Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 96600 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 483(@200wpm)___ 386(@250wpm)___ 322(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 96600 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 483(@200wpm)___ 386(@250wpm)___ 322(@300wpm)
“Not in this outfit,” she shot back.
“Fair enough.” I opened the brushed-steel refrigerator and squinted at the contents. There were a lot of ingredients. Not necessarily anything ready to go.
Charlotte started opening cabinets. “No canned soup or anything?”
“I could probably count on one hand the number of times I’ve eaten out of cans in my entire life,” I said, pulling out something wrapped in white paper. “At least, in my own home.”
“Not even college?” She hopped up on the balls of her feet to check another cupboard. “There’s no pasta in here, nothing.”
“I don’t eat much pasta.” I patted my midsection. “Carbs.”
“You can buy all the pasta in the world, and you don’t. That’s criminal.” She shook her head sadly for me.
“Hey, if I want pasta, I have a private chef that makes it from scratch. I’m not exactly deprived.”
“No, just depraved.” She closed the door and crossed her arms over her chest. “How about this: I get dressed, and we go out and grab something to eat.”
“I’ll call and get us a reservation.” It would be easy enough to get someone bumped from DANIEL or Le Bernardin.
“Or, we could go to a regular restaurant, where people don’t have to make reservations.” She frowned. “You have done that before, right?”
“Of course, I have. When I was in college, we got fast food all the time. I’ve even been to an Olive Garden.” Did I sound proud of that? I was a bit, but not from a “slumming” sense. I liked to think I was more normal than the rest of my family. More in touch with the real world.
From Charlotte’s expression, I gathered that wasn’t the case.
“You know what I’ve always wanted to try? Getting a hot dog from a cart like they do in the movies.” Her eyes glittered with excitement.
But my stomach clenched in fear.
“A hot dog cart?” On the street? Where there wasn’t even a place for the chef to wash his hands?
“Yeah, like, the guys who stand on the street and they’ve got hot dogs floating in scummy water and they’re like, ‘whaddaya want,’” she went on. “Have you…never done that? You live in New York.”
“There are multiple New Yorks existing in the same city. It’s like a multiverse.”
“You’re a dork,” she said flatly. “And what you’re describing is class separation, not a multiverse. You classist dork.”
Ouch. Not the dork part; I was fully aware that she maintained a dim view of my nerdery. But it stung to know that she considered me one of the ivory tower elites, refusing to rub shoulders with the common people.
“Fine. You want a hot dog, we’ll get a hot dog.” Were food carts even open at nine p.m.? “Go get dressed.”
I grabbed my phone and texted my driver. Do you know where to find a hot dog cart this late?
The things I was prepared to do for love.
* * * *
As it turned out, there weren’t many hot dog carts in Manhattan, and most closed up shop after the nine-to-five crowd had left the city. But my driver, Allison, knew of one who hung around until ten.
“But,” she warned me, “you’re hitting the tail end of the day. Expect shriveled dogs.”
Of all the words I expected to think of when approaching a meal, “shriveled” was possibly the second-most unpleasant. Charlotte’s earlier description of “scummy” still took the top slot.
It haunted me.
Still, her excitement was adorable. She bounded from the car in her gray cashmere joggers and hoodie before Allison could open the door.
“Are you closed?” Charlotte called as she hurried up to the vendor.
The man didn’t look up as he opened a lid on the cart, releasing a cloud of steam. “I’m here, aren’t I?”
“Yay!” She gestured me over with a rapidly flapping hand while she ordered. “I want a hot dog with mustard and onions. A lot of onions.”
“And for you?” the man asked, bumping the brim of his baseball cap out of his eyes with his forearm.
“One with ketchup and relish. And…a Pepsi.” I nodded toward Charlotte. “Want something to drink?”
“A diet, please.” She cast me a glance and a shrug. “The sugar kind is too sweet.”
I’d be sure to let the housekeeper know before she went shopping.
“Sixteen bucks.” The man said, handing me my food.
That was it? I opened my wallet. All I had were hundreds. I handed one over and said, “Keep the change.”
“Did you drop a hundred dollars on hot dogs?” Charlotte asked as we walked back to the car. She was already making significant progress on her food, so she must have been hungry. Usually, she ate at sloth speed.
“I dropped sixteen bucks on hot dogs. I dropped eighty-four dollars on a tip.” It was hard to manage a precarious hot dog in a paper doily, two sodas, and my cane. “Can you—”
“Let me get that, sir,” Allison said, stepping away from the curb. She took the bottles from me and opened the door.