If I was to add Nate to the list, I guess he would be a daisy: laid-back and happy, unashamedly displaying his colours to the world regardless of what they think, but—like the thick foliage beneath the bloom—concealing a more complex character behind the impressive display.
For now, I was content to enjoy the friendly colours on Nate’s surface, but I was already aware that his hidden complexities would become more apparent. The more time I spent with him, the more I was aware of a whole other story going on underneath it all. Whether he would admit to that remained to be seen.
Celia, as ever, remained intensely interested in my and Nate’s burgeoning friendship, keen to analyse each new development. Most of her incessant interrogations took place over food, either at her apartment or at one of the many restaurants and cafés she frequents across the city.
‘Don’t you just adore brunch?’ Celia grinned, buttering a slice of toasted brioche one Saturday morning. ‘Whoever thought of this splendid tradition should be cannonised immediately.’
‘Maybe there’s a statue of them somewhere,’ I smiled. ‘Or a pancake named in their honour.’
‘Well, there should be,’ Celia nodded, brushing crumbs off the blue checkered tablecloth. ‘I might just write about that next week.’
Brunch is an institution in New York, especially at the weekends and particularly in my neighbourhood. Celia introduced me to its delights shortly after I arrived in the city—and you would be amazed at the number of venues catering for ‘brunchers’ here. Today we were enjoying eggs, pancakes, brioche and crispy bacon with never-ending cups of strong, chocolate coffee at Annie’s, a small yet perfectly formed eatery three blocks east of Celia’s apartment. It resides in the basement of an old brownstone building and legend has it that the premises were formerly an illegal drinking den that enjoyed considerable success—and notoriety—during Prohibition in the 1920s. Annie’s had been one of Jerry’s favourite haunts and he spent many happy weekends courting Celia there. While she never admits it, Celia maintains a few things in her life that she and Jerry used to do together. I think it’s comforting for her, in an odd way. She still has his Mets baseball on her desk in her apartment, for example, and still buys smoked salmon from Schumann’s deli—even though she constantly complains about the prices and is forever asserting her intention to shop elsewhere.
At best, Annie’s can hold about twenty diners at a time: today the place was packed and a relaxed queue was forming on the steep steps leading up to sidewalk level above.
‘I think we got here at the right time,’ I said. ‘They’re queuing already and it’s only ten thirty.’
‘My mother always says it’s important to head for the restaurant with the queue,’ Celia smiled. ‘She doesn’t trust places that people aren’t flocking to. But then, she hates waiting. I’ve lost count of the number of times we pass restaurant after restaurant with empty tables just so she can wait in line somewhere else—and then have to endure her constant complaining about how long she’s having to wait. It’s a no-win situation. But, that’s my mother. Never happier than when she isn’t happy.’
‘But you still love her, eh?’
Celia smoothed out the red checked napkin on her lap. ‘Of course I do. It’s just not always as simple as I’d like it to be. See, you have to understand that we’ve never had an easy relationship. Not like I see you have with your mother. Mom always wants better for me, you know: better career, better wealth, better relationships—which is good for me, don’t get me wrong; but the end result is that she’s never satisfied with who I am or where I’m at. I always get the feeling she’s disappointed in me somehow. So,’ she brightened and I sensed the subject was being hastily discarded in favour of another, ‘how’s life for you? I heard you and Nate went to the Noguchi Museum on Long Island last week?’
‘Yes, we did. We had a great time—the art is so amazing.’
‘That’s different for you guys, isn’t it? Meeting outside of your store?’
I smiled. ‘Nate said he wanted to see if our conversations would work outdoors. As it turned out, we proved his theory.’
‘So, did he say any more about the Caitlin situation outdoors?’
It was a good question, yet here’s the odd thing about last Saturday: we talked for four hours solidly and yet even now I couldn’t actually tell you what we discussed. I hadn’t been to Long Island before and Nate knows one of the curators of the museum, so he suggested we visit. The Noguchi is awesome—especially given the approach we made to it walking over the Roosevelt Bridge which, Nate reliably informed me, was the way the great master sculptor walked to work every morning. It was impossible not to be stirred by Isamu Noguchi’s stunningly simple sculptures in marble, alabaster, terracotta, slate and glass, amongst other mediums—and I noticed that everyone walking round seemed to be feeling it too, as a sense of reverent calm pervaded each room we entered.
The only snippet of our conversation I remember clearly is when we were strolling round the Noguchi’s tranquil sculpture garden, bathed in warm autumnal sunlight. Nate suddenly went quiet.
‘This place is wonderful,’ I ventured, trying to make conversation.
Nate paused to look at a stone sculpture with water cascading over its surface, his face reflected and distorted by the undulating flow. ‘It’s peaceful,’ he said, his voice sounding far away. ‘You can get rid of all the stuff in your head here, you know?’
‘Stuff like what?’
He sighed and I sensed the weight of his concerns bearing down on his broad shoulders. ‘Just stuff. I dunno, Rosie—sometimes I wish life could be as simple as this garden. No clutter, everything in its place, just peaceful and ordered.’
‘Sounds lovely. But it would drive you mad.’
He turned to look at me. ‘Why?’
I patted his arm. ‘Because you’re a native New Yorker: you thrive on chaos and unpredictability. If everything was simple and organised in your life you’d be craving excitement in no time.’
Nate’s trademark grin made a welcome reappearance. ‘You know me so well.’
‘So what did he say then? Did he mention Mimi or Caitlin? Or anybody?’ Celia was staring at me like an impatient child waiting to meet Santa.
‘No, that was it, and then he changed the subject,’ I said, pushing my fork into the poached egg on my plate and watching the rich yellow yolk dribble over my pancakes. ‘But I got the impression that things are more or less carved in stone for the two of them. I mean, he protests a lot, but at the end of the day he’s still with her.’
A couple seated at the table beside us began to giggle and held hands across the blue plaid tablecloth. Celia and I watched them for a while.
‘Do you ever get the feeling that everyone’s moving on except you?’ I asked, accidentally out loud.
Celia let out a long sigh. ‘All the time, Rosie. All the time.’
Chapter Twelve
I’m always amazed at how quickly the nights draw in during autumn and the days rush headlong into winter. It’s one of my favourite times of the year—especially walking in Central Park when all the trees are exhibiting their colours. It’s something I loved about Boston and I thought I wouldn’t see it when I moved to New York but, to my delight, New York ‘does’ autumn so well. It seems to get more magical and sparkly with every week that passes through September and October into November and Thanksgiving.
OK, time to be honest here: I really didn’t get the concept of Thanksgiving when I first came to America. It seemed like such an odd, archaic excuse for a big meal and, when I asked people about it, nobody could quite explain it in a way that made sense to me. But then I met Celia and experienced a Reighton Thanksgiving, which is, like so many other things Celia does, truly a sight to behold. Featuring three basic ingredients: food that would make Fortnum & Mason quiver; a guest list that Jay Leno would kill for; plus the unique hostess that is Celia in all her glory—the combined result is pure New York magic. It was only when I was sat by the
bulging Thanksgiving table at her home that I finally understood its significance for my American friends. It’s something instilled into them from birth: the need to be thankful. And the festival has seemingly taken on a much deeper significance for people today, in light of the highly materialistic lifestyle everyone here is bombarded with every day. It’s part of who they are as a nation and adds to that strange mix of modern consumerism and a strong sense of morals from a bygone era that is wrapped around the psyches of people who live here—where it’s every person for themselves when it comes to getting ahead in life, but impoliteness is still frowned upon. Thanksgiving reminds people where they came from. And now I wouldn’t miss it for the world.
‘Celia’s invited me to Thanksgiving at her place,’ Nate grinned as we sat drinking coffee and watching the good people of New York battling against the icy prevailing wind on the street outside. ‘I hear it’s an awesome event.’
I rested my chin on the edge of my mug and inhaled the rich dark aroma as I raised my eyes heavenwards. ‘Hmm, it sure is. Celia is not known for doing anything small when it comes to celebrations.’
‘She said there’d be plenty of food.’
I took a sip of coffee. ‘She’s not joking! I hear the State of New York has been warned to brace itself for a food shortage after her order’s been met.’ I paused, debating whether or not to ask the question. ‘Are you coming then?’
Nate’s eyes drifted to the street outside. ‘I don’t know yet. I’ll know after the weekend.’
Cue awkward moment. ‘Ah…I guess Caitlin will want you to join her family?’
His expression was hard as stone and the reply was incredibly matter-of-fact. ‘No.’
‘Oh, right.’ I was granted a temporary reprieve from a difficult silence as two taxi drivers screeched to a halt right outside and began an obscenity-screaming match. I had to giggle. ‘I love New York—it’s such a friendly city.’
‘Only you could find romance in a street brawl.’
Placing my hands Buddha-style on my knees I intoned, ‘Nate-Student must learn from Optimism Master. Rosie Duncan say: man without optimism in New York is like Old F’s coffee without good company.’
I think by now Nate had figured I was in fact completely insane. ‘And what, O Great One, is that supposed to mean?’
I shrugged. ‘I have no idea. But it sounded good.’
He laughed. ‘So I’m good company?’
I checked my watch. ‘Yes, thank you, but I’d better do some work,’ I replied happily.
The door opened and an old man entered.
‘Hello, Rosie! The wind blew me in this direction and I wondered why. And then I remembered that today is the second Thursday in the month so I should be here.’
I shook the age-crumpled hand of Mr Eli Lukich. ‘I have your order ready. It’s right here as usual.’
Eli followed me to the counter. ‘You are such a good girl. I was saying to my dear Alyona only this morning what a good girl you are. You remind me of my mother, Valentina Nikolaiova, God rest her soul, when we were in the Old Country. She always remembered special days. You know, she never had a calendar? She just knew. So the house in Losk had flowers for birthdays, holy days and saints’ days.’
I handed Eli a small bouquet of yellow roses. His hooded blue eyes scrunched up as he breathed in the scent. ‘Beautiful. Beautiful, Rosie. Like my mother used to love…they grew in Father Gennady’s garden, you know.’
I had heard the story a hundred times, but there was something about Eli’s tales of old White Russia that captivated me every time. ‘Tell me about the priest, Eli.’
Eli’s attention, however, had moved to Nate, who was watching the conversation with fascination. ‘Hello, young man. My name is Eli Lukich. I am pleased to make your acquaintance.’ He slowly extended his hand and Nate scrambled to his feet to shake it.
‘Pleased to meet you, sir. I’m Nathaniel Amie.’
Mr Lukich held Nate’s hand for a second and studied his face. ‘I wish you blessings, Nathaniel Amie.’ His eyes returned to me. ‘Now how much do I owe you, Rosie?’
‘No money, Mr Lukich. I’ll settle for a story from the Old Country,’ I replied with a smile. This was the usual, expected answer and delight lifted every line in Eli’s face.
‘Then I will tell you of the time Ivan Ivanovich’s cow became stuck in the river…’
Eli proceeded to spin his tale, painting characters as vivid as the intricate designs on a Matryoshka doll. He told us about Ivan the schoolteacher, who had bought a cow for his aged mother only to find the animal preferred the lush grass of his own garden; nevertheless he persisted in leading the stubborn bovine down the dusty road from the village to his mother’s house at the forest’s edge, again and again.
‘Eight times Ivan led the cow to the forest house; eight times the cow appeared again in his garden. In frustration, Ivan strode across the fields to calm his temper. He crossed the river and was walking across a meadow when he heard a loud splash. Turning round, what should his eyes behold but the disobedient animal lying on its side in the fast-flowing water! Once again, the cow had followed him. Well, Ivan Ivanovich tried to move it, but it was stuck fast between some rocks. Just when he was about to give up hope, who should come over the hill but Ivan’s mother! You will never believe what happened next…She leaned close to the cow’s ear and whispered something. Then she reached into the water and lifted the rock that imprisoned its leg. Without another word, she turned to walk home and the cow followed her. From that day on, the cow remained at the forest house. So that is the story of Ivan Ivanovich and the disobedient cow. And now, I must go. My wife is waiting for me.’ He said goodbye and we watched the old man leave, happily cradling his roses. Nate’s smile was wider than I’d ever seen before. ‘What an awesome guy. Who are the flowers for?’
‘His wife, Alyona. She’s ninety-three: two years his senior. It caused a big rift in their families when they married.’ Something occurred to me. ‘You asked me a while back how I knew what a man in love looks like…well, you’ve just met him. Eli Lukich comes into my shop every second Thursday in the month and buys a small bunch of yellow roses for his wife. Then he takes them home and proposes to her again. He’s done that every month since they married, over seventy years ago. That’s what a man in love should look like.’
Nate blew out a long whistle. ‘That’s a tall order, then. You must be the ultimate romantic, Rosie Duncan, if you expect that from a relationship.’
It was a sideswipe I deftly avoided. ‘Ah, but I don’t expect it, because I don’t expect a relationship at all.’
‘So, real love has to be perfect like theirs?’
I shook my head. ‘I don’t know if love today could come close to theirs. Their love has survived the hardest tests imaginable. They were disowned by their families and then fled to the US to escape persecution. They came here with nothing and, even now, they live on practically nothing. Their four children died before any of them reached the age of five. Their love is the only valuable thing they’ve ever owned. They’ve sacrificed everything to be together. They are the reason love should be as strong as possible. As a tribute to them, it has to be all or nothing. And…now I’m going to get down off my soapbox because I’ve got carried away.’
Nate’s smile was warm. ‘Yes you have. But that’s OK because I am learning that enjoying your deep philosophy comes with the territory.’
‘So is he coming to Thanksgiving here tonight or not?’ Celia’s frustration had reached breaking point as she appeared from the kitchen.
‘I don’t know,’ I replied, picking up a bagel and turning it over absent-mindedly.
‘Aarrggh, men!’ Celia rejoined me at the large maple table and looked out of the window to the street below. ‘I think Macy’s parade might get snowed on this year. There’s that smell in the air.’
‘No need to worry then, ‘cos Santa will be there and I’ve heard he’s OK with snow.’
‘I swear you are a fiv
e-year-old trapped in a grown-up’s body. So how are you and Nate getting on, then?’
That must qualify for one of the most heavily weighted questions in history, but it was delivered with such nonchalance that I had to smile. ‘Just fine, thank you.’ Ever the investigative journalist, Celia was not going to be defeated so easily. She wanted her story and she was going to get it. Come hell, high water or bloody-minded best friends. ‘How fine, exactly?’
I conceded defeat with a smile. ‘OK, OK…well, he comes for coffee most weeks—usually on a Monday or a Thursday around three o’clock. And sometimes we visit places at the weekends, like the Noguchi, or the Rubin Museum of Art or talks at that Writers’ Collective charity bookstore in the East Village you like so much. And we talk.’
If Celia had a pressure meter fitted, it would now be reading ‘Danger’. ‘I am aware that you talk…You have been talking since the summer. What on earth do you still find to discuss?’
‘Well, it began with Nate wanting to work out what his “story” was and, now we know each other a bit better, we’ve widened our remit. It’s anything and everything: whatever happens to be flowing through our minds at the moment. I can’t explain it: I feel happy when we spend time together. He makes me smile and it feels good. I like the fact that he doesn’t have this massive inside track on me; all he knows is the person I am now, not who I was when I first came to New York, or who I was before…I’d forgotten how exciting it can be to start a friendship from scratch. He likes me for who I am, not what he thinks I should be. He doesn’t try to tell me how to live my life. And I like that. So, we talk, we laugh, we drink coffee—and it’s wonderful. Of course, the conversation usually comes back to Nate and his love life—but before you ask, I have nothing further to report on that subject yet.’
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