The Bow Bridge was known as a romantic spot, but it was a long bridge, and he knew that even if there were couples there, he wouldn’t be crowding anyone out. The opposite side of the bridge led to the Ramble, a wilderness area that wasn’t the best place to visit after dark, so he wouldn’t be crossing over.
When he saw the Bow Bridge, he remembered that it wasn’t brightly lit at night, part of its allure for lovers. The full moon was covered by a gauzy mist, but the city lights ahead were gorgeous and the reflection on the water a masterpiece. It would have been a perfect night to bring Greta. He was about a third of the way onto the bridge when an older lady approached. Her silver hair fell to her shoulders, and she had a pretty peppy walk for someone who used a cane. “Oh,” she said, spotting the flowers in his hand. “Roses! How nice. Young love! There’s nothing like it. Someone is going to be very happy to get that bouquet.”
“Actually,” Dalton said, “I brought them to give to the first beautiful woman I saw tonight. These are for you.” He held them out, touched to see her free hand cover her heart.
She had a twinkle in her eye. “Are you teasing an old lady?”
“I would never do that. I would sincerely like you to have them.”
“Thank you.” She took them from his hand and clutched them to her front. “I can’t remember the last time a man gave me flowers. You can tell your mother she raised you well.”
“I certainly will.”
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
More people were in the park late on a Sunday night than Greta would have thought. Still, it was peaceful. Tranquility right in the heart of the city. She walked the path as it took twists and turns, passing a fountain along the way. It seemed to take forever, but she kept the faith, following the instructions on her phone and fighting the urge to turn back. Eventually, just when she’d wondered if she was hopelessly lost, she came to the bridge. She walked onto it and, when she reached the center, stopped to take it all in. On top of the railings on either side were planters filled with flowers. The sides of the bridge were made up of decorative circles. The water below rippled gently.
Dalton was right. It was a beautiful spot.
She got out her phone and took a few photos, posting them to Instagram for the benefit of her Wisconsin friends. She entered the location and wrote, I made it to Central Park! #fullmoon #Sundaynightfun #CentralPark #NYC #WisconsingirlinManhattan. And for her friend Jacey: #yolo. Within about five seconds, Jacey had left a comment: Lucky!
Greta stood on the bridge, aware of people around her, all of them careful not to crowd anyone else. Besides the couples in love, there was one old woman with a cane who walked past to the end of the bridge, then did an about-face and came back. Greta smiled at her, and she said, “Good evening.” People in New York were friendlier than she’d been led to believe.
Greta was still watching the old woman when she spotted Dalton striding onto the bridge. She felt a pulse of surprise, followed by the feeling of no surprise at all. Of course he was there. Somehow, even as she’d told herself she might never see him again, she’d been sure he would show up. Or maybe not sure but hoping, or perhaps she’d tried to wish it into happening, but regardless, here he was, striding onto the bridge, carrying a bunch of flowers. The whole world shifted on its axis, and everything was right again.
She walked his way, just in time to overhear the old woman admire the bouquet and Dalton say, “Actually, I brought them to give to the first beautiful woman I saw tonight. These are for you.”
She stopped in her tracks. She couldn’t see the old woman’s face, but she heard the wonder in her voice when she realized he wasn’t playing a cruel trick but really wanted her to have them. Such a kind thing to do. She said something about his mother raising him well, but Greta knew better. His mother probably did raise him well, but that wellspring of compassion came right from his soul. Dalton was a good man.
His back was to her now as he turned to watch the old woman leave the bridge, the flowers clutched to her front.
Greta knew this man. She’d danced with him, held his hand, sung a duet with him before an audience, and kissed his cheek. She’d yearned to get the chance to see him again, but now that she had the opportunity and he was only an arm’s length away, she was suddenly unsure. Should she tap him on the shoulder? Give him a hug? What if his presence here was merely a coincidence, and he was meeting someone else?
And then he went to rest his elbows on the railing, and he happened to see her out of the corner of his eye. He stood up and smiled in recognition. “Oh, thank God. It is you. For a minute, I thought I was imagining things.”
She didn’t say a word, just crossed the few feet between them and pulled his face down to hers and kissed him. The two of them together felt right. His hands slipped down to her waist, steadying her, and she rested a hand on his cheek.
He pulled back and gazed at her face. “Greta, I have so much to tell you. I know I’ve got a lot to explain.”
“Luckily,” she said, “we have plenty of time. You want to get a bite?”
He tipped his head to one side, considering. “I could eat.”
They walked off the bridge, hand in hand. She was officially happier than she ever remembered being, and that was saying a lot, because she’d had more than her share of happy moments. They walked along the path, their fingers intertwined. When they approached the fountain, they came upon the silver-haired lady, still holding on to the flowers. When she saw them, a grin came over her face. She pointed the bouquet in their direction and said, “Young love. There’s really nothing like it.”
And Greta had to agree.
AFTERWORD
This novel wouldn’t exist if not for a touch of insomnia and some late-night television. On the night in question, I was randomly channel flipping when I came across a film from 1936 called My Man Godfrey starring Carole Lombard and William Powell. In the movie, a socialite offers a bum named Godfrey five dollars to be her “forgotten man” for a scavenger hunt. Eventually, he is invited to be her wealthy family’s butler. Of course, there’s more to Godfrey than is initially thought, hilarity ensues, and the two fall in love. This type of movie was once known as a screwball comedy, so the humor was greatly exaggerated, but the dialogue was witty, and since I’m a fan of happy endings, I found it entertaining. There were some parts, though, that hadn’t aged all that well. As I watched it, I couldn’t help but wonder what a modern-day version would look like.
I went to bed and didn’t think any more of it, but my brain must have been working on it—a few months later, Good Man, Dalton came to me almost fully formed. Truthfully, it shares little with the movie that inspired it except for the idea of inviting a forgotten man to a high-society event.
And, of course, the happy ending.
I hope you enjoyed my story.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I’d like to start by thanking everyone at Lake Union Publishing, my home at Amazon Publishing. The team there is beyond compare. I regret that I don’t know all of your names (or I would certainly be acknowledging you here), but please know you are appreciated.
To Danielle Marshall, you are a rock star among editors, and so much fun to speak to on the phone that I often forget we’re talking serious business. Thank you for everything.
Jeff Belle, you should know that sometimes I take out my old contracts and marvel at your signature, happy to have a few from before the days of DocuSign. Having them in my possession makes me feel cool.
Gabriella Dumpit, I’m thankful that you’re always there for my questions and concerns. Your attention to detail and speedy follow-up do not go unnoticed.
A special shout-out to Nicole Pomeroy, who oversees the transformation of my pages from manuscript to book. Thanks for doing your magic!
A debt of gratitude to my copy editors and proofreaders: Valerie Kalfrin, Kellie Osborne, and Karin Silver. They are the unsung heroes of the publishing world and have saved me from myself more than once. I will claim any remain
ing errors as being wholly mine, as they were mine to begin with.
To Kay Bratt and Kate Danley, I’m glad to be included in the weekly check-in. You help keep me on track and provide wise counsel, which is no small thing, as you well know.
I hereby credit Charlie McQuestion as the inventor of Water Ball, which was mentioned in this story, and recognize Kevin Becker, Josh Carter, Aaron Fiscal, Dan Lynch, and (always a favorite) Zach Trecker, all of whom participated in said game on our driveway back in the day. Good times.
A thank-you to Dr. Nick and Meredith Chill, at whose wedding I heard the story of the Cool Kids’ Club. I appropriated the concept for the dinnertime conversation at the Forgotten Man Ball in this novel. I hope you don’t mind.
To the beta readers of this book—Kay Bratt, Kay Ehlers, Michelle San Juan, and Alice L. Kent—like Liam Neeson, you each have a particular set of skills, and for that, I am grateful. I owe you!
I’m lucky to have a family who offers me endless love and support. Many thanks to my beloved husband, Greg, who keeps me level; Charlie, who provides the humor; Rachel, the best daughter-in-law ever; Maria, who reliably laughs at my lame jokes; and Jack, who is a good sport about troubleshooting story endings with me. What would I do without all of you? I hope I never find out.
And to the readers—none of this would mean anything without you. I appreciate the messages, emails, and especially your valuable, thoughtful reviews. I’ll keep writing as long as you’ll keep reading. Thank you for giving me that privilege.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Photo © 2016 Greg McQuestion
The bestselling author of Hello Love, Karen McQuestion writes the books she would love to read—not only for adults but also for kids and teens. Her publishing story has been covered by the Wall Street Journal, Entertainment Weekly, and NPR. She lives with her family in Hartland, Wisconsin. To find out more about Karen and her books, follow her on Twitter @karenmcquestion) or visit www.KarenMcQuestion.com.
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