“The good expensive stuff,” I said.
“I’ll be done a little after four. I made reservations for six at Keens Steakhouse. Then I thought we’d take in a show.”
“What are we going to see?”
“That’s a surprise,” he said. He looked down at his watch. “I better go.” He downed his coffee, then stood. “I’ll see you this afternoon.”
“Good luck,” I said.
He stopped and turned back. “I almost forgot.” He handed me his credit card. “Have fun.”
I just looked at it. “What am I supposed to do with it?”
“Use it.”
I watched him walk out. Then I put the card in my pocket and ordered another cup of hot chocolate.
I went back to my room to finish getting ready, then I took a taxi down to the Empire State Building and rode the elevator one hundred two floors to the top observation deck. It was amazing to look out over the entire city. Afterward I walked just a few blocks over to Macy’s on Thirty-Fourth Street, joining the throngs of sightseers gathered in front of the store to see the famous animated holiday windows. The theme was the Magic of Christmas, which seemed appropriate for me this year.
I got into a taxi to go back to the hotel but, on a whim, asked the driver for a recommendation for a good place to eat lunch. He was from São Paulo and he took me to a café in Little Brazil just a block off Sixth Avenue. The stew my waiter recommended was different but good. To drink I had a sugarcane juice mixed with pineapple juice. I walked the ten blocks back to the hotel, undressed, and took a nap. I woke to my room phone ringing.
“I’m sorry I’m late,” Nicholas said. “Our meetings went long.”
“What time is it?” I asked, sitting up.
“Did I wake you?”
“Yes.”
“It’s almost five. We should leave for dinner in a half hour.”
“I’ll be ready,” I yawned. I got out of bed, splashed water on my face, dressed in a nicer outfit, and fixed my hair. I was putting on fresh makeup when he knocked. I opened the door. He was still wearing his suit but with a fresh shirt and his collar open. He looked handsome. He always looked handsome.
Keens Steakhouse was in the Garment District between Fifth and Sixth Avenues, though, at the time of its founding, in 1885, the area was considered the Theater District and was frequented by those on both sides of the curtain.
The restaurant was crowded, and the inside was paneled in dark mahogany, covered with framed black-and-white pictures. The rooms were mostly lit by indirect lighting, creating the ambience of a nineteenth-century gentlemen’s club, which, in fact, it was. The tables were close together and skirted with white linen cloths. A large, gilt-framed picture of a nude hung above the bar, reminding me of an old western saloon.
Nicholas ordered a half dozen oysters on the shell, which I tried but didn’t care for. Then I had tomatoes and onions with blue Stilton cheese, and we shared a Chateaubriand steak for two. The food was incredible.
“What’s that on the ceiling?” I asked.
He looked up. “Pipes.”
“Pipes?”
“Clay smoking pipes. Every one of them is numbered. In the old days you would request your pipe, and they would find it by its number and bring it to your table. I’m not sure how many pipes are still up there, but I’ve heard more than eighty thousand. They belonged to people like Teddy Roosevelt, Babe Ruth, Albert Einstein, Buffalo Bill Cody, pretty much everybody who was famous came here. Except the women. It used to be that women weren’t allowed inside. It took a lawsuit from King Edward the Seventh’s paramour to open it to women.”
“When was that?”
“Turn of the century.”
“Just a decade ago?”
He smiled. “No. The previous century.”
Our conversation was interrupted by my cell phone ringing. “Sorry, I forgot to turn it off,” I said. I glanced at the screen, then quickly pressed the power button.
“Was it important?”
“No. It was Dan.”
“Does he call you often?”
“No. More lately since his wife left him.”
“His wife,” Nicholas said. “The one that was your friend?”
I nodded. “Kayla.”
“And he wants a shoulder to cry on?”
“He wants more than a shoulder. He wants to get back together.”
“He told you that?”
“Right after he reminded me that it was my fault he divorced me.”
“Your fault?”
I nodded. “Because of—” I caught myself. “It doesn’t matter,” I said. “There’s no way I would ever go back to him.”
“Did you tell him that?”
“Yes.”
Nicholas nodded. “Good,” he said. “You deserve better than him. So what did you do today?”
“I went to the top of the Empire State Building. Then I walked over to Macy’s and looked at their windows, then I went to a café in Little Brazil for lunch and had this interesting stew. I don’t remember what it’s called, but the waiter said it’s the Brazilian national dish.”
“It’s called feijoada,” Nicholas said.
I looked at him in amazement. “Is there anything you don’t know?”
He shook his head. “I don’t know.”
I laughed. “You are the smartest person I know.”
“Then you must not know many people,” he replied.
As we were finishing dessert, he reached into his pocket and brought out a piece of paper. “I have something for you. I should have done this for you earlier.”
“What is it?”
“During my meetings I made a list of things you should do or where you should eat during the day. Actually, it’s mostly eating.”
I reviewed the list.
Serendipity 3 (frozen hot chocolate)
Hamburger in lobby at Parker Meridien
Met Museum
Ellen’s Stardust Diner (breakfast)
Carnegie Deli (egg cream)
“All right,” I said looking up, “Give me the rundown.”
“Serendipity 3 is between Second and Third Avenues. It’s famous for celebrity clients like Marilyn Monroe and Andy Warhol, but food-wise, it’s famous for the frozen hot chocolate. On their fiftieth anniversary they created the world’s most expensive dessert, which was basically a thousand-dollar ice cream sundae.”
“A thousand dollars. What’s on it, gold?”
“That’s exactly what’s on it. Twenty-three-karat gold leaf, Madagascar vanilla, the world’s most expensive chocolate, and gold caviar.”
“I won’t be having that.”
“Thank you,” he said. “Next on the list, if you’re craving a burger, the hamburger joint in the lobby of our hotel has one of New York’s best.”
“There’s a hamburger joint in our hotel?”
“I know, strange, right? It’s behind the curtain just past the registration counter. You wouldn’t know it’s there unless someone told you. The menu signs are all handwritten in marker.” He looked back down at the list. “Next is the Met, the Metropolitan Museum of Art. But I’m sure you’re already familiar with it.”
“We send students there.”
“Time to send yourself,” he said. “Be warned: it will take most of your day. And for breakfast, if you want something different, we’re not far from Ellen’s Stardust Diner. It’s a retro fifties diner that attracts a lot of Broadway actor wannabes as waiters and waitresses, so occasionally they break into song. The challah French toast is especially good.
“Then, just a couple blocks from the hotel is the Carnegie Deli. It’s also a good lunch stop. They’re known for their pastrami and corned beef, but I’d go there just for the egg cream.”
“What’s an egg cream?”
??
?It’s a soda, basically. Ironically it has neither eggs nor cream, but you must try it. I always have at least one when I come here. The Reuben sandwiches are definitely more than you can eat at one sitting.”
“There’s so much to do here,” I said.
“So much to eat,” he said. He glanced down at his watch. “We better get going.”
“Where are we going?”
“Radio City Music Hall.”
The cab dropped us off a half block away from Radio City. The sign on the marquee read:
The Radio City Christmas Spectacular
Featuring the Rockettes
We picked up our tickets and found our seats in the fifth row of the middle section. The room buzzed with excitement. Nicholas leaned into me. “I think you’ll like this.”
“Have you seen it before?”
“No. But I’ve heard good things about it. Everyone needs to see the Rockettes at least once in their lifetime.”
“When I think of the Rockettes, I just think of legs,” I said.
He laughed. “Well, that’s what they’re famous for. And dancing.”
There were fourteen musical numbers, concluding with a living nativity, the Wise Men arriving at the manger on a caravan of real camels. The showstopper was the fifth act, “The Parade of the Wooden Soldiers,” when, in the finale, a cannon shot knocked the dancers over like a line of dominoes. As the curtain fell, the crowd joined in singing “Joy to the World.”
The temperature outside had dropped to well below freezing, and Nicholas pulled me in close as we walked back to our hotel. I only wished that it was farther away.
CHAPTER
Twenty-four
I bought Nicholas a present today. Even though it emptied my savings account, it’s nothing compared to what he’s spent on me. I hope he appreciates the widow’s mite.
Elise Dutton’s Diary
I slept in the next morning. Nicholas had a breakfast meeting with his client, so he left without waking me. He also said that I needed the rest, which was true. He had left a note under my door asking if I would do him a favor and pick up something for him at Tiffany on Fifth Avenue. I had already planned on shopping. I wanted to get something for Nicholas.
I ordered room service, which was another first for me, then sat in a robe near the window looking out over the city while I ate my oatmeal brûlée. I felt a long way from Montezuma Creek.
After breakfast, I took a cab to the Metropolitan Museum. Since I had started working at ICE I had purchased more than a thousand tickets for the museum, but I had never been there myself. I went into the sales office and met my sales representative, Justin, who was demonstrably excited to meet me after all these years. He was young, flamboyant, chubby, and bald and looked nothing like I expected.
He insisted on taking me on a personal tour of the museum’s highlights. The breadth of the collection was stunning. I was amazed to see actual Picassos and Rembrandts, and Van Gogh’s sunflowers.
Around two o’clock I thanked Justin and took a cab to the Montblanc store on Madison Avenue. As I looked over a display case of pens, one of the sales personnel approached me. “May I help you?”
“Hi,” I said. “I need to buy a gift for a friend. A pen.”
“Male or female?” he asked.
“Male. And he’s a lawyer.”
He smiled a little at my description. “I’m certain I can find you something that will impress him. How much were you thinking of spending?”
I swallowed. Many of the pens were in excess of a thousand dollars. I lightly grimaced. “About five hundred dollars.”
The man just nodded. “We’ll find him a pen he’ll never forget.”
Even though the price of the pen was just a fraction of what Nicholas had spent on me, it was nearly all my savings. But it was something I wanted to do for him. It wasn’t the amount of money he’d spent on me as much as it was the way he’d done it. Lovingly. He had shown me more love than my own husband and my own father ever had. In our pretend affair, he had opened my eyes to what a real relationship could and should be.
“I recommend this one,” the man said, delicately presenting me a pen. “We just got it in. This is our Bohème Marron pen. The rollerball is a bit more practical than the fountain pen, and better priced.”
“It’s pretty,” I said. “Is that a gem?”
“Yes. It’s a brown topaz.”
“How much is it?”
“It’s five hundred and twenty-five dollars, plus tax.”
“Okay,” I said. “I read that you can engrave something on it.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“How long does that take?”
“It usually takes a day or two.”
“Is it possible to do it any sooner? I was hoping to give it to him this evening.”
He smiled at me. “If you can come back in an hour, I’ll walk it over to the engraver myself. What would you like engraved on it?”
I thought for a moment, then said, “Love, Elise.”
“Let me get an order form.” He wrote down my words, then showed it to me for approval and a signature. I gave him my credit card. “Very well, Ms. Elise, I will have this for you in one hour.”
“Thank you.”
I left Montblanc and walked a block to the famous Tiffany store. I went up to the first sales counter I saw. “I’m here to pick something up for a friend of mine.”
“Were you thinking gold, silver, or diamonds?” she asked.
“I’m sorry, I meant, he already purchased the item. He wanted me to pick it up for him.”
“My mistake,” she said kindly. “What name would that be under?”
“Nicholas Derr,” I said.
“Nicholas Derr,” she repeated. “Just a moment.” She typed something into her computer, then walked away from the counter, returning about five minutes later. “Mr. Derr requested that the gift remained wrapped,” she said.
“That’s fine.”
“I will need to see some ID.”
“Of course.” I brought out my wallet. “There’s my license.”
She looked at it. “Elise Dutton.” She looked at the receipt on the box. “Elise Dutton. Very good.” She handed me back my license, then the box. “Let me get you a bag for that.” She lifted the famous robin’s egg blue bag and set the box inside. “Thank you for visiting us.”
I walked back to the Montblanc store and picked up the pen, then walked the four blocks back to the hotel. My feet were getting sore from all my walking. My phone rang on the way. I was excited to talk to Nicholas but disappointed when I saw it was Dan calling.
“What do you want, Dan?”
“We need to talk, Elise.”
“No we don’t.”
“I’ve discovered some things about your new friend. So open your door.”
“I’m not home.”
Don’t lie to me. I can see your car.”
“I’m not home, Dan. I’m in New York.”
He paused. “What are you doing in New York?”
“Living,” I said. I hung up on him. He called back, but I didn’t answer. Then he texted me.
We need to talk about your lawyer “friend.” Crucial
I shook my head. There wasn’t a thing he could tell me that I would consider crucial. Still, his text did make me curious. What could Dan possibly know about Nicholas? Then my phone rang again. I was going to tell Dan to stop calling when I saw it was Nicholas.
“Hi,” I said.
“Hi. Are you at the hotel?”
“Not yet. I’m just walking back.”
“How was your day?”
“Amazing.”
“Good. We have dinner reservations at six. We should leave a half hour before.”
“I’ll be ready,” I said. “What are we having for dinner???
?
“How does Italian sound?”
“I love Italian.”
“You’ll love this place,” he said. “See you in a few minutes.”
Nicholas knocked on my door at five-thirty. He smiled when I opened. “Hi.”
“How was your day?” I asked.
“Challenging. But let’s not talk about it.”
“Let me grab my coat,” I said. “Just a minute.”
He held the door open. “Did you get a chance to run by Tiffany’s?” he asked.
“Yes. Let me grab that for you.” I put on my coat, secretly put the Montblanc box in my purse, then brought over the Tiffany bag. “Here you go.”
“Thanks for picking that up for me.”
“No problem.”
“I better leave it in my room,” he said. “I’ll be right back.” He walked to his room, then returned empty-handed. “Shall we go?”
We had to wait awhile for a cab, and we arrived a few minutes late for our dinner reservation. The restaurant Nicholas had decided on was called Babbo, and it had a famous chef, Mario Batali, who was sometimes on television. The atmosphere was elegant with, incongruently, loud rock music.
Everything was exquisite. I ordered wine with my meal. Babbo had more than two thousand wines, which they served quartino, meaning in a carafe that held about a glass and a half. Our waiter recommended a Calabrian wine called Cirò. Nicholas ordered sparkling water. After the waiter left, I asked, “Do you drink?”
He shook his head and said, “No,” but nothing more.
The evening passed quietly between us, but not uncomfortably. Nicholas just seemed a little lost in thought, something I attributed to his “challenging” day.
As we were finishing our meals, Nicholas said, “Did you recognize who’s sitting behind me?”
I looked over his shoulder. “Is that really Kevin Bacon?”
He nodded. “And his wife, Kyra Sedgwick.” Just then someone walked over to their table to ask them for their autographs. They politely demurred.
“That’s one of the things about New York,” Nicholas said. “It’s a cultural mecca.”
“Like Montezuma Creek,” I said.