Christmas Bliss Read online

  I edged closer so she could hear me in the din of the room.

  “Um, hi,” I said, glancing around the room. “I’m looking for Daniel Stipanek.”

  She continued writing something in the book. “Danny? You mean our chef?”

  “Yes, that’s right. Daniel. I’m meeting him for lunch.” Danny? The only people who called him Danny were his brothers—and his mother.

  Now she glanced up, and I realized I was talking to the restaurant owner and namesake, Carlotta Donatello.

  The tabloid picture hadn’t done her justice. She was even more stunning in person. Her eyes were a deep cobalt blue, and she had a small mole just at the right corner of her full lips.

  “Ohhh. Oh yes! You must be the fiancée. He told us you were coming in for lunch today.”

  “That’s right. I’m Weezie.”

  She looked me up and down, and I began instantly regretting every single wardrobe choice I’d made that day. The blue dress was dowdy, the fabric too clingy, the color too bright. My big gold earrings looked tacky compared to the tasteful square-cut diamond posts with large silver hoops that glittered from her own earlobes.

  I felt like what my meemaw used to call “country come to town.”

  Carlotta’s glittering eyes lingered on my feet. “What happened to your shoes?”

  I felt my cheeks burn with embarrassment. “Storm drain.”

  She burst out laughing, a big, braying belly laugh. People around us stared and then looked away, to be polite.

  She grasped my forearm. “Sorry! I’m not laughing at you. Oh my God. That same exact thing happened to me last summer. I was wearing these insanely expensive sandals, and it was raining like crazy, and one minute I was walking down the street and the next, one of my shoes went floating down the street. It was August, and here I am, wearing only one shoe on Central Park South.”

  “What did you do?” I whispered.

  She shrugged. “I chucked the surviving shoe in the trash and hobbled over to the nearest Duane Reade and bought a pair of two-dollar flip-flops.”

  I looked down at my bare feet. “I don’t think I’m going to find any flip-flops this time of year.”

  “What size shoe are you?”

  “I’m a seven.”

  She laughed that belly laugh again, and improbably, I began to like her for it. “I was going to offer to loan you a pair of the flats I keep in my office, but I’m a nine and a half. So that won’t work.”

  “Probably not. I’d just lose them again.”

  She clutched my arm again. “Look, as you can see, we’re having sort of a crush of lunch business today, and Danny’s in the weeds back in the kitchen. Tell you what. I’m going to seat you at my table in the front dining room and let him know you’re here. And I’ll send my assistant out for another pair of shoes for you.”

  “Oh no, I couldn’t,” I protested. “If he’s busy, I’ll just go find a shoe store myself…”

  “Barefoot?” She shook her head. “No way. Claire can just run out and buy a pair. It won’t take but a few minutes. Some nice stylish flats, black, right?”

  Before I could manage an answer, she was towing me through the dining room, toward a prime seat in front of a broad picture window.

  She grabbed a passing waiter by the arm. “Arnie, this is Danny’s fiancée, Ms. Foley. Would you please get her drink order right away? She’s having a rough morning.”

  “Sit!” she said, pointing to a chair. “I’ll just let Daniel know you’re here.”

  I shot her a look of gratitude and took the chair she’d indicated, finally taking a moment to soak in the atmosphere in the dining room. The décor was what I’d describe as early Tuscan ruins, rough-textured stucco walls painted in a warm yellow-pumpkin shade, dark wood floors, and simple but heavy olive-green-and-russet-striped drapes. The room was buzzing with conversation. I asked for a glass of white wine, and Arnie disappeared.

  Five minutes later, he was back with a carafe of wine, a basket of bread, and a cruet of olive oil, but no menus. He fussed with the table setting for a moment and poured my wine. “Daniel said to tell you he’s fixing something special for your lunch,” Arnie confided. “We’ve got kind of a backup in the kitchen, but he promises he’ll be out by the time you finish your salad.”

  The salad he brought me was one Daniel had tinkered with for weeks back home in Savannah. Two fat slices of cornmeal-crusted fried green tomatoes sat atop a bed of baby greens. The dressing was a sort of remoulade, and there were polka dots of creamy goat cheese and shards of crisp lean applewood-smoked bacon scattered across the whole affair.

  Glancing around the room I could see diners at adjacent tables diving into the same salad with what can only be described as reverence.

  I took a bite and chewed slowly. I took a sip of wine and another tiny bite of salad. It was that good. I could have taken a bath in the dressing.

  The room grew more crowded. I finished the salad and glanced down at my watch. It was 12:30. The room was at full capacity and the noise level matched it. I looked around for Arnie, but he was busily taking orders at a nearby table of six chicly dressed women.

  Finally, at quarter to one, Daniel came rushing up to the table, a plate of food in hand.

  I stood and he set the plate on the table and kissed me, nuzzling my neck for a moment and whispering in my ear. “Sorry, sorry, sorry.”

  I sat back down and he took the chair opposite mine. I gestured at his empty place setting. “You’re not going to eat?”

  “Can’t.” He pointed at the plate he’d brought me. “Dig in.”

  “What is it?”

  He helped himself to a gulp of my wine. “Braised quail breast with a portobello-prune stuffing and a reduction of bourbon and figs, over a grits cake, with bacon-braised bitter greens.”

  I speared a bite of the quail, closed my eyes, and chewed.

  “Divine,” I pronounced.

  “Glad you like it,” he said. “It was the special and we sold out within thirty minutes of opening. I had to fight the waiters to save you this last plate.”

  “It’s great that it’s such a success,” I said, between bites.

  “Almost everything on the special today is from Georgia,” he said proudly. “We sourced the quails from a farm down near Thomasville, the grits are from North Georgia, and the greens and dried figs are from a family-owned farm in Ellabell. I’m doing a chocolate pecan tart for dessert, and the pecans are from Baxley.”

  I smiled and waited for what I’d already guessed was coming.

  He got that serious look on his face. “Look, honey, I feel terrible about this…”

  I held up my hand to cut him off at the pass.

  “I know. You’re too busy to go to the theater with me.”

  “There’s just no way. We’re totally slammed out in the kitchen, and if I don’t get back out there in like five minutes, we’ll never catch up.”

  I sighed. “Doesn’t matter. I can’t go either. I don’t even have any shoes.”

  “What?” He peeked under the table and came up looking puzzled.

  “I lost my right shoe just as I was crossing the street to get here. And it was my favorite pair of heels too. I guess it wasn’t meant to be. This whole week was probably just a really, really dumb idea.”

  Daniel looked stricken. “Don’t say that. Please! It’s great that you came up. I love having you here. Honestly. And I was looking forward to going to the show with you today. I’ve never been to a Broadway show either, you know.”

  He reached into the pocket of his white coat and brought out a pair of tickets. “Orchestra level, third row, on the aisle. It’s a revival of South Pacific. Carlotta’s idea. She said everybody ought to see a Rodgers and Hammerstein show on Broadway, at least once in their lives.”

  “You don’t even want to know what I had to do to get those tickets either.” We both looked up, and Carlotta was standing behind my chair, holding out a shoe box.

  “Here,” she said,
thrusting the box toward me. “Put those on, finish your lunch, and then you two need to get out of here. There’s a cab waiting for you out front.”

  I opened the shoe box, and nestled in a fold of pink tissue were a pair of black flats with a distinctive round gold logo buckle that I recognized instantly.

  “No,” Daniel said. “I can’t leave. We’ve got three big parties coming in the door right now…”

  “I’ve got it covered,” she said, yanking him up by the collar of his coat. “Lend me that, will you? I’m the messiest cook on the planet, and I hate to ruin a six-hundred-dollar dress with bacon grease.”

  Daniel was protesting at the same time as he was unbuttoning his jacket. “This won’t work, Carlotta. We appreciate it, but really, I don’t feel right about leaving.”

  “These are Tory Burch flats,” I said, holding one up. The price sticker was on the sole of the shoe: $350.

  “They were on sale,” Carlotta said. “Put them on. A gift from me to you. Go. Hurry.”

  “I can’t accept these,” I started, but she cut me off again.

  “Just go,” she said, shooing us toward the door. “Have a good time, and then I don’t want to see either of you back here tonight. Understand? You’re taking the night off, Danny.”

  Chapter 20

  Weezie

  Dusk had fallen on Broadway by the time we emerged from the theater. People around us were smiling and laughing and chatting about the play—even Daniel, I realized, was humming “There Is Nothing Like a Dame.”

  I squeezed his arm and laughed. “That was your favorite song? In the whole show?”

  “What’s not to love about a song that features bearded sailors dressed up in coconut shell bras and grass skirts?” he asked. “Let me guess, you liked ‘Some Enchanted Evening.’”

  “Hard to decide. There were so many sweet songs, but yeah, I loved that and ‘Younger Than Springtime.’ I swear, I could turn right around and go see it a second time, it was that good. Come on, admit it, you loved it too.”

  “It didn’t suck too bad. For a musical. So, was it everything you expected?”

  “And more,” I assured him. “After this, you don’t even have to bother with a Christmas gift for me. Because nothing you could do could top taking me to see South Pacific. On Broadway. At Christmas.” I wrapped my arms around his neck and gave him an enthusiastic kiss to emphasize just how happy he’d made me.

  He returned the favor, and as we stood there, kissing right there in the middle of Broadway and 42nd Street, people just kept walking right around us, as if we didn’t exist.

  Finally I peeled myself off Daniel’s chest, and we drifted down the sidewalk, traveling through Times Square.

  “Where to now?” he asked. “It’s kind of early for dinner.”

  I hesitated.

  “Come on, I know you still have at least a dozen things you want to do, and I’ve been such a jerk, too busy working to spend time with you. What do you really, really want to do?”

  “Well … I’ve always wanted to go to the Metropolitan Museum…”

  “Oh man…”

  “I promise I won’t drag you through the whole museum. I just want to see the big tree with all the hand-carved angels and cherubs and the fancy eighteenth-century Neapolitan crèches.”

  He heaved a huge, martyred sigh. “Theater and a museum, all in the same day? That’s asking a lot of a good ol’ boy from Savannah, Georgia.”

  “You are so not a good ol’ boy,” I said. “But if you really don’t want to go…”

  “Who said I don’t want to go? I just have to give you grief, because otherwise you’d start taking me for granted. Is it too cold for you? Should we grab a cab?”

  “Not too cold at all. We’ve been sitting in that theater for three hours. It’ll feel good to stretch my legs.”

  “It’ll probably be mobbed with people,” Daniel commented, but he kept walking.

  “I know.”

  “We probably won’t even get close enough to see anything.”

  “I bet we will. Anyway, it won’t hurt to try.”

  We started walking, looking for a cab.

  We passed a place called Joe Allen’s. Daniel pointed at the sign. “That’s a famous restaurant, you know. According to Carlotta, lots of actors show up there after shows. We could stop in, warm up, get a drink…”

  “Maybe after? You know how I get if I have a drink in the daytime. I’ll need a nap…”

  “A nap? We could go back to the apartment and I’ll tuck you in…”

  I punched his arm. “And neither of us will get any sleep. I know you, Daniel Stipanek.”

  “Later?”

  “Much later,” I promised.

  * * *

  As he had predicted, the great hall where the Christmas tree was set up was mobbed—and even as we paid our admission, we were told the museum would close in fifteen minutes.

  “Fifteen minutes? That’s all we get?” I tried not to look as disappointed as I felt.

  “Fifteen minutes of Christmas is about all I can take. Come on,” Daniel urged, tugging me gently into the swirl of people, all apparently headed in the same direction as us—the Medieval Hall.

  The sounds of hushed voices and the scuffling of feet on the marble floor echoed in the high-ceilinged hall, and from somewhere you could hear piped-in music from some kind of stringed instrument. Lutes maybe? After all, this was the medieval room.

  We were packed in shoulder to shoulder, with what seemed like thousands of people, and slowly we managed to edge our way closer and closer to the tree, which we could see, towering in the middle of the room, propped in front of a baroque altarpiece. It was crowded, yes, but people were in a holiday mood, polite and reverent.

  Finally we managed to inch our way within sight of the display. The tree, a twenty-foot blue spruce, was magnificent, hung with dozens and dozens of carved and jeweled angels and cherubs out of some Pre-Raphaelite fantasy. Just the angels and the tree itself were so gorgeous, so baroque and gilded and golden, it was difficult to take it all in. At some point, I realized my jaw was hanging open.

  Set up at the base of the tree, the crèche figures were arranged in a kind of grotto scene, with the manger and the Holy Family at the center, and then ringed around them was a whole village of characters straight out of the story of Luke. The angels and archangels were there, and the three Magi, and barnyard animals and the shepherd and their flock, and villagers … all of it hand-carved and gilded in the most exquisite detail.

  Daniel was being patient, but at some point, I realized he’d been shifting from one foot to the other. Luckily for both of us, we heard the closing gong sounding, and security guards appeared to help empty out the hall.

  * * *

  The first snowflakes of the day were falling as we came out of the museum. “Come on.” Daniel pulled me in the direction of a street cart, where the smell of something being grilled over charcoal wafted into the cold air.

  “Roasted chestnuts!” I cried when he handed me a waxed paper packet, inhaling the scent. He showed me how to eat them, and we walked arm in arm down the street.

  “Now where?” I asked.

  “You’ll see.”

  Snow was falling harder now, and I was glad of my coat, warm gloves, and Daniel’s scarf, which he wrapped securely around my neck.

  He stepped out into the street, raised his arm, and whistled—but nothing happened. Buses, cars, and taxis inched past us in the traffic, but no cab pulled over. We walked on two more blocks, finally stepping under the parapet of a hotel, where Daniel discreetly handed the doorman a five-dollar bill. The doorman stepped into the street, blasted a shrill tweet on a silver whistle, and a moment later, we were being handed into a cab—with a fully functioning heater. Heaven.

  Ten minutes later we pulled alongside a park bristling with tents outlined with Christmas lights.

  “Where are we?” I asked as we got out of the cab.

  “Bryant Park. It’s a Christma
s market,” Daniel explained. “I know you wanted to go to a real New York flea market, but they’re only on weekends, so this is the best I could do. Carlotta said sometimes vintage dealers set up here.”

  “That’s so sweet. But I know you hate to shop. We can skip it if you want.”

  “No way,” he said gamely.

  We strolled around the park, stopping in the tents, which all had zipped-down sides—and space heaters. We found a church-sponsored booth with crafts made by senior citizens, and I bought the tiniest hand-knitted sweater, cap, and booties for BeBe’s baby. Daniel bought New York Yankees baseball jerseys for his brothers, and when Daniel wasn’t looking, I bought him a Yankees cap—and a beautifully illustrated coffee table cookbook.

  After we’d wandered and shopped for an hour my feet were cold and wet, and for the first time in my life, I realized I was all shopped out.

  “You hungry?” Daniel asked.

  I nodded gratefully.

  “Carlotta told me about a great little restaurant just around the corner. She even offered to call and make us reservations.”

  * * *

  A black-and-white awning marked the entrance to the restaurant, whose name, Daniel assured me, roughly translated to “beautiful garden” in Italian.

  The single dining room was tiny, with a low ceiling, whitewashed brick walls dotted with vintage Italian travel posters, and less than a dozen tables, all covered with red-checked tablecloths. Candles glowed from raffia-covered Chianti bottles on each table.

  “This is so romantic,” I said, after the waiter seated us and brought us individual carafes of prosecco. “It reminds me of Lady and the Tramp.”

  He tried to look offended. “A Disney dog cartoon? Weezie, this is a four-star restaurant.”

  The waiter came back with a basket of bread and a beaker of olive oil, and I let Daniel order our dinner while I sat back in my chair and soaked up the atmosphere.

  “Lady and the Tramp isn’t just a dog cartoon,” I said after the waiter left. “It’s about acceptance, and opposites finding their true love. It could be about us. My favorite scene is where they’re sharing a bowl of spaghetti in this little Italian bistro, and a strolling accordionist comes over, and they gaze into each other’s eyes…”