Temporary Insanity
Page 29
“‘And I shall dwell in the house of the Lord forever,’” we chanted in unison, tossing the last handful of ashes into the air as we finished the final sentence of the psalm.
For maybe a minute, none of us spoke. The night was suprisingly, almost shockingly silent. No sirens, no car horns, no drunks. Then, as the three of us continued to face the theater, we heard the sound of hoofbeats. We froze, expecting the return of the mounted policeman. I turned slowly to see an empty horse-drawn carriage coming down the avenue. The driver on the box was an elderly man who wore an old-fashioned coachman’s duster and a shiny black top hat. Stuck rakishly inside the band above the brim was a bright green four-leaf clover. He tipped his hat to the three of us and winked at me.
“Did you see that?” I marveled softly.
“See what?” Izzy asked.
“Oh, please tell me you were kidding,” I said to her.
Dorian touched my arm. “We even saw the shamrock,” he assured me. “Kind of neat, to happen just then, wasn’t it?”
I nodded.
He looked at me. “You know, this is a silly question, coming now, I mean, but I never knew your grandmother’s first name. You always called her Gram. And when I was at your apartment looking through her photographs, I didn’t see it anywhere.”
“Irene,” I said. “Her name was Irene.”
“Irene Finnegan,” Izzy said quietly. “You know there’s another old song in that. If you know the tune?”
“You know, I should…but I don’t,” I confessed.
“Well, we all know I’m no musical theater performer, but I’ll give it a whirl,” Dorian said. He began to sing in a bold, clear voice. “Irene, goodnight…Irene goodnight.”
I looked down at the sidewalk in front of the Palace, noting where a bit of ash had landed. I picked it up and balanced it on the tip of my index finger. Then I held up my hand, looked skyward, and blew the dust away. “Goodnight, Irene,” I whispered.
Acknowledgments
Special thanks to my fabulous agent, Irene Goodman, and my wonderfully perceptive and gifted editor, Lucia Macro, who encouraged and enabled me to dig deeper and reach higher; and to Sylvia Goldsmith, Norma Carroll, and Carroll Carroll, as well as “Auntie Deb”—Deborah Kay Evans—for helping to make me who I am. Huge hugs to Cecilia Vanti—with whom I first shared this idea over pizza and root beer at Big Nick’s on Broadway. Thanks to Jen Criswell, and to Meir Ribalow, for always being so dear; to d.f for many, many reasons; and—a quick disclaimer to my friends and family—this is a work of fiction; any resemblance the characters herein may bear to real persons is, of course, purely coincidental.
About the Author
Native New Yorker LESLIE CARROLL is also a professional actress, dramatist, and journalist. Her first two books, contemporary romantic comedies set in her hometown, won a series of rave reviews. She also writes historical and New York “tart noir” detective fiction. Leslie has worked more temp jobs than she cares to remember in the fields of politics, advertising, public relations, and—far too frequently—law. But it’s all ripe for social satire and fodder for fiction! Visit Leslie’s web page at www.tlt.com/authors/lesliecarroll.htm.
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Copyright
TEMPORARY INSANITY. Copyright © 2004 by Leslie Carroll. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
ePub edition January 2007 ISBN 9780061737725
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