Unleashed (A Sydney Rye Novel, # 1) Read Online Free
Author: Emily Kimelman
parts, is cantilevered over the highway. The FDR, in turn, is suspended above the East River. Makes you wonder what we are standing on.
Crossing East End Avenue, I walked into Carl Schurz Park. Big paving stones, neatly lined- up trees, and perfectly trimmed grass gave the place an air of formality appropriate for the only resident of the park—the mayor of New York. Kurt Jessup lived in Gracie Mansion, a homestead built with a view of the river before there even was a city called New York, let alone a mayor to run it. The historic house is hidden in a corner of the park surrounded by its own gardens and very high fences.
I wasn’t sure how I had performed during the interview. The fact that we both admired the relative silence of the neighborhood was good. But why would she give me the route instead of someone who could buy it off her? Did I even want it, I thought, as I looked over the dog run in the park.
A large shepherd was barking insistently at a cocker spaniel who’d stolen his ball and ran under a bench, behind the protective calves of his owner. The shepherd’s owner, a guy in sweatpants and a windbreaker, was clearly annoyed at the cocker spaniel’s master, a man who was hidden behind the New York Times . The shepherd kept barking, and the cocker spaniel gnawed on the ball, pretending the shepherd wasn’t barking.
“You see that dog over there?” a woman who’d materialized next to me asked. She was pointing at a small dog. He looked like a child’s favorite stuffed animal near the end of its life.
“Yes.”
A grin spread across her face. “He belongs to that dog.” She pointed to a weimaraner whose coat shone a silver blue in the warm sun as he streaked across the run.
“What?”
“He got him in Israel.” She grinned again, overwhelmed with joy that not only could one dog own another but that the second dog could come from Israel. “Isn’t that a lovely story?”
I nodded, smiling. “Excuse me,” I said, and walked away from the crazy lady. I wandered past the small dog run to the esplanade that runs along the river. People sat on benches facing the rushing water, the sun glinting off its silver surface. Warehouses hugged the opposite bank. Downriver, the three Con Edison smokestacks painted red, white, and gray stood tall and alone, shaping the Queens skyline.
I walked upriver, toward Hell’s Gate, where the Harlem River meets the water from the Long Island Sound in a swirling, dangerous mess of tides and currents. A stone with a plaque atop memorializes 80 Revolutionary War soldiers who drowned there in 1780. Prisoners aboard the H.M.S. Hussar, they were shackled in her hold when she struck Pot Rock and slipped beneath the freezing, unforgiving waters of Hell’s Gate. “They died for a nation they never saw born,” reads the inscription.
I watched a train glide across Hell’s Gate Bridge; a beautiful arch with bowstring trusses stretched over the treacherous water. In front of Hell’s Gate Bridge, traffic moved slowly, in stops and starts, across the Triborough Bridge, a workman-like structure that connects Manhattan, Queens, and the Bronx.
My phone rang as I admired the urban landscape. “Hi, it’s Charlene. Listen, I just thought about it and you can have the route.”
“Oh, OK.”
“Why don’t you come back up, and we’ll work out the details?”
Charlene was waiting at the door, looking paler than before. “I’ve got to get out of town for business, so the only type of payment I need right now from you is to take care of my cat, Oscar, until I get back.” She walked through the living room into her kitchen. Oscar sat on the granite countertop, cleaning his face. He was a big tabby with white paws and a weight problem.
“Sure,” I said.
Charlene walked over to her computer and grabbed pages out of her printer tray. “Here’s a list of the clients and their dogs’ info.” I reached out to take them, but Charlene turned away and pushed the papers into a
Crossing East End Avenue, I walked into Carl Schurz Park. Big paving stones, neatly lined- up trees, and perfectly trimmed grass gave the place an air of formality appropriate for the only resident of the park—the mayor of New York. Kurt Jessup lived in Gracie Mansion, a homestead built with a view of the river before there even was a city called New York, let alone a mayor to run it. The historic house is hidden in a corner of the park surrounded by its own gardens and very high fences.
I wasn’t sure how I had performed during the interview. The fact that we both admired the relative silence of the neighborhood was good. But why would she give me the route instead of someone who could buy it off her? Did I even want it, I thought, as I looked over the dog run in the park.
A large shepherd was barking insistently at a cocker spaniel who’d stolen his ball and ran under a bench, behind the protective calves of his owner. The shepherd’s owner, a guy in sweatpants and a windbreaker, was clearly annoyed at the cocker spaniel’s master, a man who was hidden behind the New York Times . The shepherd kept barking, and the cocker spaniel gnawed on the ball, pretending the shepherd wasn’t barking.
“You see that dog over there?” a woman who’d materialized next to me asked. She was pointing at a small dog. He looked like a child’s favorite stuffed animal near the end of its life.
“Yes.”
A grin spread across her face. “He belongs to that dog.” She pointed to a weimaraner whose coat shone a silver blue in the warm sun as he streaked across the run.
“What?”
“He got him in Israel.” She grinned again, overwhelmed with joy that not only could one dog own another but that the second dog could come from Israel. “Isn’t that a lovely story?”
I nodded, smiling. “Excuse me,” I said, and walked away from the crazy lady. I wandered past the small dog run to the esplanade that runs along the river. People sat on benches facing the rushing water, the sun glinting off its silver surface. Warehouses hugged the opposite bank. Downriver, the three Con Edison smokestacks painted red, white, and gray stood tall and alone, shaping the Queens skyline.
I walked upriver, toward Hell’s Gate, where the Harlem River meets the water from the Long Island Sound in a swirling, dangerous mess of tides and currents. A stone with a plaque atop memorializes 80 Revolutionary War soldiers who drowned there in 1780. Prisoners aboard the H.M.S. Hussar, they were shackled in her hold when she struck Pot Rock and slipped beneath the freezing, unforgiving waters of Hell’s Gate. “They died for a nation they never saw born,” reads the inscription.
I watched a train glide across Hell’s Gate Bridge; a beautiful arch with bowstring trusses stretched over the treacherous water. In front of Hell’s Gate Bridge, traffic moved slowly, in stops and starts, across the Triborough Bridge, a workman-like structure that connects Manhattan, Queens, and the Bronx.
My phone rang as I admired the urban landscape. “Hi, it’s Charlene. Listen, I just thought about it and you can have the route.”
“Oh, OK.”
“Why don’t you come back up, and we’ll work out the details?”
Charlene was waiting at the door, looking paler than before. “I’ve got to get out of town for business, so the only type of payment I need right now from you is to take care of my cat, Oscar, until I get back.” She walked through the living room into her kitchen. Oscar sat on the granite countertop, cleaning his face. He was a big tabby with white paws and a weight problem.
“Sure,” I said.
Charlene walked over to her computer and grabbed pages out of her printer tray. “Here’s a list of the clients and their dogs’ info.” I reached out to take them, but Charlene turned away and pushed the papers into a
Readers choose
Cecilia Beatriz
Tori Brooks
Lauren Dane
Joan Hess
Steven A. Tolle
G. H. Ephron
Patrick Flanery
Sophie Stern