“I’ll manage. It’s not far.” Another big fat lie.
He took her hand, as if she were a princess, and kissed it once. If she were being honest with herself, she’d stop playing this game and get on with the life that she had planned. Instead, she stood there watching him go, a worried smile on her face.
After Remy had left, Rose hoofed it on aching feet to the number six train, which would take her to the Bronx. The Bronx was home, but not for too much longer. Rose had big goals for her life. She was grown, a woman fully formed, and stronger than her parents had ever guessed that Little Mary Poofster could be.
Rose wouldn’t live on false hopes and broken dreams. She didn’t have to worry about whether fairy tales or magic truly existed because they didn’t; all she had to do was foster the illusion. Rose had long ago mastered the art of the illusion. Money was security, money was real, money made you invulnerable to whatever the Fates chose to throw your way.
After she got off at her stop, she walked past the pet store boxed between the bodega and the OTB site. It was an odd place for animals, and she liked to stand outside the glass, watching the puppies from a safe distance.
The puppies always fascinated her, confined to a small pen that they didn’t seem to mind. Five tiny black fur balls with twinkling brown eyes that saw only the best in the world. They always looked carefree and content and safe behind that store window. The Hildebrandes never had a pet. Not even a fish. And Rose hadn’t missed them. Dogs were smelly and loud and dirty and could rip a hole in pink satin, quick as you could say boo.
But she liked watching from behind the window, and she wondered what they thought while they played behind the pane. Sometimes she’d put her hand on the glass and leave it there, waiting to see if they’d come to her, but they never did. Animals didn’t like her, knowing things that people never would.
Tonight, there were no puppies, only a big black monster dog with huge jaws, but tired eyes. He was curled up on the hay, with absolutely no faith that tonight was the start of something new. Lazily he opened an eye, squinted at her, and Rose squinted back. She placed her hand to the window, because from behind the glass, there was nothing he could do to her.
The dog growled.
Rose quivered, her hand falling to her side.
However, she did defiantly stare him down, until he realized she was no threat and shut his eyes, prepared to sleep once again.
Yup, animals knew things that people never would.
Before she climbed the steps to her building, Rose looked one last time at the lights of the skyline, the late-night partygoers making their way home, shouts of happiness ringing in the air, as if all was right with the world.
For a second, for one heart-stopping second, she had felt that way, too. Rose pressed a finger to her lips, remembering his kiss.
Somewhere he was out there. Was he alone? Was he thinking about her?
My prosperous Prince Charming.
The words whispered inside her, seductive and golden and warm. Quickly Rose shushed them away.
She turned and went inside.
It was New Year’s Eve, and all she wanted to do was be alone, let down her hair and slip into a pair of cushy polka-dot socks. Bright lights and a polished world might put stars in her eyes, but it sure was hell on the feet.
Chapter Three
THE HOME OF COUNT ANTON Simonov and his lovely, Brooklyn-born wife, Sylvia, was a stately twelve-room penthouse with soaring painted ceilings, a bank of windows overlooking Central Park and frame after gilt frame of stony-faced Old Masters. In the count’s private offices was a set of ornate cabinets that displayed his most treasured possessions—glass shelves full of Imperial eggs, handcrafted by Fabergé.
Every morning, a truckload of fresh flowers was brought in, all in white, because Sylvia adored white. As Sylvia’s personal assistant, it was Rose’s job to ensure that the flowers were properly placed, dead petals properly plucked, and that there were no nasty chrysanthemum’s in the bunch. According to Sylvia, “Mums look cheap, and if I wanted cheap, I’d have Anton spring for 36 double Ds and dye my hair platinum.”
To Rose, Sylvia was a living, breathing, teetering, stiletto-wearing hero. Nearly thirty years ago, Sylvia had risen from the ranks, trading in on her beauty and her wildly successful fund-raising abilities to snag one of New York’s wealthiest bachelors—who happened to be a Russian count to boot.
Rose had been doing a fine job working at a shipping insurance office in Pittsburgh, but there were always whispers that trailed after her. What the heck was she doing in an insurance office? Oh, her name wasn’t famous and her face wasn’t one they’d seen before, but her profile was too striking, her posture too straight, her walk a little too prissy for the shipping business. The curse of expectations never met.
When she spotted the profile on Countess Sylvia Simonov, a plan emerged. For two weeks, she had taken the 4:37 a.m. bus from Pittsburgh to Manhattan to volunteer at the Simonov food pantry. Not only was she helping feed the hungry, but in less than ten days, she had convinced Countess Sylvia Simonov that Rose was a charity organizer extraordinaire.
For the past three years, Rose had been in the Simonov employ, where the smell of peace and prosperity filled the air. It’d taken her twenty-seven years, but she had finally found a place where she fit. Here, under Sylvia’s nurturing eye, she was given on-the-job training on how to belong in the upper echelon, as well as steady exposure to Manhattan’s most desirable bachelors. Best of all, Sylvia and Anton were the poster people for how affluence can positively affect your life.
With Sylvia’s energetic influence, Rose had watched and learned how to achieve the life she wanted.
Today, January 1 in the Simonov household, Rose’s happy gaze touched on polished wood, perfumed satin and, most appealing of all, contentment. Dorothy, you’re not in Kansas anymore. Attention World: Dorothy is now arriving at the Plaza.
A stack of engraved envelopes landed on Dorothy’s desk, reminding her that Rose was actually paid to do more than daydream. Impatiently, Sylvia tapped a scarlet nail on the blotter.
“Rose. Thank-you notes for the Christmas gifts. Be a darling. Linda kept a running list with three categories: mine, Anton’s, ours. Here’s what I need. For mine and ours, write a personal, funny message, and let your gushing know no bounds. Sound like me if at all possible, preferably without the accent. For Anton’s list, especially the blue bloods, be impersonal, cold and stodgy. They really seem to go for that.”
At fifty-five, Sylvia was an odd contradiction of humility and beauty in an approachable, yet elegant package. Her dark hair never looked meticulously coiffed, but Rose knew the truth. The stylist was there every morning before Anton woke up in order to make the “high-glossed, natural softness” a fait accompli. Anton affectionately called it Sylvia’s bedroom hair. Sylvia would then shoot a conspiratorial wink at Rose. Rose never winked back, but sometimes she wanted to.
Daintily Sylvia stroked a black brow back into place. “Do you know the best cure for hot flashes? Believe it or not, Cristal. Seriously. But the next morning, oh, my God, the hangover is killer. Speaking of hot flashes, how’d the date go with Dr. Sinclair? Do I need the caterers and printers on speed dial, eagerly awaiting my call?”
Four dates and Sylvia was ready to post the banns. Unfortunately, Rose moved tortoiselike to Sylvia’s hare, not wanting to go too fast, not wanting to go too slow, which usually stalled things to not going anywhere at all.
“It was nice,” Rose answered vaguely.
“Yessss?” prompted Sylvia, who braced her hands on the fili-greed wood, causing fingerprints aplenty. “Tell. Spill.”
Spilling wasn’t easy for Rose. She wasn’t impulsive or impromptu, she was meticulous and well rehearsed.