by Ruth Reichl
“No problem. It is, after all, the weekend.” He handed her a sheet of paper. “I’ve made a list of recommendations. And there’s a preliminary appraisal too.”
She stood up, all business now, folding the papers into her purse and pulling out her phone. She began to punch in numbers. “Do nothing till you hear from me. I’m going to try to tell him in person.” She walked out, and as her voice disappeared down the hall, we could hear her asking Young Arthur if he could see her in the next half hour.
“She didn’t even ask to see the secret room!” Her lack of curiosity shocked me.
“She’s in crisis mode.” Mitch shrugged into his jacket. “Trying to save the sale. I should go as well.” Suddenly he too was all business. “I left your folders on the first table in the library. You can’t miss them.” His tone didn’t change, but now his eyes caught mine. “We still have that rain check?”
“Not tonight. Sammy and I have to copy the letters. We can’t do it with all these people running in and out, and I don’t think we can risk putting it off. We’ll have to do it tonight.”
He studied me for a moment, and I knew he was trying to decide whether this was my attempt to put some distance between us. Then he reached out very deliberately and put his hand on my arm. We both could feel the jolt of electricity that passed between us. “Does this frighten you? I certainly didn’t expect it, and it scares me too. But those are the things that always turn out to be worth doing. So I’m not about to let this go. I wish I could cook for you tomorrow, but I promised to go visit my parents in New Jersey. So we’ll have to wait till Monday.”
“You’re cooking?” I asked, trying to lighten the mood. I wondered if he’d read me right, seen something I wasn’t prepared to admit, even to myself. It would be so much easier to end it here, before it had a chance to hurt. If I was honest, the thought of a relationship filled me with terror.
“I’m a good cook. You’ll see. Come right after work. I’ll text you the address; it’s not far from Fontanari’s.” He didn’t linger over the kiss and left quickly—afraid, I thought, to give me time to change my mind.
—
I HAD SO MUCH TO DO. I should call Sammy. But for the longest time I did nothing, just sat at my desk, thinking about last night, wondering about the future. I think I might have dreamed the entire day away if I had not been interrupted by the sound of footsteps in the hall. Pulling myself together, I went to investigate. To my surprise, I found Young Arthur.
I hadn’t seen him since the day he’d closed the magazine, and he obviously didn’t recognize me. He made a strange little startled motion, and I realized that he had not, of course, expected to find anyone working on a weekend. “I’m Billie Breslin,” I said quickly, “the one who’s here for the Delicious! Guarantee.”
“Oh, yes,” he said absently. “I’d forgotten.” It occurred to me that he might not even know that it was Saturday. “You’ve heard about our hidden assets?” He was wearing some kind of cologne that made the back of my throat prickle.
I nodded. “Pretty exciting.”
“Some might consider it so.” He walked into my office and stood looking speculatively around him, and when he spoke it was more to himself than to me. “But from my perspective, it makes things rather complicated. The realtor tells me a fast sale is almost impossible now; nobody wants to be burdened with a lot of red tape. I thought I’d just come see this bit of history for myself.”
Young Arthur ambled into Jake’s old office, peering around as if he’d never seen it before. He sat down briefly on the big four-poster and gave a little bounce, like a kid testing a mattress. He got up and ran his finger across the long crack on the mantel, and I remembered what Mitch had said. Then he went over to the window and gazed down at the garden, where the forsythia was now a riot of yellow. Abruptly, he turned and walked out. I thought he’d forgotten I was there. I could hear him climb ponderously up the stairs, hear him move into the library. He didn’t linger; five minutes later, when I heard his descending footsteps, I finally punched Sammy’s number into my phone.
—
MY MIND WANDERED as I read him the last letter, the night coming back to me in staccato flashes, a tumble of remembered sensations. Mitch’s arms around me, his voice in my ear, and the way our bodies fit together.
“Read it once more.”
I jerked back to the present, focusing on the words this time. Lulu, I thought, had acquired a mature generosity she hadn’t had before. “ ‘Wherever he is, I hope that he is happy,’ ” I repeated. “Do you think she really believes that he’s alive?”
But Sammy had heard something else. “He took her to Le Pavillon!” His voice was dreamy and very far away. “I always longed to go there.”
“Was it famous?”
On the other end of the phone, there was a tiny hiss of horror. “Famous?” His voice broke. “My dear, it was much more than that: It was important. It was perhaps the premier restaurant of the last century. In 1939, the French government dispatched Henri Soulé to New York with orders to establish a restaurant on the grounds of the World’s Fair. They offered him carte blanche; his only mission was to demonstrate the superiority of true French cuisine. Soulé marshaled a band of superb chefs, conveyed them to New York, and created an enormous sensation. His success was so complete that the government sent them back the subsequent summer. Then disaster struck: The war started while they were on this continent. Stuck in New York, the entire crew launched an establishment of their own. Imagine how Lulu must have felt, walking into the most celebrated restaurant in the universe.”
“She didn’t seem overwhelmed.”
“Soulé obviously looked upon her with approbation. He was famous for that; he scrutinized each customer, singling out favored patrons as ‘members of the club.’ His criteria were inscrutable; he never elucidated how he knew whom to lionize. It had nothing to do with either fame or fortune; it was just what he called ‘a feeling.’ ”
Le Pavillon was Sammy’s kind of place.
“Lulu obviously found favor with the great man; what would I not give to learn how her life turned out.”
“Well, we do know some things. We know that Mother and Mr. Jones got together.”
“Predictable.” He was dismissive. “I anticipated that some time ago. Is it fair to conjecture that Lulu married Tommy?”
“I doubt it. People don’t usually end up with their high school boyfriends.”
“You may be right.” Sammy’s voice sharpened. “May I ask where you found the letter?”
I told him. “What an ignoramus I am!” he cried. “We have been speculating about the Underground Railroad for months.”
“Mitch figured it out too,” I said, telling how he’d come barging in.
“How terrifying! You must have been petrified—alone in Anzio under enemy attack.”
“It wasn’t fun!”
“Are you quite certain of that?” There was a knowing tone in his voice.
I felt a little glow of happiness. This time it wasn’t the memory of Mitch: It was the fact that Sammy knew me so well.
Well enough to ask no further questions. “We had best scan the letters with alacrity. Shall I come now?”
“I don’t think we’d better risk it. The stagers are coming back today. Maybe Young Arthur too. And I have no idea when Joan-Mary might decide to return to take a look at Anzio and the oven.”
“Given the hullabaloo surrounding the mansion, it would be unwise to risk a daytime foray. Shall we make it a late-night mission?”
“Great minds think alike.”
“Excellent.” His voice became brisk. “Shall we say ten P.M., at the mansion?”
“Aren’t we being formal.”
“My dear girl, would you have it any other way?”
Human Resources
“ONE THIRTY-SIX A.M.” SAMMY LAID THE COPY OF LULU’S LAST letter carefully into the box. It just fit. “Have you received another message?”
“He must have
gone to bed.” Mitch had been texting little messages all night, informing me of the unspeakable things he was doing to Amy.
“I like your young man.” Sammy closed the two boxes we had filled and began gathering up the folders. “Let us return the originals to their proper place.”
We carried the folders back to Anzio, pushing them onto the shelves. When we were done, we stood in the doorway, taking in our surroundings. The tiny room stared back at us, bland and silent, its single bulb hanging motionless. Sammy sighed. “We will probably never see this again.” I took out my phone and snapped a picture, trying to memorize the dense, almost physical feeling of quiet and the pleasantly musty smell. Sammy reached for my hand. “We have been happy here,” he said simply.
Outside, it had begun to drizzle, and we hailed a taxi, the cab shooting through rain-slicked streets. We slid along watery reds and greens, the changing lights captured in the canvas of wet tar. It was very still, the sidewalks empty, with only the occasional cab nosing south. “New York seems such an oasis in the middle of the night.” Sammy had his face pressed against the window. “For this moment, we alone possess the city.”
The doorman came out, umbrella raised, to help unload the boxes. I started to climb back into the cab, but Sammy stopped me. “Stay.” He handed the driver a fistful of bills. “Please? Solitude is not my preference. Not tonight.”
I was relieved. I didn’t want to be alone either, and I trailed Sammy through his elegant lobby, thinking gratefully of silk pillows and velvet quilts. I had no idea what tomorrow would bring, but for tonight I was grateful to find shelter here.
SAMMY MADE ME BREAKFAST the next morning; while I ate, he called Anne to suggest she contact Young Arthur first thing Monday morning. “If you inform him of the valuable letters secreted in the library and offer to catalog them, gratis, you may be able to rescue them from a terrible fate.” They were still strategizing when I left. I went home, grateful I’d told Sal and Rosalie that I wouldn’t be in. So much had happened during the last week, and the day stretched before me, blissfully empty.
“You sound happy.” Dad always called on Sunday. “Did something happen?”
“Not really.” Was it that obvious? “It’s just spring. The weather’s been beautiful. Everybody in the city’s happy.” I wasn’t ready to talk about any of the past few days’ events. Not yet. I got on the subway and rode all the way out to Flushing, losing myself in a neighborhood so foreign I might have been in Hong Kong or Seoul. I wandered for hours, going in and out of exotic malls. When I got home I took a long hot shower, ordered a major Ming feast, washed it down with half a bottle of wine, and went to bed early.
In the morning I looked longingly at the chiffon dress, wishing I hadn’t been wearing it the other night; it made me feel so good. But I didn’t want Mitch to think I wore it every day, so I pulled on the orange leggings, the short red skirt, and the T-shirt that looked like mother-of-pearl. I glanced in the mirror—did I look okay?—and then treated myself to a cab. I was feeling oddly fragile, worrying about what the day would bring, nervous about tonight’s dinner with Mitch. Sure enough, just as the cab pulled up to the mansion, my phone began to ring and I saw that it was Mitch’s number. Was he calling to cancel?
“Have a nice time at your parents’?” I asked.
“I can’t tell you how much I’d rather have been with you. But that’s not why I’m calling. I’m calling to admit that you were right to blow me off and copy your letters the other night. Pickwick apparently spent yesterday camped out at the Timbers Mansion, and now he’s decided not to sell. He’s on his way over, as we speak, with his personal decorator.”
“How do you know?”
“He asked me to meet them there. Joan-Mary suggested that my services might be useful.”
“Poor Joan-Mary; she’s worked so hard. She must be furious.”
“It comes with the territory. It’s a tough business. And it wasn’t all for nothing; he’ll recommend her to his rich friends.”
“I’m beginning to see why she considered Anzio and the oven a nuisance.”
“As far as I’m concerned …” He paused for a fraction of a second, and I could feel him weighing the wisdom of whatever he was about to say. He chanced it. “The way I see it, this was the universe’s way of throwing us together. If Pickwick Publications hadn’t put the house on the market, you and I would have spent the rest of our lives sniping at each other at Fontanari’s.”
I had to admire the way he went for it. “Yeah, I might never have known there was more to you than a great big complainer.”
“I think that’s my cue to hang up.”
Ruby was right behind him, calling to warn me that Young Arthur was on his way. “Mr. Pickwick says he’s going to restore the building to its former glory, whatever that means.” I could hear her settling into her chair, preparing for a good gossip. “You should have heard him; he sounded almost normal.”
“He’s turning the Timbers Mansion into a museum?”
“Not a chance. He’s turning it into corporate headquarters. Thinks it will be classy. He keeps comparing it to Gracie Mansion. And listen to this: He’s renaming the place Pickwick House.”
“He can’t do that; it’s always been the Timbers Mansion.”
“According to him, the Pickwicks have been there longer than the Timbers family ever was and they should have renamed it a long time ago. Anyway, some historian just called—she sounded like an old lady—to say there are some kind of valuable letters hidden in the library. Sounds dicey to me, but she apparently knew one of the librarians in the deep dark past. Odd, isn’t it, that she called today of all days? She wants to catalog them, and the lawyers think there might be a tax advantage.”
Anne had lost no time; she was worried that they might throw the letters away before she could get to them.
“So,” Ruby continued, “be prepared. He’s meeting the historian there. And he’s got some other weirdos coming too. That decorator he’s so in love with, who thinks she’s God’s gift to the universe. His architect and an architectural historian, whatever that is.”
Ruby was still talking when the downstairs door opened. From the sound of the voices, there were three of them, but by the time they came up the stairs, reinforcements had arrived. As they came down the hall, I went to the door, trying to see who was there. Anne gave me a surreptitious wave behind Young Arthur’s back. Mitch did too. The man with the shock of pure white hair over a startlingly young face must be the architect. The aloof young black woman had to be the decorator, and the harried-looking girl at her side, scribbling furiously on a pad, her assistant.
Young Arthur spotted me in the doorway. He seemed as surprised to see me as he had on Saturday. He’d obviously forgotten that I worked there. “What about her?” he asked the black woman, jabbing a thumb in my direction.
“I can’t have anyone in the Timbers Mansion while I’m working.” Ruby was right; she did have a lordly manner. She turned to the assistant. “She’ll have to be moved. Call Ruby and have her arrange it with someone in HR.” As the entourage swept on to Jake’s office, Anne carefully avoided eye contact, but Mitch wiggled his eyebrows at me, and I covered my mouth, trying not to laugh.
In the next room, Mitch and the architect conferred while Young Arthur told the decorator how he wanted his office to be furnished. As I listened to him going on about desks, sofas, and bookcases, it hit me that Delicious! would disappear with the Timbers Mansion. Work uptown in the corporate offices? I’d been wondering how I would know when it was time to go. When Young Arthur and his entourage left the premises, I picked up the phone, called the main number at Pickwick Publications, and asked for Human Resources. I was done.
The woman I spoke with seemed flustered. “So you’re giving two weeks’ notice?”
“No. I’d like today to be my last.” Sal had always said he’d hire me full-time at Fontanari’s.
“You’re the only one in the building, as I understand it,” she said
, and the hesitation in her voice made me realize that she didn’t know what to do. “I’m going to have to put you on hold.”
It was at least five minutes before she came back on the line. “We’re sending someone right down,” she told me. “He’ll do an exit interview and answer any questions you might have. He’ll be there within the hour.”
“You have created a dilemma,” said Sammy when I described the conversation. I could almost see him rubbing his hands with delight. “There are no instructions in the rule book to cover this particular situation. Naturally they want to ensure that you do not abscond with company property. Some flunky will take possession of your computer and formally escort you from the premises. You have precious little time. Do not waste another moment conversing with me.”
“What do I have to do?”
Sammy was unusually succinct. “Erase your electronic footprints. Delete your emails. And be certain to copy every telephone number and email address that may prove useful in the future.”
“Like what?”
“It would be wise to ascertain that we have a means of communicating with all our former colleagues. There are certainly some numbers you neglected to put into your cell.” A note of exasperation crept into his voice. “You have merely to peruse your Rolodex. The worthwhile numbers will immediately make themselves known. Cease this dawdling!”
Next I texted Dad and Aunt Melba.
“About time you left that miserable job!” Aunt Melba’s reply was almost instant.
Dad’s came right behind it. “Melba’s right. Come on home!”
“No,” I texted back. “I’m going to Akron. I have to find Lulu. At least, I have to try.”
“How exciting,” was Aunt Melba’s immediate response. “I have a feeling you’re going to find her. I’m so curious what she’ll be like.”
Dad’s response, typically, was more measured. “Do your best. But please don’t expect too much. A lot of years have passed, and you don’t have much to go on. If there’s anything I can do to help …”