Free Chistmas Ever After by Elyse Douglas Page B

seemed to Jennifer like a great battle of nerves, will and testosterone was in play. Cars darted from lane to lane, weaving, breaking, charging. Tail lights flashed; horns wailed in fear or warning or ego wounding, as a silver gray Buick Regal cut off a sleek red Porsche. In sudden defense, a forward taxi just managed a chaotic swerving maneuver to keep from slamming into both, but skidded into a bloated lane of buses and trucks, whose drivers welcomed him with clenched fists, angry cries and blasting air horns. A truck whipped into the left lane, brazenly, rupturing traffic and slinging water from its daring muscular wheels, in a remarkable display of oafish power.
    The frenzied movement was disorienting and electrifying, like a kind of three-dimensional video game, with lasers, bells and whistles. Jennifer sat on the edge of her seat, eyes wide and alert, not recalling Lance ever describing a New York quite like this. They raced by monumental billboards that seemed to shout out their messages in bold letters and glossy images, to see the hottest Broadway shows and the newest hang-on-to-your-seat movies—or to stay at the savviest hotels.
    Jennifer’s cab driver seemed oblivious to it all, as he chanted, hoarsely, along with a CD in some mid-Eastern language, while fighting the cars and the road for survival and superiority.
    When she saw the New York skyline looming in the distance, blazing against the heavy charcoal sky, her spirits lifted considerably. She’d seen pictures and movies, but nothing could compare to the stupendous live vision before her. It was magical. She felt a girlish excitement.
    After they abruptly turned off the FDR Drive, she noticed shops, restaurants and office buildings, all decorated for Christmas: blinking white lights; extravagant wreaths with red ribbons; star bursts; and window displays. She was amazed by the sheer size of the city—the broad sidewalks and avenues, the buildings, close and towering.   She could already feel a restless fervor as she looked out into the crowds of rushing people and the glare of lights.
    When they approached The Plaza Hotel, Jennifer took in the 19-story structure and felt herself lift up. It looked like a castle out of a storybook; an opulent-looking French chateau! The taxi turned onto Central Park South, past horse-drawn carriages and Central Park, then turned left and rolled up to the entrance. She took in the glazed brick façade and saw doormen dressed in long red Edwardian coats standing by, as couples and families entered through the revolving doors with their designer shopping bags.
    A doorman approached, tall and imposing, and opened her door, smiling. “Welcome to The Palace Hotel!” he said, cheerfully.
    Jennifer nodded meekly, then stepped out into a gentle snowfall that had begun to blanket the ground. Her cab driver reached into the trunk and tugged out her suitcase and handed it to the doorman. In a kind of hazy exhilaration, Jennifer paid the cab driver and turned toward the doorman, who led her up the red carpeted stairs, through the revolving doors into a resplendent marble lobby.
    She saw expensive boutiques and shops, and crowds of lively children and well-dressed couples. She especially noticed the women. She thought they looked brittle and snobbish, even self-adoring, as they checked themselves out in the gilded framed mirrors and walked with calculated flair, as if a TV camera were following them. Even the young girls had a kind of stylized irritation, with their Bambi eyelashes and pouty mouths, as they ignored their parents, brothers and everyone else.
    The men looked wan and milky. Thin, for sure, and elegantly dressed, but too self-assured and aloof for her taste.
    Jennifer tried for a worldly, straight-backed dignity as she walked toward the front desk, but from the expressions of people who looked back at her as she passed, she was sure she had “Small Town Girl” written all over her face.
    A middle-aged woman, dressed in