Garlic and Sapphires (24 page)

Hon? Where did that come from? I looked down to see if Nicky was giving me strange looks, but he was just smiling back, saying, “No, we don't mind waiting.”

The man just in front of us turned to say, “You have to wait if you want Willie.” He looked down at Nicky and added, “Willie does tricks!”

“All the chefs do tricks,” I said. “That's why we're here. Nicky loves the way they make the chicken go flying onto his plate.”

“According to our friends,” said the man, “Willie does the best tricks.” He held out his hand. “I'm Bill. This is Christopher. And we'd like to ask you a question. Where did you get that
amazing
coat?”

We were fast friends by the time we were finally seated, and it turned out that Bill had been right: Willie
was
worth waiting for. His hands flying at the speed of light, he chopped vegetables and arranged them into clown faces on the grill. He sent diced chicken flying all over the restaurant—into his hat, into his pocket, ricocheting from Michael's plate across mine and right onto Nicky's. He urged Nicky to try mushrooms (he liked them!), got him to taste shrimp (he didn't like them), and with his antics set the tone for the evening. At dessert time Bill made a little cap out of napkins and perched it on Nicky's head so we could try filling it with fruit. Nicky seemed surprised that I allowed such rowdy behavior. To be honest, I was sort of surprised myself.

“Here's our phone number,” said Bill as we paid our checks. “Call the next time you're planning to come. We'll join you. It just wouldn't be the same if you weren't here.”

“I like eating dinner with Brenda,” confided Nicky on the way home. “She talks to people. Being with her is fun!”

“More fun than when I'm really me?” I asked, struggling to keep my voice neutral. I was surprised to find that I was hurt.

“Yes,” said Nicky. “Brenda's more fun.”

Michael squeezed my hand, somehow knowing what I was feeling. “What are you talking about?” he said. “She
is
really you. She's just you in a particularly good mood.” Then he laughed and added, “Maybe you should be Brenda more often.”

And then we were home and Gene was running to open the door, grinning at me with that ridiculously goofy grin. “I can't help it,” he said, “I'm a sucker for redheads.” He turned to Michael and said, “Your wife's not home yet.”

“She may not be home until very late,” Michael murmured. “But Brenda's going to stay and keep us company until she gets here.”

He and Gene exchanged glances, and I had the oddest feeling. Can you be jealous of yourself?

D
aniel?” said Michael a few days later when I pulled the red wig onto my head. “You're taking Brenda to Daniel? Do you think she'll fit in?”

“No,” I said, explaining Carol's strategy, “I'm sure she won't.”

“It's just crazy enough to work,” he said. “It's so completely counterintuitive. Who's coming?”

“Jules,” I said. “And he's bringing some new girlfriend he says we'll like. She's a painter.”

Michael looked relieved. “I don't know how the food will be,” he said, “but I do know that we're going to have fun.”

It was Jules who had introduced Michael to me. I had known him since college, when he'd become like an instant cousin, and we'd been moving in the same orbit ever since. Jules traveled light. Right after I moved to Berkeley, Jules came knocking on the door of the rambling Victorian house I was sharing with a group of friends. It was midnight and he had just broken up with the love of his life. “I'm only staying until I find my own place,” he said, but eight years later he was still there, living out of a suitcase in the spare room. Jules moved to Los Angeles soon after Michael and I did, and for a while he parked his suitcase in our house in Laurel Canyon. Now we were in New York, and Jules and his suitcase were in a loft in SoHo, although that was liable to change on a moment's notice.

Small and thin, with a face composed entirely of angles, Jules had the peculiar elegance of William Burroughs, to whom he was distantly related. “I suppose he'll be wearing that beat-up brown leather jacket?” Michael went on.

“Probably,” I said. “I don't think he has another.”

“Good,” said Michael. “We're going to make them crazy at that restaurant.” He flung open his closet door, saying, “Now, what do you think I should wear?”

“Nothing special,” I said hurriedly.

“Oh no,” he said, “you wouldn't want me to look as if I didn't belong with you.” He pulled out a bright blue shirt. “I think I'll wear this.”

“You're rainbows,” said Nicky when we went to kiss him good night. The babysitter laughed. “Nobody,” she said in her Irish brogue, “would take you two for critics.” She examined us for a second and said, “No worries. Everyone in the restaurant will have to put on sunglasses when you pair walk in!”

 

 

 

 

 

T
he rest of your party is already here,” said the maître d' dryly. It was only a few weeks since my lunch with Myron; was he looking at me too closely? I forced myself to give him a big smile, fighting the urge to flee as I felt the lipstick slide across my teeth.

“Follow me,” he said, scurrying out from behind his little stand. “Your table is not ready.” He hadn't recognized me after all! Galloping behind him, I understood that he hoped to bury us in the back of the bar, hoped we would somehow become invisible. But as he sped toward the dark corner where he had parked Jules, every head turned to stare at us. I waited for my face to tighten with self-consciousness, but instead I found myself slowing down, looking curiously around with Brenda's big lips formed into a smile. Carol's strategy was working, and it felt fine not to be hiding.

“Jules!” cried Michael when our little parade finally came to a halt. The maître d' pointed uncomfortably to the chairs and beat a very hasty retreat. “I'd like to introduce you to Brenda Rose.”

Jules looked me over, his lips twitching. He was, indeed, wearing the brown leather jacket. He did not get up. “Nice,” he said. “Amazing, actually.” The woman with him had long black hair, and with her black skirt, black turtleneck top, black tights, and ballet shoes she looked exactly like a beatnik from the sixties. “This is Lorna,” he said.

The beatnik stuck her hand out across the nuts and flowers that crowded the surface of the table. “Thanks for having me,” she said. “I find it so incredible to be here. I've always wondered what these places were like.”

Michael and I squeezed into the small space that had been allotted to us. Our knees touched. “I love this about New York,” Lorna continued, gesturing around the warm, dark room. “An hour ago I was chasing drug dealers off my stoop so I could get out the door of my apartment. Then I walk up Avenue C, through streets reeking of urine, climb into the clatter of the subway, and fifteen minutes later I emerge into”—she pointed at a woman across the room whose low-cut black dress formed the perfect backdrop for an ostentatious diamond necklace—“all this.”

As she said it, the woman got up and trudged resolutely toward us. She was a redhead too, but one of the soignée ones; she looked as if her time was evenly divided between her beautician and her personal trainer.

“I adore your coat,” she said, reaching out to pet the silk. “Did you get it in China?”

“No,” I said, “a thrift shop on Thompson Street.”

“Oh,” said the woman, taking a disappointed step back. “Too bad. I'm going to Hong Kong next week and I thought you might know someplace there that sells vintage clothing.”

She turned to retreat to her seat just as a waiter arrived with a little silver tray. “These gougères,” she said as she walked off, “are simply divine.” With that she stretched out her arm and scooped one up as if we were all guests at a cocktail party.

“Hey!” said the waiter, startled.

“Those were ours!” said Jules.

“Do strangers always talk to you?” asked Lorna.

“They talk to Brenda,” I said. And then I didn't say anything else because I had taken a bite of one of the little puffs and I was concentrating on the way they simply evaporated into hot, cheesy air when my mouth closed over them.

W
e waited in the bar for a long time. We didn't mind; we were enjoying ourselves, looking at all the rich people in the room while an endless array of tidbits kept us busy. When our table was finally ready, the maître d' galloped us back across the bar, through the back door into the nether reaches of the dining room. The chatter of diners swelled at the sight of us, rising until it was a wave passing through the restaurant. Then it died, snuffed out by the overwhelming sense of well-being that hovered in the air.

One couple was frankly watching us, making no attempt to disguise their interest. The woman had thick white hair, and her patrician face, completely devoid of makeup, was soft and pretty despite the wrinkles. Her eyes moved slowly around our group and then settled on me and stayed there. Embarrassed, I picked up one of the tiny spring rolls the waiter had just set on the table and took a bite.

The crunch was so loud I jumped; it was almost supernaturally crisp. Then the crab inside came spilling out and I closed my eyes, allowing the sensuous flavors to permeate my body. When I opened them I found that the white-haired woman was still watching. I tossed my head and threw her a big smile. She colored and turned away.

“Okay,” I said, keeping my voice low as I went into my spiel. This was private. “Lorna, here are the ground rules. Order as much as you can eat, the more the better. You can have anything you want so long as it's different from what other people are ordering; no duplicates. If you see something that interests you, claim it quickly. The first one who calls it gets it, and I don't negotiate food fights. Any questions?”

“Yes,” she said. “What do
you
eat?”

“Whatever everyone else doesn't want. But I get to taste your food.”

“So I can have the peekytoe crab salad,” she said.

“All yours,” I said.

“I wanted that,” said Jules.

“Too late,” said Lorna.

“Okay, then I claim the oyster velouté,” he said.

“Lobster salad's mine,” said Michael quickly.

Good, I thought, that leaves the linguine with truffles for me.

“Now what about main courses,” I asked. And as I said it the white-haired woman leaned over. “Please excuse my interruption,” she began. Her voice was quite high, with an English accent that sounded more pretentious than authentic. “But you should not miss the short ribs; they're exquisite!”