If the Red Slipper Fits.... Shirley JumpЧитать онлайн книгу.

      To Marci, for being the best walking buddy and friend

      anyone could ask for.

      Rain or shine, you’re there, to commiserate, cry, laugh

      (and yes, sometimes, shop).

      Thank you.

      CHAPTER ONE

      SARAH Griffin watched the red shoe wing past her, then tumble in slow, horrible motion, toe over heel, out the open window and into oblivion. Shock kept her rooted to the floor for a good half second, before the horror of what had just happened pricked her like a pair of spurs, and she dived, too late, for the custom-designed, one-of-a-kind Frederick K red stiletto.

      The shoe that was going to make or break her career—the same shoe that had just made a three-story disappearing act.

      “How could you do that?” The words exploded from her throat, but elicited no response from her younger sister, standing just a few feet from the window. “Don’t you know how important that shoe is?” Sarah leaned out the window, searching for the burst of crimson leather on the gray concrete. Nothing, nothing, then—

      There. By a trash can. Relief surged in her chest. Okay, the shoe was still intact. Seemed okay, at least from here, but she’d never know for sure until she retrieved it. She wheeled away from the window and dashed for the door.

      “Where are you going?” Honest surprise lit the notes in her sister’s voice. Sarah paused and gaped at Diana. Did she really expect her to stay here and finish the argument?

      Diana Griffin had a slender frame, but it covered for a surprisingly strong body. She spent her afternoons beating up a punching bag at Gold’s Gym, so much that they’d replaced it twice in the two years Diana had been a member.

      You didn’t mess with Diana. Sarah knew that, and hadn’t heeded her own advice. Match Diana’s temper with Sarah’s tendency to blurt out her true feelings, and you ended up with a disaster. Now the shoe—the shoe—was on the sidewalk and her career was hanging by an ever-unraveling thread.

      “I have to get that shoe back,” Sarah said. “Do you know what’s going to happen if—” “Let it go, Sarah.” Diana waved in dismissal.

      No biggie, she was saying. Diana had made her point, using her right pitching arm, and Sarah should just get over it already. “It’s just a shoe. If you want something cute and pretty, I’ll give you a pair of mine.”

      Sarah threw up her hands and shoved past Diana. “You don’t get it, Diana. You never do.”

      Her sister shook her head. “Get what? That you are trying to ruin my life … again?”

      Drama. There was always drama with her younger sister. It was as if Diana hadn’t gotten enough attention as a kid and was in a constant quest for more. Hence the hyperbole and the temper-tantrum shoe fling. Sarah had seen more than one model diva pull the same stunt, and over the most ridiculously unimportant things, like a corner table or a too-warm glass of chardonnay. It was the kind of behavior that filled the gossip pages at Behind the Scenes. Written by Sarah herself.

      She was tired of the drama, the look-at-me antics of the people she covered for the tabloid. Just once, she’d like to see someone defy the stereotypes she blurbed with oversized headlines. Someone who got honest, admitted that the club scene was as shallow as a puddle, and that there were more important things in life than starring on page six.

      “I don’t have time for this, Diana.” Sarah opened the door, hurried down the hall, bypassing the elevator for the stairs and then burst out the front door of her apartment building and onto the congested street of her Manhattan neighborhood. Traffic hummed, garbage trucks bleated and construction crews hammered, creating the morning melodies of the city. She had loved this neighborhood the second she stepped foot in it, finding a small apartment in an old brownstone and a kindly landlord who brought her cookies on Christmas Eve.

      Her apartment was insanely small, and yes, a third-floor walk-up without any of the fanciness of a doorman or an elevator. But the neighborhood had charm and a genuine quality about it that Sarah craved at the end of the day.

      The bright fall sun blinded Sarah for a second, bouncing off her glasses and giving her twin bursts of yellow in her vision. She pivoted to the right, toward Mrs. Sampson’s trash cans, fully expecting to see the shoe right there. Just where she’d seen it a few seconds ago.

      The space by the landlord’s trashcan was empty. Well, not empty—a crumpled soda can, two ketchup-spattered fast-food burger wrappers and a torn Chinese-food box leaking its leftovers in a dark puddle—but empty of the most important thing in Sarah Griffin’s life right now.

      The shoe.

      Panic fluttered in her chest. It couldn’t be gone. Couldn’t be. It wasn’t like it could walk off, right? And who would only want one shoe? What would be the value in a solo stiletto?

      And that shoe, of all the ones in the world. Completely impractical, good only for special occasions. Surely, no one would take it?

      If