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Cinderella’s New York Fling
by Cara Colter
PROLOGUE
IT ALL HAPPENED so quickly.
But then, that is probably what most people would say of a catastrophe. One hardly gets out of bed in the morning meticulously planning for disaster. No, it has a tendency to spring on one when it is least expected. At my advanced age—seventy-four—things going awry should hardly take me by surprise.
But they do, and it did.
I was walking through Faelledparken, delighted with both my escape from my tiresome head of security and with how the famous Copenhagen park had been transformed for the Annual Ascot Music Festival, held in a different country every summer.
The park had been turned into a lovely little village of colorful tents that featured all kinds of drinks, food, trinkets and souvenirs. There were smaller stages scattered throughout for some of the less well-known singers and bands to perform. Street performers juggled and did cartwheels and magic tricks.
This year’s festival was titled Carlene to Celine and Everything in Between. I thought it was very catchy and modern, though one of the PR men—they prefer the term “marketing executive” now—had the audacity to roll his eyes when I suggested it. I wished, for a very brief moment, that the super suave, I’m the expert on everything man, with his hyphenated name, was walking with me to see how that title was displayed everywhere, eclipsed by the much larger Ascot Presents.
The name Ascot even eclipsed Carlene, which, of course, was my intention, though I would act properly horrified if anyone pointed it out as the shameless publicity move for Ascot that it was. When I took my inherited family fortune to the next level—the Ascot brand was now a household name in products that ranged from pharmaceuticals to kitchen faucets—I learned that women in business had to be shrewd and smart, and very careful not to let anyone know just how shrewd and how smart they were.
Carlene herself, the headline act, would be performing in about fifteen minutes and throngs of people were heading through the park to the stadium. Certainly no one took any notice at all of me, a gracious elderly lady in a colorful head scarf, sunglasses and a sweater that was...er...perhaps a touch bulky.
It was all very exciting, and there was a kind of energy to the crowd that was invigorating. But little by little I began to feel that familiar bombardment that reminded me why I avoided crowds.
That man needs some vitamin C.
That woman needs a baby.
The thoughts were coming faster and faster and were followed by a heightened perception of the crowds being quite crushing and the evening being very warm.
I hadn’t exactly counted on the heat when I thought of Denmark on a summer’s evening or when I stuffed Max under my sweater.
People are always so quick to offer their judgments, and I’m sure many people would say having a dachshund snuggled under my sweater at such a crowded venue was practically inviting trouble.
But Max suffers from separation anxiety and it had been made worse by jet lag and a hotel room he was unfamiliar with. The poor little fellow could hardly go pee he was so discombobulated. The only place he seemed to settle was under my sweater. I felt a bit like a mother kangaroo with her joey, a nice feeling, since I had never had children myself.
That nice feeling lasted precisely until I walked by a performer who chose the very moment of my passing to clank a pair of oversize cymbals together.
Max let out a yelp, scrambled up my belly and chest leaving, I’m sure, a trail of red welts that marked his desperation.
He exploded out the neckline of my sweater, leaped onto my shoulder and hesitated for only one brief moment before he launched himself over my back.
I whirled in time to see him hit the ground and tumble. He was wearing the most adorable little sailor outfit and the hat fell off. He found his feet and raced off, in the opposite direction of the crowds heading to the stadium.
“Max!”
You would think the desperation in my voice would have been enough to stop the little bugger, but no, he cast one glance back at me, looking distinctively pleased, not frightened in the least, and quickly lost himself in the sea of legs marching toward me.
I practically risked my life to rescue the hat from the crush of stamping feet before attempting to follow him. I can’t describe the pure panic I was feeling, clutching his jaunty little hat to my chest. That little dog is my whole world. I practically own the earth, and in that second, I was aware I would trade every single bit of my fortune for him.
The futility of trying to follow him soon became apparent. I could not make my way through the crowds. Frankly, it was like being in a nightmare where you are trying to run and you cannot move.
My invisibility was terrifying. It was as if no one saw me at all as I pushed the wrong way. I got only brief, annoyed glances, as if I had been drinking too much. As if to confirm the worst suspicions of all these strangers, I suddenly stumbled and felt my ankle turn. Pain shot through it.
I allow myself very few vulnerable moments, but there I stood, paralyzed and trembling, wondering if my ankle, which felt as if a red-hot poker had been thrust through it, was going to give out on me. If it did, surely I would be trampled.
And then she appeared, like an angel. A young woman stopped in that endless push toward the Carlene concert, and looked at me. People flowed around us unceasingly, as if we were two rocks in a stream.
I knew right
