Chapter 3
Three
Kenny tried to be present during the walk down Amsterdam Avenue to her Vinyasa class.
Her head was usually buried in a phone or notebook.
She made it exactly two blocks before getting distracted by September’s Feature Author poster in the window of Amsterdam Books, the quaint family-owned bookstore that had been a staple of the neighborhood for decades.
The small shop was known around the city for their popular book clubs, story times, and author signing events.
Being selected as a month’s feature author was a one-way ticket to the top of The New York Times Best Sellers List.
Kenny desperately wanted to see her name and the cover of her book on the poster in the display window.
That desire becoming reality was so close, she could envision it if she shut her eyes.
She had recently submitted the manuscript of her first novel, Armchair Detective, to a publishing house for consideration.
The novel was a compilation of unsolved criminal investigations that had gone cold and was narrated by the prosecutors, detectives, as well as local, state, and federal law enforcement officials who resurrected the cases and pulled out all the stops trying to crack them.
The story offered firsthand accounts from victims’ families and highlighted the work of genealogists, hypnotists, psychics, therapists, and bounty hunters who threw their hats in the ring using their respective areas of unconventional expertise to solve the crimes that baffled more traditional investigation techniques.
After peering into the window of the bookstore for too long, Kenny reeled in her wandering mind. She wasn’t scheduled to hear back from the publishing house about the edit and publication process until next week, and she still needed to find an illustrator to design a catchy cover.
Kenny noticed the city was happy this morning, people were smiling.
The workers rotating the bouquets of flowers in the tubs outside of the corner bodega; the bussers spraying down the sidewalks and facades of restaurants, bars, and cafés; the dog walkers herding gaggles of canines; the public works crew emptying the always-overflowing garbage cans in front of Grey’s Papaya.
Even the commuters who rushed to catch the downtown 2 train that rumbled below ground somewhere between Seventy-Second and Seventy-Third Streets seemed to be less aggressive than usual.
Maybe Kenny wasn’t the only one seeing yellow. Or maybe these people were always this pleasant and she was too distracted, every day the last ten years of her life, to notice or pay them any attention.
Steam Hot Yoga Studio was on the third floor of a dingy building in the middle of Seventy-Second Street, sandwiched between bustling Broadway and a more peaceful Columbus Avenue.
A walk across the lengthy Seventy-Second Street was like a journey from one world to another.
Broadway was commercial and chaotic with Duane Reed, Trader Joes, and four major banks in a one block radius.
Columbus was comfortable and familiar, lined with coffee shops, wine bars, boutiques, and family-owned pizza joints that served up slices for generations.
Kenny pushed through the revolving door of the nondescript building and instantly sensed the serenity.
The first floor was occupied by a physical therapy practice and the second floor was a photography studio, but the scent of sandalwood and eucalyptus that emanated from Steam Hot Yoga wafted through the entire building.
She climbed the six flights of steep, narrow, brown steps that desperately needed to be swept and mopped, readjusting her unfolding mat at each landing.
The ungraceful ascent was a reminder she needed to invest in one of those fancy bags that keeps the unruly six-foot cut of textured rubber securely in place.
The door to the studio was propped open, and Kenny quietly entered.
She liked to be the first one in the hot room so she could get her favored spot in the back corner and avoid unwanted chit-chat with other yogis.
The space was also known to be the hottest, most challenging.
The sweatier, the better. Kenny was out of breath after scaling the steep steps for the first time in weeks, twelve extra pounds in tow; she didn’t want anyone to see her huffing and puffing.
She kicked her flip-flops into the cubbies that lined the wall under the street-facing windows and checked her phone one last time before silencing it for the next hour, hoping that nothing earth shattering happened during her ten-minute walk to the studio that would prevent her from practicing.
From: David Greene
To: Kennedy Sloane
CC: WBS Executives, WBS News
Subject: RE: Clinton White Coverage
Kenny, thank you for your valiant efforts.
Please keep me directly in the loop on the status and logistics of the White interview.
It’s the get of the decade. We’ll finally close the gap between us and the competition.
We can’t lose this one. Keep doing what you’re doing. You are a rising star here at WBS. DG
David Greene
President and Executive Director, WBS News
Beaming with confidence and pride from the accolade, Kenny tossed her phone in her red drawstring sack and grabbed her oversized Swell bottle.
She took a deep breath and peered out the window, admiring the rays of sunshine popping between the buildings on the other side of the street.
It wasn’t a sunrise over the ocean, but the sun coming up over her city was a close second.