Chapter Forty-Seven

FORTY-SEVEN

OCTOBER 1987

La Vieille Maison on East Palmetto Park Road offered fine French dining in a fanciful setting. The restaurant was a southern Florida institution—an eclectic 1920s Mediterranean mansion complete with soothing fountains, charming gardens, and a mix of interior and exterior dining spaces filled with hand-painted tiles, wrought-iron stairways, and whimsical country French decor. The wine list was extensive, and the service—from the accommodating valet to the charismatic ma?tre d’ to the army of tuxedoed career waiters—was flawless. Augusta had heard that the food was fantastic.

“You didn’t need to go to all this trouble,” she said as they followed the waiter up the stairs to a private room with one round table perfectly set for their party of five. Augusta lost count of all the cutlery—fish knives and soup spoons and forks of all kinds. There were more plates than any one person needed and glasses for every conceivable beverage. The heady scent of lavender and roses filled the intimate space.

“Of course I did,” Jackie said. “You don’t turn eighty every day. Now, where do you want everyone to sit?”

Augusta chose a seat facing the door and pointed to the chair on her left. “You sit beside me on this side, Jackie. Shirley, you take the seat on my right.” Each of the women placed their purses on the floor beside their chairs. They were looking over the menu when they heard Irving’s voice from out in the hallway.

“You weren’t kidding about this place, Nate. Thank god I wore my good suit.”

A moment later, one of the waiters led the two men into the room, where each of them wished Augusta a happy birthday. “Time for introductions,” she said. She pointed to the taller man first, who stepped forward to shake Jackie’s hand. “Jackie, this is Nathaniel Birnbaum.”

“I’m sure your aunt has told you,” he said, “but I was lucky enough to know both of your parents. They were wonderful people.”

“What a lovely thing to say. Thank you.” Jackie turned to the shorter, squatter man. “And you must be Irving.”

“Guilty as charged. I was your grandfather’s delivery boy. What a stand-up guy he was. And your mother, Bess—she was a sweetheart. A terrific saleswoman, too. She used to stand behind the cosmetics counter and give all the neighborhood women advice—tell them which color lipsticks looked best and which perfume their boyfriends would like. There wasn’t a girl on our block over the age of fifteen who didn’t buy makeup from your mother.” Irving shook his head and sighed. “Jeez, what I wouldn’t give to be with her and George tonight.”

Augusta could see Jackie’s eyes tearing up. “I’m sure they would have loved being with everyone.” She blinked a few times. “Now then,” she said, “shall we take our seats? Irving, you sit next to me, and Nathaniel—you’re between Irving and Shirley. Oh, good, they’re bringing in the champagne.”

Before Augusta had the chance to protest, a bottle of Perrier-Jou?t was popped and Jackie was raising her glass. “Aunt Augusta, I’m so happy to be here tonight to celebrate with you and your friends. You are the strongest, most brilliant, and most remarkable woman I know. Happy eightieth birthday!”

“Hear, hear,” said Nathaniel.

“Happy birthday, darling,” said Shirley.

“You forgot the most beautiful,” Irving said, raising his glass in Augusta’s direction.

“You’re all very sweet,” said Augusta, blushing slightly. “But there will be no more birthday talk until I’ve had a chance to look at the menu. I’ve barely eaten anything all day and I’m starving.”

“You should have had more of my soup,” teased Jackie. She turned to Nathaniel and Irving. “I made chicken soup this morning—a family recipe from the old days in Brooklyn. Do either of you remember Augusta’s great-aunt Esther?”

“Who could forget her?” said Irving. “Everyone in the neighborhood knew Esther. And everyone loved her chicken soup. I was just talking to Gold—to Augusta about it a few weeks ago. Esther used to make homemade kreplach—you never tasted anything so delicious in your life.” He lowered his voice to a mock whisper as the waiter returned to take their orders. “Don’t tell the chef, but I doubt he could make anything as good as Esther’s soup.”

Shirley laughed. “I don’t see kreplach on this menu.”

“They do have consommé,” said Augusta. She turned her attention to the waiter. “I’d like the Bibb lettuce salad and the sole for my main course.” When it was Nathaniel’s turn, he asked for the paté en cro?te and the suprême de volaille.

“Listen to this guy,” Irving said, clearly impressed with Nathaniel’s accent. “What did you order anyway?”

“Chopped liver and chicken.”

“Perfect!” said Irving. “I’ll have the same.”

“They’re keeping champagne on ice for us,” said Jackie. “But if you want wine or a cocktail, please order whatever you’d like.”

Augusta asked for a vodka martini, and both men ordered a glass of Scotch. After the drinks arrived, Jackie excused herself to go to the ladies’ room. “Aunt Augusta, why don’t you come with me? We can touch up our lipstick.”

Once they were out of earshot, Jackie wanted an update on the plan. “Should I distract him? Spill something, maybe? And then you can put the powder in his Scotch?”

“Absolutely not!” said Augusta. “I told you, I have to be honest with him. I’m going to stand up and say a few words and then I’ll tell him how I feel. But I need more time to sort it out.”

“Don’t take too long,” Jackie warned.

While Augusta waited for Jackie, she sat down at the vanity table and glanced at herself in a gilt-edged mirror that took up most of the powder-room wall. There she was again—the girl in the glass: the girl who believed that a bowl of chicken soup was enough, perhaps, to save a boy’s life; the girl who believed that a pair of worn-out shoes could help a melancholy woman become pregnant; the girl who believed that the powder in her purse might be able to help her finally learn whether the man she had loved for over six decades felt the same way about her.

Augusta opened her clutch and stared at the white cloth pouch. What could she possibly say to Irving that wouldn’t make her sound like she’d lost her mind? Could she confess her feelings for him in front of Shirley and Nathaniel? How could she explain Aunt Esther’s recipe and what she believed it could accomplish? How much would she have to say if she hoped to make him understand?

After they finished their appetizers, Jackie kicked Augusta gently under the table. She tilted her head toward Irving’s half-empty glass and raised her eyebrows conspiratorially. Augusta gave her head a tiny shake and went back to buttering her bread. When the waiters returned with their entrées, Jackie asked them to bring the men more Scotch.

“I really shouldn’t,” Nathaniel said, but Jackie insisted. “If you don’t feel well enough to drive home later,” she said, “you can ride with us in Augusta’s car.” She kicked Augusta under the table again, this time with a little too much force.

“Ow!” said Augusta, wincing slightly.

“What’s wrong?” said Irving. “Are you all right?”

“My shoe is pinching,” Augusta lied.

Jackie bent over and poked her head beneath the tablecloth. “Let me take a look,” she said. “Is the strap sticking into your ankle?”

Augusta bent her head down, too, so they were both out of sight of the other guests. “Knock it off with all the kicking,” she whispered. “I’m getting black and blue already.”

“You need to do something,” Jackie whispered back. “Are you going to use the powder or not?”

“I don’t know yet, Jackie,” Augusta hissed. “First I need to know how clear Irving is about his feelings.”

“The man is eighty-two years old! He isn’t clear about anything!”

Augusta felt Shirley patting her on the shoulder. “Is everything all right down there? What are you two whispering about?”

“Did you drop your fork?” Irving asked. “I’ve got an extra if you need it.”

“No, no,” said Augusta. “Jackie is just fixing the strap on my shoe.” To Jackie, she whispered, “I’ve been waiting sixty-two years for answers. You can wait until I finish my entrée.”

“Fine. If you need me, give me a signal.”

“What is this? Mission Impossible?”

When Jackie and Augusta emerged from under the table, Shirley was raving about her lobster medallions.

“Evie loved lobster,” Nathaniel said. “That was part of why she always wanted to get a house in Maine. Funny, but I haven’t been able to touch the stuff since she passed twelve years ago.”

“My Bernie loved hot dogs,” said Shirley. “But only the ones you get on the street, from the carts, in New York. I’m not such a fan of them myself, but whenever I visit my kids in the city, I always have one, in Bernie’s honor.” She scooped a piece of lobster up from her plate and held her fork out to Nathaniel. “Go ahead,” she said. “I’m sure Evie would have wanted you to enjoy it.”

Augusta watched Nathaniel lean forward and take the bite that Shirley offered. He closed his eyes as he chewed, and when he opened them again, he was smiling. “If Evie were here, she would have ordered that, too. Thank you, Shirley. That was very kind.”

Augusta was happy to see Shirley and Nathaniel getting along so nicely, but the intimacy of their encounter seemed misplaced at a dinner that was supposed to be a celebration for her. The memory of that night at Arcadia Gardens came back in an excruciating rush: Nathaniel leading Evie onto the dance floor, the look on his face when he sank to one knee, the way the crowd erupted in applause—all the moments she imagined were going to belong to her and Irving.

She didn’t want that to happen again. She didn’t know if she could bear it.

Filled suddenly with fresh resolve, Augusta stood up to begin her speech. She felt her arms and legs grow taut as she tapped her spoon against her untouched glass of water. Her hand was shaking so fiercely, however, that instead of a single gentle tap, the force of her spoon against the glass propelled it across the cloth-covered table, where it bounced off Irving’s ample stomach and landed directly in his lap.

“Oh no!” she said. “Irving, are you all right?”

The shock of being struck in the gut with a full glass of water rendered Irving temporarily mute. He put the empty glass on the table, looked down at his soaking wet shirt and trousers, and began to shake with laughter.

Soon everyone else was laughing too. Nathaniel and Jackie pushed their napkins toward him to mop up some of the liquid. Augusta ran out of the room to summon some waiters to tidy up, and Irving excused himself to go to the men’s room. “I’m going to see if there’s a hand dryer in there. I’ll only be a couple of minutes.”

“I’ll come, too,” said Nathaniel, and Shirley rose from her seat as well. “It’s as good a time as any for a trip to the ladies’ room. Jackie, do you want to come?”

“No,” said Jackie. “I’ll stay here. Someone has to hold down the fort.”