad that hates weddings almost as much as the idea of marriage.”

  Eyes wide, Julia says, “Shh!”

  Spilling out of the overcrowded elevator and adjusting her bra, Meredith jokes, “Don’t worry, your secret is safe with me.”

  As they reach the building’s exit, the two friends are accosted by a shrill voice and the pitter patter of footsteps. “Meredith! Julia!”

  Spinning around to meet the wild eyes of the most annoying intern in the history of the Herald, Meredith and Julia simultaneously frown. As the poster child for urban Millennials, Zoe Bernstein’s narcissistic personality, and her need for constant equality, often lead to an exhausting conversation.

  “What, Zoe?” barks Meredith.

  “Ah, Meredith, I have something awesome for you.” Turning toward Julia without finishing her thought, she exclaims, “I love your little jacket! Is it J. Crew? Wool or camel hair? “ Zoe fires off questions without taking a breath.

  “Focus,” Meredith snaps.