“In a ball gown,” Ally added, fearing the worst.
“Sure thing. About an hour ago. Lovely woman,” Tom said.
An hour. Ally was glad Ernest had her arm, as she felt faint.
“Did she get into a cab?” Ernest asked.
Tom was starting to detect Ally’s panic. He looked uneasily from Ernest to Ally. “She, um, went, ah, I’m not sure I saw. I think, that way? I think she walked—I dunno.”
Ally was trying to breathe. In. Out. In. In. In…
“I’ll call the police. Don’t you worry. Someone will have seen her,” Ernest said. “She couldn’t have gotten far.”
Ally nodded, appreciative of his lie. Granny Donny could be on the subway, deep into the South Bronx by now. “Thank you. Thank you. Yes. Okay. I’m going out.”
“Wait, it’s not safe. Let me get—”
But Ally didn’t hear the rest. She was already out the door and into the warm, dark night. The street was bustling with cabs and cars. Groups of post-dinner businessmen emerged from restaurants; tourists strolled arm in arm.
Surely Granny Donny wouldn’t have gone into the park? Ally looked into the vast island of darkness that was Central Park at night.
Ally dodged the cars and raced across the street to where a line of cabs waited for fares. “Did you see an old lady? Alone? In a long dress?”
They shook their heads.
Ally didn’t know what to do next. She looked both ways and didn’t see her grandmother. She could be anywhere. Should she go east or west? South or—God forbid—north into the dark shadows of the park?
Okay. She had to think. To calm down. To cover all the bases. Granny Donny had been talking for days about her need to visit the duke. Surely she didn’t know where he lived. Or did she? Ally dialed information. “Manhattan. Sam Carson. Residence. Thank you.” The operator came up with three Sam Carsons before she found one at an address that seemed right for a man like Sam, on Central Park West. Ally waited while the operator put her through.
The phone rang and rang. Finally, a machine picked up with Sam’s voice asking her to please leave a message.
“Sam. It’s Ally Giordano. It’s, uh, 11:13, and my grandmother is missing. I’m sure you remember her, remember us? The lady in the carriage? She’s been talking about you nonstop, and, well, I’m afraid. I think she might be looking for you. Call my cell if you’ve seen her. I’m at the Plaza, looking for her. 212-022-5555.” She hung up. Of course the man wasn’t home. It was, after all, before midnight.
One of the cabdrivers approached her. “Ma’am? I just radioed one of my boys who was here earlier. Barky said he saw an old lady in a long pink dress go into the park. He said she looked like she knew where she was heading, so he didn’t think much of it—”
He was still talking, but Ally was already on her way into the darkness.
Sam was almost through one of the most boring dinners he’d endured since childhood. He couldn’t eat his crème brûlée fast enough. The woman across from him, Missy, was on her second martini, and she hadn’t been shy about the wine either. She was waxing philosophical about Manhattan health clubs, going on and on about which clubs had the sexiest men. How his friend Jerry had thought he’d be able to connect with this woman was beyond him. Yes, she was built, but she was a vast, empty wasteland. Not that he usually cared. But lately, he cared.
Bollocks, was he ever off his game since meeting Ally and her grandmother. He kept seeing himself through the grandmother’s eyes, as a duke, and felt remarkably unworthy. It was ridiculous, really. A farce.
Sam checked his messages as discreetly as he could on his cell phone while he pretended to listen to his dinner companion. Two calls. Veronica. Again. Gad, would he ever be past her? And—
He sat forward. Ally? His interest sparked. Now that was a surprise. Her message was panicked, making only the slightest bit of sense. He listened to Ally’s voice while looking at his dining partner.
“My grandmother is missing…”
“And I hate a man who sweats too much in public,” Missy was saying.
“She’s been talking about you nonstop, and I’m afraid…”
“The gay men don’t sweat as much. Which maybe is a physical thing, you know? Like, hormonal? But then, what good are the gay ones? So it’s a problem.”
“… I think she might be looking for you.”
Sam stood up, waving the waiter over as he pushed in his chair. He was just a few blocks from the Plaza. “I have to go. Emergency,” he told Missy. He wasn’t entirely sure he meant his life was an emergency or helping Ally was. Or were they somehow one and the same? The waiter appeared and he handed him three hundreds. “Anything she needs, yes? Keep the change.” He leaned over Missy and kissed the top of her head. “I’m sorry,” he said.
“Call me?” she called after him.
“You bet,” he lied.
He was both glad and confused to be out in the night. He ran the two blocks to the Plaza, wondering the whole way why he was running, why he felt nervous and worried. He didn’t know Ally or her grandmother. Didn’t owe them a thing. Didn’t even particularly like Ally. And yet here he was, dashing across Fifth Avenue. A speeding Lexus cut him off and he pounded the hood. His heart was in his gut and he didn’t know why. All he knew was that he wanted to see Ally again.
Two police cars were pulled up in front of the Plaza, their lights spinning. But he didn’t see Ally. He dialed the number she had left.
Ally answered at once. “Hello?”
“It’s Sam—”
“Sam? Is she with you?” She sounded so glad to hear from him, his chest puffed. It was an odd, pleasing feeling.
“No. Where are you?” He looked up and down Fifth Avenue.
“I’m in the park.”
“In the park?” Pleasure drained away, replaced by dread.
“By the pond. A cabbie saw her come this way.”
Sam spotted Ally at the top of the curved path, talking to a jogger who was pointing her deeper into the park. She took off running. Sam followed, catching up at the top of the next rise. He had walked on every continent, swam in every ocean, but he’d never been in Central Park at night. It was ethereal, otherworldly—romantic.
“He said he saw her go this way,” Ally said, racing headlong, deeper into the darkness, hardly noting his presence.
Sam matched her pace. “What happened?”
“She snuck out. I don’t know.” Around them, the park was deserted except for another hard-core runner, his head down, his feet pounding the trail. Sam wondered what kind of demons made a person come willingly into the park at night alone. But it wasn’t the people he could see that worried Sam. The hairs on his neck rose in fear for Ally’s grandmother because of what was hidden: drug dealers, psychotics, rats…
Ally stopped, and Sam had to catch himself from bumping into her. “Do you hear a violin?” Ally asked.
“A waltz,” Sam said. “Mozart. G major.” A small bridge crossed the path ahead where the trail dipped low. Under the bridge were two shadowed figures. Dancing.
“Oh my God, it’s her.” Ally started to run. “She’s—”
“Waltzing,” Sam said. “Pretty well, too.” He took in the scene as he went. A violinist stood under the arch of the bridge, while the two dancers swept in and out of the shadows. Granny Donny was in a long pink gown that sparkled in the moonlight.
“Granny!” Ally called.
“Ally! Join us!” Granny Donny called back, not missing a step. “It’s the loveliest ball of the season! I’m so pleased you’ve come!”
Ally stopped dead in her tracks, her mouth agape at the “ballroom” under the bridge.
Sam instinctively put his hand on Ally’s back and they walked forward together, slower now, as one. Their unity felt natural and exhilarating. Sam wondered if Ally felt the rush of connection, too, as they stepped down the slope to the arch that formed the underside of the bridge. The violinist looked up but didn’t stop playing. He was a g
rayed, wrinkled, unshaved man in ratty clothes. Homeless, Sam guessed, probably a busker during the day, with nowhere but the park to sleep at night. But he played beautifully, the music echoing and expanding under the bridge.
Granny Donny waltzed with a strapping, twenty-something man in a dark tie and white shirt that shimmered slightly in the lamplight. A woman Sam hadn’t noticed at first stood to the side, holding the man’s suit jacket and smiling at the scene. Two briefcases sat at her feet. As Sam’s eyes adjusted to the light, other forms emerged from the darkness. Three teenage boys sat on a rock off to the right with an enormous boom box, mercifully silent. A bike messenger, his empty bag slung over his shoulder and his bike balanced between his legs, nodded in time to the music. Two runners stood under a birch tree, their arms around each other, mesmerized by the scene. They must have been dancing awhile for such a crowd to have formed in the otherwise deserted park. Sam felt an affinity for them all, kindred spirits in the dark, drawn together.
Except for Ally.
She stiffened under his hand. “Now see here,” she began.
But Sam cut her off, taken with the moment she was determined to ruin. “A ball! Magnificent!”
“Granny Donny. Please stop dancing,” Ally said, her voice rigid. “It’s late and we need to go home.”
“No time for talking, dear! Time for dancing! Oh, it’s been too long,” Granny Donny cried. The man spun her gracefully to the right. She was grinning up at him as if he were Rhett Butler. He was a surprisingly good waltzer, graceful and smooth. His eyes closed, his touch light, he looked as if he’d been preparing for this dance his whole life.
Sam took Ally’s hand. “Well?”
“Well what?”
“Shall we dance?”
Disbelief vibrated over her features. “No. We shall not.”
“But why not?”
“Because it’s crazy.”
Sam thought about his dull, totally sane dinner date. He thought about his proper-to-a-fault family. “So?” He took her hand and pulled her onto the path. He guided her in a stiff, unwilling waltz. “Ally,” he whispered in her ear. “She’s okay. It’s okay. She’s smiling. It’s a beautiful night. Have you ever been in the park at night? Waltzing? It’s unreal. I love this town.”
“Of course I haven’t. Because it’s insane.” Ally’s body was rigid. She whipped her head from side to side to keep track of her grandmother, who was finishing a twirl, one foot peeping from under her gown, pointed delicately in its satin slipper. Could she even feel his touch with such stress gripping her body? Her situation was difficult; he understood that. And yet, the night was so lovely, her grandmother so radiantly happy, he felt, well, he felt like dancing. “If you don’t concentrate, I’m going to step on your toes. Relax. Count. One, two, three. One, two, three. Don’t you know how to waltz?”
“How can you ask that at a time like this?” Ally said.
“You don’t know how to waltz. You’ll make a lousy princess. It’s a three-count.” He started the waltz again. “One, two, three. One—”
“I don’t care how to waltz, Sam.”
“But this is lovely,” Sam said, giving up mid-spin.
“This is dangerous—”
“Oh, no. Waltzing is quite safe. Now a tango can be dangerous. Especially my tango.” He assumed the chin-up, chest-out posture of a bullfighter.
“Not the dancing! The park at night is unsafe. Crime statistics—”
He dropped his toreador pose. “Are you always this uptight?”
“I’m not uptight. I have responsibilities. You wouldn’t understand.”
“Oh, believe me, I would.”
She stared him down, but he stared right back, anger blazing in his eyes.
When she finally spoke, her voice was hard. “You don’t have to dance with me, Sam.”
Her words took him by surprise. “Of course I don’t have to. I want to.”
“Why?”
No woman had ever asked him why. “Because you remind me of someone I used to know,” he said. Did she remind him of Hana? How was that possible? They looked nothing alike. Were nothing alike. Except that they were both alone and fearless and determined.
She shook her head, puzzled. “Whatever. I need to get my grandmother home. And I should call Ernest. He’s probably worried sick.”
“Is Ernest your boyfriend?” Sam felt oddly territorial toward her. He wanted to kill the schmuck for not coming with Ally into the park.
“No. He’s my doorman.”
Jealousy was replaced with something softer: recognition. “Forget Ernest and dance. Look at the skyline, how the buildings light up against the black treetops. It’s magical. They’re glittering.”
“Yeah, that’s what I’ll tell the cops after we’ve been mugged and they ask me why I brought my eighty-four-year-old grandmother in her diamonds into the park at midnight. Didn’t you see the lovely skyline, officers?”
Sam started to smile, but the woman who had been standing with the briefcases came over to them, one briefcase in either hand. “I’d love to dance with you,” she said to Sam. Then to Ally, “Do you mind watching these?”
Sam looked at Ally.
“Go. Dance,” she said.
Ally was left with the cases, while Sam bowed, then waltzed into the lamplight with the woman.
He was determined not to glance back, no matter how much he wondered how she felt about him waltzing with another woman.
Ally tried to inhale the warm night air. She tried to look at the twinkling skyline. She tried to not care that Sam was dancing with Briefcase Lady. But after what seemed like an eternity, she couldn’t take another moment. She picked up the cases, which were surprisingly heavy, and strode to her grandmother. She handed the man his case, somewhat roughly, then handed the woman dancing with Sam the other. “Grandma, we’re going home.”
“Oh, darling, are you tired? Me, too. It has been a long night!” Granny Donny had stopped dancing, but she still swayed to the music. Then she curtsied to her partner, to the violinist, and to the applauding crowd around them.
Sam and Ally walked her back to the Plaza.
“You need help getting upstairs?” Sam asked as they stood on the sidewalk, looking at the lit-up facade, its flags still in the night air.
“No. We’re fine,” Ally said.
“Of course she needs help. Come!” Granny Donny said, taking Sam’s arm.
“Really, no.” Ally stood her ground. “Thank you, Sam, for coming. I really appreciate your showing up like that. But we’re fine now.”
“Speak for yourself,” Granny Donny said, but she allowed herself to be disengaged from Sam.
“Well, good night, then,” Sam said.
“Good night,” Ally said. She pointed Granny Donny toward Ernest, who was holding the door open.
But Ally couldn’t help herself. Just before she went inside, she glanced back to see Sam still standing on the sidewalk, looking at her.
Her heart beat a wild flutter, and she thought, I should have danced with him. Regret filtered through her, but she kept moving. Soon the door closed behind her, and she was alone, again, with her grandmother.
But not quite as alone as before.
After all, Sam did have her cell number.
Which might have mattered, if only she hadn’t behaved like an insufferable stick-in-the-mud.
She reminded herself that she had been right, and he had been irresponsible and childish.
She reminded herself that he was everything she despised in a man.
She reminded herself that she never had to see him ever again.
And somehow, none of it helped a bit.
To live the life of a princess was to live the life of a woman in service to society.
—From The Dulcet Duke
Chapter 7
Over the next few days, the details of how Granny Donny had mentally arranged her new life in 1812 London revealed themselves one by one. The more Ally saw of her grandmother’s mach
inations, the more she could see the peculiar genius of Granny Donny’s sickness.
On Thursday afternoon, Ally came home from buying new traveling bags to find Granny Donny’s apartment a hive of activity.
“Darling! Meet Salvatore,” Granny Donny cooed. “The famous tailor. All the way from Italy.”
“Well, Little Italy,” Salvatore said. “Mott Street, actually.” Sal busied himself around the apartment as if he’d been there often, which, judging by the perfection of Granny Donny’s dresses, he must have been.
“Oh, don’t be silly. Compared to England, Italy is huge, not little.” Granny Donny waved him away dismissively. “And these are his two assistants, Marco and Lily!”
Salvatore and his crew had taken over the living room with a rack of period dresses, bolts of silks and satins, and a terrifying array of pins and needles. A tape measure was draped around Sal’s neck. He clapped at his assistants as they scurried about.
So this was how her grandmother got the clothes so right. Ally excused the home aide she had hired to watch over Granny Donny while she had been gone. She settled onto the couch and into the middle of the chaos of nineteenth-century aristocratic life.
“How many dresses do you need?” Ally asked her grandmother.
“At least five new country dresses. And then gowns for evening! Salvatore will take care of it all.”
“Final alterations will be ready by first thing Monday,” Salvatore said.
“Then we’re almost ready to go,” Ally said. She had just secured the last piece in the puzzle for going to Long Island, a full-time, live-in home aide for as many weeks as necessary. Mrs. McGill, a delightful Irish nurse, would meet them in Lewiston as soon as she was done with her current assignment.
It was a huge relief to find help. After the episode in the park, their trip had taken on a new urgency. In fact, she was beginning to wonder if Long Island might be a permanent move for her grandmother. Ally wanted her grandmother as far away from Manhattan and midnight violinists as possible.
How to Tame a Modern Rogue Page 5