Her Winning Ways by J.M. Bronston (3)

 

The plane banked left, and the island of Manhattan swam into view thousands of feet below. The throbbing vibration of the big jet engines matched the excited thump-thump of Annie’s heart as the plane made its descent. She turned and poked at her sister, sound asleep next to her.

“Honestly, Liz. How can you sleep at a time like this?”

“Huh?” Liz looked around blearily, blinking, straightening up in her seat. “Where are we?”

“New York, Liz! It’s New York! We’ll be landing soon.”

“I’m completely fuzzy.” Liz dragged a hand through her hair.

“It must be the Dramamine you took. You conked out somewhere over Kansas. I haven’t seen you sleep like that since we were kids. Your mouth was open.”

“Well, thanks a bunch.” Liz made a face at her little sister. She rummaged around in her bag, looking for a comb and a lipstick. “You could have poked me or something. Anyway, I wasn’t really asleep.”

“I did poke you. You were snoring.”

“I was not. And so what if I was. Better that than being awake and scared. Thirty thousand feet up in the sky makes no sense to me. I prefer ground beneath my feet, like on the ranch.” She’d found her mirror and was checking the damage. “Omigod! I look a mess!”

“No you don’t. You look fine. Just fine. No one in New York will ever know you’re an old lady of thirty-three with two kids, good Wyoming dirt under your fingernails, and a couple of hundred head of cattle waiting for you to get back home.”

“There ain’t no dirt under my nails, ma’am.” Liz put on a heavy cowhand drawl, holding up a perfectly serviceable hand in front of her sister’s face. “And anyway, no one’s going to be looking at me. You’re the star of this trip and all the cameras will be on you. And what they’ll see is the luckiest college librarian in all Wyoming. No,” she corrected herself, “in the whole world.” Liz finished repairing her makeup and dropped her lipstick into her bag. “And the giddiest. I swear, Annie, you’ve been revved up like a cowboy on Friday night. It’s a good thing I came along. You’re going to need someone to keep an eye on you, see you don’t get into trouble.”

Annie didn’t answer her sister. She just turned her head back to the window, rested her forehead against the small glass panel and silently watched the buildings below grow bigger and the cars and taxis and trucks get closer as the plane descended over a dizzying network of highways. Soon the ground was rushing up at them. They’d be touching down in a moment and Liz’s words were echoing in her head.

There was a skiddy sort of screechy bump and then a head-filling, chest-whumping roar as the plane’s brakes took hold and brought the big jet to a deafening stop. The flight attendant’s voice told them to remain seated until they reached the gate. Passengers pulled out their cell phones, business as usual being quickly resumed. Annie was impatient to unbuckle her seat belt, so eager to get going.

Sailing along again, on the flow of her daydreams.

 

Lady Fair’s rep was waiting for them at the baggage carousel. She was an astonishingly young woman and New York chic in stiletto pumps and slim skirt, with a clipboard clutched to her bosom. Her brown-and-ash-streaked hair was caught up in an untidy twist at the back of her head, from which flyaway strands escaped engagingly, and the scent of something expensive floated around her. Young as she was, she already had a well-practiced smile and a crackling enthusiasm.

“I’m Soraya Abbandando-Steinberg,” she said. “I’m here to welcome you on behalf of Lady Fair and Galliard’s International. Call me Mitzi.” She waved a busy hand at them as though it held a magic wand. “Love your outfit.”

Annie glanced down at her jeans and leather jacket.

Just ordinary clothes, comfortable for traveling. The soft leather jacket, made from the hide of a deer her grandpa shot years ago. And her everyday boots and jeans and the big silver buckle—her good luck buckle—that she’d won in high school in a local barrel race. How had they been suddenly promoted to an “outfit”?

But Mitzi was rushing on at warp speed before Annie could get out a word.

“We’re just so terrifically thrilled to welcome you to New York.” Mitzi gathered them up as though they were runaway chicks. “All of us at Lady Fair. Good flight, I hope. Weather’s been terrific, thank God. New York’s so great this time of the year. I have a car waiting for you outside. Give me your claim tickets.” She gestured at an assistant hovering a few steps behind her. “Lester will pick up your baggage for you.” And she was off in a rush toward the exit, with the two sisters hopping to keep up with her.

 

The terminal doors opened for them and they were out into an alarming crush of traffic that twisted with what seemed to be a hair-raising, split-second timing through a tangle of roadways. Liz was still groggy from the Dramamine and bewildered by the racket around her. But Annie instantly fell in love with the dizzying frenzy. It was everything she wanted it to be. It took her breath away. More cabs than she’d ever imagined, they performed an urban gavotte as passengers peeled off into the arriving stream, drivers hauled suitcases into the cabs’ trunks, and away they went, replaced immediately by the next arriving cab, the next waiting passenger. The mass of cars and buses and vans and sleek black town cars, the skycaps wheeling carts of luggage, the blur of multihued, multinational images, the unimaginable variety of costumes and languages, the noise and flash and international variety—like countless others newly arrived in the big city, Annie felt a rush of energy, an intense focus of her attention, a delicious sense of her whole system shifting up into a new gear.

Her adventure was on its way!

At the hotel, Mitzi breezed ahead of them through the living room of their suite, being sure they noted the courtesy bucket of Champagne, the iced dish of caviar, the flowers, the enormous cellophane-wrapped basket of fruit (all provided by Lady Fair, of course), the view from the tall windows, the East River sparkling up at them from forty-four floors below. She showed them the two bedrooms, one for Annie and one for Liz, and next to each bed, a silver plate of chocolates. On Annie’s pillow were a congratulatory greeting from the hotel management next to a Lady Fair packet of papers, welcoming the prize-winner to New York and laying out her schedule, beginning with a reception that very evening at The Green Parrot, a meeting with Lady Fair staff in the morning, to be followed by makeup and hair and photos. On Tuesday the ribbon-cutting ceremony, and then—and then!—the actual sweep through the store to gather up fashion goodies worth $50,000! With Lady Fair staffers to follow her everywhere to record everything and TV cameras to bring it all to local viewers, followed by three days of events, including a tour of the city, an evening at the theater—and even some time for them to explore on their own.

But Annie could hardly pay attention as Mitzi explained the details.

How could she? Exciting noises were coming up from the street, forty-four floors below, construction noises—jack-hammers clattering—and an impatient blare of horns honking at a stalled car, the siren of an emergency vehicle wailing down a nearby avenue as it crawled helplessly through the jammed-up traffic, the heavy-duty engines of buses and trucks, growling loudly through their gears as they started and stopped and started again. It seemed to Annie like an urban symphony, orchestrated just for her, a melody as natural to this place as were the familiar cricket sounds of her Wyoming nighttimes.

It was hard to be patient with Mitzi’s high-energy chatter when all of New York was waiting for her.

Fortunately, Mitzi had arrived at the end of her spiel.

“So that’s it, ladies,” she said as she made some check marks on her clipboard and put her BlackBerry away. “The reception tonight is at five thirty so I’ll have the car service here at five. And I’m back again in the morning at nine fifteen to take you to Lady Fair.” She was already on her way to the door. “See you gals tonight. Till then, take a rest. Room service will bring you whatever you want. Call me if you have any problems. Have fun. Ciao!”

She placed her card on the table near the door and, with another airy wave of her hand, she was gone.

 

“Will you look at this place?” Annie was doing a quick tour, room to room. “I think they’ve given us the royal suite.”

“Talk about royal. Come in here, Annie. You have to see this bathroom.”

The word “bathroom” was too mundane for the peach-and-cream fantasy of baroque opulence in which Annie joined her sister. Imagine a bathroom with a full-sized gas log fireplace! Imagine filmy pale curtains drawn back to reveal a marble tub set flush into the floor, with a broad ledge all around on which a full supply of bath accessories, lotions, soaps, salts, and creams were arrayed. Imagine a small side table holding a cut crystal vase containing a bouquet of fresh hothouse flowers, and above the room’s center a chandelier of brass and crystal with teardrop prisms and bulbs designed to flicker like candlelight. A long counter with two basins set into it ran the length of one wall, and mounted on the wall’s length was an enormous mirror framed in ornate gilt and rosewood.

Annie stood behind her sister, and together, wide-eyed and silent, they looked back at their reflections in the beautiful mirror. Two young women, recognizably related, both with fine, naturally blond hair, past shoulder length and worn always in simple styles—today, loose and center parted—and bright hazel eyes (Annie’s a little larger, with darker lashes and set a trifle deeper), and healthy complexions (Liz’s a shade more tan, the result of ranch work outdoors each day). But Liz, who was older by seven years, was noticeably more mature, for marriage and motherhood had made their changes.

Annie, on the other hand, had about her a gloss of young innocence, a simple eagerness for life to unfold its special demands, its twists and its surprises. There was something almost angelic about Annie’s face, something so open and sweet and straightforward that a stranger would be surprised to discover what those close to her all knew: Annie Cornell had the strong backbone of her pioneer ancestors. She could be stubborn as a mule once she’d set a course, and there’d be no use trying to make her change. But her stubbornness combined with a strong intelligence, and together these two had worked well for her—together with an unreasonable amount of good luck. Her reflection in the mirror smiled at her. It was the good luck that had brought her to this once-in-a-lifetime fantasy. It was certainly her intelligence that told her how very lucky she was. And she would rely on her stubbornness to not let anything spoil a moment of this great adventure.

She felt bubbly, as though she’d been filled with soda pop, as though the whole wide world was just waiting for her to explore its delights, and nothing in the whole wide world could possibly go wrong.

“And look at my hair,” she said. She fluffed at it happily. “It must be the humidity. “Sudden body! It’s wonderful. Oh, I just love New York. I can’t wait to get outside.”

“Not me,” Liz said. “I’m really tired. I just want to take a long, relaxing bath in that fabulous tub, with all these mirrors and the bubble lotion. Watch a little TV. Maybe take a nap.”

“Good idea,” Annie said. She went into her bedroom. “In the meantime, I’m going to change out of these clothes and go take a little walk. I want to see the neighborhood.” She’d already shed the jacket and was unbuckling her belt.

“Don’t you go getting yourself into any trouble,” Liz called to her. “You hear me, Annie!”

“You’re being bossy again, big sister.” Annie pulled off her boots, stepped out of her jeans and tossed her shirt onto the bed.

“Well, someone has to keep an eye on you. The city can be dangerous, and you’re a stranger here.”

“Oh, I’ll be fine.” She pulled a little sundress out of her suitcase and slipped it on. “It’s broad daylight, I won’t go far, and I didn’t come all this way just to sit in a hotel room.” She stepped into her sandals, grabbed her bag, and headed down the carpeted hallway. “What could happen in the middle of the afternoon? Honestly, Liz!”

Liz called after her. “You just be careful, Annie. I mean it. I don’t want you getting into any trouble. Are you listening to me?”

“Sure. Sure,” Annie murmured as she rang for the elevator. “I won’t get into any trouble.”

As she dropped breathlessly down forty-four floors, she checked out her reflection in the mirrored wall of the elevator and smiled approvingly. She flipped her fingers through her hair and decided that New York was already being kind to her. Nothing bad could happen to her here.

She adjusted the strap of the white straw bag on her shoulder.

There had been warnings galore from all her Wyoming well-wishers about the dangers of the city streets.

Keep your eyes open, they’d said. But don’t make eye contact with anyone. Remember, anything left untended is a donation to the public. Be careful of the traffic. If anyone tries to steal your money, let them.

She laughed at all the warnings, made one last quick inspection in the mirror and gave an approving nod to the summery look of her cotton dress. Even her hair—usually a palest shade of blond—had turned platinum under the elevator’s bright, overhead lighting. She liked how she looked.

The elevator arrived at the lobby floor. She winked brightly at her reflection and stepped out. In a moment, she had crossed the busy lobby and was out on the street.

 

Like any good tourist, Annie’s gaze was turned upward as she walked through the tall canyons of glass and steel skyscrapers that glinted in the afternoon sun. With one hand shading her eyes against the glare, her attention was focused skyward. Maybe that’s why she didn’t notice what was happening right around her until she turned a corner and someone tromped on her sandaled foot—hard!

“Hey! Watch it!” she yelped. “That’s my foot!”

She was hopping about, rubbing the offended toe while glaring at the back of a big, lumbering fellow who had pushed her out of his way. But he’d already hurried on to join a crowd that was forming down the street. Even as she stood there, awkwardly poised on one foot, she was bumped again and she practically fell on her face. Her attention came down quickly from the skies above and focused on the events around her.

“What’s going on?” she asked aloud.

She got no answer. No one was listening to her. She’d been overtaken by a throng of noisy, hurrying men, all chattering and gesticulating. They streamed around her, sweeping her along in their momentum. They were all dressed alike, in plain dark pants and white shirts, open collars, the sleeves rolled up. And each man wore an unusual cap made of some stiff black fabric, embroidered in a complex design of bright colors, and adorned on the right side with a kind of cockade made of small red-and-white feathers. In the midst of the confusion, Annie caught sight of the crudely hand-lettered banners and signs they carried. “Independence Now For Buljornia!” and “Free Buljornia Now!”

Buljornia? The name was new to her. What—or who—was Buljornia?

Even as she struggled to place the name, she was being carried down the broad avenue by the obstreperous crowd. Like a leaf twisting in the flow of a mountain stream, she was caught in the current that swirled her about in tiny eddies of excited, noisy demonstrators. Every now and then they would give her a momentary spin before dragging her farther along their course.

“You big gorillas! Watch out!”

That did her no good. The growing mob pushed and pulled her, and she was struggling—while dutifully remembering that she was supposed to hang on to her handbag and avoid making eye contact—to stay upright on her own feet. In a growing confusion, she was swept across Forty-fifth Street, past the United Nations building and its long array of national flags flying in the breeze. She caught a glimpse at the corner of a small booth marked “Police,” and just beyond, the United States Mission to the United Nations. A miniature park, bright with fenced-off patches of greenery and flowers nestled up against a tall, ivy-covered wall and at its center, a tall monument rose up. It was in this tiny bit of green that the crowd was gathering, clumping together into a tight mass. The men filled the little park and climbed around the monument, exhorting the world to free Buljornia, and holding their banners high for the benefit of the television trucks that were positioned nearby to cover the event for the local evening news.

Emotion was boiling up in the dense little crowd and panic was beginning to shiver up Annie’s spine; she could feel the chill down her arms. Her pulse was racing, she was confused, and she was hanging on to that handbag as though it were her only link back to a familiar world.

Her disorientation was intensified by the growing hysteria of the demonstrators and the increasing menace in their tone.

Men were spilling out around the edges of the park, and Annie was an island in the center of a bubbling mass of waving arms and clenched fists.

She looked frantically up the broad avenue, desperate for a safe way out. The city traffic continued to fly by as though nothing unusual were happening, and there were no openings between the stream of cars and taxis to let her slip through. Burly men pressed up against her, their chests and shoulders shoved at her, their fists thrust beyond her at the cameras, as they kept shouting their steady chant.

“Freedom for Buljornia!”

The crowd surged out into the street, carrying her along in its shoving, yelling mass. A fat face, glistening with sweat and excitement, breathed unfamiliar spices at her.

“Free Buljornia now!”

Their tone was growing more fierce. This was definitely not the adventure she wanted.

Suddenly, behind her, a single voice resounded over the heads of the mob, a calm voice, masculine, firm, and full of authority.

“All right, everyone. Let’s just back it up there.” Steady and clear above the racket. “Everyone back from the curb. We don’t want anyone getting hurt.”

Annie turned and looked up into the bluest eyes she’d ever seen. A bit of sandy-colored hair curled out from under a light blue helmet—the helmet of a New York City mounted policeman. He was astride a beautiful, powerful, big quarter horse. As he wheeled the animal into position, Annie, pressed up close to the horse’s side, caught a glimpse of blue riding pants with a yellow stripe, the Glock holstered at the rider’s belt, and knee-high, close-fitting riding boots. Without spurs. He directed the troop of mounted police into crowd-control positions along the curb, and Annie, who knew a thing or two about quarter horses, had a nano-moment to admire the New York police horse at work: steady, unflappable, efficient—and very good looking. But it was only a moment caught in the midst of her panic. The crowd surged forward, pressing her helplessly still tighter against the big bay’s chest and she felt her feet sliding out from under her. She grabbed, instinctively, for the horse’s bridle near her head. The horse braced, giving her something to hold on to and for a moment, pressed against his shoulder, she was glad of the familiar smell of horseflesh and leather as she began to fall.

“Easy there, ma’am.” The deep, steady voice stroked down toward her and she felt a strong arm reach around her waist, holding her firmly upright. “Let’s get you out of here.”

The rider, leaning way forward in the saddle, held Annie solidly in his encircling arm and lifted her right up off her feet, out of the clutch of protesters, holding her tight up against the animal’s body, turning her breathless. He turned his horse away from the crowd, clearing a path for her toward the barricades the patrolmen were setting up in the street. When, at last, her feet touched the ground, her breath came back, and she was about to wave a thank-you up at him.

“Omigod! I’ve lost my bag!”

Annie clutched at her bare shoulder, looking back helplessly at the melee of flailing arms and shouting, angry faces where the demonstrators were being squeezed back into the little park by the police horses. “Somewhere in there—” She pointed frantically at the ground beneath a hundred milling feet.

“Can’t help you now, ma’am.” He turned his mount back toward the crowd. “You’d best get away from here.” He called over his shoulder as he went back to work. “If we find it, you can pick it up at headquarters, Troop B.”

For a few entranced moments, Annie stood alone in the space he’d cleared and watched man and horse work together, a perfectly coordinated team. And she whispered to herself, her words lost in the demonstrators’ noise.

Bemused, she turned and headed back to the hotel.

 

And behind her, as his horse blocked the crowd’s surge forward, Sergeant Bart Hardin turned in his saddle for one brief moment to watch the slim figure in the little flowery sundress as she disappeared up the street.