Dinner with Edward (13 page)

AS EDWARD AND I
finished our meal, a fall wind whistled outside his fourteenth-­floor windows, which we had finally been able to shut. I would be lying if I said that the food that night was superb. The steak was slightly over-­cooked, the snap peas mushy because they had sat in the skillet too long. The potatoes were the exception—crispy with a creamy inside. Edward walked to the refrigerator to take out a box of pastries, placing them on a plate—half a chocolate éclair, a pink and white cylinder of what looked like cheesecake decorated with an artfully sliced strawberry. I looked up at Edward, who had already settled on the half-­eaten éclair. The cheesecake was mine and was disappointing. It had sat too long in the fridge; it was vaguely reminiscent of ricotta, swirled with sugar and cream. I ate it anyway, accompanied by the rest of my merlot, longing for one of Edward's homemade desserts and wondering if I should bring up the letter I had received from Edward a few days before.

It was dated “Friday 2:38 a.m.” and written to finally address the heartfelt letter I had written to him some weeks earlier. Edward's letter said, in part, “The thought you expressed that I am not as understanding of the depth of feeling I have made on you in our friendship leaves me querulous, somewhat sad.”

He went on, “It is not easy to appreciate how much strength we expend in establishing and maintaining relationships of varying depths. And when young enough for our bodies to create the energy needed to exist, we take it for granted without analyzing this fact of life. But let me tell you that this age I'm into now is revealing a lot of things I never imagined existed.”

Just what had he been trying to say?

For one thing, he told me that he regretted never having told people how much they meant to him when they were alive, in the way I had told him. There were people who had changed Edward's life, who had tremendous meaning to him, but most of them had passed away without ever knowing how he felt about them. There was his aunt Eleanor, who had taken him under her wing when he was a teenager and introduced him to a world of elegance and haute cuisine; his aunt Beatrice, who saved his life when he swallowed the poison, and then practically raised him and his brothers and sisters; his mother, his father, his high-­school drama teacher who gave him the envelope with $12 to begin his acting life in the big city; his Manhattan physician who had taken care of him and Paula for decades. And there was Paula, of course, who had completely altered his life.

“I'm sure they knew,” I said. “Paula knew.”

But Edward was not convinced, and still seemed lost in thought as he walked me to the elevator. Later, he called to thank me for the bottle of the wine I brought him. It was my now customary Portuguese rosé, which he had labeled and put in his hall closet wine cellar. I told him to open it the next time he had someone over for dinner, and not to wait for me.

“I can't wait for anybody anymore,” he said plainly.

“What do you mean?” I asked, suddenly alarmed.

He laughed. “Only God knows.”

18

The Last Supper

E
dward swore me to secrecy about what he jokingly referred to as The Last Supper.

He wanted to throw a big dinner party. He would extend his dining table with the wooden leaf to accommodate all of his guests, who would be a mix of old people he had known for a long time and also new people whom he had never hosted.

This dinner would begin with his guests seated in the living room, where he would serve his lemon-­infused gin martinis and savory tartines—thin slices of toasted baguette, topped with his homemade cognac chicken liver pâté.

Then, at the dining room table, he planned to serve small bowls of New England clam chowder, made with heavy cream, potatoes, and fresh Long Island clams from his fishmonger in Astoria. He would slow roast a pork shoulder, slicing it thinly and serving it with baked prunes. He would bake squash, with a hint of brown sugar and dab of cold butter. For dessert, individual apricot soufflés and Turkish coffee. There would be jazz in the background; maybe Ella Fitzgerald or Ute Lemper performing Kurt Weill in her animated German. Maybe even Thelonius Monk.

But while Edward dreamed about preparing dinner, I worried that it had too much of the air of finality about it. Shortly after he turned ninety-­four, he had sent a letter to his circle thanking everyone for their birthday wishes. In it, he contemplated his own advanced age.

“When my professed age becomes known, the skepticism I encounter is beginning to become comedic,” he wrote. “But if the gods have made some mistake, am I to blame?” He attributed his youthful energy to Paula's enduring love. “The song ‘Younger Than Springtime,' was her mantra and being so close I couldn't avoid being touched.”

I had also been touched by Edward and Paula's enchanted love story, even though I had never met Paula. To borrow from that Rogers and Hammerstein song she adored so much, during my own dinners with Edward I felt my heart grow strong, and now, years later, I held a world in my embrace. I couldn't allow myself to think that it could all come to an end one day. But, of course, it would.

“Life is not stationary,” he continued in his missive. “I'm growing very old in spite of my deceptive appearance.”

I didn't want to believe it. And I didn't want this final dinner with Edward, this last supper. After I received his letter, I refused to talk about the dinner or commit to any dates. Then I came up with an idea: I would cook the dinner and Edward would be my guest. It would be the perfect dinner, evidence and appreciation of everything I'd learned from him. I would invite people he knew and people he didn't know.

Edward feigned resistance, but when I dropped by to tell him my idea I could see that he was intrigued.

I had arrived unexpectedly, without an invitation. It was cocktail hour and Edward busied himself making drinks and filling a bowl with salted cashews. For me, he mixed ice-­cold lemony gin and vermouth into a martini glass. Then he poured Canadian whiskey into a tumbler for himself and added some ice. He swirled the amber liquid around in his glass, knocking the ice cubes together before he spoke.

He told me he was grateful that I had come into his life right after he lost Paula, when he needed attention and affection. “And while Laura was still in Greece and Valerie was in Toronto, we formed a bond over dinner. We gave each other the courage to go on with our lives. We were equally giving and receiving in that period, which was crucial to you and me,” he said.

Edward had nourished me with more than just food. Yes, he had made magnificent feasts and even plain meals, and I remember each of them still so vividly because every dinner with Edward sustained me “truly against the hungers of the world,” as M. F. K. Fisher wrote.

And then he suddenly set his whiskey glass down on the table and grabbed my arm, his twinkling blue-­gray eyes welling with tears: “Nobody knows how much we love each other.”

“Of course they do, Edward,” I said, suddenly overwhelmed.

“No,” he insisted. “Nobody knows because I've never told them.”

I took a sip of my martini to prevent myself from crying.

I felt
that Edward and I had now come full circle and I remembered what I had written in the card I gave him on his birthday. Distracted, I had mailed it to the wrong apartment, but it magically ended up in his mailbox on the day of his birthday. “May you have as many more years as you desire,” I wrote. “And know that for me you already live forever.”

Now the tears rolled down my cheeks. I grabbed my empty martini glass and walked to the kitchen so that Edward wouldn't notice. I moved some plates around in the sink until I could compose myself, and then I walked back into the living room, where Edward sat finishing his drink, staring out at the shimmering lights of Manhattan and wiping away his own tears with a cocktail napkin.

“So you'll come to my dinner, Edward?” I asked, my voice cracking despite my best efforts to keep it together.

He smiled. And did I detect the slightest nod of agreement?

“Just don't give away my secret on the martini, baby,” he said.

Never!

I clasped his hand and we walked toward the elevator. As usual, he held the door open with his cane. He was about to say something. Perhaps he wanted to tell me where to buy the best Turkish coffee, where to get the freshest clams for the chowder, or not to forget to brine the pork in apple cider. Two days, for best results, he always said. Or maybe there was a last bit of wisdom he wanted to impart.

But I was having none of it. I had a lot to do before our next dinner.

“Seven o'clock,” I said. “I'll be expecting you.”

ISABEL VINCENT
is an investigative reporter for the
New York Post.
Previously, she was a foreign correspondent. Her work has appeared in magazines and newspapers all over the world, including the
New Yorker,
the
New York Times Magazine, L'Officiel,
and
Time.
The author of four books and the recipient of numerous journalism honors, she grew up in Toronto. (Author photo by Bill Ray.)

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