Happy Birthday: A Novel

by Danielle Steel

  The restaurant had been a hit overnight, not only with her clients but with their kids as well. Her children’s menu included grilled cheese sandwiches that kids and adults loved, hot dogs and hamburgers, tiny pizzas, plain pasta with nothing on it, mac and cheese, tiny bite-sized servings of fried chicken, and French fries the way she had learned to make them in France, which everyone loved. And for the kids’ desserts, hot fudge sundaes, s’mores, banana splits, milk shakes, and root beer floats. When parents told their kids they were going to April’s, their children were ecstatic. And if an adult wanted to order from the children’s menu, that was okay too. It was the kind of restaurant that April would have loved to go to as a child, and that she enjoyed as an adult. And so did everyone who went there.

  They were constantly booked for lunch, dinner, and Sunday brunch. And at this time of year, for the month of November, she served white truffles with pasta or scrambled eggs for those who loved them. She paid a fortune for the white truffles, which could only be found in one area of Italy, and were flown in from Elba every November for a brief three-week season. They had just come in from Italy two days before, and only serious food enthusiasts knew and loved the delicate roots that were found underground and were pungent and aromatic when shaved on pasta or risotto. She was going to start serving them that night. One of the things she loved about her birthday was that it was white truffle season, which she was crazy about. They were a big investment for her since white truffles cost a fortune.

  April in New York was a smash hit, and it was her entire life. She had no time for, or interest in, anything else. And it was only on a day like this that she allowed herself to think about what else she didn’t have in her life. In fact, she had nothing else, but she didn’t want anything other than a restaurant. She hadn’t had a serious romance in five years, but she didn’t have time for one anyway. Before that, in Paris, she had been in an abusive relationship, with another chef who walked out on her every five minutes and had once threatened her with a butcher’s knife. It had taken her two years, a shrink, and eighteen months on Prozac to get over him, and she’d been gun-shy ever since. Since then, her relationships had been brief, infrequent, and superficial. The restaurant seemed to satisfy all her needs for now.

  What shocked her, and was something of a wake-up call, was turning thirty today. Thirty seemed so grown up, or maybe just plain old. It made her suddenly wonder if she’d ever be married and have kids, and how she’d feel about it if she didn’t. What if all she had was a string of restaurants instead? She wanted to open a second one, one day, but not yet. She wanted to get everything about this one right first. Even after three years, there were things she still wanted to improve on, systems she wanted to refine and change. She had just hired a second sommelier, because the one she had said he was overworked and, unlike her, didn’t want to work seven days a week. April didn’t mind working that hard at all. It was the nature of the business. She had no idea what she’d do with herself if she took a day off, so she never did.

  As she drove to the new Fulton Fish Market in the Bronx, she thought about her birthday again. Her mother had always loved the fact that they were born on the same day, but it had always annoyed April as a child. She hated sharing “her day” with someone else, but now that she was older, she didn’t mind. She already knew that this year was going to be hard for her mother. She had been dreading turning sixty for months. And if April felt a little skittish about turning thirty, she could only imagine how much worse it was for her mother, whose success rested partly on her image of youth. April felt sorry for her, and she knew that it bothered her mother too that there hadn’t been a serious man in her own life, or even any man, for several years. She worried about that for April too, and nagged her about it from time to time. April didn’t have time to think about it, and it was only on a day like today that it came to mind. She forgot about it again as she got out of her truck and joined in the fray at the fish market, where other chefs were selecting seafood for their restaurants. She was busy picking out what she needed until nearly six, and then drove to the produce market and spent an hour and a half there. She got back to Little West Twelfth Street shortly before eight and made herself a steaming bowl of café au lait. It was just what she needed after a cold morning buying fish. She turned on the radio in the restaurant kitchen and was startled when she heard an announcer on one of the early morning talk shows talking about her mother’s age. She knew that was going to upset her even more, if she heard about it too. At least no one was saying that her daughter April Wyatt was thirty years old today. It was enough having to deal with it, without having the whole world know, April thought. She didn’t envy her mother that side of her life. But her mother liked everything else that went with it, the glory, the success, the money, the acclaim, and if she wanted that, she had to take the downside too. April had no desire to be famous, she didn’t aspire to be another Alain Ducasse or Joel Robuchon. She just wanted to run a restaurant where everybody loved to eat, and so far she had done well.

  April had her father’s natural discretion and simplicity, and her mother’s passion for hard work. No one worked harder than her mother, April knew. Her father had a much gentler, less ambitious view of life. The academic life suited him well. And both her parents readily admitted that their union had been a mismatch from the first. Their marriage had lasted only eight years, and they divorced when April was seven. Her mother had already been building her career by then, and her father said he didn’t have what it took to stick it out. He was in way over his head in her world. They were good friends now, and the divorce had never been bitter. They were just totally wrong for each other, and Valerie had always said to April that her father was a good man. He had married her stepmother within two years of the divorce. Maddie was a speech therapist who worked with children in the public schools, a far cry from Valerie, with her TV show, major career, endless licensing agreements, successful books, and glamorous public image. She hadn’t been as big a star when he married her, although she was heading that way, but Valerie had become one over the years. Maddie and April’s father had had two more children, two girls, Annie and Heather, who were respectively now nineteen and seventeen, and both good kids. Heather helped April in the restaurant sometimes in the summer and wanted to teach. Annie was a math genius, and a sophomore at MIT. They were all nice, decent, normal people, and both her parents enjoyed coming to the restaurant to eat. Her father often brought Maddie and Heather to dinner on Sunday nights, or for brunch, and Annie when she was home from school. He was very proud of April, and Valerie was too. And April loved the fact that there was no animosity between them and everybody got along. It made life easier for her. She couldn’t imagine living in a family with parents who hated each other after a divorce, although she had seen it happen to friends as she grew up. The only bad thing that had ever happened to her was the torturous relationship she’d had with the chef in France, which was probably why it had come as such a shock and hit her so hard. Until then, no one in her life had ever been abusive to her, or even unkind. She always said she never wanted to go out with another chef and was quick to say that most of the ones she knew were nuts.

  As she drank her café au lait in the immaculate, quiet restaurant kitchen, she made some notes for additions to the menu that day. They would introduce the white truffle pasta at dinner, and they had two fish specials that day, and she added a Grand Marnier soufflé just for fun. The people who worked in the kitchen would start drifting in at nine, to start doing the prep work. The waiters came in at eleven, and the restaurant opened at noon.

  April left just as the first of the sous-chefs, the under chefs, came in. She had an acupuncture appointment at nine. She went religiously twice a week, mostly to help her handle stress.

  The acupuncturist she went to was on Charles Street, three blocks away. And over the years she’d gone to her, they had become friends. Unlike April, Ellen Puccinelli was married and had three kids. She had trained in England wit
h a Chinese master, and said that she kept working just to stay sane and get some time away from them. April always enjoyed her time with her, it was part relaxation, part gossip with a girlfriend, and part shrink. Ellen usually brought her husband, Larry, and kids to dinner at the restaurant on Sunday nights. She was four years older than April, and her three rowdy boys were cute kids. She had been married for ten years. Her husband was a contractor, and life was something of a juggling act for them, living in New York.

  Ellen smiled broadly as soon as April walked in, wearing jeans and a heavy sweater and the clogs she wore to work. Both women enjoyed what they did.

  April took off her shoes, watch, and heavy sweater and laid her long, thin frame down on the immaculately draped table. Ellen’s office was always warm and cozy. It was the perfect place for her to relax. April’s long dark hair was in a braid that hung off the table. Ellen was a small woman, with short blond hair and big blue eyes. She looked like a pixie, and so did her kids. She had pictures of them on her desk.

  “Isn’t today your birthday?” Ellen asked her, as she reached for April’s wrist to take her pulse. It always told her what was happening with her, which part of her body was being impacted by stress, long hours, or too much work.

  “Yes,” April acknowledged with a rueful grin, “it is. I thought about it this morning and started getting really depressed, and then I figured what the hell. I’m lucky I have the restaurant, I can’t worry about what I don’t have.” Ellen was frowning as she took April’s pulse and didn’t comment. “Okay. What’s wrong? My liver, my lungs, or my heart? I had a cold last weekend, but I got over it in two days,” she said proudly, and Ellen smiled.

  “Nah, just the usual stuff.” Ellen smiled at her friend. “Some of your defenses are down, but that’s normal for this time of year. We’ll do some moxa.” April loved the warm pungent smell of the moxa that Ellen lit on her belly and deftly removed before it burned her skin. It was both warming and healing and the part April loved best, but she didn’t mind the needles either. Ellen was so good at what she did that she never hurt her, and April always felt relaxed when she left. She’d been doing acupuncture since she got back from Europe, and swore by it, and Ellen was very good. “Any new men in your life?” she asked with interest, and April laughed.

  “Four of them, in fact. Three new weekend waiters, and a sommelier I stole from Daniel Boulud.” She chuckled and Ellen shook her head.

  “I meant real ones. There’s more to life than just cooking.”

  “So they tell me,” April said, and closed her eyes, as Ellen continued to heat the moxa on April’s belly. It felt great. “I was thinking about that this morning. I used to think I’d be married and have kids by the time I was thirty. Now I can’t even imagine it for the next several years. Maybe when I’m thirty-five. I used to think thirty was so old. I still feel like a kid.” She looked like one as well. Like her mother, April didn’t look her age, and she had her mother’s looks, except for the dark hair. They had the same hazel eyes and perfect unlined skin. They were lucky. And April never wore makeup, she couldn’t see the point. It just melted on her face in the heat of the kitchen. She only wore it when she got dressed up and went out to a dinner party or on a date, which hadn’t happened for several years.

  “You’ve got a lot to feel good about,” Ellen reminded her. “Most people don’t have successful restaurants at thirty. I’d say you’ve done pretty well.”

  “Thank you,” April said quietly, as Ellen removed the moxa and started with the needles. She stopped after a minute and took April’s pulse again. She had an uncanny knack for sensing anything that was off balance, and she was rarely wrong.

  “Are your periods screwed up again?” she asked after doing two more needles, and April smiled. Hers had been irregular for years. It was one of the ways the stress of her work manifested itself. Sometimes she didn’t have a period for several months. She was on the Pill, to try and stay regular, and to cover the occasional “slip,” although she didn’t have many. But she didn’t want to take the risk. And she hadn’t had a sexual “slip” in quite a while.

  “I haven’t had a period in two months,” April said without concern. “Whenever I work a lot, I don’t get one for months. I’ve been pushing pretty hard. We added some new things to the menu last month.”

  “Maybe you should check it out,” Ellen said casually as she did needles on April’s upper arms.

  “You think something’s wrong?” April looked surprised.

  “No, I don’t,” she reassured her, “but your pulse is funny. I keep picking something up.”

  “Like what?”

  “When was the last time you had sex?”

  “I can’t remember. Why?”

  “I’m probably crazy. And I know you’re on the Pill. But maybe you should take a pregnancy test. Did you miss a Pill or two the last time you had sex?”

  “You think I’m pregnant?” April sat up, looking shocked. “That’s ridiculous. I slept with a guy I don’t even like. A food critic. He was cute and smart. I plied him with our best wines to impress him, and had too much to drink myself, trying to be friendly. The next thing I knew, I woke up with him in my bed in the morning. I haven’t done anything like that in years. And the bastard even gave us a bad review. He said the menu was childish and overly simplistic, and I’m not using my training or my skills. He was a real jerk.”

  “I don’t think not liking a guy is considered birth control,” Ellen said calmly, as April lay down again, looking disturbed.

  “Now that I think of it, I only missed one Pill. I was so hung over the next day, I forgot, and I had a sore throat. I hope he got it. I had strep.” She remembered it now, although she had given herself a pass for the indiscretion and had done her best to forget. She almost had, but it came back to her now, with Ellen’s questions.

  “Were you on antibiotics?”

  “Yeah. Penicillin.”

  “That can knock the Pill out of commission. I think you should check it out.”

  “I’m not pregnant,” April said firmly.

  “I’m sure you’re not. But it never hurts to check.”

  “Don’t freak me out. Today is my birthday,” April reminded her, and they both laughed.

  “I’m sure it’s nothing,” Ellen reassured her, but it was too late for that. April was already stressed about it.

  “So am I,” April said firmly, trying to convince them both.

  They talked about other things then, but Ellen reminded her of it again when she left. April didn’t want to think about it, and she was sure she wasn’t pregnant. She had no symptoms, other than the period she often missed anyway. She was still annoyed at herself for sleeping with him. Mike Steinman. It had been a stupid thing to do. She was old enough to know better, but he had been good-looking and intelligent. It had happened over Labor Day weekend, at the beginning of September, two months before. She hadn’t allowed herself to think of him since.

  She walked past a drugstore on the way back to work, and she felt stupid for doing it, but she walked in and bought a pregnancy kit. She hadn’t worried about something like that in years. She had had a scare once in Paris, but fortunately she hadn’t been pregnant. She was sure she wasn’t this time either, but she bought the kit anyway, just so she could tell Ellen that she had made a mistake and to reassure herself. That was a headache she didn’t need.

  April stopped in the kitchen on her way in. Everything was in order, and the prep was well under way for lunch. They weren’t opening for another two hours, and she had to go upstairs to dress for lunch with her mother. The rooms above the restaurant that were her apartment were almost entirely unfurnished. There were wooden crates and cardboard boxes, and several ugly lamps. And what furniture she did have—a desk, couch, dresser, and double bed—she had bought at Goodwill. She refused to spend her money on decor. She had spent it on the best possible secondhand equipment she could buy for the kitchen. Her mother had offered to furnish the apartment for
her, and she had refused. All she ever did upstairs was work at her desk or sleep; she never entertained. In that respect, she was not her mother’s daughter. She looked like she was camping out.

  She checked on the invoices of the orders that had come in, and then went to take a shower. She forgot all about the pregnancy test she had bought until she was halfway dressed. She almost decided not to do it, and then decided what the hell. Now that Ellen had raised the question, it was better to have confirmation that she wasn’t pregnant than to let it gnaw at her without knowing for sure. She followed the directions, set the test down on the counter after she used it, and finished getting dressed. She was wearing black slacks and a black sweater, with flat shoes and her hair in a braid. Her long dark hair was smooth and sleek, and she put on lipstick, looking in the mirror. And then she glanced down at the test. She picked it up then, and stared at it, and put it down again. She walked out of the room and came back and stared at it again. This couldn’t be. It couldn’t happen. She was on the Pill. She had only missed one, for chrissake … or was it two? She had been so damn drunk that night she couldn’t remember. This couldn’t be happening to her. It just couldn’t. Not with a man she scarcely knew, and hated, who didn’t even like her restaurant or understand what she was doing. It was her birthday today, for God’s sake. Things like this weren’t supposed to happen. But sometimes they did. She was pregnant, by a total stranger. Now what the hell was she going to do? There was no room in her life for this. How could she make such a terrible mistake? And how could life be so cruel?