Manhattan Lockdown

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CLEOPATRA’S NEEDLE ROSE above the acres of summer trees. In the glittering June sunshine two of the four sides of the thirty-six hundred-year-old Egyptian obelisk glowed in the light. It was the first time during the three-hour party that Roland Fortune had the chance to look out over the park’s thousands of trees, the green expanses of the Great Lawn where hundreds of men and women were sunbathing, and the heights of the grand apartment buildings that lined Central Park West.

Sarah Hewitt-Gordan touched his arm. “They were geniuses, weren’t they?”

“Who?” He looked at her. Even in the intense light her face was beautiful.

“Olmsted and Vaux.”

“The rock group?”

She laughed. “If the networks only knew what a comedian you are, you’d have your own show.”

Smiling, he kissed her forehead and turned to the crowd on the roof garden of the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Most of the guests at his forty-seventh birthday party were under the white party tent. The murmur of voices, the tinkling noise of glasses, and the music of the band.

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