by Keeland, Vi
I always joked with my dad whenever he made a fresh pot of coffee, because normally he made only one large pot in the morning for himself and poured from the same carafe throughout the course of the entire day. He’d just nuke it in the microwave. But he knew I liked my java fresh, so he’d suck it up and dump out the old coffee before making a new pot whenever I came over. I tried to buy him one of those Keurig machines once so that he could have fresh mugs of coffee all day, but he said he didn’t mind his coffee a little burned and stale and preferred not to contribute to the environmental hazard of plastic waste.
On the counter was a gigantic bowl of tomatoes in varying shades of red, green, and orange along with a lineup of cucumbers and peppers on some paper towel.
“Let me guess . . . cucumber and tomato salad for lunch?”
“With feta and olives.” He winked. “And warm pita bread from the bakery.”
My stomach growled. “Mmm. That sounds so good.”
There was nothing like the comfort of home. Even though this house brought about painful memories, there were many good ones. Lazy lunches on a Sunday with my father definitely fell into the good category.
He sat down across from me. “So what brings you home early? I thought you weren’t coming until next weekend?” he asked as he poured a mug of coffee and handed it to me.
“Yeah, well, I’ve sort of had an issue at work that made me think of you.”
“Hope it wasn’t one of those foolish men you date.”
“No.” I laughed. “Although that situation really hasn’t improved.” I sighed. “This came from the Holiday Wishes column. You know, the one I normally get assigned around the holidays?”
“Yeah, sure.”
“Well, there’s this little girl who sent a letter in to the column even though it’s summer, and it’s set off a chain of interesting events.”
Over two cups of coffee, I spent the next several minutes telling my father the story of Birdie and her letters. He listened intently and, as expected, found the entire thing quite endearing.
He shook his head as he poured more coffee for himself. “I can’t get over that adorable name. It sounds like something I would name one of my weather instruments.”
“Yeah . . . she’s adorable like you would imagine a Birdie to be, too.” I shook my head. “I’m very confused, though.”
“Are you wondering whether you should keep it going if she writes back?”
“I’m definitely torn over that. The other thing is, this whole situation has actually got me thinking a lot about my own childhood. Because of how similar Birdie’s and my situations are.”
“It’s definitely eerie that she lost her mother around the same age as you.”
“Yeah.” I sighed, then after a few seconds of inner debate, I decided to bring up the subject I’d been very curious about. “She mentioned in one of her letters that she’d gotten up in the middle of the night and caught her dad chatting with a woman on his laptop. She said it scared her, and she ran back to bed. It made me wonder whether you used to date when I was small. I always assumed you weren’t with any women at the time, because you didn’t do it in front of me. I suppose that might have been naive.”
My father looked down into his cup and nodded. “I’ll never love anyone like I loved your mother. You know that. No amount of dating in those years was gonna erase that.” He looked up at me again. “But loneliness does set in eventually. And there were times I’d tell you I was going to play poker with the guys or that I was heading over to your uncle Al’s when I’d really be meeting up with a lady.”
I nodded, taking that revelation in for a moment. “Around what age was I then?”
“It was probably about four years after Mom died, so maybe ten? The first couple of years, I hadn’t been able to even consider looking at another woman. But once I hit that three-year mark, well, it became about a man having needs. It had nothing to do with wanting to move on from your mother. You know what I mean?”
It was hard to imagine my dad having sex, but unfortunately, I knew exactly what he meant. “Of course. I understand that now. And it’s not like you could have explained casual sex to me back then. If I’d seen you with a woman, I would’ve assumed you were trying to replace my mother. It would’ve upset me.”
“Well, that’s what I figured. So . . . I tried not to open up a can of worms. But honestly, if I had found someone special, I might have brought her around eventually, because it would’ve been nice for you to have a positive female influence in your life.”
I stared off, thinking about the fact that I did definitely crave a female influence the older I became. “There did come a time, as I got into my early teen years, when I really did wish that you could have found someone . . . not only for you but for me.”
“It wasn’t in the stars. I had the great love of my life, even if it wasn’t for long enough. And now . . . I don’t need anyone else besides you.” He smiled and knocked a few times on the table with his knuckles. “And I beat cancer. What more can I ask for?”
When I was a teenager, my father had been diagnosed with colon cancer. I remember thinking his diagnosis was the end of my life, because if I had lost my father in addition to my mother, how could I possibly go on? He was my everything. Thank God, by some miracle, the treatments worked and my father remained in remission to this day.
Dad got up and walked over to the nearly empty carafe, then lifted it. “Want another cup?”
“No. Unlike you, I can’t drink an entire pot of coffee without repercussions. Pretty sure if they popped a needle in your vein, all that would come out is Maxwell House.”
Maxwell House.
Maxwell.
That had just hit me.
The can had been sitting on the counter this whole time, but I’d only now made the connection between Birdie’s last name and the brand of coffee my father always used.
Maxwell House.
I wondered what the real Maxwell house was like. Then, of course, my mind wandered to Sebastian Maxwell—his gorgeous face and hair. The way he’d doted on his daughter at the park. Birdie said he owned a restaurant—I wondered what that was like.
“You still with me?” my dad asked, snapping me out of my daydream.
“Yeah. I was just thinking . . .”
“About Birdie?”
“Indirectly, yeah.” I drank the last drop of coffee and sighed. “Anyway, I hope she doesn’t write back. As much as I loved making those little wishes come true, I can’t keep doing it forever—playing God.”
He smiled. “Speaking of God, I don’t pray for much besides health these days, but I do pray that one of these losers you take for a ride as part of your job actually ends up surprising you and turns out to be a decent man. I don’t want to have to worry about you when I’m gone someday.”
“I can take care of myself just fine. I don’t need a man.”
“It’s not about finances. I know you’re a strong, independent woman, honey, but the truth is . . . everyone needs someone. The only reason I was okay after your mom died was because I had you.”
“Well, it’s a good thing my daddy isn’t going anywhere anytime soon.” I winked.
My visit with Dad lasted a few hours. After I’d stuffed myself with the yummy food he’d laid out for me, I called a car to take me back to the train station. Since Dad and I had shared a bottle of wine over lunch, I didn’t want him driving me.
When my father walked me out to wait for my Uber, he looked up at his weather apparatus.
He scratched his chin. “Hmm.”
“What?”
“Humbug says it’s gonna rain.”
Sure enough, as I traveled home that afternoon, the storm my father predicted came through, pelting the windows of the train. Then, after, a beautiful recurrence of the late-afternoon sun shined over the New York City skyline in the distance, filling me with hope and, much to my dismay—continued thoughts of Sebastian Maxwell.
CHAPTER 6
SADIE
I typed.
Sebastian Maxwell restaurant.
The keys clicked as I immediately deleted the words.
No, I can’t go there.
After a few seconds of staring at Google, I typed again.
Sebastian Maxwell restaurant New York.
This time, instead of deleting it, I hit “Enter.”
The About Us section of a website popped right up in the search results.
Bianco’s Ristorante.
I read it.
Bianco’s Ristorante was founded in 2012 by Sebastian Maxwell, a New York City entrepreneur and his wife, Amanda, a master chef. The Maxwells were heavily inspired by Sebastian’s paternal grandmother, Rosa Bianco, who emigrated from Northern Italy in 1960. Over the years, Sebastian saved all his nonna’s recipes and today, together with head chef Renzo Vittadini, has crafted one of the most decadent menus in all of the tristate area, boasting old-world recipes infused with a modern flair. Bianco’s top-notch cuisine coupled with its dimly lit, rustic ambience makes your night out more than just a meal—it’s a culinary experience.
From intimate dinners to private events, contact us to make a reservation.
I clicked over to the menu tab.
Each entrée was named after a person. Renzo’s Ricotta Pie, Nonna Rosa’s Chicken Parmesan, Birdie’s Pasta Bolognese, Mandy’s Manicotti.
Mandy.
Amanda.
Sebastian’s Saltimbocca.
They had an extensive wine list.
“Whatcha doin’?”
I jumped at the sound of Devin’s voice from behind. “You scared me.”
“Why did you tab over to another screen just now?”
“No reason. You know . . . I’m not really supposed to be goofing off.”
She smirked. “What’s Bianco’s?”
Great. She’d caught the name at the top of the tab.
I let out a long breath but tried my best to still sound nonchalant. “It’s Birdie’s dad’s restaurant.”
“Nice!” She laughed, all too pleased with my apparent weakness. “You know I’m down with the stalking—especially the stalking of that amazing-looking specimen.”
“I know you fully support it. But I feel stupid doing it.”
“But a part of you can’t help it, right?”
I shrugged. “He’s intriguing.”
Her eyes filled with excitement, like a giddy kid who’d just found out the carnival was coming to town. “So when are we going? I’m suddenly craving a nice big bowl of al dente pasta.”
“Oh, no. That’s where I draw the line. Online stalking is one thing. That’s a leisurely pastime. Innocent, even. But showing up in person? No.” I shook my head. “No, no, no.”
“It’s a public restaurant. How is that stalking?”
Rustling some of the papers on my desk, I said, “Devin . . . drop it.”
“Would you care if I checked it out, then? Armando and I have been looking for a new place to try.”
“Are you going to tell your fiancé that the real reason you’re taking him there is to check out the hot owner?”
She waved her hand dismissively. “He doesn’t have to know that. He loves food. He’ll be thrilled.” Devin leaned over to my computer. “Can you make a reservation online?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t check because I had no intention of going.”
“Let me see,” she said, grabbing my mouse and maximizing the screen before perusing the site. “Ah.” She grinned.
“What are you doing, Devin?”
She proceeded to type in all her information. “The only opening was 5:00 pm on Saturday. Looks like everything beyond that is taken. Good thing I love early-bird specials like an old person anyway.”
Shaking my head, I said, “You’re nuts.”
She winked. “I’ll let you know if I spot him.”
Two weeks passed, summer was coming to an end soon, and no more letters from Birdie had arrived. Devin and Armando ended up having that amazing and very expensive dinner at Bianco’s—with no sign of Sebastian Maxwell whatsoever. That’s what she gets for trying to stalk him.
Because it had been a while, I’d been pretty convinced that I wouldn’t hear from Birdie again.
Then one afternoon, much to my surprise, in the middle of my usual stack of mail was a letter from my little friend.
My pulse raced as I ran to my desk, dumped the rest of the mail down, and ripped open the envelope.
Dear Santa,
Did Mommy tell you she came to visit me at Central Park? I know you gave her my message because there was a black horse like I told you about on the carousel. She sent a butterfly to lead me to it. I don’t know if she sent a butterfly or if the butterfly was really her? Anyway, it was so amazing. I miss her so much.
But can you ask her why she isn’t trying to come see me anymore? I keep looking for her, and she hasn’t given me any more signs. Now that you reached her and she found a way back, I thought she would want to spend more time with me.
I’m worried she might be mad at me now that she can see me. Maybe she knows what I did to Suzie’s hair or that I sometimes steal cookies in the middle of the night.
Can you just tell her to send me one more sign so I know she’s not mad? Even if she can’t stay?
I’m sorry to bother you again, Santa. This will be the last time. I promise.
Birdie
As I folded the letter while tears streamed down my cheeks, I realized that maybe Birdie wasn’t the only person who needed help anymore.
It had been a long time since I’d visited my shrink, Dr. Eloisa Emery. Her office overlooked Times Square, which I always found ironic, since the view from her window was just about the most chaotic thing I could imagine. Definitely not a relaxing atmosphere for a therapy appointment. During my sessions, I’d stare out at the massive, ever-changing digital billboard as I attempted to gather my thoughts.
I’d been suspecting I needed my head checked for some time, and today I was taking that literally, sharing the story of Birdie and hoping that Dr. Emery could help me move past everything.
I’d just finished telling her about our letters and ended on the most recent one I’d received.
“The tone of this one seemed more panicked,” I said. “She was truly worried that she’d done something to keep her mother’s spirit away. There was no usual P.S. at the end, either, so the overall tone was a bit short. It made me realize that I had really made things worse in setting her up to find that horse, even if it was the butterfly that ultimately led her there.”
She pulled off her glasses and set them on her leg. “So you’re feeling lots of guilt.”
“Yes, of course. Now there’s an expectation for more from her mother when there isn’t anything more. I started a mess. Her mother’s dead, and any implication that Birdie could still communicate with her is misleading.”
Dr. Emery put her glasses back on and scribbled a few things down in her notebook before looking up at me again. “Sadie, I think it’s going to be important for you to learn to accept the fact that you can’t change anything you’ve done thus far. You know now that playing with fate the way you have, as charming as it was, is really not the wisest idea. So I do think you need to really rip the Band-Aid off here.”
My hands felt sweaty as I rubbed them along my legs. “What do you mean by that exactly?”
“You seem incapable of not engaging whenever she contacts you. I think on some level, you’re so invested because she reminds you of yourself, so it’s almost like you’ve been given this opportunity to do for someone else what wasn’t done for you. And that was hard to resist. You’re also connecting with your inner child a bit. But now you know that engaging is harmful. And the more you engage, the harder it’s going to be to stop. So perhaps, if she contacts you again, you should not open the letter at all.”
Shaking my head repeatedly while staring out the window, I said, “I can’t do that.”
“W
hy not?”
“Because I have to at least know she’s okay . . . even if I don’t engage.”
“She doesn’t know you exist. She doesn’t know you have developed feelings for her. Therefore, your feelings, no matter how strong, do not impact her. If you’re not communicating back with her and if you’ve vowed to no longer interfere by pretending to be Santa Claus, then you mustn’t involve yourself in any way in her life. That includes reading her letters.” She tilted her head. “Can you do that? Can you cut all ties for your own good and, ultimately, the good of this little girl?”
I gazed out at the billboard and watched it change approximately three times before I finally said, “I’ll try.”
CHAPTER 7
SADIE
It had been almost a month since my last letter from Birdie. I’d followed Dr. Emery’s advice and not written back to my little friend, even going as far as putting Devin on mail patrol—asking her to weed out my daily delivery of any new letters that Birdie might send. Though I’d broken down on more than one occasion, demanding to know if any had come, and Devin swore that she hadn’t had to intervene. Lately, I’d even stopped dwelling on whether my letters had done more harm than help. But today wasn’t one of those days, though for good reason.
I had an appointment on Eighty-First Street with a professional matchmaker—not for me personally but research for the magazine. Next month, I planned to write an article on the pros and cons of using a service, and today was my first interview. Kitty Bloom ran the agency I’d visited and gave me tons of great information for the piece. She’d also given me a free thirty-day membership—which went for a staggering $10,000. Although if I wanted to give it a whirl, I’d have to submit a ton of personal information—from medical clearances and a psychological profile to financial statements and a detailed questionnaire that asked about everything from my hobbies to my fetishes and sexual appetite. I accepted the gift but wasn’t sure I wanted someone poking their nose into my business.
It was a beautiful evening, so I decided to take a walk. The matchmaker’s office was on the ground floor of a block filled with beautiful brownstones, and the Upper West Side was one of my favorite neighborhoods that I could never afford. I was on the corner of Broadway and Eighty-First Street, and Birdie lived somewhere on Eighty-Third Street, which could be close by.