Christmas Bliss (17 page)

Sitting in that pew, watching tourists file through, stopping to genuflect before the altar or drop some coins in the poor box, I thought about Daddy now. I hadn’t heard anything from Mama all week. She was probably mad at me for leaving this close to Christmas and the wedding. It didn’t take much to get her mad at me, but I decided I wouldn’t dwell on that now.

That morning I pawed through my long-lost suitcase, trying to decide what to wear for my Broadway debut. I knew it was only a matinee, but I wanted to look nice, especially since it would be the first time this week that Daniel had seen me dressed up.

Despite his best intentions, we hadn’t seen much of each other at all. He’d had to work most of Tuesday and by the time he got home at two in the morning, I was fast asleep. Today would be different, though, he promised. Carlotta had given her word that she’d make sure he could sneak away from the restaurant by no later than one, sharp. The plan was for me to meet Daniel at the restaurant, where we’d have a special lunch, and leave in plenty of time to make the two o’clock curtain. Two o’clock curtain!

I finally decided to wear the only dress I’d packed for the trip. It was a vintage 1960s long-sleeved peacock blue tissue-weight wool dress with a close-fitted bodice, a wide black patent belt at the waist, and a narrow skirt. It no longer had a label, but from the quality of the fit, workmanship, and fabric, I felt sure it had to have been the work of a major designer. As soon as I zipped it up and stepped into my black suede pumps with the gold buckles on the toes I felt glamorous and, yes, positively soignée. Like something out of a
Mad Men
episode. I added a pair of vintage gold Chanel button earrings, and finished off the outfit by fastening the rhinestone Christmas tree brooch I’d bought the Christmas Daniel and I got engaged.

The day before, on my walk around the Village, I’d found a tiny vintage clothing boutique on Sixth Street, but when I stepped inside the shop, I realized the merchandise wasn’t really my kind of thing.

The shop was so narrow that you could stand in the middle aisle and touch the racks lining both walls. And those racks? Stocked with dozens and dozens of pairs of gnarly blue jeans, seventies rock concert T-shirts, leather garb, and vintage eighties fashions. Waaay too hipster for me.

I was about to turn around and walk out when I spotted a lone garment hanging on a hook near a curtained-off dressing area; it looked nothing like the other clothes in the shop.

It was a circa 1950s black lamb shearling car coat, with dolman sleeves and a high funnel neck. I tried it on. It fit like it was made for me. And then I checked the price tag and almost choked. Only $30. Could that be right?

I found the shop’s proprietor sitting on a high stool behind the cash register. I handed her the coat and dug my billfold from my pocketbook. “Is that the correct price?” I asked timidly, afraid that maybe I’d overlooked a missing zero.

“I could do twenty bucks if you’ve got cash,” she said. I handed her a twenty-dollar bill and donned the coat as I was walking out the door. It had a red satin lining, and for the first time in three days I finally felt warm.

And by Wednesday, I was ready for a day on the town with Daniel.

He’d written the restaurant’s address on a slip of paper before leaving for work that morning. “Take a cab,” he’d advised.

But I hated to waste money on a taxi. As soon as I stepped outside the town house, I was thankful for my new coat. It had snowed again overnight, and although the temperature had risen enough to start melting the snow, the wind was still cold and raw. I picked my way carefully down the sidewalk to the subway entrance, but after only a block or so, my beautiful black suede pumps were soaked from the accumulated slush.

Still, I couldn’t help feeling smug as I went through the turnstile and stood on the subway platform, telling myself I looked just like any other seasoned commuter. When my train pulled up, I stepped inside and found the last available seat in the car. The doors slid shut, and we were all jammed inside, shoulder to shoulder, hip to hip. Music wafted back from an unseen source at the front of the car, a horn solo of “Silent Night.” I found myself humming along under my breath, checking the faces of nearby passengers to see if they were doing the same, but everybody else seemed preoccupied, texting on phones, checking e-mails, or reading books or newspapers.

Me? I clutched my purse tightly on my lap and watched the scenery. Ten minutes later, I had to forcibly shoulder my way through the throngs to exit at my stop.

Emerging from the subway station into daylight, I stepped under a nearby overhang to try to get my bearings. The earlier sunlight had faded and it had started to sleet. Did I turn right or left? I wasn’t certain, so I turned left, but after a block realized I’d done the exact wrong thing. I did an about-face and headed right, the sleet coming down so hard it felt like needles piercing my bare head and face.

The sidewalks were as jammed as the subway car, and I felt myself being carried along with the tide of humanity. We came to an intersection. The light turned and I stepped down from the high curb and into the street. And into a six-inch puddle of melted black slush.

The shock of cold startled me so that I gave a quick, sharp shriek at the same time I hopped out of the puddle. I looked down just in time to see my right shoe go floating off down the street in a river of slush. It bobbed along for a few feet, with me in hot pursuit, but as I watched, it flowed right into a large metal storm drain and disappeared.

I stood and stared at the drain for a moment in disbelief. But only a moment, because my shoeless right foot was freezing. I hop-walked for the next block until finally I spotted a cheery red-and-green-striped awning with the Cucina Carlotta logo.

Never had I been so happy to see a restaurant. I pulled the heavy plate-glass door open and stepped inside. It was barely noon, but the foyer was already crammed. I tucked my one remaining shoe in my pocketbook and in my wet stocking feet edged my way over to the maître d’s stand.

The hostess was tall and willowy, with a cascade of long auburn hair and huge eyes fringed with extravagant black lashes. She wore a short, tight black dress with a plunging neckline and thigh-high black patent leather boots right out of a dominatrix catalog. She held a phone to one ear and was staring down at the open reservation book on the stand. I waited patiently for her to finish listening, conscious that my wet hair was plastered to my face, and what little makeup I’d applied that morning had probably washed away, like my shoe. I looked like a drowned rat, I was sure.

I edged closer so she could hear me in the din of the room.

“Um, hi,” I said, glancing around the room. “I’m looking for Daniel Stipanek.”

She continued writing something in the book. “Danny? You mean our chef?”

“Yes, that’s right. Daniel. I’m meeting him for lunch.” Danny? The only people who called him Danny were his brothers—and his mother.

Now she glanced up, and I realized I was talking to the restaurant owner and namesake, Carlotta Donatello.

The tabloid picture hadn’t done her justice. She was even more stunning in person. Her eyes were a deep cobalt blue, and she had a small mole just at the right corner of her full lips.

“Ohhh. Oh yes! You must be the fiancée. He told us you were coming in for lunch today.”

“That’s right. I’m Weezie.”

She looked me up and down, and I began instantly regretting every single wardrobe choice I’d made that day. The blue dress was dowdy, the fabric too clingy, the color too bright. My big gold earrings looked tacky compared to the tasteful square-cut diamond posts with large silver hoops that glittered from her own earlobes.

I felt like what my meemaw used to call “country come to town.”

Carlotta’s glittering eyes lingered on my feet. “What happened to your shoes?”

I felt my cheeks burn with embarrassment. “Storm drain.”

She burst out laughing, a big, braying belly laugh. People around us stared and then looked away, to be polite.

She grasped my forearm. “Sorry! I’m not laughing at you. Oh my God. That same exact thing happened to me last summer. I was wearing these insanely expensive sandals, and it was raining like crazy, and one minute I was walking down the street and the next, one of my shoes went floating down the street. It was August, and here I am, wearing only one shoe on Central Park South.”

“What did you do?” I whispered.

She shrugged. “I chucked the surviving shoe in the trash and hobbled over to the nearest Duane Reade and bought a pair of two-dollar flip-flops.”

I looked down at my bare feet. “I don’t think I’m going to find any flip-flops this time of year.”

“What size shoe are you?”

“I’m a seven.”

She laughed that belly laugh again, and improbably, I began to like her for it. “I was going to offer to loan you a pair of the flats I keep in my office, but I’m a nine and a half. So that won’t work.”

“Probably not. I’d just lose them again.”

She clutched my arm again. “Look, as you can see, we’re having sort of a crush of lunch business today, and Danny’s in the weeds back in the kitchen. Tell you what. I’m going to seat you at my table in the front dining room and let him know you’re here. And I’ll send my assistant out for another pair of shoes for you.”

“Oh no, I couldn’t,” I protested. “If he’s busy, I’ll just go find a shoe store myself…”

“Barefoot?” She shook her head. “No way. Claire can just run out and buy a pair. It won’t take but a few minutes. Some nice stylish flats, black, right?”

Before I could manage an answer, she was towing me through the dining room, toward a prime seat in front of a broad picture window.

She grabbed a passing waiter by the arm. “Arnie, this is Danny’s fiancée, Ms. Foley. Would you please get her drink order right away? She’s having a rough morning.”

“Sit!” she said, pointing to a chair. “I’ll just let Daniel know you’re here.”

I shot her a look of gratitude and took the chair she’d indicated, finally taking a moment to soak in the atmosphere in the dining room. The décor was what I’d describe as early Tuscan ruins, rough-textured stucco walls painted in a warm yellow-pumpkin shade, dark wood floors, and simple but heavy olive-green-and-russet-striped drapes. The room was buzzing with conversation. I asked for a glass of white wine, and Arnie disappeared.

Five minutes later, he was back with a carafe of wine, a basket of bread, and a cruet of olive oil, but no menus. He fussed with the table setting for a moment and poured my wine. “Daniel said to tell you he’s fixing something special for your lunch,” Arnie confided. “We’ve got kind of a backup in the kitchen, but he promises he’ll be out by the time you finish your salad.”

The salad he brought me was one Daniel had tinkered with for weeks back home in Savannah. Two fat slices of cornmeal-crusted fried green tomatoes sat atop a bed of baby greens. The dressing was a sort of remoulade, and there were polka dots of creamy goat cheese and shards of crisp lean applewood-smoked bacon scattered across the whole affair.

Glancing around the room I could see diners at adjacent tables diving into the same salad with what can only be described as reverence.

I took a bite and chewed slowly. I took a sip of wine and another tiny bite of salad. It was that good. I could have taken a bath in the dressing.

The room grew more crowded. I finished the salad and glanced down at my watch. It was 12:30. The room was at full capacity and the noise level matched it. I looked around for Arnie, but he was busily taking orders at a nearby table of six chicly dressed women.

Finally, at quarter to one, Daniel came rushing up to the table, a plate of food in hand.

I stood and he set the plate on the table and kissed me, nuzzling my neck for a moment and whispering in my ear. “Sorry, sorry, sorry.”

I sat back down and he took the chair opposite mine. I gestured at his empty place setting. “You’re not going to eat?”

“Can’t.” He pointed at the plate he’d brought me. “Dig in.”

“What is it?”

He helped himself to a gulp of my wine. “Braised quail breast with a portobello-prune stuffing and a reduction of bourbon and figs, over a grits cake, with bacon-braised bitter greens.”

I speared a bite of the quail, closed my eyes, and chewed.

“Divine,” I pronounced.

“Glad you like it,” he said. “It was the special and we sold out within thirty minutes of opening. I had to fight the waiters to save you this last plate.”

“It’s great that it’s such a success,” I said, between bites.

“Almost everything on the special today is from Georgia,” he said proudly. “We sourced the quails from a farm down near Thomasville, the grits are from North Georgia, and the greens and dried figs are from a family-owned farm in Ellabell. I’m doing a chocolate pecan tart for dessert, and the pecans are from Baxley.”

I smiled and waited for what I’d already guessed was coming.

He got that serious look on his face. “Look, honey, I feel terrible about this…”

I held up my hand to cut him off at the pass.

“I know. You’re too busy to go to the theater with me.”

“There’s just no way. We’re totally slammed out in the kitchen, and if I don’t get back out there in like five minutes, we’ll never catch up.”

I sighed. “Doesn’t matter. I can’t go either. I don’t even have any shoes.”

“What?” He peeked under the table and came up looking puzzled.

“I lost my right shoe just as I was crossing the street to get here. And it was my favorite pair of heels too. I guess it wasn’t meant to be. This whole week was probably just a really, really dumb idea.”

Daniel looked stricken. “Don’t say that. Please! It’s great that you came up. I love having you here. Honestly. And I was looking forward to going to the show with you today. I’ve never been to a Broadway show either, you know.”

He reached into the pocket of his white coat and brought out a pair of tickets. “Orchestra level, third row, on the aisle. It’s a revival of
South Pacific
. Carlotta’s idea. She said everybody ought to see a Rodgers and Hammerstein show on Broadway, at least once in their lives.”