Thirty-seven

With Madame stressing urgency, I wasn’t about to waste time with rideshare detours and multiple stops. After locking up the shop, I raced to the street, threw my arm in the air, and bellowed—

“Taxi!”

Diving into the back of the first cab that stopped, I declared my destination, promising a generous tip for speed. Then I sat back to catch my breath and watch the quiet city race by. Of course, “quiet” was a relative term in New York. Blaring horns and meandering mobs were reduced at this late hour, but never completely eliminated, and the howl of some siren somewhere was ever-present.

After rolling up Hudson, veering onto Eighth Avenue, and stalling at an accident scene, my driver shot east and headed north on Sixth. Moving uptown, the buildings rose in height and retreated in age. As the structures grew higher, so did my anxiety level—

What possible catastrophe could strike a literary awards dinner at a posh hotel? And why would Madame believe I could resolve it?

A coffee emergency?

Under-extracted espresso was a crime in my book, but I couldn’t imagine bad coffee being a major concern to a gathering of literary lights.

As we blew by Macy’s flagship store, prewar granite and brick gave way to cloud-kissing skyscrapers of glass and steel, and I decided that, whatever the problem, if my mentor needed me, I wasn’t about to let her down. That thought lifted my confidence again, even if I looked a fright with the stained shop apron under my coat, thick-soled kitchen shoes, and ratty hair.

When traffic slowed in front of the neon lights of Radio City, I re-scraped my espresso brown locks into a tightly bound ponytail, applied the lip gloss I found in my coat pocket, and felt better. Eventually, we made our way to Fifth, veered toward the curb of the Grande Maison, and my heart started pounding again.

The restored Beaux-Arts façade of this majestic building always wowed me. Once upon a time, this place was a robber baron’s sprawling manor, gracefully situated across from the sculpted serenity of Central Park. Then, sometime in the 1930s, after the owner’s vast fortune went down with the crashing market, the great home was sold and eventually expanded and transformed into this grand hotel. Bathed in a golden glow, it practically illuminated the entire block. But tonight, the wide marble stairs, gilded entranceway, and valets in their crisp uniforms couldn’t outshine the celebrity authors I spotted out front.

There was the great Stephen King, in evening clothes and bright white Nikes, talking with the extraordinary Alice Walker, fittingly dressed in the color purple. Mega bestseller John Grisham, quite the distinguished legal eagle in navy blue, was conversing with the incomparable Margaret Atwood, resplendent in Handmaid’s Tale red. And George R. R. Martin, dressed like a gray-bearded version of Johnny Cash’s Man in Black, was laughing with Lin-Manuel Miranda, handsomely clad in a Hamilton-style tailcoat. Other attendees in formal garb were also wandering about, waiting for limos or valet-fetched cars.

In a fangirl moment—after paying my cabbie and bailing onto the sidewalk—I nearly whipped out my phone camera and started snapping. But I didn’t want to risk being ejected by hotel security for harassing literary royalty.

So, instead of snapping photos, I used my phone to text my mentor. Two simple words—

I’m here.

With one final glance at the star-studded activity on the hotel’s red carpet, I headed left, away from the lights, to descend a dark flight of unobtrusive stairs. At the bottom, I faced a door that still bore a plaque stating its original purpose:

SERVANTS’ ENTRANCE

Having dedicated my life to an industry of service, the plaque didn’t bother me. In fact, I was relieved to be heading toward familiar territory, though before reaching for the handle, I did hesitate. What if a security guard stopped me? What would I say?

As it turned out, I didn’t have to worry. The door swung open, and there was Madame.

“Thank goodness you’re here!” she cried. Then she seized my hand and took off like a determined locomotive pulling a confused caboose.

“Where are we going?”

“You’ll see, my dear. Don’t lollygag. Move your feet and follow me!”