Milk Glass Moon

by Adriana Trigiani

  The guest bathroom is loaded up with all sorts of bubble baths and soaps in a basket. I take full advantage of a faceted bottle marked CALM, pouring the opulent lavender milk into the hottest water I can stand. The stress of my trip and all the anxiety leading up to it float up and out the transom in the steam. I let it go and breathe deeply.

  Theodore knows how to treat a guest. The candles, nestled in a series of crystal cups, are scented like sugar cookies and throw shadows of snowflakes onto the wall. There’s a stack of fluffy white towels in a wrought-iron antique stand; they’re monogrammed not with initials but with the word RELAX. There’s even a shower radio, and I turn on some music while I soak. (It’s set on a country station, which makes me laugh.) Theodore thinks of everything; maybe that’s why Radio City Music Hall snapped him up—great art is in the details.

  Theodore gets me up early with a large paper cup of coffee and a giant cinnamon and raisin bagel in a brown paper bag (does everything to eat in this city come in a sack?). He wants me up and dressed so we’re ready to hit the day running. Theodore has to be in the office, and he has mapped out places around Radio City that I can visit while he’s working. He has a whole itinerary worked out; we’ll see shows, sightsee, and even watch the Columbus Day Parade down Fifth Avenue on Monday. “You’ll really get your fill of Eye-talians,” Theodore promises.

  The offices at Radio City aren’t really offices at all. They’re small beige cubicles, sort of like a giant egg carton. The walls overflow with charts and calendars and swatches of fabric, braids and trims for costumes, watercolors of set designs, and shoes (you’d be surprised how many kinds of tap shoes there are). The phones never stop ringing. Everyone is young, and everyone seems rushed. They barely look up when Theodore introduces me; they aren’t rude, just busy. When he walks to the center of the maze, he is besieged by everyone from the dance captain to the receptionist. Of course, this is their busiest time of year; they’re in preproduction for the Christmas extravaganza. As a small group gathers around Theodore, I reach into his jacket pocket and pull out the list of places for me to check out on my own and indicate that I’ll be back for lunch.

  There must be a hundred makeup kiosks on the main floor of Saks Fifth Avenue. I think of Fleeta, who complains about having to load two measly spin racks at the Mutual’s; I wonder what she’d do if she had to help stock this operation.

  I am spritzed with four different perfumes on my way through (they asked politely and I couldn’t say no) and invited to have my makeup done, French look, high-fashion look, the natural look, or any look I want—these salesgirls are wide open to the possibilities of the paints they’re peddling.

  There is a girl around Etta’s age sitting on one of the high-backed chairs in front of a mirror at the Clinique counter. Standing next to her is her mother (obvious from the analytical expression she wears while studying her daughter). As the makeup consultant dabs a little concealer on the girl’s face, the mother leans in.

  “Too much.”

  “Mom.”

  “Amy, don’t argue with me.”

  “Use a light touch and it won’t even seem like she’s wearing it,” the consultant says, reassuring the mother.

  The girl examines her face in the mirror. “It hardly looks like I have anything on.”

  “I don’t want it to look like you have makeup on.”

  “I need it,” Amy responds in an all-knowing tone my daughter uses on a regular basis.

  “Makeup doesn’t make you pretty, it’s what’s inside that counts,” Amy’s mother reminds her.

  “If you’re a nun,” Amy says flatly.

  “There’s nothing wrong with nuns. They serve humanity. Plus, you’ll get much further in life focusing on your brain.” Now she’s gone too far; she sounds like the Universal Mother whose generic wisdom can be cracked in two and read aloud like advice in a fortune cookie.

  As I take the escalator up to the next floor, I look down on Amy and her mother, who become smaller and smaller as the stairs lift away. Suddenly I don’t see them, I see Etta and me. That’s just the sort of conversation we have, where we disagree and haggle back and forth about the most insignificant things. After we finish one of these sessions, Etta feels misunderstood and I feel like I can’t say anything right. I wonder why it is so hard for mothers to remember that daughters are just learning about being women and that this time in their lives will never come again.

  “How was your day?” Theodore asks as I hang on to the strap in the back of a particularly speedy cab on our way to dinner.

  “Busy. I went to Saint Patrick’s. Rockefeller Center. Saks. Then I walked up to Central Park. As I was walking around, I saw a stray cat, but when I looked more closely, it was a rat. Once I realized it was a rat, it was too late to scream, and he went behind a rock anyway. And then I went to the carousel, and I just sat there for a long time and watched people. Women really know how to dress in New York.”

  The doors to Blue Pearl are painted bright blue with gold tassels drawn on them trompe l’oeil style. Theodore opens the door for me. “Ignore the decor. It’s over the top,” he whispers as we enter.

  I like the decor. We’re inside a blue cave, with booths lit by low-hanging fixtures. The tables are small squares, perfect for two, with blue rose petals sprinkled in the center. Even the mirrored walls are smoky blue, reminding me of a 1920s speakeasy. The maître d’ leads us through the crowded restaurant to a corner table, handing each of us a menu.

  “How did you pick this place?” I ask Theodore.

  “I know the chef. He’s a special friend of mine.”

  The way he says this makes me think that the someone special is his someone special. “You have a boyfriend?” I say too loudly. Theodore nods. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Wouldn’t you rather just meet him?”

  I follow Theodore to the kitchen doors. He points through the porthole window. The kitchen is small but neat. There is a long silver prep table, and behind it, an open grill with two deep overhead ovens. Theodore takes my hand and we go through the doors; we wedge into a corner observing the action, but we’re in the way in this tight space. There’s a phone with rows of blinking lights that look like they need to be answered, and quickly. Theodore points to the phone. “Told you the place was hot.”

  “Torch the brûlée!” The chef, his back to us, bellows through the din, and an assistant obeys him instantly.

  “That’s Max.” Theodore points to the baritone in the tall white hat. Max has a stocky build (mostly muscle), and big forearms and hands. His hair is black and cut close to his large head (which, in face reading, means he will always make a good living). His black eyes don’t miss a trick; he scans the pots, rearranging them as the food simmers. Finally he senses invaders and looks up. He smiles and wipes his hands on a dish towel looped through his belt as he joins us.

  “This must be Ave Maria.” Max takes my hand.

  “This is Max Berkowitz,” Theodore says proudly.

  “I’m so happy to meet you,” I say. Max has a great smile and deep dimples (though I don’t think his staff sees them very often).

  “I hope you’re hungry.”

  “I am.”

  “Go sit and relax, and get ready. I’m gonna dazzle you.” Max winks at Theodore.

  The feast brought to our table begins with a lobster bisque so light and buttery that I want a second bowl, but I’m too ashamed to ask. It’s a good thing too, because what follows is so scrumptious, I would have been sorry to miss it. Max makes us baby lamb chops on a bed of sweet-potato puree, followed by a salad of spinach, pears, walnuts, and curls of fresh Parmesan cheese—it’s the dressing that kills me; it’s made with raspberries and balsamic vinegar.

  “I wish Jack were here. Max would have an apprentice. Jack still talks about opening a restaurant.”

  “You’re lucky you have a man who cooks.”

  “So are you. How did you meet?”

  “One of those introduce-the-new-guy-to-tow
n parties.”

  “You met and that was it?”

  “Sort of. It grew slowly. Thought he’d be a good friend. He was so interesting, I never met anyone like him. He’s so expressive and passionate.”

  “And talented!” I add.

  “Definitely. And I haven’t changed much: it’s still hard for me to get close to anyone. So Max has to spend a lot of time pulling my feelings out of me. And I have to say, I like it.”

  “You deserve someone who understands you completely.”

  “I think Max is The Guy.”

  “You think I’m the guy?” Max pulls up a chair next to me. “Hardly sounds like an endorsement. Table six is having risotto, I got two seconds to kill. Ready for dessert?” The waiter brings two small dishes filled with some sort of custard. “Lavender flan,” Max announces. “Sounds like a weird combination, but it just works.” Max smiles at Theodore and goes back to the kitchen.

  “Was he talking about your relationship or the flan?” I ask Theodore.

  “Both.”

  Theodore and I are full, so we walk the twenty blocks or so from the restaurant to his apartment. I love the twisty Greenwich Village streets lit by lamps and old sconces in the doorways. The brownstones stacked close together, walls touching, remind me of my favorite thing, a shelf of books. And they are not unlike great books, full of characters and their stories. How I wish I could live in a place like this, maybe not forever but just long enough to hear their secrets.

  Theodore turns on the lights in his apartment, dropping his keys with one hand while hitting the answering machine with the other. He takes my coat and hangs it in the closet.

  “Uh, Theodore Tipton? This is Pete Rutledge,” the familiar voice on the machine begins. “I understand you have a houseguest. I’ve been tipped off by her husband. Ask Ave Maria Mulligan if she can give me a shout at my office at NYU. Two-four-three, five-four-one-zero. Thanks.”

  “Mulligan? I haven’t heard that in fifteen years. Does he think you’re still single?”

  “Oh, please.” I say this casually as I throw myself down on Theodore’s easy chair. I would never admit that I’m secretly thrilled Pete called. Why should I tell Theodore that Pete is my escape-hatch fantasy?

  “What are you thinking about?” Theodore asks suspiciously.

  “Nothing.” My voice goes up an octave.

  “You went off somewhere. Somewhere dangerous,” Theodore observes.

  “I was thinking about Jack and Pete. You know.”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “I’m not going to do anything with Pete on this visit, don’t worry.”

  “Who said anything about you doing anything with Pete Rutledge?”

  “That’s what you meant, isn’t it?”

  “No, it’s what you meant.” Theodore looks at me as though I’m up to something, and I kind of like it. At my age, I like to look into the eye of danger—okay, maybe take a peek, because that’s as much of a thrill as I can handle.

  I sleep peacefully and wake up feeling so refreshed, I believe anything is possible. I had a flying dream. It’s my favorite kind of dream, where I’m walking along (in this particular dream it was Schilpario in winter, high in the Italian Alps with snow coming down like powdered sugar out of a sifter), and I’m with my father on an alpine path, chatting about nothing in particular, and then the breeze abruptly kicks up, and I hold out my arms and the wind lifts me off the ground and into the sky. I rise, higher and higher toward the stars, until the world below loses all detail, and any movement looks like coffee grounds scattered across a countertop. I can’t hear anything, the sky is perfectly quiet, and even the sound of the wind stops. And for what seems like hours, I am flying, dipping, and sailing, so lightly I could disappear into the clouds I float through.

  Theodore has already left for work, leaving me another sack breakfast; this time a large cappuccino and an oversize cinnamon bun. I’m going to gain ten pounds on this trip, but I don’t care—I’m on vacation. I feel so good, I pick up the phone and dial Pete Rutledge’s number. A secretary answers the phone and asks if I am attending Pete’s lecture to the graduate students in architecture that night. I ask her if visitors can attend, and she says I’m welcome, so I tell her sure, put me on the list, since I know Theodore is working late. I tell the woman that Pete doesn’t have to call me back, I’ll see him after the lecture. When I hang up, I instantly regret that I agreed to attend. What if Pete acts distant or doesn’t have time to see me or doesn’t look good? (How shallow of me!) It will take the rosy glow off my favorite Italian daydream. Okay, if it does, I’ll live with it. But I am going down in style. I’m going to look good tonight, and I will start with my feet. I set out for Eighth Street in search of the perfect shoe (it worked for Cinderella).

  What am I going to say to Pete when I see him? After all, it’s been a long time. We’ve spoken on the phone quite a bit, Christmas cards and all that, but I haven’t seen him. Have I changed in four years? I’m sure he hasn’t—men barely skip a beat between forty and fifty. He’s probably as desirable as ever. He’s probably met thousands of women on his travels, thousands of women with whom he hikes the Italian Alps, wades in natural hot springs, and rolls around in fields of bluebells. Do I think I’m the only one? I know I’m not. And maybe it’s this knowledge that convinces me to go to this thing tonight; after all, we’re Just Friends.

  The Casa Italiana Zerilli-Marimo building is only a couple of blocks away from Theodore’s apartment, and I’m grateful for the cold night air and the walk. I had put on Mama’s pants and jacket but decided the pants made the whole thing too dressy, so I kept the jacket but changed to jeans instead. Then I put on my new black suede New York boots, which took me half the day to find and all of my shoe budget to purchase. I feel I look my best, and it’s always a good idea to look your best when you’re half of an unplanned reunion.

  The lobby is crowded with students and assorted professional types. I follow the crowd into a large lecture hall and take an aisle seat toward the back. When the room is full, a studious-looking professor comes from the back of the room and stands in front of the lectern. Her opening remarks are dry until she mentions Pete Rutledge, and then a wave of excitement seems to peel through her body, forcing her to rise onto her tiptoes and hold the position for a second until she realizes she is punctuating her introduction with a bit too much enthusiasm. She rolls back down onto her heels and explains that Pete is a marble expert and guest professor in their architecture department. The next thing I hear is applause. Pete has emerged from a door halfway up the aisle and is making his way to the podium, carrying a bottle of water.

  The women in the audience sit up in their seats. They study Pete the same way I did the first time I saw him. All the things that made my heart stop at that outdoor disco are still there: his height, the chiseled features (he looks even more like Rock Hudson now), the perfect lips and smile, and those eyes, slate blue and bright. He is wearing jeans and a brown tweed jacket, and the look is sexy. Why does he have to look so good?

  Pete puts down the water bottle and scans the crowd as though he’s looking for someone. I want to dive under the seats in front of me, but I don’t, and I’m glad when I see the look of total surprise on his face as our eyes meet.

  Pete lectures extensively about the marble mines in Italy—his favorites are located in Bari, near the Adriatic Sea—and describes the mining process in detail. After the talk is over and the enthusiastic applause has subsided, a group of students gathers around the podium. Pete listens to their questions, but he keeps looking up at me, as if to make sure I’m still there. I indicate that I’ll wait for him in the lobby. After a minute or two of nervous pacing in the lobby, I am tempted to bolt, to run back to Theodore’s; okay, I’ve seen Pete Rutledge, he’s the same, still gives me butterflies and that’s all I wanted to know, now I can go back and let this infatuation or whatever it is go. I decide to slip out. He won’t miss me a bit; he’s got a roomful of fans. Just as I’m turni
ng toward the door, I feel a hand on my shoulder.

  “Where are you going?” Pete stands in the doorway, folding his speech into a tube, which he bangs against his thigh.

  “I was just going to get some air.”

  “No, you were leaving.” Pete takes my hand and kisses me on the cheek. “You look beautiful.”

  “Great lecture.”

  “Glad you could make it.”

  “I’m interested in indigenous Italian marble.”

  “Really.”

  “Yeah. I was particularly enlightened by your description of the new mining techniques.”

  “You were.”

  “I was.”

  “Are you hungry?”

  “Very,” I blurt. I should have lied. I certainly didn’t intend to have dinner with him. I just wanted to say hello and get back to Theodore.

  “I want the whole story. What you’re doing here, how long you’re staying, especially how long you’re staying.” He smiles that smile, and I think I’m going to pass out (maybe it isn’t him, maybe I’m really hungry). I casually put my hand on the frame of an enormous painting by the door and lean against it. The security guy shoots me a look. I pull my hand away.

  “Professor Rutledge?” A beautiful girl in her early twenties approaches us. She has gorgeous red curls that spiral out in every direction, a sprinkle of freckles on her nose, and a body that, well, I’ll never see the likes of in my mirror.

  “I’m Sharon Hall. I’m in the architecture school here.”

  “Congratulations.”

  “Thank you. I’d like to interview you for our newsletter.”

  “Sure.”

  “Where can I reach you?”

  “Um, you know what? Call the office and leave me a message, and I’ll get back to you.”

  “Great. Great. Sorry I interrupted.” She smiles at me warmly. “And thank you so much.” She smiles demurely at him (redheads always have great teeth).

  “I didn’t know architects looked like that,” I say after she’s walked away.