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Authors: Nora Roberts
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world?”
Though she was as amazed as Emma, she laughed. “No. Only a small part of it. Come on then, let’s go out.”
The wind barreled over them, sending Emma’s skirts flying up as she staggered back. But the sensation excited rather than frightened as Bev, laughing again, plucked her up.
“We’re on top of the world, Emma.”
As they looked over the high wall, Emma felt her stomach do playful little leaps and bounces. It was all spread out below, the crisscross of streets in the canyons made by the buildings, the tiny cars and buses that looked like toys. Everything ran so straight and true.
When Bev put a coin in a box, she looked through the telescope, but she preferred her own view, through her own eyes.
“Can we live here?”
Bev fiddled with the telescope until she focused on the Statue of Liberty. “Here, in New York?”
“Here. On top.”
“No one lives here, Emma.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s a tourist attraction,” she answered absently. “And one of the wonders of the world, I think. You can’t live in a wonder.”
But Emma looked out over the high wall and thought that she could.
T HE TELEVISION STUDIO didn’t impress Emma. It didn’t look as pretty or as big as it did onscreen. The people were ordinary. She did like the cameras, though. They were big and bulky, and the people behind them seemed important. She wondered if looking through one of the cameras was like looking through the telescope on the Empire Sute Building.
Before she could ask Bev, a skinny man began talking in a loud voice. It was the oddest American accent she’d heard yet. She couldn’t understand half of what he said, but she caught the word “Devastation.” Then came the explosion of screams.
After the first shock, Emma stopped cringing into Bev’s skirts and leaned out. Though she didn’t understand the screaming, she realized it wasn’t a bad sound. It was a good, young noise that bulleted off the walls and slammed off the ceilings. It made her grin, though Bev’s hand trembled lightly in hers.
She liked the way her father moved across the stage, prancing and strutting as his voice, strong and clear, merged with Johnno’s, then Stevie’s. His hair glowed gold under the bright lights. She was a child, and easily recognized magic.
As long as she lived she would hold this picture in her mind, and her heart, of four young men standing onstage, drenched in light, in luck, and in music.
T HREE THOUSAND MILES away, Jane sat in her new flat. There was a pint of Gilbey’s and an ounce of Colombian Gold on the table beside her. She’d lit candles, dozens of them, using those and the drugs to mellow her mood. Brian’s clear tenor played on her stereo.
She’d moved into Chelsea with the money she’d taken from Brian. There were young people there, musicians and poets and artists, and the ones who followed them. She thought she would find another Brian in Chelsea. An idealist with a beautiful face and clever hands.
She could pop off to the pubs whenever she liked, listen to the music, pick out a likely companion for the night.
She had a six-room flat with shiny new furniture in every room. Her closets bulged with clothes from fashionable boutiques. On her finger was a fat diamond ring she’d bought the week before when she’d been feeling blue. She was already bored with it.
She had thought that one hundred thousand pounds was all the money in the world. She ran one hand down the silk robe she wore, pleased, very pleased with its sinuous feel. She’d soon discovered that large amounts were as easily spent as small ones. She still had enough to last her awhile, but it hadn’t taken long for her to realize she’d sold Emma cheap.
He’d have paid twice as much, she thought as she nursed her gin. More than twice, no matter how much the bastard Pete had frowned and muttered. Brian had wanted Emma. He had a soft spot for children. She’d known it, but, she thought in disgust, hadn’t been clever enough to
Though she was as amazed as Emma, she laughed. “No. Only a small part of it. Come on then, let’s go out.”
The wind barreled over them, sending Emma’s skirts flying up as she staggered back. But the sensation excited rather than frightened as Bev, laughing again, plucked her up.
“We’re on top of the world, Emma.”
As they looked over the high wall, Emma felt her stomach do playful little leaps and bounces. It was all spread out below, the crisscross of streets in the canyons made by the buildings, the tiny cars and buses that looked like toys. Everything ran so straight and true.
When Bev put a coin in a box, she looked through the telescope, but she preferred her own view, through her own eyes.
“Can we live here?”
Bev fiddled with the telescope until she focused on the Statue of Liberty. “Here, in New York?”
“Here. On top.”
“No one lives here, Emma.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s a tourist attraction,” she answered absently. “And one of the wonders of the world, I think. You can’t live in a wonder.”
But Emma looked out over the high wall and thought that she could.
T HE TELEVISION STUDIO didn’t impress Emma. It didn’t look as pretty or as big as it did onscreen. The people were ordinary. She did like the cameras, though. They were big and bulky, and the people behind them seemed important. She wondered if looking through one of the cameras was like looking through the telescope on the Empire Sute Building.
Before she could ask Bev, a skinny man began talking in a loud voice. It was the oddest American accent she’d heard yet. She couldn’t understand half of what he said, but she caught the word “Devastation.” Then came the explosion of screams.
After the first shock, Emma stopped cringing into Bev’s skirts and leaned out. Though she didn’t understand the screaming, she realized it wasn’t a bad sound. It was a good, young noise that bulleted off the walls and slammed off the ceilings. It made her grin, though Bev’s hand trembled lightly in hers.
She liked the way her father moved across the stage, prancing and strutting as his voice, strong and clear, merged with Johnno’s, then Stevie’s. His hair glowed gold under the bright lights. She was a child, and easily recognized magic.
As long as she lived she would hold this picture in her mind, and her heart, of four young men standing onstage, drenched in light, in luck, and in music.
T HREE THOUSAND MILES away, Jane sat in her new flat. There was a pint of Gilbey’s and an ounce of Colombian Gold on the table beside her. She’d lit candles, dozens of them, using those and the drugs to mellow her mood. Brian’s clear tenor played on her stereo.
She’d moved into Chelsea with the money she’d taken from Brian. There were young people there, musicians and poets and artists, and the ones who followed them. She thought she would find another Brian in Chelsea. An idealist with a beautiful face and clever hands.
She could pop off to the pubs whenever she liked, listen to the music, pick out a likely companion for the night.
She had a six-room flat with shiny new furniture in every room. Her closets bulged with clothes from fashionable boutiques. On her finger was a fat diamond ring she’d bought the week before when she’d been feeling blue. She was already bored with it.
She had thought that one hundred thousand pounds was all the money in the world. She ran one hand down the silk robe she wore, pleased, very pleased with its sinuous feel. She’d soon discovered that large amounts were as easily spent as small ones. She still had enough to last her awhile, but it hadn’t taken long for her to realize she’d sold Emma cheap.
He’d have paid twice as much, she thought as she nursed her gin. More than twice, no matter how much the bastard Pete had frowned and muttered. Brian had wanted Emma. He had a soft spot for children. She’d known it, but, she thought in disgust, hadn’t been clever enough to
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