Classic Love: 7 Vintage Romances Read Online Free PDF

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    “I haven’t thought that out yet.” Christine laughed. “Just kidding, of course. I can dream, can’t I? Let’s go down and say hello to the seals.”
    They turned in at the entrance to the zoo area, down the steps and across the brick-tiled walkway that led to the central esplanade. On this sun-bleared day of early spring the crowds were out in full force, the vendors’ stands enjoying a brisk business. “Well, all right,” Ruth said, throwing her head back and breathing deeply. “This is more like it. I was here a week ago, I thought I’d be blown away. I can hack cold, but I detest and abominate wind.”
    The seals too seemed to vibrate to the change of seasons; they were as skittish as kittens, barking croupily and sliding off their rocks to splash in the sparkling pool. Screaming kids mimicked them, volleys of admonitions from harrassed parents rang out, babies bawled, English, Spanish merged to make a great clangor, noise pollution bombarded one’s ears; it was a lovely bedlam. “You know,” Ruth murmured, “it’s little things like this that make you happy in the most idiotic way. Oh, I love New York.”
    “Even if it is dying.”
    “Bull. Well, maybe, who knows. So I’ll die with it.”
    “You’ll get no argument from me.”
    “Let’s have a soft ice cream.”
    “After that lunch? Well, okay.”
    They lapped it while sitting on a bench. Chatting idly for a bit and then falling silent, sitting close to each other, companionable and glad to be together and just as pleased to sit quietly and watch the passing parade. “Duty calls,” Christine said regretfully at shortly before five. “Let’s catch the hour at the clock and then we’d better get on our sticks.”
    “Okay. I’ve so enjoyed today.”
    “Me too. Better hurry, it’s a few minutes to.”
    They made it in time, and stood smiling as they joined the attentive throng in front of the Delacorte clock, where the beguiling bronze animals revolved slowly and with an endearing pomposity, beating their drums and wielding their batons. “Five o’clock and all’s well,” a smiling mother said to her toddler. “Wasn’t that fun, Jeffrey?”
    “Well, back to the salt mines,” Ruth said briskly, and they left, arm in arm, and ambled back home. Ruth turned off at Sixty-sixth, her street. “Take it easy,” she called.
    “You too. We’ll do something next week.”
    “I’ll probably see you at the supermarket on Saturday.”
    Three blocks farther the complex that was Christine’s own home grounds loomed, the Colonnade, so named because of some architectural features that were functional but gave the impression of decorative pillars if you stretched your imagination a bit.
    It was an enclave, housing God knew how many souls within its confines, and a kind of superhuman effort must have been required to prevent the block-long, block-wide structure, in its elephantine proportions, from appearing to be either a hospital or a penal institution. Miraculously, whoever had mapped out this sprawling monstrosity had been in the main successful. There was much lush planting inside girdling stone walls that gave the clever impression of being built out of adobe brick, like that of an old Mission, and winding, woodsy little paths where you half expected to see an elf or two. There were imaginatively-shaped espaliered trees and dappled expanses of lawn dotted with lacy benches and chairs. It was rather like a Maxfield Parrish conception of paradise.
    The Colonnade had been one of the first luxury houses to employ concierges. Just like in Paris, some residents commented with only marginal irony. Where you lived in this monolithic beehive determined which concierge was assigned to you and which elevator you used. Also which maintenance men got your money at Christmas. It was a fortress in the jungle of Manhattan: there were many such. It had gone co-op some years ago, though there were still, it was said, some nonsubsidized units. Famous