An Autumn Cashmere sweater and her down vest was over it. God it was freezing outside. Her Pucci scarf was wound around her neck, her feet in New Balance sneakers, and her Coach hobo bag hanging on her arm, full of stuff for the plane. Her Emma Spade luggage was surrounding her, as was the rest of their families' crap. She had sunglasses on top of her head, like she couldn't wait to put them on.And Emma Graham was horrified. They must have taken the picture at the actual time they were there, four in the morning, quickly laid it out onto Page Six, and then shipped it off to the printers just in the knick of time before they should have had it out. Emma headed over to the store of JFK, and found the guy who worked there just filling in the space for the magazine. She grabbed one, a bunch of candy, gum, water bottles, and the like, and headed back, stopping at the Starbucks there for a Mocha frappaccino for herself and a Caramel frappe for Henry. No one else had really asked for. One was all white and she called it Angel. The other was a jet black kitty with green eyes that answered to the name of Scotty. They followed her wherever she went except she did not permit them to go with her when she was delivering the fish and other seafood items to the customers in the neighborhood. She stayed mostly in the poorer section of the city because the higher class folks generally only consumed products obtained by their servants at a much higher price per item. The fishmonger's daughter knew her fish were fresher and better tasting than most of the store-bought selections but she never tried to boost her prices because she was happy just making a fair profit rather than squeezing the poorer folk for their eating enjoyment.Fridays were always her busiest day of the week.She suspected it was because there were a lot of Irish in the neighborhood and they all tended to eat fish on Fridays from religious persuasion.Friday night was her bath night. That was the night she.
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