Happy Birthday (3 page)

“That’s all I need. I’m going to spend the rest of my life in a wheelchair, and now they’re reminding everyone of how old I am. Terrific.” He told most of the girls he went out with that he was thirty-nine, and they weren’t old enough to have followed his career or care. A lot of them believed him, and they were all excited to go out with Jack Adams. Announcing on the news that he was fifty was not going to help his dating career, but neither had Ms. Catwoman, who had reduced him to rubble in one night. He felt like crap. “What are you doing to celebrate tonight?” Norman asked innocently as Jack groaned.

“Suicide probably. Just get George, will you?”

“Sure, Jack … and happy birthday again.” He said it with feeling as Jack closed his eyes, lying on the couch in agony, and didn’t answer. Norman’s admiration of him was touching, but all he wanted for this birthday was to be out of pain and to have his life back again. A life of sex and women.

* * *

At her desk several floors above, Valerie was going through a stack of fabric samples she wanted to use on a show about redoing your living room, and others for a segment on decorating for Christmas. Some of them were pretty good. There were stacks of samples and photographs all over her desk. Everything was in meticulous order, and she had her shows organized well in advance. She had a busy week ahead. She had checked in the mirror when she got in, to look for the spots of blood Jack had mentioned. They were tiny specks, and she washed them off, thinking that it was rude of him to mention it, particularly given the way he looked. He had always seemed very cocky to her when she saw him, and he always looked to be right off the cover of
Sports Illustrated
or
GQ
. Now in sharp contrast, he appeared as though he had been living in a cave somewhere or washed up on a beach after a shipwreck, but he’d been visibly in a lot of pain. And then she forgot about him, as she made notes for her upcoming shows. She had only two hours to work before she met her daughter for their birthday lunch at La Grenouille. Lunch at the elaborate French restaurant was an annual tradition for them, and it was the only birthday celebration Valerie would have today.

It was not good news to Valerie when her impeccably efficient secretary Marilyn had told her that her birthday had been announced on television that morning, and more than once. So
not only everyone who listened to the radio now knew her age, but anyone who watched morning news too. The cat was certainly out of the bag. And it did nothing to console her when Marilyn told her that it was Jack Adams’s, the retired quarterback and sportscaster’s, birthday too. Valerie didn’t bother to tell her she’d just seen him in the elevator doubled over in pain. Valerie didn’t give a damn if it was his birthday or how old he was, it was bad enough that she had turned sixty and the whole goddamn world now knew it. How much worse could it get? The entire planet now knew that she was an old woman, and even Alan Starr’s predictions for love and success in the coming year were no consolation for that, and who knew if they would happen anyway. The reality of her age was depressing beyond belief. Sixty felt like the new ninety to her.

Chapter 2

A
pril Wyatt rolled out of bed without even remembering what day it was for the first few minutes. The alarm went off, and she was up and on her feet, and shuffled off to the bathroom. It was just after four
A.M
. She wanted to be at the fish market in the South Bronx by five, and at the produce market by six. She had a lot to buy for her restaurant. She was halfway through brushing her teeth when she remembered that it was her birthday. Normally, she didn’t really care, but she was upset about it this year. She was turning thirty and had been dreading it. She hated “landmark birthdays.” They made you measure yourself against everyone else’s yardstick, and by traditional standards she didn’t measure up. By thirty you were supposed to be married, have children and/or a successful job, and maybe even own a house. April had a restaurant, didn’t have a husband or even a boyfriend, and was light-years away from having kids or even
thinking about it. She was in debt up to her ears to her mother for the building she had put up the money for so April could open the restaurant that had been her dream and was now the joy of her life. It was doing well, but she was still paying back the debt to her mother. She never pressed her about it, but April wanted to pay it off. She figured that in another five years, maybe she would, if the restaurant kept making money the way it was. The building, with the apartment above it where she lived and had an office, was in the meat-packing district of New York. It had been a slum years before, and the building had needed a lot of renovation to bring it up to code, which April had done, spending as little on it as she could. She had put everything she could into the restaurant itself. Her apartment was a dump.

So on the yardstick of where she was supposed to be at thirty, she had a business and a career but not much else. No man, no kids, no house of her own, and a pile of debt. But she had her dream, and she loved it. She had called the restaurant April in New York. It was crowded almost every night, and they had gotten several great reviews in the three years since they’d opened. And it was her baby, one hundred percent. It was everything she had wanted it to be, and they had a flock of loyal fans. They were open seven days a week, and April was there herself day and night. She bought all the food, was the head chef, and visited guests at their tables too, although she was happiest in the kitchen. She had to show her face once in a while, particularly for faithful fans. She selected all the wines herself, and they had
an interesting wine list at moderate prices. Those who loved it said it was the best restaurant in New York.

April had left college after the first year to take a year off and had never gone back, despite all her parents’ aspirations for her. Her father was a medieval history professor at Columbia, and she had gone there for a year and been miserable the entire time. All she wanted was to be a chef. She had never gotten excited about her mother’s passion for gracious living—all that interested her was what happened in the kitchen. Fancy weddings and table settings meant nothing to her, or how nice the living room looked. What she loved was preparing delicious food that everyone liked to eat.

She had spent six years in France and Italy going to school and apprenticing to become a chef, and she eventually worked at some of the best restaurants in Europe. She had been an apprentice of Alain Ducasse in Paris, and later an under pastry chef at the Tour d’Argent. She had worked in Florence and Rome, and by the time she came back to the States at twenty-five, she had some serious experience under her belt. She had worked for a year at one of the finest restaurants in New York, and then, thanks to her mother, had spent a year setting up the restaurant of her dreams. What she had wanted to do was serve the best of everything, both favorite delicacies
and
simple foods that people loved to eat, not drowning in elaborate sauces or a menu people wanted to face only once in a while. She offered fabulous pasta, which she made herself as she had learned to do in Rome and
Florence, steak tartare exactly the way they made it in France. She served escargots for those who loved them, foie gras both hot and cold, and boudin noir. She offered the finest salmon, unforgettable cheeseburgers on homemade buns, mac and cheese, meat loaf and corned beef hash like your grandmother used to make, gourmet pizzas, roast and Southern fried chicken, French leg of lamb, and mashed potatoes that melted in your mouth. There was caviar and blinis, spring rolls and dim sum, Maine lobsters and crab, and soft-shell crab in the summer, fabulous shrimp and oysters that she picked out herself. The menu was a combination of everything people loved to eat, and she loved to cook, with an entire section of comfort food, everything from matzoh-ball soup to polenta, pastina, pancakes, French toast and waffles, at any hour of the day, not just for Sunday brunch. She had brought the pastry chef from the Hotel Ritz in Paris to make exquisite pastries, desserts, and soufflés. She also had good, moderate-priced wines from all over the world, with an excellent sommelier to help choose them.

The restaurant had been a hit overnight, not only with her clients but with their kids as well. Her children’s menu included grilled cheese sandwiches that kids and adults loved, hot dogs and hamburgers, tiny pizzas, plain pasta with nothing on it, mac and cheese, tiny bite-sized servings of fried chicken, and French fries the way she had learned to make them in France, which everyone loved. And for the kids’ desserts, hot fudge sundaes, s’mores, banana splits, milk shakes, and root beer floats. When parents told their kids they were going to April’s, their
children were ecstatic. And if an adult wanted to order from the children’s menu, that was okay too. It was the kind of restaurant that April would have loved to go to as a child, and that she enjoyed as an adult. And so did everyone who went there.

They were constantly booked for lunch, dinner, and Sunday brunch. And at this time of year, for the month of November, she served white truffles with pasta or scrambled eggs for those who loved them. She paid a fortune for the white truffles, which could only be found in one area of Italy, and were flown in from Elba every November for a brief three-week season. They had just come in from Italy two days before, and only serious food enthusiasts knew and loved the delicate roots that were found underground and were pungent and aromatic when shaved on pasta or risotto. She was going to start serving them that night. One of the things she loved about her birthday was that it was white truffle season, which she was crazy about. They were a big investment for her since white truffles cost a fortune.

April in New York was a smash hit, and it was her entire life. She had no time for, or interest in, anything else. And it was only on a day like this that she allowed herself to think about what else she didn’t have in her life. In fact, she had nothing else, but she didn’t want anything other than a restaurant. She hadn’t had a serious romance in five years, but she didn’t have time for one anyway. Before that, in Paris, she had been in an abusive relationship, with another chef who walked out on her every five minutes and had once threatened her with a butcher’s knife. It had taken her two years, a shrink, and eighteen months on
Prozac to get over him, and she’d been gun-shy ever since. Since then, her relationships had been brief, infrequent, and superficial. The restaurant seemed to satisfy all her needs for now.

What shocked her, and was something of a wake-up call, was turning thirty today. Thirty seemed so grown up, or maybe just plain old. It made her suddenly wonder if she’d ever be married and have kids, and how she’d feel about it if she didn’t. What if all she had was a string of restaurants instead? She wanted to open a second one, one day, but not yet. She wanted to get everything about this one right first. Even after three years, there were things she still wanted to improve on, systems she wanted to refine and change. She had just hired a second sommelier, because the one she had said he was overworked and, unlike her, didn’t want to work seven days a week. April didn’t mind working that hard at all. It was the nature of the business. She had no idea what she’d do with herself if she took a day off, so she never did.

As she drove to the new Fulton Fish Market in the Bronx, she thought about her birthday again. Her mother had always loved the fact that they were born on the same day, but it had always annoyed April as a child. She hated sharing “her day” with someone else, but now that she was older, she didn’t mind. She already knew that this year was going to be hard for her mother. She had been dreading turning sixty for months. And if April felt a little skittish about turning thirty, she could only imagine how much worse it was for her mother, whose success rested partly on her image of youth. April felt sorry for her, and she
knew that it bothered her mother too that there hadn’t been a serious man in her own life, or even any man, for several years. She worried about that for April too, and nagged her about it from time to time. April didn’t have time to think about it, and it was only on a day like today that it came to mind. She forgot about it again as she got out of her truck and joined in the fray at the fish market, where other chefs were selecting seafood for their restaurants. She was busy picking out what she needed until nearly six, and then drove to the produce market and spent an hour and a half there. She got back to Little West Twelfth Street shortly before eight and made herself a steaming bowl of café au lait. It was just what she needed after a cold morning buying fish. She turned on the radio in the restaurant kitchen and was startled when she heard an announcer on one of the early morning talk shows talking about her mother’s age. She knew that was going to upset her even more, if she heard about it too. At least no one was saying that her daughter April Wyatt was thirty years old today. It was enough having to deal with it, without having the whole world know, April thought. She didn’t envy her mother that side of her life. But her mother liked everything else that went with it, the glory, the success, the money, the acclaim, and if she wanted that, she had to take the downside too. April had no desire to be famous, she didn’t aspire to be another Alain Ducasse or Joel Robuchon. She just wanted to run a restaurant where everybody loved to eat, and so far she had done well.

April had her father’s natural discretion and simplicity, and
her mother’s passion for hard work. No one worked harder than her mother, April knew. Her father had a much gentler, less ambitious view of life. The academic life suited him well. And both her parents readily admitted that their union had been a mismatch from the first. Their marriage had lasted only eight years, and they divorced when April was seven. Her mother had already been building her career by then, and her father said he didn’t have what it took to stick it out. He was in way over his head in her world. They were good friends now, and the divorce had never been bitter. They were just totally wrong for each other, and Valerie had always said to April that her father was a good man. He had married her stepmother within two years of the divorce. Maddie was a speech therapist who worked with children in the public schools, a far cry from Valerie, with her TV show, major career, endless licensing agreements, successful books, and glamorous public image. She hadn’t been as big a star when he married her, although she was heading that way, but Valerie had become one over the years. Maddie and April’s father had had two more children, two girls, Annie and Heather, who were respectively now nineteen and seventeen, and both good kids. Heather helped April in the restaurant sometimes in the summer and wanted to teach. Annie was a math genius, and a sophomore at MIT. They were all nice, decent, normal people, and both her parents enjoyed coming to the restaurant to eat. Her father often brought Maddie and Heather to dinner on Sunday nights, or for brunch, and Annie when she was home
from school. He was very proud of April, and Valerie was too. And April loved the fact that there was no animosity between them and everybody got along. It made life easier for her. She couldn’t imagine living in a family with parents who hated each other after a divorce, although she had seen it happen to friends as she grew up. The only bad thing that had ever happened to her was the torturous relationship she’d had with the chef in France, which was probably why it had come as such a shock and hit her so hard. Until then, no one in her life had ever been abusive to her, or even unkind. She always said she never wanted to go out with another chef and was quick to say that most of the ones she knew were nuts.