Summer 1986 • Vol. VIII No. 3 Fiction |

Jack of Diamonds

One April afternoon, Central Park, right across the street, turned green all at once. It was a green toned with gold and seemed less a color of leaves than a stained cloud settled down to stay. Rosalind brought her bird book out on the terrace and turned her face up to seek out something besides pigeons. She arched, to hang her long hair backwards over the terrace railing, soaking in sunlight while the starlings whirled by. The phone rang, and she went inside. "I just knew you'd be there, Rosie," her father said. "What a gorgeous day. Going to get hotter. You know what I'm thinking about? Lake George." "Let's go right now," Rosalind said. The cottage was at Bolton Landing. Its balconies were built out over the water. You walked down steps and right off into the lake, or into the boat. In a lofty beamed living room, shadows of water played against the walls and ceiling. There was fine lake air, and chill pure evenings … . The intercom sounded. "Gristede's, Daddy. T

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One April afternoon, Central Park, right across the street, turned green all at once. It was a green toned with gold and seemed less a color of leaves than a […]

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