Her Winning Ways

by J. M. Bronston

  “What?”

  “Oh, you’re not fat, dear. Not at all. Not the least little bit. But be glad you’re not a stick. You’ve got a nice shape—like a real person. The models here, they can’t wear anything right off the rack. We need to take everything in to practically a minus zero size. Tailoring your things will be a snap. We’ll just be sure the seams drape at the right spot—at the point of the bone here,”—her finger touched Annie’s shoulder—“and the neckline here”—she traced an arc along Annie’s clavicle. “And it’s nice to fit a real bust for a change. You do have a real bust, dear. Be glad of that. We have girls who would kill for a real bust.” She took the dressmaker’s tape measure that hung round her neck and wound it around Annie’s chest. “Oh, God,” she said, “I haven’t measured a real bust in ages. Thank you, dear. You’ve made my day.”

  She took the Vera Wang from the hanger and slipped it over Annie’s head. The exquisite light wool floated down over Annie’s body like a gentle waterfall, and the mirror on the opposite wall showed her an Annie she’d never seen before. Sophisticated, elegant, graceful.

  Wow! I didn’t know a dress could do that!

  “This one’s perfect,” Dvorah said, taking a couple of pins from between her lips and sticking them into the pincushion strapped around her left wrist. “This one was made for you. It doesn’t need a thing. And that color is exquisite with your hair and your eyes. Just a tiny hint of seafoam in the weave. You’re going to live in this one.”

  Annie smiled at the thought.

  Oh, yeah. Just the thing for mucking the barn!

  But with a variety of accessories, it definitely would be a favorite for many occasions. “I do like it,” she said. “I can see that I’ll be wearing this one a lot.”

  And as they slipped it off, over her head, and the whisper-soft fabric brushed along her bare skin, so luxuriantly sensuous and comforting, she felt as though she couldn’t possibly be anything but perfect in this perfectly beautiful dress.

  Next it was the long tweed coat from Finland. She hadn’t realized, when she grabbed it from the rack, that she’d picked an excellent complement to the Vera Wang dress. Woven of yarns of gold and green and gray with a thin strand of maroon, it made a subtle frame for Annie’s hazel eyes.

  “Look,” said one of Dvorah’s helpers. She held up a large mirror to show Annie. “The color match couldn’t be better. Look what it does for your eyes. Brings out all the complexity of the hazel coloring—the green and gold and brown. And with your hair, corn-silk blond, with those nice lowlights, sort of caramel. No, not so dark, more like butterscotch. I love it!”

  Caramel? And butterscotch? Where had she heard that? Oh, yes. Bart had said—

  Her cell phone rang. She signaled one of the elves to retrieve it from her bag and it was handed up to her on her pedestal perch. While adjustments were being made to the set of the sleeves at the shoulders, she answered and heard Bart’s voice. Magic, as though her thought of him had summoned him by wi-fi.

  “Hey,” he said. “Are they finished nipping and tucking yet?”

  “I think it’ll be about another half hour.”

  “Great. Because I got the day off. Did a little wangling with Max and we swapped some days. Call me as soon as you’re done. I’ll pick you up downstairs. I’ve got everything planned. You’re going to see this city like no one gets to. Dress casual. See you soon.”

  He didn’t wait for her to say good-bye. She was holding a silent phone in her hand.

  “Well, that sounds like—”

  She was going to say “a great idea,” but realized she’d be talking into the air. She handed the phone back to the waiting elfette who dropped it into Annie’s bag.

  Dvorah was making chalk marks at the shoulder seams. “It needs a little more room here,” she said. “No problem. Plenty to work with. And I’m going to move this button—” She made another chalk mark. “It drapes perfectly down the back. You’re going to wear this for years.”

  After that it was quick work of the Chanel blazer (“It’s perfect—just a tiny tuck here at the side”) and the camel hair coat (“I don’t like these buttons. A little bigger, I think.”) followed by some rummaging in one of the notions drawers built into the wall (“there, that’s better, don’t you think?” as though Annie would have dared question Dvorah’s judgment), and then the parka, a simple design from Austria, with useful inner cuffs and a neat built-in gaiter at the throat. Nice and practical, Annie thought, with a fur-trimmed hood and inner closing under the zipper. And then she glimpsed the price tag and gulped.

  “Six thousand and eighty-three dollars!”

  She took a better look and realized not only was the parka extremely well made, but the fur trim on the hood was sable!

  “Well,” she said, “I guess at that price, it should include these accessories clips and the ski pass pocket.”

  Sable didn’t impress Dvorah at all; the outrageous prices were old hat to her. “But the hood is a bit too big at the back. We’ll just nip it in a bit, and it’s perfect.”

  The biker jacket was too broad across the back—that would be a major alteration, but the elves assured her that it—and all the rest—would be ready in time. And with kisses all around, she put high fashion behind her and hurried to the elevator, texting as she went:

  I’m done now. Meet me down in the lobby.

  Chapter Seventeen

  The Tour

  Wednesday Afternoon

  And there he was. Looking natty in jeans, chambray shirt, and lightweight summer blazer. And carrying two helmets.

  “First, I have to tell you—I’ve made some arrangements. I know your sister has been kind of neglected, what with you being the center of everyone’s attention. Which can’t be much fun for her. So here’s what I’m suggesting.” And he told her his plan for keeping Liz busy for the rest of the day and evening. He tried to look innocent, but she saw the mischief in his eyes and she had to laugh.

  “You sly dog,” she said. “Liz will see right through you. But if I’m willing, she will be, too. I know she’ll be glad of some attention just for her. Especially if she gets to see a Broadway show. I know she wanted to. It will be a treat for her.” She was already getting her phone out of her bag. “I’ll call and let her know.” When Liz answered her call, she said, “Listen, honey. The sergeant and his partner have a great surprise for you—” and she explained the plan. “And they’ll pick you up at the hotel at four o’clock. His partner is Max Wozinski and Max’s wife is Chloe. Chloe Watkins. Nice people. You’ll like them. And stay out as late as you like. No need to rush home.”

  She listened for a moment as Liz took it all in, then said “Bye bye. See you tonight. Love you,” and dropped the phone into her bag.

  “There. She loves the plan. She says thanks for arranging this. It’ll be fun and she’s looking forward to meeting Max and his wife.”

  She didn’t add that Liz had also whispered into the phone, “And don’t think I don’t know what you’re up to, honey. Just be careful, you hear me?”

  “So we’re all set,” Bart said as they crossed the lobby. “I’m your tour guide from here on. You have any questions, just ask.” They passed through the revolving doors and out onto the sunbaked street. “I left the bike parked uptown because I want your tour to start with the subway, so first we’ll ride up and get it.” He guided her up the street toward the corner.

  “The subway? You’re sure it’s safe?” There were, after all, all those stories she’d heard.

  Bart beamed at her. He put an arm around her shoulder, a reassuring gesture.

  “Of course it’s safe. And you’re with me. I wouldn’t let anything bad happen to you.”

  And then, at the subway entrance, he stopped her.

  “But first, before we go down there,” he said, “there’s something I want to take care of.”

  And right there, with crowds hurrying around them, Bart broke the first law of street etiquette: he blocked the flow of the s
urrounding pedestrians, getting in their way, becoming a roadblock in the stream of people in and out of the subway entrance.

  “We got interrupted last night,” he said quietly, “and we left something unfinished.”

  And before she could say anything, on a teeming city sidewalk in the middle of Times Square, with hurrying crowds and the city’s racket swirling around them, he turned her to face him. He slipped his hand down her back and drew her close to him.

  His kiss was casual and familiar, as though they’d been kissing like this for years, like a husband saying, “Hi, honey. I’m home.”

  And Annie, totally surprised, didn’t know or care that passersby were glancing at them, some of them irritated and others smiling, as they hurried on.

  He absolutely takes my breath away.

  Bart stepped back, holding her at arm’s length, and his smile said he knew he’d surprised her and that he’d meant to.

  “Now let’s take that tour, Annie. You’re going to have a good look at my city.”

  And so they joined the stream of people flowing down into the underground labyrinth that is the Times Square subway station.

  And in that great rushing mass of humanity, who would have paid attention to the little cluster of three furtive-looking types who had been keeping pace with them, always at a careful distance behind them, three men, unobtrusive, unremarkable, quite unnoticeable in the diverse and utterly ordinary throng of subway riders? Three men who, being unfamiliar with the subway system, didn’t know about Metrocards, got themselves tangled up at the turnstiles, and with much confusion and blaming of each other, watched helplessly as Annie and Bart disappeared down another level where the arriving train opened its doors, took them in, and carried them, all unaware, far away from their baffled stalkers.

  Midday on the subway and every seat was taken. Annie wasn’t accustomed to the train’s motion, rocking erratically, clattering along at what felt like a dangerous speed, and she was unsteady on her feet and clung hard to the metal pole she shared with three other riders. She also wasn’t accustomed to the bodies of so many strangers so close around her. So intimately close, and yet each person seemed to be surrounded by a zone of privacy that protected them from intrusion.

  How do they do it? How do they keep themselves so separate from each other? Like a school of fish. Without getting in each other’s way.

  And the racket. You could yell at full decibel level in here and still not be heard.

  On the seat in front of her was a woman with a little boy next to her. The child was sleeping, snuggled up to his mommy.

  How can he sleep, with all this noise?

  Farther down the car, she saw another sleeping child, this one a baby in a stroller. A stroller, somehow making room for itself in the midst of the press of people. No one caring at all.

  I guess they grow up with so much noise around them, so much stimulation, it becomes ordinary.

  The train lurched and she was jostled up against Bart. He smiled at her as she clutched at his arm. She smiled back, a little embarrassed.

  “You’ll get used to it,” he said.

  She looked around her and knew he was right. Though she was very much aware that she was hurtling along at high speed, underground, inside the bedrock of a great city, along with hundreds of others, none of those others seemed the least bit impressed by the enormity of what they were doing. She took a good look at her fellow travelers. Most were occupied in some way, some attached by wires to a device, listening to music, or playing a game on their smart phones, or reading a book or a folded-up newspaper. Two kids, heads bent together over their books, busy with their pencils, were doing their homework. A few riders were just resting, alone with their thoughts, staring empty-eyed into space. Here and there, a man or a woman asleep, catching a few zzz’s on the way home or on to their next activity of the day.

  And the diversity! From all over the world, there seemed to be representatives here in this one subway car, of every color of skin, every style of dress, including hijabs and saris, Sikh turbans and African headwraps, and—from the newspapers she could see—every language. A veritable United Nations, right around her. And no one was paying the least bit of attention to anyone else. Back home, people would be staring. Here, no one was even interested.

  No wonder Bart wanted her to see this. These few minutes on the subway were worth hours of lectures.

  And it was only minutes, fifteen, perhaps, and they were in Harlem.

  “This is our stop,” Bart said. Along with the multitude, they left the subway and came out onto a wide, sun-filled boulevard, where his bike was parked at the corner, waiting for them.

  And they were off, slipping through the buses, the taxis and trucks, the autos, making a big turn onto 125th Street, riding past the Apollo Theatre—yes, that Apollo Theatre!—on to a zigzag tour through Harlem, with a stop for lunch on Lenox Avenue, enjoying the early afternoon sunlight outside at a landmark restaurant where she burned her tongue on hot “wild” chicken wings and soothed it with cornbread and a bowl of the best New England – style chowder she’d ever eaten. From there it was back on the bike and uptown to the Dyckman House (“This is a farmhouse, the oldest one still in Manhattan—a museum now,” Bart explained), then downtown to the 79th Street marina, where people really live on their houseboats. Then over to the East River, a slow pass around Gracie Mansion (“Our mayor lives here”) and finally down the FDR Drive toward the Financial District.

  By then, she must have racked up a hundred pics on her cell phone.

  “I want you to see this,” Bart said, parking the bike and taking off his helmet. “There’s a spot here where you can almost feel the beginnings of this city, where the streets must have been just dirt paths. And look at what’s grown up on those dirt paths.” They stood at an intersection where narrow streets twisted away from them, seemingly at random, unlike the regular grid of the streets farther uptown. On these very narrow, very irregular streets, enormous skyscraper office buildings rose into the perfectly clear blue sky, packed so tightly together, so towering, they seemed ready to fall around them.

  His arm was around her and his face was turned up toward the soaring buildings, and she felt his pleasure in showing this all to her, like a kid sharing his treasured secrets with a very special new friend.

  “I understand what you mean,” she said, seeing the winding, narrow streets connecting and curving away from her. “Here’s the financial center of the world grown up on top of these very streets that were once farm roads and dirt paths. It’s like a time-lapse film happening right in front of your eyes.”

  “Right!” he said. “That’s it, exactly. See how they didn’t even straighten out the streets, or make them wider. Just let this financial giant of a city grow up right on top of those dirt paths. I always get a kick out of standing here, thinking about those centuries, and imagining cows and Dutch farmers walking around me and I want to go up to them and whisper in their ears, ‘Look! Look what’s coming! Look what you’re starting here.’ Behind all those windows, in all those buildings, thousands of people are churning out the deals and the plans and the schemes that make this world go round.”

  His pride in being a citizen of the very center of the universe and his pleasure in showing it to her were evident. Annie hadn’t the heart to remind him there was a wide and very effective world functioning well beyond the city limits.

  But some day, if I get to know him better—

  “It’s only three thirty.” Bart was checking his watch. “We’re going across the bridge now. You haven’t seen New York if you haven’t seen Brooklyn. And I want to show you where I grew up.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Across the Bridge

  Wednesday Afternoon

  It was a quiet street, with a row of comfortable-looking clapboard houses, each set back from the street, each behind its own low iron railing. At the corner, a small grocery store. Across the street, a school, the kids leaving in little clusters, their aft
er-school chatter a hum of buzzing anticipation at the approach of the summer holiday.

  Bart pulled up in front of a house about midway down the street.

  “Here we are. This is it. Where I grew up. And that—” he pointed across the street “—is the school I went to. Till middle school, a couple of blocks from here.”

  “Is this your home now?” She recognized it from the picture on his desk.

  “You mean ‘do I live with my mother?’” He laughed. “No, Annie. I have a place in town. Near the stables. But I lived in this house all my life till I joined the force.”

  “It looks like a nice house. And I see someone’s got a green thumb.”

  She pointed at the shrubbery planted inside the iron railing and along the little walk that led up to the front steps of the house. Lilac bushes were flowering along the narrow driveway by the side of the house that led to a garage at the back, and there were roses growing along the front of the porch.

  “That’s my mom’s doing. She’s good at keeping things green.” He took off his helmet and helped Annie off the bike. “Maybe she’s home now. Would you like to meet her?”

  “Meet your mother?”

  That was a surprise. And yet he had said it so casually, so naturally, she had to read no meaning into the suggestion.

  “Well, sure. I’d love to. But she’s not expecting us, is she?”

  “Oh, that’s all right. She won’t mind. Come on.” He held out a hand. “I’ll take the helmet, so you can fix your hair.”

  She handed it to him, surprised—and pleased—to see that he understood about helmet hair. A quick fluff with her fingertips and she was ready.

  “I really like your hair,” Bart said. He reached out a hand and stroked a stray strand back from her face.

  No one had ever said nice things about her hair before and she mentally thanked Louis for the color, Damien for the cut—and New York for its humidity.

  They went up four steps to the front porch on which, at the far end, were a couple of slat-backed wooden rockers and between them a small wicker-topped table. There was a mailbox nailed up next to the front door, and a couple of big tubs at either end of the porch filled with more flowering plants, and the cinnamon-and-yeast smell of something good in the oven coming from the interior of the house. While Bart stopped to get his key ring from his pocket—and to riffle through the mail he took from the mailbox—Annie had a moment to imagine sitting in those rockers, greeting neighbors, keeping an eye on the kids at the school, enjoying an afternoon breather. This homey setting was a long way from the rush of the Manhattan streets and she filed it away in her collection of memories to take back home with her. She was glad Bart had given her a chance to see it.