Two of a Kind (10 page)

T
he ocean, jus
t down the path from Andy's East Hampton rental on Further Lane, glittered in the morning sun. As he walked, the water lapped at his bare feet and ankles. He maintained a steady pace, occasionally breaking into a light run; then he lapsed back into his power walk once again. It felt good to be out here in the sun, using his legs, his arms, his breath, to propel himself forward. The scene from the other night kept looping through his mind: the wine, the talk, and the kiss. The kiss. He'd kissed Christina Connelly. And she kissed him back—or he
thought
she had; he was lit and not entirely sure—before stepping away and excusing herself to use the bathroom. When she emerged, she thanked him for the wine and took off; clearly she had not wanted things to go any further. They had not spoken since.

After about a mile, Andy turned and started heading back to the house. The sun was higher in the sky, and the beach, formerly deserted, was now dotted with a few early risers. He wondered whether his mother would be up by the time he got back. He'd sent a car to bring her down to Manhattan on Friday afternoon, and then along with Oliver, they'd driven out here together. As Andy made his way up to the house, he saw that not only was Ida up; she was dressed and had made herself a cup of coffee, which she had taken out onto the deck. She wore enormous black sunglasses and, above them, a black straw hat. Her small frame was covered by a long dress in a bold black-and-white pattern.

“Morning!” she called. “Did you have a good walk?”

“Great walk,” he answered. “Tomorrow we'll do it together.” He joined her on the deck.

“I'd love to,” she said. “Maybe Oliver will come too.”

“Is he up yet?” Andy asked.

“I haven't seen him,” Ida said.

“He's been sleeping late all summer,” Andy said. The coffee smelled good; he could go for a cup right about now.

“He's still growing; growing tires a boy out.”

“I guess it does.” He turned to go into the kitchen. “Have you had breakfast?” Ida shook her head. “Me neither. Let's go out.”

While she was getting her purse, Andy knocked on Oliver's door, once, twice, and then a third time. When there was still no answer, he cracked it open. The room was cool and dark. Oliver's blond curls peeked out from one end of the blanket; a bare foot poked out from the other. “Ollie,” he said, and then louder, “Ollie.”

“Yeah?” Oliver emerged from the cocoon of the blanket.

“Grandma and I are going out to breakfast. Would you like to come?”

“Sleep,” Oliver said, sliding back down under the quilt. “Need to sleep.”

“Right,” Andy said. Why did his son's voice sound so plaintive, and so small?

They drove into town in Andy's Lexus, and found a parking spot easily enough. But when they got to Babette's on Newtown Lane, there was already a sizable line. “Do you want to wait?” he asked her.

“Of course,” she said.

Andy watched how she looked around, checking out the clothes and jewelry of the women milling around as well as every woman who walked by. She might be past eighty, but she was still in the game, he thought. He loved her for it. Then someone sang out his name.

He turned in the direction of the voice just as the woman with bangs and a pageboy came striding toward him. She was pushing a stroller that held three babies. He remembered them as much smaller, but that was not unusual; he'd last seen them as newborns, when he'd delivered them.

“Melanie, it's good to see you,” Andy said. “Let me introduce my mother, Ida Stern.”

“Your son is a miracle worker,” Melanie said. “We just about worship him, don't we, honey?” She turned to her husband. His name was Henry or Harry; Andy wasn't sure.

“We sure do,” said Henry-or-Harry as he pumped Andy's hand.

“He was always a good boy,” Ida said serenely.

“Let me look at them,” Andy said, bending down closer to the stroller.

“This one is Tyler,” said Melanie, indicating a chubby baby who was waving his fists in the air. “And that's Aidan.” Aidan was asleep; a tiny bubble of spit rose and fell on his parted lips. “And here's Mommy's little princess, Emma.” Emma's wispy brown hair was kept out of her face by a purple headband topped by a large purple bow. It had been a harrowing birth and Andy thought he might lose her. But she had pulled through, and now look at her: rocking that headband here in East Hampton. “Hey there, Emma,” Andy said softly. Emma looked at him, and began to bawl. What had he done?

Melanie scooped up the screaming baby. “Don't you like Dr. Stern? He only saved your life, love muffin.” Emma kicked her legs and pressed her face into her mother.

“I'm so sorry!” said Emma's dad, whose name still would not coalesce in Andy's mind. “She's been really fussy today.”

Andy stepped back. People were looking at them; he fervently hoped that they did not blame him for the baby's sudden eruption.

“Don't cry, baby girl,” soothed Melanie, jostling Emma in her arms. “Dr. Stern is a nice man. The
nicest
man.”

Excited little whispers started to eddy through the crowd.
That's Andrew Stern, the best ob-gyn in the city. Everyone says that he's brilliant. If you've ever lost a baby, go see Stern. He's your man.
Andy smiled, flattered and a little embarrassed too. Ida, however, was eating it up:
My son the famous doctor,
said her expression.
He's a prince, a god, and a wizard rolled
into one.
Her only regret, he knew, was that her Riverdale coffee klatch was not on hand to witness his triumph.

“Dr. Stern?” A Babette's employee stepped up to him. “The people at the head of the line want to give you their table and take your place instead.”

“That's not necessary,” Andy said.

“Please, Dr. Stern. They were quite insistent.”

So Andy gave his arm to Ida and escorted her into the restaurant; she was fairly levitating with pride. When they had ordered, Ida took off her glasses and placed them on the table.

“So how are you?” Andy sipped his coffee. “Everything okay up in Riverdale?”

“A-OK,” she said. “What about you?”

“Getting along. Did I tell you about my latest celeb patient?”

“Scarlett Johansson?” she asked, leaning forward in anticipation. “Or Anne Hathaway?”

He grinned. “Not this time. But what would you say to Xiomara?” Andy named a recent Grammy-winning singer with a worldwide following.

“Xiomara?” Ida looked excited. “Can I tell the girls?”

“I'd rather you didn't,” he said. “At least not until the baby is born. There's going to be enough of a media circus when she delivers anyway.”

Their omelets arrived and they began to eat. “How about your personal life?” she asked. “Is there a special lady friend you want to tell me about?”

“No, Ma, there isn't.” He took a bite of his seven-grain toast.

“I thought you mentioned someone. . . . Jen or Jenny something.”

“Jennifer Baum, but I'm not seeing her anymore.”

Ida put down her utensils. “Why not?”

“It just wasn't working out,” he said.

“Andy, sweetheart, I know it's not my business—”

“You're right—it's not.”

“Maybe you're being too picky. I know Rachel, may she rest in peace, was a paragon among women, but Rachel's gone and you're still a young man—”

“With so much to live for,” Andy finished for her. “Look, Ma, I know you mean well, but when a woman is not right, she's not right. Better to just move on.”

“Move on to what?” Ida said. “Another blind date, another woman who may or may not be right? And this Jennifer, she's Jewish, right? That's so important; you don't want to go falling for some
shiksa
. At some point you just have to settle, Andy.”

“When Dad left, did you settle? Was
good enough
good enough for you?”

“I didn't have your . . . opportunities,” she said with quiet dignity.

Andy reached out to cover her small hand with his. “I'm sorry,” he said. “That wasn't nice.”

“No,” she said. “It wasn't.” She looked around for the waitress. “I'd love another cup of coffee.”

“I'll get her attention,” said Andy, sorry he'd taken the bait. He signaled to the waitress; the conversation shifted to other, less volatile subjects. “Oliver seemed very . . . quiet . . . when we were driving out last night,” Ida said.

“He's been quiet for months,” Andy said.

“Does he have any friends out here?”

Andy shook his head. “I asked if he wanted to bring along his friend Jake from the city. He looked at me like I had suggested inviting the headmaster from his school.”

“He must be lonely,” Ida said. “Maybe he'll play cards with me. We used to play all the time when he was little. Go Fish, gin rummy . . .”

Andy said nothing. He wasn't sure that Ollie would want to play gin rummy with his grandmother. But what did he know? Jake had been his blood brother; what could have driven a wedge between those two?

He ordered cinnamon-swirl French toast to go for his son and paid the bill. Ida went to the ladies' room and he stepped outside. He was looking down at the fender of his Lexus—was that a
scratch
?—when he heard his name again. There was Christina, dressed all in flowing, summery white, a jaunty straw hat obscuring the top of her face.

“What are you doing here?” He was unable to hide his delight.

“Oh, we're just day-trippers—Stephen has a place in Sag Harbor and we go out there a lot, but this morning we thought we'd drive over to East Hampton for a walk through town.”

It was only then that Andy registered Christina's escort, an exceedingly handsome black man who wore madras shorts and a very well-fitting shirt that emphasized his trim build. The man nodded, and Andy willed himself to be polite when they were introduced. Ida walked over and Andy introduced her as well; while they were chatting, he tried to decipher the body language between Christina and Stephen. The guy was certainly attentive, and stood closer to her than Andy would have liked. Was she
dating
him? Christ, he hoped not. It was only when he saw the tiny gold hoop in the guy's ear that his jealousy dialed down a notch. Although the hoop wasn't a guarantee, he had a hunch the guy was gay. But a hunch was only a hunch; he had to find out for sure.

“What are you two doing for dinner?” he said, abruptly interrupting the conversation.

“We didn't have any special plans—,” Christina was saying while Stephen said, “Actually, there are three of us; my partner, Misha, is back in Sag Harbor.”

Partner! Bingo! Andy grinned like an idiot. “Well, why don't you all come over to my place? I'll just boil up some lobsters and grill some corn and we can sit on the deck and enjoy it while watching the sun go down.”

“That's very gracious of you,” said Stephen.

“You don't have to go to all that trouble.” Christina looked straight at Andy.

“Lobster?” said Ida, clearly puzzled by the turn the conversation had taken.

“Great! Done! Settled!” Andy said.
Partner
. He liked the sound of that word, yes he did. “How's seven? Is seven good?”

“Who is Christina Connelly?” Ida asked when they were on their way back to the house.

“Oh, she's that decorator I told you about.” He had to stop himself from humming.

“I remember,” said Ida. “You like her.”

“Who, Christina?” He feigned nonchalance, all the while reveling in the serendipitous meeting. So Stephen had a place in Sag Harbor. So she came out here often. Who knew?

“Yes. You like her a lot.”

“Well, yes, I do. She's been doing a very good job.” When Ida said nothing, he nattered on, “Ollie really likes her too; she's really sweet with him.”

“Sounds like you're thinking of her as more than a decorator.”

“And if I am?” He pulled into the driveway of the house and turned to look at her. “Is that a crime?”

•   •   •

Andy
left Ida in the house with Oliver, who had finally gotten up, while he returned to town to buy groceries. Gliding the car into a vacant spot and putting it into park, Andy reviewed the list he'd hastily scrawled back in the kitchen.
Lobster, corn, salad, sherbet, fruit, cookies.
Stephen had insisted on bringing the wine for the evening, so he wouldn't have to think about that.

Andy had to admit that at this moment the plan seemed a little daunting—he'd never made dinner for six people before, especially not when there was one in particular he wanted to impress. But he broke the job down into its constituent parts: boil the lobster, grill the corn, chop and dice the salad vegetables, scoop the ice cream, slice the fruit, and arrange it on a platter. Hell, he brought babies into the world, didn't he? How hard could it be to assemble a meal?

Several hours later, racing around in the rental house's kitchen, he found out. Even after pressing Oliver into service shucking corn, things were not going smoothly: long strands of corn silk were everywhere, tomato pulp and seeds covered his freshly pressed shirt, and the peaches were mealy. Fortunately he had the sherbet and a lemon chiffon cake, purchased on impulse from one of the nicer bakeries in town.

“How are you doing?” asked Ida. She had changed, again, and was wearing a coral dress, gold sandals, and big gold earrings.

“Okay. I think.”

“I can help, you know.”

“That's all right, Ma. I've got it covered.”

Ida looked pained. “You really want to impress her, don't you?”

“Yes,” he said. “I do.”

“But, Andy, I don't think she's Jewish. Is she?”