Happy Birthday (9 page)

“It’s too soon for me to write another review,” he warned her, and then his voice softened a little. “I’m sorry about the one I wrote. I just think you could reach higher than you are.” He could tell from the dishes she had prepared that her skills were worthy of a much more important restaurant, and he knew from her CV that she had worked in some. Other than the selection of delicacies on the menu, he had no idea why she wanted to serve food that anyone could make at home. He had missed the whole point of April in New York, but April no longer cared. She didn’t want another review, or a better one, she only wanted to tell him about their child. And if they never saw each other again after that, that was fine with her too. She had no illusions about having a relationship with him, since he had never called her. And she didn’t need anything from him, nor did her child. She had her family’s support now, and she could take care of herself
and
a baby, hopefully. Knowing that made it easier to call him, no matter what he thought her motivations were. They were very different than he thought.

“The restaurant seems to work,” she said casually, not wanting to get into it with him. They had entirely different points of view, and she could tell from other reviews of his she’d read that he was a snob about food. She wasn’t. “People like it, and this is what I always wanted to do. A restaurant like this was my dream. It’s not for everyone, I guess, but it works for us. And I wasn’t
calling for another review,” she corrected him. “How was your Thanksgiving?” she asked, sounding pleasant.

“I don’t do holidays. And I hate turkey anyway.” They weren’t off to a very good start. And then he sounded awkward for a moment as he broached another subject, one that they were both uncomfortable about. “I’m sorry I didn’t call you after that night. It was great, but I figured you’d be mad at me once you read the review, so I didn’t call. It’s a little strange writing a harsh review about a restaurant, and then inviting the owner out. I had a really good time though, and I’m sorry if I was rude not calling afterward.” At least he knew enough to be embarrassed about it, and to acknowledge that the review was harsh. He wasn’t totally without manners or brains, even if he didn’t have a heart, which seemed to be the case. He sounded chilly on the phone.

“Don’t worry about it,” April said easily. “I just wondered if you’d like to come to dinner. It’s not a date, and I’m not trying to butter you up, or ply you with wines this time.” They both laughed at her admission.

“The wines were great,” he conceded. And he had mentioned that in his review too. It was the only positive thing he had said, that she had a remarkable wine list of obscure, excellent, and inexpensive wines. He had looked down his nose at the food, but not the wines. That was something at least. “And you were pretty goddamn great too,” he said, warming up a little. “What I remember anyway. I don’t think I’ve gotten that drunk in years. I had a hangover for three days.” He laughed about it now, but she
suspected he wouldn’t be laughing when he heard what else had happened that night. And the aftermath of their fling was going to last a lot longer than three days, more like the rest of their lives, or hers, since he didn’t have to be involved.

“Yeah, me too,” she admitted. “I don’t usually do things like that. The wine went to my head” and other parts. He had been younger and better looking than she’d expected. He was thirty-four years old, single, and sexy as hell. He had been hard to resist with all that wine under their belts.

“That’s what people always say,” he teased her about their one-night stand, which was embarrassing for them both, but they were handling it pretty well on the phone. She was glad that she had called. Her parents were right. He didn’t sound like a bad guy, for a food snob and a one-night stand who had never called her afterward.

“How about an easy dinner tonight?” she persisted, and he was flattered. She was a beautiful girl, and there was nothing he could do for her, since he had already told her he couldn’t write another review of the restaurant this soon, which was true. “We’re fully booked, but if you come around nine, I can save a small table in the back. And I won’t serve you turkey since you hate it. How does lobster sound?”

“Excellent. I’ll try to get to an AA meeting first,” he teased her. He had a sense of humor, which was something at least. She tried not to sound seductive on the phone, or even interested in him as a man. She didn’t want to mislead him about the reason for their dinner. She tried to make it sound like she just wanted
to be friends. Even that would be a stretch, but it would be helpful since they were going to share a child. “Thanks for asking me,” he said easily. “See you at nine.” He was impressed that she had called him after the bad review he’d given her, but they had slept with each other, which wasn’t entirely negligible. He had liked her a lot, but thought it politically incorrect to call her since he had bashed her as a chef, and her restaurant. He almost hadn’t written the review so he could see her again, but in the end decided to be true to himself as a journalist. He owed that to his paper. So he had given up on her instead, which he was sorry about at the time. He was glad she had called him out of the blue and invited him to dinner, although he couldn’t imagine why. But he had to admit, the sex had been great, for both of them, even though they were drunk at the time. It had obviously impressed her too. Enough to call him three months later. And he was glad she had. He was looking forward to that night.

Mike showed up at the restaurant a few minutes after nine. He was even better looking than she had remembered. He had both a serious look and a boyish quality about him. Her heart skipped a beat when she saw him. He looked sexy, appealing, and casual in jeans, hiking boots, and an old fisherman’s sweater. She remembered that he had been a journalism major at Brown. He had wanted to be a war correspondent, and write from danger zones, and had told her that a bad case of malaria had sent him home from his first assignment, and it had taken a year to get over it. And by then he’d been assigned to food and wine and become a restaurant critic. He didn’t love it and would
have preferred to do something more exciting, but he had a reputation now and a solid job. It accounted for some of the acerbic comments in some of what he wrote. He had a certain disregard for some of the restaurants he covered, and many of the chefs. But the paper liked his tough comments and often tart remarks. It was his style, and he had been doing restaurant reviews now for ten years, and people responded to what he wrote, so he was locked into his job, whether he liked it or not.

He looked around the restaurant for April as soon as he arrived, and the headwaiter led him to their table, in a quiet corner in the back. April came out of the kitchen in her apron shortly after, wiping her hands on a cloth, which she handed to one of the busboys. She stopped to greet people at several tables, smiled when she saw Mike, and finally sat down. She certainly hadn’t dressed for a date, he noticed. Her dark hair was piled on top of her head in a wild ponytail pulled up in an elastic, she had no makeup on, and she was wearing clogs with her traditional black and white checked pants, and white chef’s jacket, covered with spots from the food she’d prepared that night.

She was a little fuller in the face than he remembered, but it suited her, and she was even prettier as she smiled at him. She had deep hazel eyes that looked slightly worried as she smiled and thanked him for coming. She ordered a bottle of Chilean wine for them, he stuck with the lobster she had suggested, and she offered him some of the last remaining white truffles on pasta. It sounded like a perfect meal to him, and much better than the meat loaf, roast chicken, or steak tartare she was famous
for. His tastes were more refined and his palate more critical, but she knew that about him now. And the wines Jean-Pierre suggested for the meal were even better than the ones he had had with her before.

“See what I mean?” he said, savoring the pasta, and the lobster afterward. “You’re better than what you usually do. Why would you want to make hamburgers, when you could be in Paris earning three stars for your restaurant, or doing the equivalent here? You’re underachieving, April. That’s what I was trying to say in my review.” It had come out harsher than he had intended it to sound, which he was slightly sorry for now, but he believed that the essence of what he had said was true.

“How often do you think people want to eat food like that?” April asked him honestly. “Once a month, every couple of months, for a special occasion? No one can eat that way all the time. I can’t, and I don’t want to. Maybe you do, but most people don’t. Our customers, our regulars, come here once or twice a week, some more than that. I want to make the best possible version of what they want to eat every day, and the occasional exotic treat, like truffle pasta or escargots. That’s the kind of restaurant I always wanted. I can still do special things, and we do. We offer that too, but most of the time I want to offer real food to real people for real life. That’s what this restaurant is all about,” she said honestly. It had been her theory behind it since the beginning, and it had worked. The tables had been jammed around them all night, and people were still coming in close to midnight, begging to be seated and eat her food. Mike had
noticed it while he chatted with her about restaurants in France and Italy that they both loved. And as he had noticed the first time he met her, she knew her stuff, and also about wines.

“Maybe I missed the point,” he admitted. “I just figured you were being lazy and going for an easy shot.” She laughed at what he said. Lazy she was not, and anyone who knew her knew that wasn’t the case.

“I want to serve people’s favorite foods, whatever they are, fancy or simple. I want to be the restaurant they wish they could go to every night. My mother and I love La Grenouille, but I can’t go there every day, although my mother does, or close to it. Maybe I’m a simpler person than you are and she is. I need comfort food sometimes. Don’t you?”

“Sometimes,” he confessed sheepishly. “I go to a pancake house when I want that, not a top-notch restaurant. When I go out to dinner, I want a great meal,” he said, savoring the last of the lobster. It had been absolutely perfect as far as he was concerned, four star, and would have won a flawless review from him if he’d been writing about it, which he wasn’t.

“That’s my point,” April insisted. “You can get fantastic pancakes here, or waffles, or mashed potatoes, or mac and cheese. You should try my pancakes sometime,” she recommended seriously, and he laughed at the intense look on her face. She really believed in what she was doing. He hadn’t fully understood that before. Maybe he’d been too drunk. But that had been her fault, she had absolutely buried him in wines that had been too good to resist. He was more careful tonight, he didn’t want to drink
too much again and make an ass of himself. He liked her, and her passion for her restaurant.

“Okay, I’ll come back for pancakes the next time I’m feeling sorry for myself.”

“You’re welcome anytime. The pancakes are on me.”

“It was nice of you to invite me here tonight. I figured you hated me after what I wrote about the restaurant.”

“I did for a while,” she said honestly, “but I got over it.”

“I’m glad you did. The meal was fantastic tonight.” He was beginning to understand that she was trying to do something for everyone, the more refined palate as well as the simpler one, and even food that children loved. There was a certain merit to her theory, although it had escaped him before. “So why did you ask me here, since I can’t write a review this soon, and you said it wasn’t a date? Burying the hatchet in lobster and white truffle pasta?” he asked with an amused look, and she smiled at him, wondering if their child would look like him, or her, or a combination of both. It was strange to think about that.

“I have something to tell you that I just figure you should know. I don’t want anything from you. I don’t need anything. But I figure you have a right to the information too.” She didn’t beat around the bush. She wanted to let him know. That was all. She was having his baby and he had a right to decide how and if he wanted to deal with it, or not at all, which was fine with her too. She had no expectations of him. “I was on an antibiotic for strep throat when we saw each other in September. I didn’t realize it could do that, but it screwed up the Pill I was on, and to
be honest, I got so drunk that night that I forgot to take the Pill. I’m three months pregnant. I’m having a baby in June. I found out four weeks ago, and I decided to keep it. I’m thirty years old, and I don’t want to have an abortion. You don’t have to have anything to do with me or it, if you don’t want to. But I thought you ought to know, and at least give you the choice.” It was as direct and honest as she could be with him, and he looked across the table at her as though he was going into shock. He looked pale. His hair was as dark as hers, he had dark brown eyes, and his face was as white as the tablecloth when he spoke.

“Are you serious? You’re telling me that now? You invited me here to dinner to tell me
that
? Are you crazy? You’re having it? You don’t even know me. You don’t know if I’m an ax murderer or a lunatic or a child molester, and you’re having a baby by a guy you slept with once? Why aren’t you having an abortion? Why didn’t you ask me how I felt about that before it was too late to do anything about it?” He looked furious as his eyes blazed at her across the table. For a moment, she was sorry she had told him at all.

“Because my decision to keep it is none of your business,” she said just as harshly. “It’s my body and my baby, and I’m not asking you for a goddamn thing. You don’t ever have to see me again, if you don’t want to. And frankly, I don’t care either way. You don’t ever have to see the kid. That’s up to you. But if there were a child wandering around who was mine, I’d want to know about it, so I could decide if I wanted to be part of its life or not. That’s the opportunity I’m giving you, no strings attached. You
don’t have to support me or the baby, or contribute anything. I can manage by myself, and if not, my parents are willing to help me, which is nice of them. But they thought, and I agree, that I owe you at least the information that you’re having a baby in June. That’s all. The rest is up to you.”