Between Here and Gone

by Barbara Ferrer

  * * *

  One

  December 1964

  “Downtown …

  “Downtown …

  “Downtown …”

  “I’m Dan Daniels on WMCA, New York’s station for all your favorite hits from today and tomorrow and that was ‘Downtown,’ the brand-new single from lovely songbird, Petula Clark, and our latest Good Guys Sure Shot. How’s about a prediction that’s one song that’s gonna shoot straight to the top of the charts and have everyone dancing well into the New Year? Call in if you agree—or even if you don’t. And we want you to tell us—after ‘Auld Lang Syne’ plays and the ball drops, what song are you going to be rockin’ out to come New Year’s Eve? Call and talk to me at PL5-9622.

  “But right now, let’s take a trip down Memory Lane to February of this past year. Do you remember where you were when the lads from Liverpool debuted on Ed Sullivan with this song?”

  A moment later, the first, unmistakable notes of “All My Loving” rang out from the Philco perched in its spot on the shelf just above the big gas range, accompanied by an exuberant—and thankfully melodic—tenor.

  Remy, Remy, Remy.

  The incorrigible Creole chef was forever getting scolded for playing “that raucous children’s music” in the kitchen as opposed to the jazz that customarily played in the dining room, but the scoldings had little effect. He’d merely flash his dimpled smile with the very white, slightly crooked teeth and begin murmuring endearments and apologies equally in rapid-fire French-English patois, charming anyone within earshot and causing Mrs. Mercier to tut and shake her head, throwing up her hands as she stalked off. And peace once again would reign in the kitchen. It helped, too, that everyone, including Remy, knew his worth. Barely thirty, he was a master of his craft, wooed by restaurants throughout the city, but unfailingly loyal to Mercier’s—two facts of which Mrs. Mercier was well aware. Ultimately, if allowing him to play popular music in the kitchen stimulated the creative genius and kept him firmly planted in her kitchen, then popular music there would be.

  A plate materialized at my elbow. “A lagniappe.”

  I stared at the line of crêpes, delicate gold on the outside, thick, pale cream dotted with bits of smoked salmon and tiny peas spilling from the ends.

  “This would appear to be a good deal more than a little extra.”

  Blue eyes, so dark they almost appeared black, the illusion heightened by almost indecently thick lashes, stared unblinking—the expression in them not the slightest bit innocent. “It’s not as if the ingredients aren’t already here. Besides, you’re my guinea pig for the filling. I blended ricotta into the béchamel. If it’s good, I’ll propose we add it to the Sunday brunch menu.”

  “Well, then, so long as it’s in the pursuit of a noble cause.”

  “Absolument, chère.” A single black eyebrow rose as he glanced at the bowl before me. “What’s wrong with the soup?”

  “Nothing—as well you know. It’s not like you to fish for compliments, Remy.” Mostly because he didn’t need to.

  “Forget compliments—why ain’t you barely touched it?”

  “Because a customer came in who needed to be seated, so I’ve only just started,” I explained, suppressing a sigh as the eyebrow lowered to meet its mate in a straight line.

  “You were supposed to be on your break—” he spared a glance at the antique grandfather clock standing sentry on the landing leading up to the second floor offices, “ten minutes ago.”

  “It took but a moment.” Honestly, he had the soul of a nervous auntie. If he got it into his head, he’d go scold the other hostess on duty and the poor girl was still new. She needed more experience before being faced with Remy in temperamental chef mode.

  “Customer could have damn well waited. You act like we got but one hostess, bebe. Bad enough you wait to the end of your shifts to eat, now you lettin’ your food go cold for no damn good reason.”

  I fought a smile. “If Mrs. Mercier heard you describing her valued customers as ‘no damn good reason.’”

  “Pfft.” He shrugged, clearly unconcerned. “Go on now, eat before it goes any colder.” He turned and stalked back into the kitchen, the swish of the door swinging closed only just managing to muffle what I was quite certain was extremely colorful grumbling.

  Generally, I wasn’t prone to argument with Remy—even considering his old lady reprimands and barely-disguised ulterior motives. His ulterior motives smelled too heavenly for argument.

  And tasted entirely too heavenly. Using the side of the fork, I separated another small piece and speared it on the tines as I opened my book to the saved page and resumed reading.

  “That doesn’t look like anything on the menu.”

  Surprised, I glanced up, fork halfway to my mouth. “It’s not.”

  “Hm—if it tastes as good as it looks, perhaps it should be.”

  I carefully lowered the fork to the plate and set my book and napkin aside as I stood. “May I help you, Mr. Barnes? Was something not to your satisfaction?”

  “No, no, please—” Before I’d fully slid from behind the secluded corner table where I habitually took my meals, he was already waving me back down. “May I?” he asked, gesturing at one of the free chairs.

  “Of course.”

  Since one simply did not refuse a Barnes—not at Mercier’s, given that the venerable old restaurant had served as something of a secondary office for the equally old New York publishing family for several generations—and considering that Gregory Barnes was the scion of his distinguished family, then refusal was even less of an option. So if it was the older man’s desire to join me, then I would be gracious and accommodating, as nothing less would be expected or tolerated.

  Every bit the gentleman, he waited for me to resume my seat before taking his, nodding at the waiter who materialized at his elbow. A moment later, a Scotch and bowl of Remy’s secret recipe Creole-spiced almonds appeared.

  “Damned lunch went so long it’s practically cocktail hour anyway.”

  What, exactly, was one supposed to say to that? With no response immediately forthcoming, I settled for the polite smile and non-committal sound low in my throat—a modified, ladylike version of one Remy often used and that had served me rather well in the past. Not that Mr. Barnes seemed to expect a response, necessarily, his narrow blue gaze roving over my simple lunch setting and lingering on the book I’d placed facedown at his approach.

  “Those aren’t in the translation.”

  Delivered in cultured, well-bred tones with a hint of a question, but for the most part, definitive. I glanced down at the cover. “How did you know?” There was nothing there to even indicate what the book was other than the remnants of what had once been a gold-embossed “Guy de Maupassant.”

  His fingers drifted over the worn edge of the faded red cloth cover. “I’d love to claim tremendous powers of clairvoyance,” he finally admitted with a self-deprecating smile. “However, it’s more a simple case of observation coupled with an educated guess. I know someone who has a copy that’s near identical to this one. It happens to be in French.”

  The way his fingertips continued to gently stroke the book’s cover clearly asked—in response, I nodded, watching as he took the book and began leafing through the pages, careful to hold my place with a finger. “By whatever means you used, Mr. Barnes, as you can see, you guessed correctly.”

  I rolled the edge of my napkin between my fingers, forcing them still only when Mr. Barnes’ gaze flickered from the book to my hand.

  “Please don’t let me keep you from your meal. Remy would never forgive me.”

  “I—” I was hungry. And this was my break. The only time I’d have to myself again until late tonight. I didn’t want to be rude—couldn’t afford to be rude—but still, this was my time. Mine.

  With a deep breath, I replaced the napkin in my lap and lifted the abandoned bite of crêpe to my mouth, chewing carefully while watching Mr. Barnes from beneath my lashes.

>   “The Necklace,” he murmured quietly, flipping back to the page he’d been holding. “It’s quite the story. So much in so little.”

  “He was a master of the form.” The words were out before I could stop myself. I quickly separated another piece of crêpe and shoved it in my mouth in as ladylike a fashion as I could manage. Before I gave away anything else.

  “Indeed.” Drawing a slim silver case from the inside pocket of his jacket, he extracted a small card, using it to carefully mark the page before he closed the book and placed it between us on the table. Picking up his Scotch, he leaned back in his chair as if he had all day. Uncomfortable with someone simply watching me eat, I set my fork on my plate and pushed it slightly to one side before picking up my water glass.

  “Wine?” Again, Gregory Barnes surprised me. Treating me almost like … well, if not a social equal, then at the very least a respected guest. But that was backwards. Here, he was the guest. And while once upon a time I might have been his social equal, those days were very long gone and it could only serve me well to remember that.

  “Thank you, sir, but—”

  “I asked Marguerite if you were still on the clock,” he interrupted, bringing a more immediate worry to mind. Why had he been discussing me with Mrs. Mercier? “She told me that without fail, you save your meal break for the very end of your shift. Ergo, technically, you’re no longer on the clock.” With another one of those subtle gestures with which men in power seemed to be singularly gifted, he waved the waiter over and murmured, “Pinot gris for the young lady,” while I was still trying to formulate a polite refusal. Especially given the glance the waiter shot my way. He was going to have to work on his discretion, that one. I could only hope he wouldn’t immediately go play town crier in the kitchen, but I knew better.

  “Seriously, Natalie, please eat. If I imagine that Remy wouldn’t forgive me, then I know Marguerite would have my hide if she thought I was keeping you from your meal. She’s liable to sign me up for a dish-washing stint.” He waited until the waiter deposited the small goblet by my elbow and melted into the shadows that blanketed the restaurant in this quiet time as afternoon blended into evening. Defeated, I lifted my goblet and touched it to his already raised glass, the light chime continuing to ring as I took a sip, holding it on my tongue.

  Oh my. Oh … my. My entire body felt as if it was sighing in pleasure. Just this once couldn’t hurt, could it?

  “Why in French?”

  I was beginning to get the distinct impression that Mr. Barnes’ mind was akin to a firefly, the lightning-quick manner in which it flitted from question to question. However, I also had the distinct impression that there was a rather deliberate method behind the seeming randomness. And that he wouldn’t let go until he got the answers he sought. After all, one did not become the scion of a successful family without a certain tenacity, no?

  “There’s a certain rhythm to the romance languages.” Resigned to the conversation, resigned to this whole … whatever this was, I pulled my plate close and resumed eating. “And a purity of thought and intent when a story is told in its native language that I feel is often lost within translation. To me, there’s no way you can truly grasp the author’s meaning—the vision he was trying to convey, when you’re reading it …” I paused, momentarily struggling for the words. “Secondhand, I suppose would be the best way to express it.”

  “Interesting insight.”

  And there it was left, with not a one of the barrage of questions for which I’d steeled myself. After all, how many restaurant hostesses, no matter how cultured the restaurant, spent their breaks reading French short stories? Then again, how many patrons of such restaurants even bothered noticing the hostesses at all, let alone what they were reading? One of the reasons I’d always felt safe doing so. However, all Mr. Barnes did was take another sip of his Scotch and leisurely pick through the almonds in the bowl, popping the occasional nut into his mouth as I finished my meal.

  I did have a brief moment of wondering if I’d revealed too much. But it was just as quickly dismissed. What possible harm could come from his knowing I read fluent French?

  “Don’t you like the wine? I’m sorry—I should have asked. My wife says I don’t know when to leave the boss persona behind and behave like a normal human.”

  I stared into the shimmering pale gold depths of my nearly full glass and relaxed marginally. “No sir, the wine is wonderful.” I took another sip, simply because to not, would be an insult to both Mr. Barnes and the wine. “It’s just I can’t afford to indulge overmuch. I may be off the clock here, but I do have another job.”

  “Now?” He pushed back his sleeve and glanced down at his watch, while I fought back an unexpected pang at the sight of the mellow gold and cream-colored face of the Patek Phillipe. A near-twin to Papi’s. The one he’d worn every day I could remember until … he didn’t any longer.

  “But it’s going on five.”

  “Which means I run the risk of being late if I don’t get going. If you’ll excuse me—”

  “Of course.” Automatically, he rose as I did. Taking my dishes, I went into the kitchen, where I left them beside the washing station with a murmured thanks before going to collect my belongings. On my way back from the employees’ coat closet, I paused by the break room where Remy sat alone, staring off into space as he smoked. A rarity—to see him so still, head tilted back, eyes nearly closed, aromatic smoke cloaking him in a filmy gray veil. An amorphous wall that few dared breach. I dared, because I knew he didn’t mind if it was me. However, in deference to his stillness, I kept my voice soft.

  “Thank you again for the crêpes, Remy. They were wonderful.”

  His head inclined slightly. “You’ll tell me more what you thought?”

  “Absolument. Tomorrow. I promise.”

  Another nod, then casually, still staring off into a distance only he could see, asked, “What’d Greg Barnes want with you?”

  If I was one of the few who could disturb Remy during a break, then he was one of the few who’d dare ask anything so personal. As well as being one of the even fewer to whom I’d give any answer beyond a mind your business stare.

  “I have no idea. Asked about the book I was reading.”

  “Plying you with wine just to ask about some book?” The corner of Remy’s mouth twitched as he brought the cigarette up and took another leisurely drag. “That’s a new approach.”

  I suppressed a sigh as I fumbled with the pins to my hat. “Honestly, Remy—just because you’re utterly debauched doesn’t mean the rest of the world is.” I closed the distance between us and leaned down to drop a quick kiss on each shadowed cheek. “À bientôt.”

  “À bientôt, chère. You behave now, you hear?”

  “As if I know any other way to be. Besides, how much trouble could I possibly get in between now and tomorrow?”

  “You should let me show you someday.” Dimples flashed in the grin that Mrs. Mercier likened to the devil’s own. “You off uptown?”

  “Last time before the holidays.”

  “Well, you take care when you head back home. People like to go crazy, this time of year.”

  “Speaking from experience, Remy?”

  That disgusted noise rumbled low in his throat as he stood and put a hand to my back, shooing me out the door. “Get on with you, girl. And be careful.”

  Smiling, I returned to the near-deserted dining room, where I found Mr. Barnes leaning against the brass-railed bar near the front door, wearing a black topcoat and appearing as if he was also finally leaving as well.

  “Where are you headed?”

  Why?

  But I merely replied, “Uptown.”

  “Pleasant coincidence. I’ll give you a lift.”

  I tugged on my black gloves, lacing my fingers together and pushing until the soft leather molded itself to my skin. “Mr. Barnes, truly, that’s not necessary—”

  He took my coat from the stool on which I’d draped it and held it open.
“I interrupted your meal and played Twenty Questions when I’m sure you would much rather have been reading and relishing some downtime. If I’d had any idea you had another job to get to, I would have never—”

  “Sir, really—”

  “Natalie, grant me this small favor, please? Ease my conscience. If I go home feeling guilty about having potentially made you late, especially with the weather worsening, and my wife picks up on it, then I’ll have to confess all and risk never hearing the end of it.” His voice rose slightly in pitch. “How on earth could you jeopardize that girl’s job, Greg? Don’t you understand that other people have lives that don’t operate by the same rules as yours, you overprivileged nitwit?”

  I smothered a laugh into my gloved fist. “Your wife would say that to you? Those exact words?”

  “Oh no.” He smiled, years and end-of-the-day weariness falling away. “That’s the censored version. Her actual words would be far more … colorful.”

  This time, my laugh escaped freely. “She sounds—”

  “Headstrong?” he broke in, his smile broadening a notch.

  I lowered my head to fasten the large jet buttons on my coat. “Actually, I was going to say interesting.”

  “She has to be both, marrying into and staying one step ahead of my family. Not to mention, run a household, raise three sons, and deal with me.”

  The fond, exasperated manner in which he spoke of family struck another unexpected pang, this one sharp enough to leave behind a physical ache.

  “So please—” He held the door—and my gaze. “It would honestly be a favor.”

  Years of being schooled in precisely the right thing to do and say asserted themselves, much as they had at so many crucial times before. Shoving the ache of memory deep to the recesses of my brain where all the others lived, I nodded and said, “Of course. Thank you very much.”

  “No—thank you.” He gestured toward the long, black Lincoln at the curb, a driver standing beside the open back door. Once ensconced inside, Mr. Barnes turned to me. “Where to?”

  “Upper East Side. Concord School.” I didn’t bother with a street address. People of Gregory Barnes’ stature knew precisely where Concord was. Even mere peons knew where Concord was. An athletic powerhouse of a private school housed in elegant brick buildings cloaked in ivy and old money.