Miranda Dickinson 2 Book Bundle - Miranda Dickinson

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given the approach we made to it walking over the Roosevelt Bridge which, Nate reliably informed me, was the way the great master sculptor walked to work every morning. It was impossible not to be stirred by Isamu Noguchi’s stunningly simple sculptures in marble, alabaster, terracotta, slate and glass, amongst other mediums—and I noticed that everyone walking round seemed to be feeling it too, as a sense of reverent calm pervaded each room we entered.

      The only snippet of our conversation I remember clearly is when we were strolling round the Noguchi’s tranquil sculpture garden, bathed in warm autumnal sunlight. Nate suddenly went quiet.

      ‘This place is wonderful,’ I ventured, trying to make conversation.

      Nate paused to look at a stone sculpture with water cascading over its surface, his face reflected and distorted by the undulating flow. ‘It’s peaceful,’ he said, his voice sounding far away. ‘You can get rid of all the stuff in your head here, you know?’

      ‘Stuff like what?’

      He sighed and I sensed the weight of his concerns bearing down on his broad shoulders. ‘Just stuff. I dunno, Rosie—sometimes I wish life could be as simple as this garden. No clutter, everything in its place, just peaceful and ordered.’

      ‘Sounds lovely. But it would drive you mad.’

      He turned to look at me. ‘Why?’

      I patted his arm. ‘Because you’re a native New Yorker: you thrive on chaos and unpredictability. If everything was simple and organised in your life you’d be craving excitement in no time.’

      Nate’s trademark grin made a welcome reappearance. ‘You know me so well.’

      ‘So what did he say then? Did he mention Mimi or Caitlin? Or anybody?’ Celia was staring at me like an impatient child waiting to meet Santa.

      ‘No, that was it, and then he changed the subject,’ I said, pushing my fork into the poached egg on my plate and watching the rich yellow yolk dribble over my pancakes. ‘But I got the impression that things are more or less carved in stone for the two of them. I mean, he protests a lot, but at the end of the day he’s still with her.’

      A couple seated at the table beside us began to giggle and held hands across the blue plaid tablecloth. Celia and I watched them for a while.

      ‘Do you ever get the feeling that everyone’s moving on except you?’ I asked, accidentally out loud.

      Celia let out a long sigh. ‘All the time, Rosie. All the time.’

       Chapter Twelve

      I’m always amazed at how quickly the nights draw in during autumn and the days rush headlong into winter. It’s one of my favourite times of the year—especially walking in Central Park when all the trees are exhibiting their colours. It’s something I loved about Boston and I thought I wouldn’t see it when I moved to New York but, to my delight, New York ‘does’ autumn so well. It seems to get more magical and sparkly with every week that passes through September and October into November and Thanksgiving.

      OK, time to be honest here: I really didn’t get the concept of Thanksgiving when I first came to America. It seemed like such an odd, archaic excuse for a big meal and, when I asked people about it, nobody could quite explain it in a way that made sense to me. But then I met Celia and experienced a Reighton Thanksgiving, which is, like so many other things Celia does, truly a sight to behold. Featuring three basic ingredients: food that would make Fortnum & Mason quiver; a guest list that Jay Leno would kill for; plus the unique hostess that is Celia in all her glory—the combined result is pure New York magic. It was only when I was sat by the bulging Thanksgiving table at her home that I finally understood its significance for my American friends. It’s something instilled into them from birth: the need to be thankful. And the festival has seemingly taken on a much deeper significance for people today, in light of the highly materialistic lifestyle everyone here is bombarded with every day. It’s part of who they are as a nation and adds to that strange mix of modern consumerism and a strong sense of morals from a bygone era that is wrapped around the psyches of people who live here—where it’s every person for themselves when it comes to getting ahead in life, but impoliteness is still frowned upon. Thanksgiving reminds people where they came from. And now I wouldn’t miss it for the world.

      ‘Celia’s invited me to Thanksgiving at her place,’ Nate grinned as we sat drinking coffee and watching the good people of New York battling against the icy prevailing wind on the street outside. ‘I hear it’s an awesome event.’

      I rested my chin on the edge of my mug and inhaled the rich dark aroma as I raised my eyes heavenwards. ‘Hmm, it sure is. Celia is not known for doing anything small when it comes to celebrations.’

      ‘She said there’d be plenty of food.’

      I took a sip of coffee. ‘She’s not joking! I hear the State of New York has been warned to brace itself for a food shortage after her order’s been met.’ I paused, debating whether or not to ask the question. ‘Are you coming then?’

      Nate’s eyes drifted to the street outside. ‘I don’t know yet. I’ll know after the weekend.’

      Cue awkward moment. ‘Ah…I guess Caitlin will want you to join her family?’

      His expression was hard as stone and the reply was incredibly matter-of-fact. ‘No.’

      ‘Oh, right.’ I was granted a temporary reprieve from a difficult silence as two taxi drivers screeched to a halt right outside and began an obscenity-screaming match. I had to giggle. ‘I love New York—it’s such a friendly city.’

      ‘Only you could find romance in a street brawl.’

      Placing my hands Buddha-style on my knees I intoned, ‘Nate-Student must learn from Optimism Master. Rosie Duncan say: man without optimism in New York is like Old F’s coffee without good company.’

      I think by now Nate had figured I was in fact completely insane. ‘And what, O Great One, is that supposed to mean?’

      I shrugged. ‘I have no idea. But it sounded good.’

      He laughed. ‘So I’m good company?’

      I checked my watch. ‘Yes, thank you, but I’d better do some work,’ I replied happily.

      The door opened and an old man entered.

      ‘Hello, Rosie! The wind blew me in this direction and I wondered why. And then I remembered that today is the second Thursday in the month so I should be here.’

      I shook the age-crumpled hand of Mr Eli Lukich. ‘I have your order ready. It’s right here as usual.’

      Eli followed me to the counter. ‘You are such a good girl. I was saying to my dear Alyona only this morning what a good girl you are. You remind me of my mother, Valentina Nikolaiova, God rest her soul, when we were in the Old Country. She always remembered special days. You know, she never had a calendar? She just knew. So the house in Losk had flowers for birthdays, holy days and saints’ days.’

      I handed Eli a small bouquet of yellow roses. His hooded blue eyes scrunched up as he breathed in the scent. ‘Beautiful. Beautiful, Rosie. Like my mother used to love…they grew in Father Gennady’s garden, you know.’

      I had heard the story a hundred times, but there was something about Eli’s tales of old White Russia that captivated me every time. ‘Tell me about the priest, Eli.’

      Eli’s attention, however, had moved to Nate, who was watching the conversation with fascination. ‘Hello, young man. My name is Eli Lukich. I am pleased to make your acquaintance.’ He slowly extended his hand and Nate scrambled to his feet to shake it.

      ‘Pleased to meet you, sir. I’m Nathaniel Amie.’

      Mr

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