Dina Santorelli Read Online Free

beat—but Jamie had none of those things awaiting her and nothing else
planned for the day. For the first time in a long time, she was feeling
untethered, which was a strange and unusual feeling for a thirty-two-year-old
woman who had spent practically all her life as someone's girl —a
mother's daughter, a brother's sister, a husband's wife. She looked again at
the magazine in her hands:

    NEVER LOOK BACK.

    Across
the street, a hot-dog vendor catered to a long line of patrons, and, on a whim,
Jamie got on the back of the line, deciding to forgo the egg salad and the
comforts of routine. "One with mustard and sauerkraut and a water, please," she
said when it was her turn in line. The vendor never looked up as his hands
flipped metal covers open and shut and his hands slid the dog into its bun.
Years from now, Jamie imagined that she would remember this hot dog as
emblematic of the beginning of a new life path, how she had chosen the hot dog
of tomorrow rather than the egg salad of yesterday. She paid him and made her
way toward Bryant Park.
    It
was hard to believe that Bryant Park, with its lovely gardens and European-flavored
promenades, had seen its share of ill repute over the years. Back in the days
of disco and graffiti-ridden subway cars, the park was an eyesore, a mainstay
of muggers and drug lords, and was avoided by savvy New Yorkers. However, since
that time, it had been transformed into a Manhattan oasis of lush greenery,
while still retaining its "city park" feel with a spattering of historical monuments
and urban amenities. In 1994, Bryant Park became the locale for Fashion Week,
the semiannual fete in which clothing designers premiered their latest
collections in invitation-only runway shows, but Jamie was glad when the event
moved uptown to Lincoln Center a few years ago—the sudden intrusion of
celebrity, hidden beneath a series of large white tents, made the park look to
her as if it had sprung a glitzy fungal infection.
    Jamie
searched the grass for a chair, but the quest was formidable. Not quite 2:00 p.m., the lunchtime masses had descended upon this tiny patch of green hidden within Manhattan's vast concrete and steel landscape. Men, clad in business suits just ten
minutes prior, were now stretched out on the grass—jackets off, ties loosened,
and shoes and socks placed neatly beside them. Women of all shapes and sizes
were baring midriffs and painted toes.
    Jamie
navigated the grounds, asking sheepishly, "Is this seat taken?," but to no
avail. Manhattanites could be territorial about their seating, hurling unwanted
jackets, pocketbooks, and brown paper bags on chairs that, if not in use now,
must be available to hold their elevated feet at a moment's notice. Oprah
would never approve , she thought with a smile.
    A
couple was sitting at a table near the park's entrance, where there was an
extra, empty chair beside them, but the gentleman pulled the seat closer to him
when he noticed Jamie and leaned his forearm across its top. In the distance
she spotted a bench that appeared vacant just off the grass. She quickly made
her way across the park, balancing her lunch on the magazine on top of her
portfolio. When she got there, she realized that one of the legs was broken,
making the bench wobbly, which explained its availability. She decided to sit
down anyway, careful not to lean back too much and to keep most of her weight
on her left side.
    It
wasn't until her bottom had touched the cool metal of the seat that she
realized how nice it was to sit down. When the full-time employment in Manhattan had stopped, so had the walking, since driving was pretty much the only way to
get around in the suburbs, and she found that the tiniest aerobic exercise
exhausted her. She unfolded the aluminum foil from around her hot dog and
unscrewed the cap from her water, careful to place her pocketbook on the foil,
so it would not go flying into the breeze, and keeping her arm looped through
its straps while she