He took my suitcase gingerly, as if sensing my hesitation, and led me outside into the freezing air. I clutched at my giant sweater, angry with myself for not bringing a heavier jacket.
The weather was another thing I was going to have to get used to. It was early November, only a few weeks before Thanksgiving, but the cold air had already begun settling in like tired bones in a grave. Back in Georgia, it was still warm outside, with no freezing temperatures coming into effect. I missed the warmth, how the wind would brush against my skin as I sat outside to read, even after the sun had set and the fireflies were just coming out.
But the cold in New York was much deeper than in Appling. It was dark and foreboding, a threatening sort of chill. I knew I didn’t have the appropriate wardrobe for the cold that I was now going to have to learn to endure. All I owned were oversized sweaters and long skirts I had bought from the thrift stores in downtown Augusta when Nana and I would take special trips into town on Sundayafternoons. No long winter coats, no gloves, not even a scarf.
He opened the back door to a black Lexus, where I quickly found refuge from the cold. The car was still running, and the heat felt glorious against my face. I settled in as Mr. Lewis placed my suitcase in the trunk and then came around to the driver’s side.
“Ready?” he asked as he put the car into drive.
I nodded, feigning a smile as he pulled away from the airport.
The buildings were much bigger than the movies lead you to believe. For the majority of the car ride from LaGuardia to the Upper East Side, my eyes were glued to the windows as I watched the masses of people on the sidewalks and the larger-than-life skyscrapers that seemed to never end. The architecture specifically caught my eye, my chest tightening at the ominous-looking stone structures that lined each old building. It was just stone, but it felt foreboding, as if this city were a castle designed to keep me out.
Mr. Lewis noticed my gaze and began to babble on about the historical buildings, their histories, and what movies had been filmed in which locations. I listened half-heartedly, content simply gazing at the beauty of the architecture itself. There were already Christmas decorations adorning the buildings and stores. We drove pastMacy’sand Bloomingdale's, their window displays ornateand exquisite. I could only imagine how ridiculously priced their products were, but window shopping was free and I couldn’t deny their beauty.
Although New York was beautiful, magnificent even, it seemed surreal to label this strange new place as my new home. But I wasn’t even sure what was home to me anymore. My home had been in Appling, Georgia, with my Nana, who was now buried at the local cemetery where the trees were still a dark green and the flowers were only now beginning to fade as summer fell into fall. Home was a foreign concept now. The word rolled around in my brain, reverberating in an echo that felt out of tune.
My chest pulled painfully, and tears stung the back of my eyes. But now that I didn’t have family in Georgia anymore, it didn’t seem right to call it home. I felt like I almost had to leave, like I had been a guest who had overstayed her welcome.
Mr. Lewis’ voice had stopped when he noticed my pained expression.
He looked at me through the rearview mirror. “I know this is tough for you, but you will learn to love it here. New York has something for everybody. You’ll see.”
I nodded, still unconvinced.
Mr. Lewis finally pulled up to a large apartment building that sat across from Central Park. I wasn’t completely positive, but I knew apartments this close to the park and this deep in the city were expensive. The building was made ofa rich dark stone, and the carpet leading from the street to the glass door was deep green, vacuumed, and pristine.
Mr. Lewis pulled up to the front, where a doorman came to greet us. The doorman opened my car door, smiling. “Welcome to The Evergreen House, Miss Pollard.”
I was about to ask how he knew my name, but decided against it as Mr. Lewis had taken my suitcase and begun to lead me into the grand apartment building. I followed him in as my eyes took in everything around me. The rich marble floors and walls, the detailed architecture, and the stunning furniture that circled a blazing fire. It looked more like a museum than a place where people lived.
The luxury and extravagance of it all startled me, making me question my own appearance. My jeans, dirty sneakers, and oversized sweater fell short of the standard that this grandeur place held. The people who lived in this apartment, however, were clearly aware of this standard.
I saw two older women in long fur coats look me up and down as they exited the building. Their jewels shone under the lights, and their handbags looked like they had never been used before. I pulled my ripped and dirty satchel closer to my chest, looking down as I followed Mr. Lewis to the elevator with one thought that resounded within me:I didn’t belong.
The elevator opened into a private apartment. There was a grand foyer with its marble floors and breathtaking artwork displayed on the walls. I recognized a Jenny Savilleportrait and shuddered to think if it were real and how much it must have cost.
“I’m going to put this in your room and find Miss Tiffany. I’m sure she is here somewhere, preparing for you,” he smiled kindly.
“Where’s my uncle?” I asked, fearful of meeting more strangers before I could finally lay eyes on the one and only person I was related to.
His face fell slightly. “Unfortunately, Mr. Pollard is still in court and sends his deepest regrets at not being here when you arrived home.” He turned on his heel and left.
Home. Again, with that word.
I walked aimlessly through the apartment, meandering from room to room, amazed when I found a library. A real room dedicated to books. I felt my spirits lift. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad.
My heart soared as I took in all the different titles and the lovely smell that only old books can possess. At least that was something no one could take from me. I could read anywhere.
I heard Tiffany before I saw her; her expensive heels clicking against the hardwood floor with every step. She found me looking out of one of the library windows, taking in the amazing view of the park that was just across the street.
“Mari,” she breathed, almost out of relief. Maybe she was expecting a hillbilly in overalls, without any shoes. “It’s so wonderful to finally meet you.”
She glided across the room and pulled me into a gentle hug. She felt so small as her arms wrapped around me like I imagined a bird’s wings would. She must have been in her mid-thirties with beautiful red hair styled like a movie star. Her elegance reminded me of one of the ladies from downstairs. I cringed under her gaze, embarrassed.
“Well, Dan was right about you. You are just gorgeous,” she beamed, hooking her arm in mine while leading me out of the library.
Her use of the wordgorgeoussurprised me.In all my life, I had never been described as gorgeous. Pretty maybe, plain definitely, but never gorgeous.
