by Ruth Reichl
Your friend,
Lulu
“That’s exactly how I felt when Genie died,” I told Sammy. “Like nothing good was ever going to happen to me again.”
“I understand.” He said it with such compassion that I knew he really did. “That was my experience over Christmas. I felt I had made a false turn and was now doomed to the dark side of the street. Despair is a terrible ailment.” There was a short silence, and then Sammy cleared his throat. “Is there another letter?”
“Four,” I said.
He took my hand. “Not another word until we have read them all.”
DECEMBER 9, 1945
Dear Mr. Beard,
We’ve had no news from the government, and I’m beginning to wish they’d declare Father dead. Is that a terrible thing for me to say? I know it’s horrid, and I don’t think very highly of myself, but my main concern is Mother. All this uncertainty is hard on her. Yesterday, while we were washing the dishes, Bing Crosby came on the radio, singing “White Christmas,” and Mother stood at the sink and just burst into tears. It made me remember the last Christmas before the war, when Father came home with the radio; it was a present from his boss. When he turned it on, “Chattanooga Choo Choo” was playing, and he bowed to Mother and said, “Madam, may I have this dance?” Then he twirled her around the kitchen until they were both laughing so hard they ran out of breath and had to stop. I know we’re just two little people in Ohio and that they have many things to worry about in Washington, but it’s mean of them to keep us in the dark.
Mother’s still looking for a job, but with all the returning soldiers she’s had no luck. She comes home so discouraged every night, and although she tries to keep it from me, I know she’s terribly worried about money. The other night I invited Mr. Jones to dinner, and when Mother saw that I was planning on stuffed pork chops, her mouth got tight and she said that just because rationing was over it didn’t mean we can afford meat. Still, she put on a nice dress and even some lipstick before he came, so I don’t think she was very upset.
Your friend,
Lulu
JANUARY 6, 1946
Dear Mr. Beard,
I hope you don’t mind; I took the chocolates you sent from Paris to the Cappuzzellis’ when we went for Christmas dinner. At first Mrs. C. didn’t want to take them—she said you meant them for me—but I told her they’d taste much better if we all shared. Good chocolate’s still impossible to get here, and they were such a treat!
Mrs. C. invited Tommy too, but he had to stay home with his family; it’s their first Christmas together since before the war. She also invited Mr. Jones. “So sad, a bachelor man, all alone at the holidays,” she said. Then she patted my cheek and added that she didn’t think he’d be alone long.
After dinner, we all went to midnight Mass at St. Anthony of Padua Church. Mother doesn’t have a great regard for Catholics, and I was surprised when she agreed. But the church was beautiful, all marble and lit by candles, and Mother closed her eyes as she listened to the choir. In that moment her face was peaceful, the way it used to be before Father left. I said a little prayer then, just for him.
So it was an almost-happy Christmas after all. I hope yours was too.
Your friend,
Lulu
FEBRUARY 4, 1946
Dear Mr. Beard,
We’ve sold our house. It happened so fast! Mother decided that, with housing so short, selling would be the patriotic thing to do. She put a notice in the paper, and the next morning there were lines of people at the door.
Next week we’ll move out of Elizabeth Park Valley into a little apartment over in North Hill. We were very lucky to find a place to rent, even a small, dark one, and I try not to let Mother see how unhappy I am. But the rent is low, and the kitchen has modern appliances (although I’m not sure how I feel about that new electric stove). Mr. Jones says I’m welcome to use his kitchen anytime I like.
I know that, come spring, I’ll miss my garden. Tommy says I can plant one at his house, but that would mean putting up with Joe, who just gets meaner all the time. And I’m not so sure Mrs. Stroh would like it; now that we’re poor, she’s not nearly as nice to me.
I like knowing you’re back in New York. Maybe someday we’ll finally meet? Then again, maybe we’d better not. What if we found out we didn’t like each other after all?
Your friend,
Lulu
AUGUST 1946
Dear Mr. Beard,
Television! You’re going to be on television! I can hardly wait. Mr. Jones has a television, which is a lucky thing, because Mother would never allow me to go to a bar, even to watch you. She and Tommy and I—and as many of the Cappuzzellis as can fit into Mr. Jones’s living room—are going over to watch I Love to Eat. Isn’t it strange? I feel as if we’re finally about to meet.
I’ll write the minute the broadcast is over.
Your friend,
Lulu
“That was the last one,” said Sammy. “Does that mean that Lulu failed to keep her promise to pen a post-broadcast missive?”
“Maybe it’s somewhere else.”
“How very disappointing! I wonder if Anne has any knowledge of what happened next,” Sammy mused as he escorted me to the door. “First thing in the morning I shall call to inquire. And I promise to inform you without delay.”
I had barely arrived at the mansion the next morning before Sammy called to say that Anne could not recall a letter about the broadcast. “However,” he said gleefully, “she informed me that there is at least one more letter. Lulu wrote it after her meeting with the great man.”
“She met him?”
“Apparently, although it was considerably later; Anne says there was an interlude of several years.”
“Did Anne know if Father had turned up? Did Mother find a job?”
“I regret to inform you that Anne has no recollection of the contents of the letter. And,” he sounded slightly worried, “she also broached the subject of ownership. She thinks it would be prudent to investigate to whom the letters belong.”
“They’re historical documents. Why would they belong to someone?”
“Anne informs me that everything belongs to someone. She suggested that we consult a lawyer at the earliest possible opportunity. There could be important implications.”
“I’ll call Dad,” I said, although I couldn’t see how it would matter; the copyright had to have run out. “But I can’t do it right now. The decorators have arrived.” The bell was ringing, and I had an appointment to keep.
Some Pickles
AT NOON I WAS STANDING AT THE DOOR OF THE SALON, MY HAND on the door where Eva, Eva, Eva was written in swirling letters on the glass. A woman with thick blond hair came out, and as I stepped aside to let her pass, I scrutinized her. The waves that fell to her shoulders made no attempt to look natural, and her wide black brows and chunky glasses gave her a kind of sassy confidence that thumbed its nose at nature. She wasn’t pretty, but she caught your eye and kept it.
Now she caught me staring. “Is it that bad?”
“No. It’s gorgeous. Really.”
“I don’t know.” She sounded unsure. “I look so different from the way I did when I walked in.… ”
“I wonder if she’ll do as well with me?”
“Only one way to find out.” The stranger held the door open. “It’s not like a tat or getting pierced or something. It’s a minor commitment. It grows out.”
Three hours later, I was certain that everyone was looking at me the way I had looked at that girl. Eva had cut my hair short, shooing away my protests as she feathered it around my face. “You have such beautiful cheekbones,” she murmured as she clipped. “You want to emphasize them. And those eyes …” She’d performed some kind of complicated, time-consuming procedure involving foils, cotton, and brushes, but when she was done, my hair had turned into a fluffy halo, a riot of golds and bronzes winking and glittering in the light. I reached up, loving the smooth silky
feel beneath my fingers.
“Let me do your makeup.” I tried to rise from the chair, but Eva gently pushed me back. “It’ll be my gift. I can’t bear to see you wasting those eyes.”
“They’re so boring.” I stared into the mirror. Even without the heavy glasses, they were just plain brown.
“Wait.” She whirled the chair around so I could watch. It didn’t take long, but when she was done, my eyes had become a smoky bourbon. They were huge now, and she had painted my mouth a subtle pink, emphasizing how generous it is. I stood up and stared at the stranger in the mirror, at her streaked hair and elegant clothes.
I decided that it wasn’t pretty that I felt, but confident. If I saw this girl walking down the street, I’d think she was cool, that she led a fascinating life. She looked nothing like the real me. But maybe most people were crouching behind a façade. Maybe inside the sleek Joan-Mary was a frightened little person. Was that why Sammy had adopted his uniform of tweeds? Did they give him courage? Maybe that was why he talked the way he did. Maybe everyone was scared.
The sun was high when I left the salon, making the sidewalks sparkle. I walked slowly, savoring the warmth, catching my reflection in the windows I passed, still not quite a believer. I could feel people’s eyes on me—the tall black man bouncing on the balls of his feet as we waited for the light, the construction workers leaning on their jackhammers, the pair of teenage girls who looked up from their texting—and it felt strange to be so visible. I’d thought that I would hate it, but I was wrong. It felt good to be part of this bright spring day.
I got back to the mansion to find the formerly spare lobby sporting long drapes on the windows and a Turkish rug on the floor. A pair of matching sofas upholstered in red velvet faced the grandfather clock, which was surrounded by framed art and tasteful plants. The overall effect was so appealingly old-fashioned that you half-expected Edith Wharton to come waltzing down the graceful staircase.
I walked upstairs to find an even more remarkable transformation. The offices had been turned back into bedrooms, and my office, which remained untouched, now seemed sadly out of place. I found Alex kneeling by a high, canopied four-poster in Jake’s office, tacking down a rug. He grinned sheepishly. “I think we might have gone a little overboard.” He hammered in another tack. “Is it too much? This is the first time we’ve worked for Joan-Mary, and we’re trying to make a good impression. Wait until you see the dining room!”
He led me proudly up the stairs to the old photo studio, which now contained the largest table I’d ever seen. “Seats thirty-six,” he said proudly. “Forty in a pinch. I’ve been dying to find a room large enough for it. Think what a wonderful embassy this would make—that huge kitchen’s perfect for catering.” He gave me a small apologetic smile. “But it’s taking longer than we expected, and I’m afraid we haven’t started up on four.”
“I’m in no hurry.”
“Don’t worry, we shouldn’t be more than a couple of hours. We’ll save upstairs for tomorrow. We’re not planning to do much up there; I want to turn the open space into a child’s playroom, which won’t take much more than an antique rocking horse and an old cradle. The library, of course, is gorgeous exactly the way it is.”
While I waited for the decorators to finish, I called Dad. He listened quietly, but when he spoke, it was as if he were talking to a client. “The physical letters belong to Pickwick Publications. No question about that. But that doesn’t mean they can publish them; they don’t own the copyright.”
“You mean because the letters were written to Beard? So the copyright belongs to his estate?”
“No. Lulu wrote the letters, so the copyright remains with her. You would need her permission to publish.”
“We’re not sure she’s alive.”
“In that case, the rights revert to her heirs.”
“What about the letters Beard wrote to her?”
“Do you have any reason to believe she has them?”
“Of course she does!” I was positive about that. “She would have kept them.”
“You may be right. But although she owns the physical letters—”
“I know, I know. The copyright belongs to the Beard estate. I wish I’d mentioned this to you before; I never thought we’d have to worry about the copyright on something so old.”
Dad didn’t seem worried. “I wouldn’t be too concerned. Once you find them, I imagine that the heirs will be thrilled by what you’ve found. The Beard estate as well. It’s a charming story.”
I hung up and spent a long time considering this new problem. Even if we never found the last letter, we now had enough letters to make a wonderful article; I was sure I could find a place to publish it. But I couldn’t do that until I located Lulu or her heirs. Where to begin …
I called Sammy and told him what Dad had said.
“This is worrisome,” he replied.
“I know. We don’t even know where to start looking for Lulu.”
“Not that.” His voice was testy. “I have no doubt that we shall find a solution to that particular problem. What worries me is that you have not uttered a single word about your session with Eva. Is the result absolutely odious?”
“I don’t think so,” I said. “But you’ll have to see for yourself.”
“I am longing to do that. Unfortunately, I shall have to postpone that pleasure until tomorrow. Anne Milton has invited me to dine with her.”
He said it hesitantly, letting me know that he was afraid my feelings would be hurt. But I was relieved; I needed time to get used to the haircut. “It’s better that way,” I confessed. “I’m so nervous about the way I look that I called Sal and Rosalie and told them I couldn’t work this weekend. You know what it’s like there; all the regulars will want to discuss it.”
“Very wise,” he said. And then, obviously struck by a thought, he added mournfully, “But I suppose that tonight you will be depending upon Mr. Ming for sustenance. I must confess that I find your reliance upon mediocre Chinese food utterly deplorable!”
IT WAS A SHOCK to wake up the next morning and find yesterday’s stranger in the mirror. I made faces at her, smiling, frowning, turning this way and that, trying to decide if I liked her. “It’s not a tattoo.” I said it out loud. “Not permanent.”
Mitch would probably show up today, and I found myself reaching for the chiffon dress Hermione had forced on me. In the end I pulled the severe gray jacket over the frothy material, rolling up the sleeves. I added a pair of leggings and simple black ballet shoes. I picked up my bag, scrambled for my keys, and went outside, feeling alternately abashed and buoyant. But it was spring, the air was sweet, and I walked all the way to the mansion.
I found Mitch sitting on the top step. “Glad to see you don’t take a cab every day.” He stood up. “Wow! You cut your hair!”
I hoped he didn’t think I’d done it for him. I could feel myself begin to blush.
“Looks good.” He moved on; apparently it didn’t strike him as such a big deal. “I promised Joan-Mary I’d come see what her stagers have done. She gave me a key, but I didn’t want to frighten you.” He needed no excuse for his presence, and it made me smile; had he wanted to see me? “She’s never used them before, and if it’s a disaster she wants to be prepared.”
I opened the door, turned on the lights, and let him into the refurbished lobby. I couldn’t tell anything from his expression. He walked slowly around, pulling back the drapes, testing the sofas, peering at the plants. He went up to the grandfather clock and put his head against the cabinet, listening to the whir of the wheels.
“Alex was afraid they’d overdone it,” I offered.
“I’d say so.” I still couldn’t tell if he approved. “I can’t wait to see what they’ve done upstairs.”
“Be my guest.” I scooped up the mail and headed for the stairs. “I’ve got work to do.”
He followed me up, notebook in hand, and as I went to my office I heard him moving in and out of the roo
ms along the hall. He was very thorough, and it was a few hours before he reached my end of the corridor, moving purposefully through my workspace into Jake’s office.
After a few minutes, I went in and found him standing in front of the fireplace, inspecting the mantel.
“What’re you looking at?”
He pointed to a deep fissure running across the front. “This should be replaced. It’s the kind of detail that makes people begin to worry about the cracks they can’t see. I could repair it in a few hours.” He added it to what appeared to be a long list, then shoved the notebook into his shirt pocket and turned to me. “Are you hungry? I think it’s warm enough to eat outside. Let’s go see.”
The gardeners had raked the yard and put down sod; the decorators had added a little stone table. The spring sun was shining hesitantly through the clouds, and forsythia glowed around the perimeter of the yard, making the air seem warmer. “Definitely picnic weather,” he said. “Where do you usually order from?” We were still debating take-out options when Sammy showed up, carrying a large wicker basket.
“I could not allow another minute to pass without seeing you!” He set the basket dramatically down on the table. He scrutinized me for a moment and then said, in a low voice only I could hear, “I have underrated Thursday, I had my doubts about relying upon her judgment, but I see my worries were in vain. I heartily approve.” He held out a hand to Mitch, saying in a louder voice, “I am Sammy Stone.”
“Mitch Hammond.” I wondered if Sammy had come to inspect me or Mitch. Both, I thought.
“Pleased to meet you.” Sammy was now appraising Mitch. “Billie mentioned your participation in this project.” He pointed to the basket. “If you would care to partake of our repast, we would be delighted.” He began to pull out covered dishes and set them on the table.
“Is there enough?”
Sammy gave him a withering look, unwrapping cold chicken, fragrant with lemon and garlic, hard-boiled eggs, and jars of homemade pickles. He’d brought a pitcher of fresh lemonade and brownies for dessert.