Forks, Knives, and Spoons

by Leah DeCesare

  “Oh, God,” she sighed.

  It was exquisite torture. Anticipation and eagerness coursed through her; he was all she wanted as he eased himself into her, steadily, slowly. Amy couldn’t stand the agony of waiting. She flipped on top and rubbed herself against him, hungry for release but hoping it would never end.

  “Oh, Matt!”

  He matched her pace and grasped her hips, moving her faster. His head turned upward and he breathed slowly, lingering and giving until Amy let out a cry. She clenched her fingertips into his back and held her breath to prolong the ecstasy as she felt Matt tremble beneath her.

  Their bodies entwined, sweaty in the cool December afternoon, as their breathing slowed in sync.

  “Amy Melissa York, I love you.”

  His voice was filled with love. No one had ever spoken her name with greater tenderness.

  AFTER CHRISTMAS, FROM TUCKAHOE, Matt had called all over New York City for New Year’s Eve dinner reservations, several hostesses laughed at him trying to book so late. One manager even asked, “Sir, do you mean for December 31, 1994?”

  “It’s a special occasion,” he said, trying a new tactic at one restaurant, only to have the host respond, “For you and everyone in the world tonight. No tables.”

  He persisted with his sisters cheering him on, making suggestions, and looking up numbers in the Manhattan phone book for him. It was a couple years old but they always made sure to keep one in the house.

  “This would be so much easier with my computer access from work. The World Wide Web is making everything more accessible,” Matt told Kim and Rachel as they dictated numbers and called out, “Wait, I found one,” “Try this.”

  At last they got a reservation that wasn’t in the early-bird-special time frame; the host was quick to explain that a cancellation caused the opening. It was at a place called Magoo’s and Matt worried that it would be as awful as the bald cartoon character he pictured, but the menu printed in the phone book offered a good selection. He asked if they used butcher paper on the tables, and when they said no, he took the reservation.

  ON THEIR FIRST MORNING together, Amy and Matt ventured out for supplies and returned with a bag of bagels, bottles of wine, and some champagne for New Year’s Eve. Along with basic groceries, they got a stash of Blockbuster videos. From the time of his arrival, they never left each other’s sight. Food was ordered up—Mexican, burgers, sushi, Italian—and they prepared a few simple lunches in the galley kitchen. They tangled together, hungry for each other, between, during, and after meals.

  Thursday afternoon, the phone rang, but Amy ignored it and kept kissing Matt. She stiffened as the long beep receded and Andrew’s voice filled the room.

  “It’s me. Again. Um, I guess you’re not home yet, or you’re not giving Amy my messages. Or maybe you are and she’s just not calling me. But please, Veronica, please tell Amy I need to talk to her. Tell her I still love her and I’m sorry. I messed up. Tell her that. Please.”

  Matt watched Amy as the words wedged into their time. She released him and walked to the phone. She reached toward it, but instead of answering, she popped open the lid of the answering machine and removed the tiny cassette, tossing it into the drawer of the small table.

  “Remind me to tell Veronica where I put that,” Amy said, returning to Matt’s lap.

  “He’s called before.”

  “Only once while I was here, just before you arrived.”

  “Are you okay, Amy?” He paused. “Things have changed fast.”

  “In some ways it’s been quick, but I can’t believe all these years I was looking in the wrong direction. I love you, Matt, and I finally see what’s real.”

  IT HAD BEEN DAYS since they’d left the apartment and Amy protested when he suggested they go out for New Year’s Eve. “Besides, there’s no way we’d get a table tonight.”

  “I made a reservation,” Matt said proudly.

  “You did? When? How?” Amy was properly impressed by the gesture as much as the achievement, and so she was persuaded. She showered, and for the only time that week, she did her hair and put on makeup. She slipped into a little black dress and wore high heels, then clicked down the parquet hallway to where Matt waited; it had been almost an hour since they’d seen each other. He stood to meet her and breathed, “My God, you’re beautiful.”

  He lifted her and spun her around. “Have I told you that I am in love with you?”

  “Keep saying it.” She laughed, giddy with his affection all the way to the restaurant.

  “Here it is, Magoo’s.” Matt paid the taxi driver and surveyed the outside. He opened the restaurant door for her. “I’m a little worried that you’re seeing the place before I can check it out.”

  “This is cute, Matt,” she said, stepping inside.

  The small rooms were dark but glistened with strings of white lights draped all along the ceilings. White linens covered the tables and contrasted with the old chestnut paneling, and different-colored glass jars glowed with candles at each table.

  “Do you still think Harry was wrong?” Matt asked after they ordered drinks.

  “Who’s Harry? Wrong about what?” she asked, sliding the amber glass candleholder to the side.

  “In When Harry Met Sally . . . You always thought Harry was wrong.”

  Understanding dawned. “I guess I was wrong. Maybe men and women can’t be just friends.” She linked her ankle around his under the table. “How long have you known?”

  “Since the first day in the computer lab.”

  “No way.” She shook her head, taking his hand in hers.

  “I’ve known, Amy. All along.”

  “Why didn’t you ever—why didn’t I know?”

  He smiled and removed his hand from hers. Amy looked at him, her eyebrows questioning. Matt held up his knife; it twinkled with the reflection of the little lights above them.

  “You were focused on your steak knife.”

  His comment reminded her that he knew about the utensils.

  “You’re my perfect steak knife,” she said, hardly realizing her ingrained insistence on using the UCS.

  “I don’t know all the ins and outs of your elaborate system,” Matt said with a grin, “but I think I’d like to stay a spoon and be your perfect spoon.”

  “Well, it turns out that I had the labels all wrong and you are definitely my knife, Matt Saxon. You are smart, witty, kind, and completely incredible. You’re perfect for me. And that makes you my steak knife.”

  AFTER THEY RETURNED FROM their New Year’s Eve celebration at Marble House, Veronica and Joey said good night to the Warrens. It made her happy to see her father pat Joey’s back and smile with genuine fondness. Her mother kissed Joey’s cheek and squeezed his hand before following her husband upstairs. They were acting quite affectionate and a little excitable, and Veronica wondered if they’d had too much to drink at the party.

  Joey made a small fire and they cuddled on the family room couch. Veronica rested her hand on his chest, slipping her fingers into his unbuttoned tuxedo collar.

  “How should we ring in 1994?” she teased.

  Joey reached into his pants pocket. Before she understood what was happening, he knelt, held her hand, and, like a magic trick, a shimmering solitaire diamond was on her ring finger.

  “Will you marry me, dolcezza?”

  Veronica threw her hands to her face, knocking Joey in the jaw.

  “Oh, I’m sorry!”

  “You’re sorry?”

  “No, no.”

  “No?”

  “I mean no, I’m not sorry, I mean I’m sorry for hitting you, but yes. Yes, I’ll marry you!”

  Veronica leaped forward to hug him, and in her enthusiasm, she jabbed Joey in the chest with her knee. He rolled backward onto the floor, laughing as he grasped his heart. She snuggled next to him on the floor. They kissed, her red curls cascading around their faces, until a spark crackled from the fire, startling Veronica. She flinched away from the ember and b
atted at her dress and Joey’s arm, her elbow poking into his ribs and her knee pressing into his crotch.

  “Ow! Do I need armor to be your husband?”

  She swatted his shoulder. “You’re already wearing some. You’re my knight in shining armor, my shiny silver steak knife. I sound like Amy, don’t I?”

  “I like her happily ever afters.”

  “Maybe she was right after all, this steak knife thing does work. I’m so happy we’re engaged, Joey. I can’t wait to tell my parents and Amy tomorrow.”

  “Your parents know.” He grinned.

  “You asked them? Oh, thank goodness!”

  “Of course. We Italians can be a bit traditional, too.”

  Carefully, she laid her body on top of his. Her glittering gown covered them both like a blessing.

  MATT AND AMY WELCOMED 1994 making love as the ball dropped in Times Square just a few long blocks away. As he unbuttoned his shirt, her heart quavered, amazed at the love she felt for him, and grateful to be able to fall asleep in his arms.

  Early on New Year’s Day, the ringing of the phone woke them.

  “Let the machine get it,” Amy said, rolling over.

  “You took the tape out, remember?” Matt adjusted his body to mold against hers and was back asleep instantly.

  The phone persisted. Amy begrudgingly wiggled out of Matt’s hold and ran to the living room to yell at, then hang up on, whoever was calling so early on the first day of the year.

  “Hello?” she said with sleep oozing from her throat.

  “Amy! You’ll never guess what happened! I wanted to call you last night but it was too late to call,” Veronica chirped.

  “It’s too early to call now,” she teased, but her friend’s cheer brought Amy to full wakefulness. “What happened?”

  As Veronica gushed about her engagement, Amy squealed like a twelve-year old girl. “No way! Oh my gosh!” Amy spoke away from the receiver to Matt, who had roused from her shouts. “They’re engaged! Joey proposed last night. They’re engaged,” she shrieked again.

  Amy lay back on Veronica’s sofa and listened to her share every detail. She punctuated the story with “He got on his knee, oh, that’s so romantic,” “I can’t believe you punched him,” and “You said that? Poor Joey!”

  “I’m so happy for you, Veronica. Tell Joey congratulations for us.”

  Amy felt a tightness in her face and a lightness in her chest as she disconnected the line. She had smiled throughout the proposal story aware that she was still waiting for her own, but for the first time in a long time, she felt serene and fulfilled without anticipating a ring.

  “I CAN’T SAY GOOD-BYE.” Amy held tightly to Matt, his car idling on the street beside them. He had reluctantly packed his things, letting the sun set before he could no longer delay the long drive north to Syracuse.

  “Soon, we won’t have to.” He kissed Amy. “I’ll come back in two weeks, we can talk every day until then. Tomorrow, I start my New York job search.”

  “I can’t wait to be in the same city again. And this time I know what I have in you.”

  His hand on the back of her neck anchored her. She felt secure with him while still feeling whole within herself, more herself than she’d ever felt before. Amy hadn’t realized the accommodations she’d made to be with Andrew, the thousand little betrayals of herself to justify his aloofness or his lack of attention. The recognition stung, igniting a fresh gratitude for how unrestricted and open she could be with Matt.

  VERONICA AND AMY BRAINSTORMED wedding themes and flower ideas, color options and invitation styles. They created a list of possible wedding venues, and during lunchtime their first day back at work, Veronica had three appointments scheduled, one for the next evening.

  She and Joey decided to plan the wedding themselves, in their own way, in their home of Manhattan, geographically between both families. They wanted something wonderful but casual and approachable. Susan Warren was already trying to persuade her daughter to look at the Plaza and Tavern on the Green, but Veronica appeased her temporarily by assigning her mother to look into photographers. Filomena DiNatali was vying for a wedding palace in New Jersey with a huge statue-filled fountain in front and pavilions dappling the lawns. Joey distracted her by having her shop for groom’s cakes.

  After work, the cab dropped Veronica, Amy, and Joey at Twenty-Ninth Street at the East River. They entered the Water Club and asked for Dora at the reception desk. Veronica reached into her workbag for her newly purchased wedding notebook, a binder that she had organized with color-coded labels and tabs and filled with lists and timetables torn from magazines. Approaching from down the hall, Veronica heard a familiar voice that she couldn’t place.

  “Hi, Amy. Hi, Veronica.”

  Amy spun, her face divulging her confusion and utter surprise. “Jenny?”

  Veronica hesitated, then gaped in shocked recognition.

  “What are you doing here? I thought you were in California.”

  Jenny’s blond hair was cut into a professional bob, and her slim skirt and suit jacket were stylish yet demure, her blouse unbuttoned only enough to reveal a small gold pendant. No part of her breasts was visible, Veronica noticed. More than just her appearance seemed different. She had a maturity. Of course, they’d all grown since leaving Syracuse, but there was something else new about Jenny that Veronica couldn’t define.

  “I work here now. I moved to the city in November. I’ve been trying to reach you since the summer, Amy. Can you guys go out for a drink after our appointment tonight? Maybe just us girls?” she said, flicking her eyes at Joey.

  “Yeah, sure,” Amy replied, turning to Veronica for confirmation.

  “Yes, let’s do that, but we’re supposed to be meeting with Dora.”

  Jenny smiled and glanced down at the folders in her arms. “That’s me, I go by Dora again now.”

  Amy crinkled her forehead. “Again? I don’t understand.”

  “I know.” Dora smiled. “There’s a lot to explain,” she said, glancing sideways to gauge the proximity of her coworkers.

  “Jenny—I mean, Dora—this is my fiancé, Joey DiNatali. Joey, this is Dora Callista. We lived on the same floor freshman year.”

  Dora presented her hand to shake Joey’s. He released Veronica’s hand to accept the gesture. Veronica’s gaze drifted over Dora, who was smiling and asking questions. Joey politely engaged her, posed questions of his own, and animatedly told her the story of how they met, beaming and holding Veronica proudly to his side.

  “I knew she was the one for me the second I met her, those crazy curls flying everywhere.” He kissed the side of her head. “I cooked her my best sauce the first night we met.” Veronica smiled; she loved hearing the story from Joey’s point of view.

  “Let me show you around,” Dora offered.

  Veronica opened to the first page in her notebook and clicked her pen, getting to business. “Okay, then, Jenny, uh, I mean, Dora, how many can the Water Club accommodate?”

  Dora handed Veronica a sleek folder. “This has all of our menus, floor plans, and other information.”

  She gave her freshman-year floor-mates the tour, talking about seasons and checking date availability. “We’d love you to have your wedding here, Veronica and Joey. And, Amy, I can’t wait to hear all about you and Andrew. Is it true you may be getting engaged soon, too? Let me grab my coat and tell my boss I’m leaving. Wait here,” Dora said, and slipped into the offices before Amy could explain that she had changed guys like Jenny had changed names, both returning to something comfortable, familiar, and more truly themselves.

  AS THEY WALKED THROUGH the small restaurant, Dora held her shoulders back in a confident posture, parting discussions and turning heads as she went. That hasn’t changed, Amy thought.

  “It’s ladies’ night here tonight. Open bar until eight as long as we buy an appetizer,” Dora explained as they settled into a corner table and ordered.

  “Tell us how you became Dora,” Amy st
arted.

  Jenny looked at her hands folded on the table in front of her. “I was always Dora growing up, short for Isadora. My mom named me for her grandmother and my dad gave me my middle name, Jennifer, just because he liked it. He would whisper ‘Good night, Jenny-Doe’ when he put me to sleep. He always called me Jenny-Doe, putting my middle name first. He was the only one who ever called me Jenny.”

  Dora paused at the interruption of the waitress delivering their glasses of wine and fried zucchini. She left her glass untouched and went on. “When he left, I tried to make everyone call me Jenny, but my mom and aunt, my first grade teacher, they all kept calling me Dora. I even started writing Jenny on my drawings and papers, but it only lasted a little while, and eventually, I stopped trying to change my name. I was Dora, no one called me Jenny once he left, not until college. My mom argued with me about going to Syracuse. I had my mind set on it for years, but she didn’t want me to go on a wild-goose chase.

  “My dad sent me one card. It was the only contact he made after disappearing. The card was for the first birthday he missed, my seventh. It had purple balloons on the front and he wrote it to Jenny-Doe and signed, Love, Daddy. Of course, I saved it, the envelope, too. There was no return address but the postmark was Syracuse, New York.

  “It was dumb, but I thought if I lived closer, if I called myself Jenny, that maybe I could . . .” Dora rolled her eyes and shook her head. “It sounds so stupid now, but I thought I could find him. Or that he would find me. But of course he could’ve found me all those years and never did. It was a stupid fantasy.”

  Amy reached across the table and touched her hand. Dora’s nails were neatly manicured and painted a tasteful geranium, the only touch of color in her dark city outfit.

  “After coming home from school, I tried to live as Jenny, but my mom could never call me anything but Dora. To her, I was always Dora.” She rubbed her temple, then leaned closer to Amy and Veronica before continuing. “Back at home, I bounced around a lot between guys, like I did in college. I was waitressing and working doubles and meeting all kinds of men.