around, looking for someone carrying a red high heel. Hurried business-people crowded the sidewalk, all of them so intent on getting to their skyscraper destinations, they powered right past her in their sneakers and loafers. Not a one held a shoe.
A tall dark-haired man in a navy pinstriped suit had stopped a few yards away from her. From this distance and angle, she couldn’t tell if she knew him or not. Heck, most of the men on the street looked the same from the back—all suit and dress shoes. She saw him shrug, reach into his jacket, then continue on his way. Could he have the shoe?
She watched him for a moment longer, then decided no. From behind, he looked too much like the guy next door—albeit, the handsome guy next door—to be the kind that would pick up a stray shoe and walk away with it. She considered running after him, just in case, but then he hailed an oncoming cab and was gone before she could get her feet to coordinate with her brain. Damn.
The shoe had to be here. Somewhere. Sarah bent down and drew closer to the trash cans. Maybe a rat had dragged it into the dark corners? The thought made her sick, but she looked anyway. She looked behind, in front of, beside and even under the dark brown plastic containers.
No footwear of any kind.
Now the panic was clawing at her throat, threatening to cut off her air supply. This was not happening. So, so, so not happening. Karl was going to kill her. No, not just kill her—maim her, behead her and then hang her decapitated body in the parking lot as an example of idiocy.
How on earth was she ever going to get off the gossip pages of the tabloid and move over to and into the main section of Smart Fashion magazine if she couldn’t keep hold of a simple shoe? It wasn’t just the Frederick K that had gone sailing out the window—it was every dream she’d had for her career.
For months, she’d wanted to switch to the editorial staff of Smart Fashion, the monthly magazine put out by the same parent company that did the tabloid. One magazine was the shining respected industry publication; the other was the back-stabbing stepsister. At the time, working for the tabloid had been a job, one that paid well. One she’d needed desperately. She’d seen it as a stepping stone, a temporary stop.
It had become a long-term stall. One she hated more and more every day. Moving to Smart Fashion and covering the newest trends in jewelry and skirt lengths didn’t exactly call for deep journalistic investigation, but it was a step in the right direction. A step away from the years she’d spent observing and penning exclamation-point-studded stories about how the “glamorous” people lived.
She was tired of working in the shadows. Tired of putting her future on hold. This shoe, as silly as it sounded, had been the symbol of everything Sarah intended to change about her job, herself and most of all, her life.
Fifteen minutes of frantic searching passed before Sarah was forced to admit the shoe was gone. She ran back up to her apartment, and headed straight for the window, ignoring Diana sitting on the sofa, filing her nails with the kind of calm that said she had no idea what kind of damage she’d just done. Or if she did, she didn’t care—
Both were typical Diana.
Sarah and her sister shared a lot in the genes department—they were both slender, both had long, dark brown hair with a touch of red that turned to gold after too much time in the sun, and both had wide green eyes. But when it came to sensitivity and empathy, there were many days when Sarah wondered what had happened to her sister’s. She loved Diana, but her inability to relate to other people’s problems chafed at their relationship like a splinter. It was as if Diana had decided Sarah did enough worrying and caring for the both of them.
“Please let it be there,” Sarah whispered. She leaned forward, out the window, scanning the sidewalk a second time.
Nothing. The shoe was gone.
Sarah sank to the oak floor of her apartment. “I’m so dead.”
“I don’t know why you’re making such a big deal out of this,” Diana said, flinging out her fingers to check her emery job. “It’s just a shoe.”
“It’s my job.” And so much more, Sarah thought, but didn’t say. Her sister would never understand what that shoe represented. How it was so much more than her first big project for Smart Fashion magazine. Okay, so not exactly big—just a quarter-page write-up on the launch of the line by Frederick K, with a review of the premier stiletto in the collection. But it was a start, and that was all Sarah needed.
She couldn’t make Diana see how that simple strappy red heel seemed to hold everything Sarah had always wanted—and had thus far denied herself. “Not just that, but that shoe is a one-of-a-kind, secret prototype that no one was supposed to see before the spring fashion shows. No one.”
Diana shrugged. “You did.”
“You’re not helping the situation, Diana.”
“I’ll buy you another pair. There. Problem solved.”
“You can’t buy these. That’s the point. No one is supposed to have them until after the spring fashion shows. My boss trusted me to keep them under wraps, and now—”
What was she going to do? How on earth was she going to explain this? The photo shoot for the fall issue was only three days away, and half of the starring product had disappeared. The magazine had everything laid out and ready to go, with space left for photos and stories from coverage of Fashion Week in two weeks. The top designers would be showcasing their spring fashions for next year, and all of New York would be abuzz with chatter about their new designs. It was the biggest week of the year at the magazine, one where tensions ran high and expectations ran higher.
She couldn’t make Diana see that, nor, Sarah was sure, could she get her sister to understand why she had taken the stilettos home in the first place. Explaining to Karl the little field trip she’d taken those designer shoes on was going to be even harder than telling him she’d lost one half of the pair.
Why did you take those one-of-a-kind Frederick Ks home, Sarah?
Because I thought having them, just for a little while, would transform my life.
Oh, yeah, that was going to go over well. Like, unemployment-line well.
“Well, we have a problem. And we need to deal with it right away.” Diana tucked the emery board away, then flipped out a lipstick case and slicked on a crimson bow.
“That’s the understatement of the year. You just singlehandedly sent my career down the fast track to nowhere. Gee, thanks, Diana.”
“I didn’t mean with that silly shoe.” Diana sighed, then met her sister’s gaze. “I meant with Dad. You are not dumping him at my apartment. I have a life, you know.”
They were back to this again? Sarah shouldn’t be surprised. Diana was the kind to pick at an issue until she got the answer she wanted. Preferably one that absolved her of all responsibility.
For years, Sarah had taken on the caretaker role. When their mother had first gotten sick, it had been Sarah who stepped in to be the lady of the house. Heartbreak over his wife’s cancer had immobilized their father, leaving Sarah two choices—let everything go to hell, or step into her mother’s apron.
Bridget Griffin had lingered, in that limbo between life and death, for almost ten years before death finally ended her suffering. For so many years, Sarah had expected the death, but when that day finally came—
She’d found herself standing there, stunned. A hole had opened up in her life, and she had yet to find a way to fill it. Live your life, her father had said.
What life? she’d wanted to say back. For so many years, she’d poured everything into her family. No time for dating, for daydreaming or for thinking about the paths she might have taken, if only …
All those if onlys had been lived by Diana. Sarah had made sure her little sister got to experience everything—dates, proms, parties—even if that