An Independent Woman (21 page)

“I'm sorry. You know what I mean.”

“Well, you won't be. Judge Horton is coming, and he's black. I invited the Cutlers, Larry and Jane. There's Sam's scrub nurse at the hospital—she's black—and there'll be others.”

“You win. Now let's go home and curl up in bed.”

S
INCE HER RELATIONSHIP
with Philip Carter began, Barbara had taken to going to the Unitarian church each Sunday morning, after which she and Philip would spend the rest of the day together. On this Sunday his sermon was titled “The War Against the Women.” He spoke of the agelong struggle of women for equality, for the vote, for the right to be treated as persons instead of property. He spoke of the end of the eternal war against women, and he called Walter Mondale's choice of Geraldine Ferraro a cause for celebration.

Barbara had always been an easy cry. She felt the tears in her eyes as Philip continued, “This is not a part of my sermon—or perhaps it is, since I think of you as an extended family, and the joining together of two souls is very much a sermon. I've asked a woman, who has been sitting among you for some weeks now, to be my wife. Her name is Barbara Lavette, and she has been kind enough to agree. We will be married soon.”

Barbara was terrified that he would ask her to stand, and grateful that he didn't. The congregation broke into applause, and when finally they filed out, her anonymity disappeared. Birdie MacGelsie threw her arms around her and kissed her, and then when Philip did the same, the congregation pressed to meet her and offer congratulations.

Finally the entry had emptied out and they were free to go. As they walked down Franklin Street, Barbara said, “Now you've done it. I can't back out, can I?”

“Do you want to?”

“I don't think so, Philip. I'm not only getting used to you, but I'm becoming very fond of you. Who is going to marry us?”

“Reba Guthri, our assistant minister. You met her back at the church, a small woman with close-cropped gray hair. She's the one who told you how beautiful you are.”

“You want me to remember her? There were at least two hundred people there. And, Philip, under that Jesuit incorruptibility of yours, there's a very deceitful person. No one ever said I look beautiful.”

“My word of honor.”

“All right, I accept, even if I don't believe it. My mother always told me that if someone says a nice thing, never deny it. Just say ‘thank you.' So thank you.”

A
s THE DAYS PASSED
, Barbara began to wonder how she had ever allowed herself to be drawn into what she began to think of as the Mad Hatter's wedding. Philip came to her with the suggestion that they be married twice, once at the church and again at Highgate. “Otherwise,” he said, “I'll have to invite twelve people, and I don't see any way out of that.”

“I only agreed to marry you once,” Barbara said, and Philip argued that this was no laughing matter. “Then I'll give you twelve invitations,” Barbara said. “Stop worrying.”

“I think about Freddie,” he argued. “How, in all conscience, can I do this to Freddie?”

“Freddie's rich. He's loaded with Lavette money, which he did nothing to earn. You yourself said this would be good for his immortal soul. Invite your twelve people. Once is enough. I simply do not intend to be married twice.”

Then Eloise called, crying that she had lost the caterer. “He decided that he can't handle four hundred people.”

Four hundred and twelve
, Barbara thought.

“And I still don't have the final list. Why can't people understand that when they get a wedding invitation, they are under an obligation to reply to it? I told him that I must have at least one hundred portions of cold poached salmon for those who won't eat chicken, and he said that was impossible. He's terrified of being stuck with all that salmon, and it brings the cost up. He was up to fifty dollars each. That's up to twenty thousand for just the food and serving. Oh, Barbara, how did I ever get into this?”

“My mother once got into the same thing,” Barbara said. “So she booked a room in the hospital and sent a note to everyone that she had pneumonia. She got at least fifty bouquets of flowers and saved a lot of money.”

“Barbara, how can you laugh at it? You have to find me a caterer. You're there in the City, and I have no idea of what goes on in San Francisco.”

“Eloise, darling, when we give a party it's always for a good cause and everyone brings her own pot of food. We don't use caterers.”

“Barbara, you know I can't do that. Why are you teasing me?”

“I think I can find you a Chinese caterer at half the price.”

“Barbara!”

“I'll find one, Ellie. How about crab instead of salmon? The advantage with crab is that they can hold them in a refrigerated truck and cook them after the orders are in. That means the live crabs won't be spoiled if the orders go short. And I'll keep it under fifty dollars if it's humanly possible.”

“Oh, thank you, my dear, bless you. How is Philip?”

“Brace yourself for a shock.”

“Oh, God—is the wedding off?”

“Oh no, it's on. I think I'm falling in love with him. But he says he must invite twelve people to the wedding.”

A long sigh in reply. “Oh, well, what will be will be.”

Barbara was thumbing through the Yellow Pages when Harry Lefkowitz called and asked whether he could sit down with her and Philip for a half hour or so. He had a problem.

And who doesn't
? Barbara thought.

“Perhaps you and Philip could come to my office someday soon at one o'clock. I'll have lunch for you. I don't know who to turn to with this, and Barbara, believe me, I would be immensely grateful.”

“Tomorrow, Harry?”

“Yes, tomorrow would be fine.”

She put it to Philip, who agreed reluctantly. “The thing is, Barbara, that I'm not a father confessor.”

“I don't think Harry goes in for confession. He's Jewish, and if they need confession, they go to a shrink.”

“Then why me?”

“Because you're a levelheaded, wise, and compassionate man.”

“Yes, and flattery will get you everywhere. When?”

“Tomorrow at one. He'll give us lunch. It seems he likes to eat at his office in the Transamerica Building. And by the way, you may not be the father confessor, but I seem to have taken on the role of mother confessor. Eloise just lost her caterer, and I'm to find her another one.” She went back to the Yellow Pages.

The Absolute Caterers were high on the list, located on Detroit Street. She dialed their number, mentioned her problem to the woman who answered, and was switched to Mr. Sam Cohen. He had a cheerful voice, and he asked her what he could do for her.

“My name is Barbara Lavette.”

“Ah-ha!” which indicated that he recognized the name. “And what can I do for you, Ms. Lavette?”

“Do you cater as far away as the Napa Valley?”

“Once a month, at least. Are you talking about Highgate?”

“Yes, and I'm talking about four hundred people, plus. Can you handle anything like that?”

“Four hundred people? It's a lead-pipe cinch. No problem. I just did three hundred for the Republican Women's Committee. You want a reference? Call Mrs. Thatcher—not in England but here in San Francisco. That's a joke, forgive me. Mrs. Elbert Thatcher. Where did you get our name?”

“I got you out of the Yellow Pages.”

“You should know how many times I've talked to my brother, Jerry, about expanding our ad in the Yellow Pages. Where do you live, Ms. Lavette?”

“I'm on Green Street.” He had a sense of humor, which Barbara liked.

“You'll give me the number and I'll come over for a talk. With a big proposition like this, we always have a talk with the customer. I'll bring a lemon meringue pie, just a token. You're free today?”

“Between four and. five, yes.”

She gave him her address and put down the telephone.
Just like that
, she said to herself.
Now we'll pray that Mr. Cohen can deliver.

Mr. Cohen was a large, stout man who bore a pie as if it were a treasure, and he arrived at exactly five minutes after four. “We'll sit in the kitchen, yes? You'll give me a cup of coffee and a pie knife, and you'll taste something. Like a picture is worth a hundred words, a taste is worth a hundred claims of good cooking.”

Barbara contributed the coffee and agreed that she had never tasted anything as good in the way of pie.

“And the thing is, it doesn't melt on the plate on a hot day. The reception will be outside, yes?”

“Under pavilions.”

“And you have chairs and tables and dishes?”

“No dishes, no. Chairs and tables and the pavilions.”

“No problem,” Mr. Cohen declared. “We'll supply them. And the food—hot or cold?”

“Cold, if you can manage that.”

“No problem. We have two large refrigerated trucks, and we bring ice; if you need water, we bring water.”

“There's a good spring,” Barbara said; “all the water you need.”

“Then there's no problem. Tell me, Ms. Lavette, and forgive me for a personal question. Are you Dan Lavette's daughter?”

“Yes, I am. Did you know my dad?”

“No. But my father, may he rest in peace, catered his wedding to your mother.”

“Wonderful!” Barbara exclaimed. “That makes us practically family.”

“And now the food.”

Barbara went into her thinking on crabs and chicken, but Mr. Cohen shook his head. “You'll forgive me, Ms. Lavette, but cold chicken is always a problem, unless it's chicken salad, which I don't think you want.”

“Why is chicken such a problem?”

“Because you don't know. The white meat can become hard and tasteless. Let me make a suggestion. I deal with a farm in Petaluma, and they can supply me with little rock Cornish hens, small birds so delicate they melt in your mouth. We cook them and mold them in a special aspic, my own invention. Delicious! Tomorrow I send you one, if you want. You serve a whole hen on each plate.”

“But that must be terribly expensive.”

“Wait with the expense until we finish. Now, about the crabs—yes, Bay crabs are the most delicious seafood in the world, but these crabs, you got to keep them alive and cook them as you serve them, and what I'm left with, I don't know what to do with. You can't keep them alive for too long. Now, salmon—that's something else. I can buy the best salmon at a very good price. We divide them into proper portions, poach them, and set them in aspic molds. Beautiful. You serve them with sliced, slightly marinated cucumbers and a German potato salad—something fit for a king, believe me. And what's not used will stay. I always have a call for poached salmon and we have good refrigeration in our trucks. And I bring you a sample of everything. You're not buying a pig in a poke.”

“And what do you suggest to go with the Cornish hens?”

“Rice and little sweet peas. But with both dishes, first a salad. And then for dessert? You'll have a wedding cake—or I can give you the lemon pie. And, of course, coffee and tea. Do you want wine?”

“No, we'll take care of that.”

“Now, the wedding cake. We bake it, our own rum fruitcake. For this occasion, you need at least forty pounds. We age our cake for at least a month, so we always have it ready. Or maybe fifty pounds. I'll have to do the arithmetic. We decorate it and slice it for you on the occasion. We top it with a small bridegroom and bride.”

“Two of them,” Barbara said. “Not only is my niece being married, but I am as well.”

“Congratulations. Who is the lucky man, if I may ask?”

“Philip Carter. He's the minister at the Unitarian church.”

“Of course, a good man. I do a little for them sometimes. Mostly they do it themselves… Two brides, two grooms. I'll take care of that. And we bring a crew of twenty for such a crowd. Now if you'll let me sit here for half an hour, I'll work out the price. A lot of older people?”

“I'd guess half are past fifty.”

“They'll go for the salmon. I can tell you from experience, it will divide evenly, but we'll have extras of everything. I'll bring wineglasses, of course.”

“And you can give me a price now?”

“Of course. What will the timing be?”

“The ceremony will be at eleven.”

“Then we'll be there by ten. Lunch at twelve. My crew will help you move the chairs. Nice men, nice waitresses.”

In her study, Barbara sat and waited. Her husband's name—her first husband's—had been Cohen. She was lost in thoughts of the past. Once, when they stood at Coit Tower, Bernie had said to her, “Look at it, the most beautiful city on the face of the earth, built by a pack of mongrels.”

Mr. Cohen exuded confidence, but then a good salesman always exuded confidence. Philip would now and then refer to guardian angels, and she once asked him flatly, “Philip, do you really believe in guardian angels?” “The trouble is,” he replied, “that I'm never sure what I believe in.” Had this been a guardian angel or the Yellow Pages?

Her thoughts were interrupted by Mr. Cohen's voice, and she went into the kitchen. Mr. Cohen sat with a sheet of paper covered with numbers and scribbles. “Ms. Lavette,” he said, “before I give you a price, let me make a suggestion. We have been in this business since before the earthquake, and I never had a customer who complained about our poached salmon. Let me bring you four hundred servings of poached salmon. The price is the same.”

“I love cold poached salmon—but there are people who won't eat fish. Can I take a chance?”

“Believe me, take a chance. For them, I'll have a reserve of Cornish hens.”

“All right.”

“So we have that, and salad and bridal cake, and the dishes, and twenty in help, and when we leave, you won't believe we were ever there. I'll give you a flat price, and if it should be four hundred and twenty guests, the price is the same. Did I say coffee and tea? Absolutely. The price is sixteen thousand dollars, even. I know that Highgate specializes in Cabernet, so if you wish, I'll throw in twenty cases of an excellent Chardonnay for only a thousand dollars more, and what you don't use, I take back and refund the money. That's a rock-bottom price for a good white wine. I always buy Highgate when I want a Cabernet, and I know how Mr. Levy feels about Chardonnay.”