Follow the Stars Home. Luanne RiceЧитать онлайн книгу.

       One

      Snow was falling in New York. The flakes were fine and steady, obscuring the upper stories of Midtown’s black and silver buildings. Snow covered the avenues faster than city plows could clear it away. It capped stone monuments and the Plaza’s dormant fountain. As night closed in, and lights were turned on in every window, the woman stood with the young girl, breathing in the cold air.

      “The snow looks so magical in the city!” Amy, twelve, said in amazement.

      “It’s so beautiful,” Dianne agreed.

      “But where do the kids go sledding?”

      “In Central Park, I think. Right over there,” Dianne said, pointing at the trees coated in white, the yellow lights glowing through the snow.

      Amy just stared. Everything about New York was new and wonderful, and Dianne loved seeing the city through her eyes. Fresh from the quiet marshlands of eastern Connecticut, they had checked into the Plaza hotel, visited Santa at Macy’s, and gone ice skating at Rockefeller Center. That night they had tickets to see the New York City Ballet dance The Nutcracker.

      Standing under the hotel awning, they took in Christmas lights, livery-clad doormen, and guests dressed for a gala evening. Three cabs stood at the curb, snow thick in their headlights. At least twenty people were lined up, scanning the street for additional cabs. Hesitating for just a moment, Dianne took Amy’s hand and walked down the steps.

      Overwhelmed with excitement, her own and for the child, she didn’t want to risk missing the curtain by waiting in a long taxi line. Standing by the curb, she checked the map and weighed the idea of walking to Lincoln Center.

      “Dianne, are we going to be late?” Amy asked.

      “No, we’re not,” Dianne said, making up her mind. “I’ll get us a cab.”

      Amy laughed, thrilled by the sight of her friend standing in the street, arm outstretched like a real New Yorker. Dianne wore a black velvet dress, a black cashmere cape, a string of pearls, and her grandmother-in-law’s diamond and sapphire earrings: things she never wore at home at Gull Point. Her evening bag was ancient. Black satin, stiff with years spent on a closet shelf, it had come from a boutique in Essex, Connecticut.

      “Oh, let me hail the cab,” Amy said, dancing with delight, her arm flying up just like Dianne’s. Her movement was sudden, and slipping on the snow, she grasped at Dianne’s bag. The strap was very long; even with Dianne’s arm raised, the bag swung just below her