“Imagine being an eighteen-year-old girl and Mrs. Olsson brings you
to this place! I was so young. And so green and hopeless. I was this lanky colt, I suppose I mean filly, I mean this inexperienced horse of a creature, who wasn’t here ten minutes before she spilled her glass of wine.
“You can’t imagine how imposing this place seemed to an eighteen-year-old girl from inside the Boulevard. It was the most elegant place I’d ever seen. Now it looks almost a little run-down.”
“I hear they’re not doing very well.”
“Who’s
not doing well?”
“Pierre.” Grant glanced around. Half the tables were empty. “I’d be surprised to see this place still here in six months …”
“Oh, no! Not
this place, too!”
Her vehemence clearly surprised Grant; it surprised Bianca herself. Still more unaccountable was the sudden burn in her eyes.
“Honey, what’s the matter?”
“Well, I don’t
know
, Grant. It just strikes me as sad that maybe this is the last time I’ll ever have lunch at Pierre’s. Having arrived today in one of the city’s very last streetcars. Good grief, what’s happening to my city?”
“Hey, lots of new restaurants around. The city’s thriving!” Grant studied her face and saw that he hadn’t said the right thing, quite. Good-naturedly, he tried again. “Listen, this isn’t your last time. I promise to bring you back before they close.”
“Thank you,” she said.
“That’s a promise. A solemn vow.”
“And I thank you. It’s just”—Bianca waved her hand, encompassing with this gesture another room, with salmon-colored napkins and salmon-colored tablecloths—“well, where did it all go?”
“Where did
what
all go?”
The look he gave her was understandably befuddled—she wasn’t making much sense—and so very
sweet:
he was concerned. Grant was fearful that this long-awaited anniversary lunch had mysteriously turned wistful and morose.
Touched by that look, and knowing she was again being a little impossible, Bianca said, “Oh, please, darling, don’t pay any attention to me. It’s just, I’ve been feeling, I don’t know, very emotional lately.” Overemotional Bia: again, she felt on the threshold of tears. It was as though, in entering this place, she’d stepped into one of Uncle Dennis’s time machines and met that creature she’d mostly put behind her: the wide-eyed eighteen-year-old crybaby.
“Very emotional,” she repeated, and added, “I don’t know why that is”—though in fact she had a good sense of the
why
. But this was hardly the moment, or the manner, to broach anything so momentous.
“I’ll feel better with a little wine,” she said.
“And some food,” Grant said. “I’m starving.”
“Yes, some food,” Bianca said, and threw open the menu.
There it was: a lady’s steak. The words heartened her and, though she hadn’t planned on anything so filling, she announced jubilantly: “I know just what I’m having—I’m having the lady’s steak.”
Grant studied the menu for all of ten seconds. That he never lingered over menus was something of a point of pride with him. “Then I’ll have the porterhouse,” he announced. “It’s got two advantages. One, it’s the most expensive thing on the menu. Two, it’s probably the most filling.” He laughed. She laughed with him.
It was remarkable how much Grant ate, though you’d never guess it to look at him. He needed to lose, at most, ten pounds. He looked good. He was tall—six feet one—and a little extra weight sat comfortably on his athletic frame.
If Grant were to eat mere man-sized portions, instead of the giant-sized portions he regularly consumed, surely he’d be thin as a rail, for he was almost comically active. Grant was the sort of man who thought nothing of getting up at five on a summer morning in order to fit in three sets of competitive tennis before racing down to the office.
The wine arrived and Grant offered a toast. “Seven years,” he said. “My God,” he said, “and you’re more beautiful now than ever.”
“Thank you.”
“I really think so,” he said.
“I know,” she said, which didn’t come out sounding right. Bianca stubbed out her cigarette. “I’m very lucky, aren’t I?” She sipped her wine.
Was she more beautiful now? Not less so, she’d like to think. Grant certainly was unchanged, other than the thickening around his middle. With his short, direct nose and clear pale blue eyes he remained remarkably boyish. Neither of them had yet found a gray hair. “You do think the kids are all right?”
“They’re
fine
. So long as they’re not locked indoors, they’re fine.”
The boys, who shared Grant’s superhuman reserves of energy, were almost always outdoors. Actually, they shared more than his energy: they were identical twins who, to an almost uncanny degree, in both
looks and movements, resembled their father—so much so that people sometimes joked about the “Ives triplets.”
But with one important difference. Grant was merely a “decent athlete,” as he regularly put it, having lettered in baseball his senior year at State by “out-hustling everybody.” The twins were—truly—superb little athletes. Inevitably, kids their own age looked badly assembled by comparison.
Only this past week, Bianca had seen another dumbfounding exhibition of her boys’ dexterity. Grant had installed in the backyard a “tightrope,” which was really a very long board on its side, half buried in the ground. If you fell off the “rope,” you’d fall only two or three inches. A large party of neighborhood boys had tried to walk the rope, but none quite managed it. Then Matt confidently got up and walked it. Chip did the same thing—only he did it backward. Matt then whipped off his T-shirt and draped it over his head—walking the rope blindfolded. Chip was pulling off
his
T-shirt—presumably planning to walk it backward and blindfolded—when Bianca lunged out the back door and called the game to a halt. The twins were almost worrisomely fearless.
Bianca took another sip of wine and felt herself, physically, settling into this place. Yes, she’d chosen well—they were going to have a lovely lunch. She asked Grant about the office and he, obligingly, rattled on.
Three years ago, Grant had gone through a rough period at Cutting and Fuller. He’d gotten into a sorry mess involving a deceased client’s estate and the purchase of three lakeside lots. Grant, who really seemed less a wrongdoer than a victim of bad advice from a senior partner, had purchased one of the lots on the cheap—or so the client’s outraged heirs had alleged. Suddenly, Grant had been terrified he’d be asked to leave the firm. Bill Hobbema, the senior partner,
was
asked to leave. But Grant’s lakeside lot was relinquished and he was retained in his job—and, these days, most of his office stories were harmless tales of others’ minor spats or occasional off-hours romantic intrigues.
Their steaks arrived and Grant issued a happy grunt at the crowded-ness of his plate, which held a bulging steak, a thicket of green beans, a mountain of French fries. Finding herself less hungry than she’d hoped, Bianca gamely sliced into her steak. The meat was flavorful but tough—tough enough to leave a person wondering whether the eating was worth the effort.
“How’s it?”
“Good,” she said. “Wonderful. How’s yours?”
He crunched on a cluster of French fries. “Just what the doctor ordered.”
They ate in silence. Bianca continued struggling with her steak. Memory told her that Pierre’s French fries had been marvelous—hot and light and crisp—but these were clumped and greasy.
“Is everything all right?”
This time the question came from Pierre, standing beside their table, who did not look terribly interested in any reply.
“Great,” Grant said. “Truly great.”
“Excuse me,” Bianca said. “You probably don’t remember me, but I came here a few times some years ago. With Mrs. Charles Olsson.”
“Mrs. Olsson?” Pierre said.
“I bring it up only because I’m wondering whether she still comes in here. I haven’t seen her in years.”
For just a moment Pierre looked confused, or stricken—his eyes jumped—and then he declared firmly, “Oh yes. Mrs. Olsson is one of our regular customers.”
“I’m glad to hear that.”
“Of course I remember you,” Pierre said, which sounded like a blatant falsehood but, given the penetrating look he fixed upon her, might well have been true. “You came with Mrs. Olsson.”
“That’s right.”
Pierre bustled off, but only a minute later their waiter returned, standing more erect than before. He set before each of them a fresh glass of wine. “Saint Emma Lion,” he announced. “Compliments of the house.”
“Well I’ll be darned,” Grant said. “Now isn’t that nice.”
Grant wouldn’t have felt free to order a second glass, but he fell upon it happily: this was a gift sanctioned by the gods. And the truth was, Bianca, too, was ready for another.
“See what happens?” Grant said. “I stick with you, I get the royal treatment.”
“You stick with me,” Bianca said.
“Seven years,” Grant said.
“Seven years …”
Bianca broke the thoughtful pause that followed. “Grant, I have a little teeny teeny teeny announcement to make: I’m six days late.”
“Late?”
“On the monthly. Let’s just say there’s some possibility I may be expecting.”
“Oh darling,” Grant said. “Oh
darling,”
he said, and the look on his face—a handsome and openhearted, proud and avid look—immediately elevated Bianca into the state of mind she’d been seeking all day: a grateful sense that she’d never loved anybody else, and could never love anybody else, the way she loved this good-looking, good-hearted man she’d married seven years ago.
They raised a toast to the baby. They toasted each other. Grant reached across the table and stroked her hand. “This is so
silly,”
Bianca cried. “This whole business might be nothing. I’m only six days late.”
“What do your instincts tell you? I trust your instincts.” And why not? She had second sight, after all.
Bianca gazed at her husband and, feeling oddly embarrassed, giggled. “Well, my instincts tell me I am. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have mentioned it.”
“Then I say you are.” And they raised another toast to the baby.
Pierre reappeared. “You are enjoying the Saint-Émilion?” he asked.
“Absolutely,” Grant said. “It’s our anniversary. Married seven years ago this week.”
Pierre paused only a second. “Seven years? Then I would say to you, sir, you married a
very
young bride.” The mention of Mrs. Olsson’s name had seemingly restored him. He was almost the old Pierre again. He added, “I’m not sure it’s legal, marrying so young a bride.”
Grant’s boisterous laugh, warmed with a hint of shared male roguery, pleased Pierre, who smiled, bowed, and strode away.
“He’s
all right,” Grant said.
“He kissed my hand,” Bianca said. “I’ll never forget that. I come in here, an eighteen-year-old girl, and the owner of one of the city’s fanciest restaurants kisses my hand.”
“I want to know what your instincts tell you about the sex of the child, if I may be so bold as to ask.”
Bianca needed think only a moment. “A girl,” she stated confidently. “If I’m pregnant,
if
I’m pregnant, I’m carrying a girl.”
“And as regards this putative girl-child you are so to speak carrying, have you considered a moniker?”
This was a little joke, or rather a line of jokes, which reliably amused her—it was a routine of his. Grant often spoke in a sham-formal patter, with a generous sprinkling of legalisms, the whole of it vaguely, and perhaps
somewhat inaccurately, spun through an Irish brogue; Grant’s maternal grandfather had emigrated from Cork.
“Tabatha for the wee lass?” Grant went on. “Agatha? Plethora?”
He got the laugh he was looking for.
“Peppa?” he went on. “Is that a name?”
“I think you mean Pippa, honey. It’s a name in English novels.” Bianca had a particular fondness for English novels—not that she read enough of anything, ever since the twins’ arrival. She’d been taking a course in The Grand Tradition of the English Novel down at Wayne, working toward her B.A., when, to her utter amazement, married just a few months, she became pregnant.
“I’ll be the Poppa to a girrrl named Pippa,” Grant sang, thickening the brogue—which, in addition to serving him as a raconteur at parties, had a treasured private currency: it often provided him with a language of desire. Bold, sometimes almost too bold, intimacies emerged out of his brogue: declarations that both abashed and amused her. The world was full of wives—Bianca had come to see—who smiled tiredly at their husband’s stories and jokes. But Grant had a way about him—he made her laugh, and the laughter was genuine.
He downed his second glass of wine. He’d already finished his steak, and fries, and green beans.
“Boy, you’re pretty,” he said.
“You’re not so bad yourself.”
“How will your mother respond?” he asked.
“She’s always the great mystery, isn’t she?”
It had been something of a surprise, and an enormous relief, when Mamma developed a deep fondness for Grant and the twins. Really, there didn’t seem to be anything strained or awkward in her affection. No doubt they had helped matters greatly—those voracious Ives triplets—by being so partial to Mamma’s cooking. All those dishes drawn from the worst cookbook in history—
The Modern Housewife’s Book of Creative Cookery
, a collection so disastrous that Bianca had come to wonder whether it was assembled as a publisher’s joke—pleased them no end: Grant and the boys simply could not get enough Shipwreck, enough Drowned Tuna Loaf and Slumped Pork and Smothered Liver and City Chicken Sticks.
“I’m only six days late, we shouldn’t go assuming anything,” Bianca said, even as she felt her imagination carrying her off. In a game that might be called How Will So-and-so Greet the News? Grant happily
prompted her with names of people they knew and Bianca happily supplied their responses.
Papa would be pleased, of course, hugely pleased, though he wouldn’t say much. But he would pull her aside at some point and call her his Bia and surreptitiously slip her a little money. (It didn’t matter that she probably had more money in the bank than he did.) And—eventually—he would construct a wonderful wooden pull-toy for the new infant. He’d outdone himself for the twins: a matching pair of tigers, with bold stripes and twitching tails. And the blazing stones in their eye-sockets? Tigereyes, naturally.