Chapter Thirty-Nine

THIRTY-NINE

OCTOBER 1987

On the morning of Augusta’s eightieth birthday, she woke to the smell of chicken soup.

At first she thought that she was dreaming. Augusta hadn’t made soup for sixty-two years. She rolled over and read her alarm clock—how was it already ten in the morning? She’d told Irving she wouldn’t be at the pool—she was going to sleep in during Jackie’s visit. But sleeping in meant waking at eight, not ten. And either way, the hour didn’t explain the scents of chicken stock, onion, and dill that had roused her from her slumber.

Slowly Augusta pulled back the covers, lifted her head, and sniffed the air. No, she definitely wasn’t dreaming. Someone was making chicken soup in her apartment.

The galley-style kitchen had a table at one end and a pass-through countertop that opened into the living room. Augusta took a seat on one of the counter stools and watched her niece sprinkling salt and pepper into a pot she’d forgotten she owned.

“Good morning,” Augusta said. “What’s all this?”

The kitchen looked as if Jackie had been puttering around for hours. In addition to the soup on the stove, there were scrambled eggs warming in a pan and a pot of fresh coffee in the machine. A small square carton of fresh blueberries waited by the sink to be rinsed, and two sesame bagels were on a plate by the toaster.

“Happy birthday, sleepyhead!” said Jackie, blowing her aunt a kiss across the counter. “I woke up early and borrowed the car—I didn’t think you’d mind. Let’s see… I stopped at the bakery for some bagels and then I picked up groceries at Publix.” Jackie pulled a mug from the cabinet, filled it with coffee, and set it down in front of Augusta. Then she spooned some scrambled eggs onto a plate and pushed that in Augusta’s direction.

“It’s sweet of you to make me breakfast,” said Augusta. “But what possessed you to make soup ? It’s going to be ninety degrees today.”

Jackie sliced one of the bagels and popped both halves into the toaster. “It felt appropriate,” she said, doing her best to avoid eye contact.

“You’re on a long weekend away from your kids, and the first thing you want to do is cook? At ten in the morning? In the Florida heat?”

Jackie shrugged. “We can have it for lunch.”

“ You can have it—I’m saving my appetite for dinner tonight.”

“It smells good, though, doesn’t it? Bring back any memories?”

Augusta lifted the coffee cup to her lips. “I suppose it does,” she admitted. “I take it your mother told you about Esther’s chicken soup? Because I can’t think of any other reason for you to go to all this trouble.” She waved her hand in the direction of the stove. “Did your mother give you a recipe to follow? Bess was never much of a cook, as I recall…”

“The recipe is Esther’s,” said Jackie. “She dictated it to my mother before she died. Mom wrote down the basic ingredients, but Esther told her—”

“That she never made her soup the same way twice.”

Jackie nodded. “Exactly. Mom said Esther liked to add a lot of extra ingredients and that she never really specified how much to use—dill, parsley, onion… Mom thought the dill gave the soup a nice kick.”

“People don’t cook like that anymore, making everything from scratch. You know, Esther used to grind all her herbs with a mortar and pestle she brought over from Russia.”

“I know,” said Jackie. “With Hebrew letters carved inside.”

“Your mother told you about that, too?”

Jackie was silent for a beat too long. “Aunt Augusta, I think we need to talk.”

A heaviness pressed on Augusta’s heart. She didn’t want to talk about Esther. Didn’t want to talk about her great-aunt’s illness or her own futile attempts at healing. She pointed to the toaster. “The bagel is done.”

Before Jackie had a chance to pull the two halves from the toaster, there was a knock at Augusta’s front door.

“I’ll get it,” Augusta said, happy for an excuse to delay the conversation. She pulled the front of her bathrobe closed and marched down the hall to open the door. There, on her doormat, someone had left a bouquet of long-stemmed yellow roses. But whoever delivered it had not lingered long enough to make himself known.

As Augusta bent down to examine the bouquet, curiosity took over. Why would a person drop off a gift without waiting to greet the recipient? Immediately, Augusta thought of Irving. It would be just like him to behave this way—to send mixed signals, to run away. Would that man ever stop playing games with her? As she stared down at the yellow petals, Augusta’s hands turned to fists. Between Jackie’s soup and this bouquet, her birthday was growing more complicated by the minute.

Augusta did not know what possessed her then, but instead of picking up the flowers, she stepped over them and began to run down the shrubbery-lined walkway. When she reached the end and rounded the corner, she spotted the unmistakable backside of none other than Irving Rivkin. It wasn’t even ten-thirty in the morning, but the sun was so strong that it felt like noon.

She shouted his name once, then twice. Slowly—very slowly—he turned around.

“Irving! Did you leave me flowers?”

“Good morning!” he said, walking toward her. When he got closer, he pointed to her bare feet. “Augusta, what happened to your shoes?”

“Don’t change the subject,” she snapped. “Did you leave me flowers or not?”

“They’re for your birthday,” he said brightly. “I know your niece is here, so I didn’t want to bother you.”

Augusta scowled. “What kind of person leaves a gift on a doorstep and then skulks away? Why do you have to be so mysterious?”

Irving stared at her, confused. “I didn’t skulk away,” he said. “I thought you’d be happy to have flowers on your birthday. And it wasn’t my intention to be mysterious. Didn’t you see the card we left?”

Now it was Augusta’s turn to stare. “What do you mean, we ?” she said.

“Me and Nathaniel,” Irving said. “The flowers are from both of us.”

Augusta shoved her fists into the pockets of her robe.

“We’re burying the hatchet,” he continued. “And we wanted you to be the first to know. We don’t want you to worry about us tonight. We want your birthday to be perfect. It’s all in the card that we wrote.”

“Oh,” said Augusta, suddenly deflated. All the anger that had been building inside her left her body in one lamentable sigh. “I see. Well then… thank you.”

Irving tilted his head. “Do you want me to walk you back to your apartment?” He looked at her bathrobe and her bare feet again. “You seem a little confused this morning.”

“For heaven’s sake,” said Augusta gruffly, “I’m not the least bit confused. I wanted to know who left the flowers, that’s all.”

“I didn’t want them to wilt in the heat. That’s why I knocked on the door.”

Augusta nodded. “Of course,” she said. “Thank you, Irving. I’ll see you and Nathaniel tonight.”

As she turned around, Augusta scolded herself for assuming the flowers were some kind of grand gesture. She told herself that her disappointment was absurd. Be happy the two of them are getting along. Now maybe you can celebrate your birthday in peace.

But when she carried the bouquet into her apartment, the smell of soup assaulted her again. Jackie was sitting at the kitchen counter, waiting for them to have their “talk.” There would be no peace for her yet.

“What happened to you out there?” Jackie chided. “You disappeared on me.”

Augusta held up the bouquet. “Irving dropped off flowers for my birthday. But I had to chase him down the sidewalk. You know what? Don’t ask. It was silly, that’s all.”

Jackie waggled her eyebrows. “A bouquet of roses on your birthday, hmm? Sounds awfully romantic to me.”

“It isn’t. The roses are from Irving and Nathaniel. Apparently they’re best friends now.” Augusta laid the flowers on the kitchen counter and removed the cellophane with a pair of scissors. There, tucked between stalks of snowy baby’s breath, was a card with her name printed neatly on the front. “‘Dear Augusta,’” she read out loud. “‘Happy eightieth birthday. We want you to know that your special milestone has inspired us to put past hostilities behind us. We look forward to celebrating with you tonight and we wish you many more happy returns. Your friends, Nathaniel and Irving.’” The note was as unromantic as possible. Not a trace of tenderness, not a hint of passion.

“Well, that’s nice, isn’t it?” said Jackie. “I mean, that was a very thoughtful gesture.”

“Thoughtful, sure,” said Augusta through gritted teeth. “What a thoughtful gesture from my friends. ”

“Why do you sound so angry?”

Augusta threw up her hands. She couldn’t keep herself from shouting. “Because I swore I would never let another man hurt me, and now here I am, allowing it to happen! And not just some random man, mind you, but the very same one who hurt me the last time! Sixty-two years later, I’m feeling the same foolish feelings. Falling for the same dumb tricks. Misreading the same old signals. I may have turned eighty years old today, Jackie, but I’m still as stupid as I was at eighteen!” Augusta flung the card onto the counter and lowered her head into her hands. She took a slow, calming breath. “I’m sorry, sweetheart,” she said. “Becoming eighty is turning out to be much more emotional than I anticipated.”

Jackie slipped one arm around her aunt. “For what it’s worth, I think it’s good. It’s healthy that you’re finally admitting your feelings.”

“Then why am I so miserable?”

“Because you can’t have the highs without the lows. That’s how love works.”

“This isn’t love,” Augusta scoffed.

“I wouldn’t be so sure about that. From everything my mother told me, you and Irving were in love once. Why can’t you be in love again?”

“Because even though I was in love with him, Irving never felt the same about me. He liked me, sure, but at the end of the day, he chose someone else to be his wife. He loved Lois, not me.”

“I’m not sure I believe that,” said Jackie. “Just because he married her doesn’t mean he didn’t love you . Life gets complicated sometimes. Maybe there was a misunderstanding.”

“I’m telling you, Jackie, I know he loved her.” As she spoke, Augusta’s lower lip trembled. “I did something back then—something I shouldn’t have. That’s how I know that Irving loved Lois.” Augusta barely got out the last few words before her eyes began to tear.

“Tell me about it,” Jackie said.

Augusta nodded. It was finally time to tell the truth.