Chapter 8
PAT OLDEN’S FUNERAL was as heart-wrenching as Blaise had expected it to be. He had been shot down in the prime of life, at forty-three, with a wife who loved him, a great career, and four terrific kids. Who knew? He might have been president one day. It was all so unfair, Blaise thought to herself. The first lady had spoken, and the president had sent a message to Pat’s family because he couldn’t be there. And Pat’s wife and children were devastated. The death toll from that day had reached eighteen, including the shooter. It was tragic.
Her interview with the president of the university that afternoon went extremely well. It was a serious conversation about the dangers to young people today, and a certain hopelessness in youth around the world, due to the economy, the environment, and the opportunities that had dwindled for them in recent years. It was a strong message to parents everywhere to pay attention to their kids.
And the next day she spent with the young movie star, which was a welcome counterpoint to her serious interview the day before. The star was outrageous, sexy, and full of fun, and had just won a Golden Globe at twenty-one. Blaise had asked her every question she’d dared, and the girl had answered them all and had volunteered some shocking information of her own. It was the kind of interview Blaise loved to do sometimes, to break the monotony of the more sober ones. And she had nailed this one easily. It was lighthearted, sexy, and the subject was outspoken and ingenuous. Blaise was pleased when she flew back to New York on the red-eye and fell asleep on the plane.
Tully was there to meet her, and she went straight to work from the airport, just in time to do her segment. And as soon as she got to her office afterward, Simon called her to tell her everything was fine, and had gone smoothly while she was away. She hadn’t had time to call them while she was rushing for the red-eye the night before.
“Are you exhausted?” He sounded concerned. The schedule she lived would have killed anyone. But she seemed to thrive on it. And she sounded happy about the interviews she’d taped in L.A.
“No, I’m fine. I slept on the plane. Although that L.A. red-eye is always just a little too short. It’s better going to Europe.” That was a seven-hour flight, compared to five and a half from the West Coast, which was cutting it a little close for a good night’s rest, even for her, and the first class seats didn’t turn into beds. She knew the configuration of every plane that flew.
And to make matters worse, she had to stay late at work that night, for a meeting. But for once, there were no bad surprises, although it annoyed her to see Susie Quentin at the meeting. She was on top of the world. And they were sending her to Paris, to do a special on French fashion, attend the haute couture shows, and interview the French president’s wife. All plums, although the fashion shows would have been a little lightweight for Blaise.
She didn’t get home until eight o’clock. Salima was in her room on the phone, having already eaten, Simon had dinner waiting for her, and he gave her a hug when she walked in. It was nice to see his smiling face, and know that someone was happy to see her. It was new for her, and he held her close to him for a minute and looked at her.
“I’m glad you’re back,” he said in a gruff voice. “I worry about you.” He was still holding her and hadn’t let go.
“It’s nice to know that someone does. I worry about you too,” she said, and realized it was true. And she always worried about Salima. So much could go wrong with her health. But Simon had everything in good control. And she felt confident knowing Salima was with him. And Teresa, the housekeeper, had stayed there too while she was gone, but had left that afternoon.
She told Simon all about what she’d done in L.A. over dinner, Patrick Olden’s funeral, the interview with the university president, and the one with the young movie star. The diversity of subjects was typical of her life and what made it fun for her. He could see she’d enjoyed the day with the young actress. He liked learning about it, and seeing the excitement in her eyes. Even after sharing her life and hearing her stories for a while, he was fascinated by it. She talked about people he had only read about before, and they were commonplace to her. The exceptional was part of her routine.
“I love knowing about what you do,” he said, smiling at her. But he knew the flip side of the coin now too, all the rigors that went with it. It was far from easy, but she loved the challenge, and rose to it every time.
They chatted for a while, and Blaise finally got up from the table, and said she wanted to take a bath and go to bed. She was tired. She stopped in to say goodnight to Salima, gave her a kiss, and went to her own room. It felt good to be home, particularly with someone to talk to at the end of the day, or when she came home from a trip. With Simon and Salima there, dinner together every night, and all their comings and goings, the apartment felt like a home, for the first time since she had moved in. It was a different world, with Salima singing with Lucianna, and wandering around the apartment, and Simon cooking dinner every night. She was enjoying it so much that for the first time ever, she hated to leave home and go to work. Whether he had intended to or not, Simon had given new meaning to their life.
The following week Blaise asked Simon what his plans were for Thanksgiving, and if he needed to go home to Boston. He didn’t hesitate before he answered. He had already decided to stay in New York. He knew she needed him there, and his taking time off would have been a hardship for her.
“Who’s going to cook your turkey, if I go to Boston? I don’t trust you in the kitchen. In fact, I ordered the bird from our butcher last week. I actually had Salima do it. She was very pleased with herself. Do you invite anyone over for Thanksgiving?” Blaise shook her head. She either went to Caldwell to see Salima, or was on a trip. She hadn’t been home for Thanksgiving in eleven years. And this year she had a trip to Israel planned after the holiday. But she was going to be home all this weekend. It was a great weekend for watching football and hanging around the house. And she had tickets to a Rangers game for all three of them. She loved hockey, and so did he.
“By the way,” Simon said, looking nervous, “my parents are coming to town that weekend, to see friends. Do you think there’s any chance we could have them to tea? My mother is a huge fan, and my father would enjoy meeting you as well. If it’s not a good idea, don’t worry about it, I’ll meet them out somewhere.”
“It sounds like fun,” Blaise said easily. She was intrigued to meet them both. They sounded like characters to her, from everything Simon had described.
Blaise was fiercely busy for the next two weeks, and the night before Thanksgiving, she and Salima went to church and lit a candle for Abby, who had always spent Thanksgiving with them in the cottage. It was strange to have a holiday without her. They were so used to having her with them. And when they got home, feeling melancholy, Simon was busy in the kitchen baking pies for the next day, all according to the recipes that worked for Salima’s diet. Blaise tried to steal a little piece of crust, and he pushed her hand away.
“I don’t care how famous you are, do NOT screw up my pies. Or I’ll send you to your room for a time-out.” But when he was finished, he took an apple pie out of the oven and cut them each a slice as a surprise, with his delicious homemade dietetic ice cream that tasted like the real thing. He had made a serious project of collecting recipes for diabetics, for Salima. The apple pie was fantastic, and he had baked a pumpkin pie too for the next day.
“When are your parents coming, by the way?” Blaise suddenly remembered the conversation they’d had weeks before. He’d never mentioned it again, and she wondered if their plans had changed.
“Friday,” he said, finishing the last of his ice cream. “If that’s still okay with you. I promise I’ll only let them stay an hour, and then I’ll throw them out.”
“That’s a nice way to treat your parents. I can’t wait to meet them.”
“I want them to meet Salima too, if she won’t be too bored.”
“They don’t sound boring to me,” she said with a smile.
“I guess boring isn’t the right word. Exasperating maybe. Annoying. Eccentric. Crazy. My mother gets a little hyper at times. And my father just tunes her out and thinks of something else. It seems to work for them.”
“What time are they coming?”
“I told them four o’clock, if that’s good for you. I didn’t want to bother you with their plans.”
“That’s perfect. We’ll have them for tea.” He didn’t want to tell her that his mother preferred wine or champagne. But he had already told his mother to behave. She swore she would, which he knew meant nothing. He was hoping for the best, and prayed it was one of their better days, when his father tuned in to planet Earth, and his mother didn’t lecture them all on some obscure subject no one cared about, like the importance of hydrangeas in a garden, or the beauty of white lilac, or offer to read them her latest poem, which would put them all to sleep. He had had some exotic social experiences with them over the years, but he was willing to risk it again. They were dying to meet Blaise. Even his father knew who she was, and thought Simon was very fortunate to be working for her, even for a short time. He had told Simon that he hoped she would offer him a job, since she could probably afford to pay him more than the school. Simon was sure she could, but the subject had never come up, since she wanted to send Salima back to Caldwell.
Their Thanksgiving the next day was perfect, thanks to Simon, who prepared a delicious meal. He made chestnut stuffing, cooked the turkey to a flawless golden brown, and made tiny vegetables. And his pies were an impeccable end to the meal. He had pecan pie, pumpkin, and the apple pie they had sampled on Wednesday night. And he and Blaise watched football in the afternoon, and screamed every time their team made a touchdown. She was an ardent fan, which amused him. And after dinner, he played the piano and Salima sang, and at the end, they all joined in. They all agreed that it was the best Thanksgiving they’d had in years.
“My mother has always been very dismissive about Thanksgiving,” he said to Blaise when they cleaned up. She had set a lovely table in the dining room they rarely used, with her best crystal and china, and a lace tablecloth that had been her mother’s from her trousseau. She only brought it out for holidays and special events.
“Thanksgiving isn’t important to her because she’s French. So she condescends to celebrate it every year, but she always got creative with the food. She doesn’t like turkey. So we had ortolans one year, tiny little birds you serve with the heads, and the eyes looking at you. My brother and I hated them. So she served lobster the next year. I think it’s her rebellious spirit. I don’t think I had a turkey for Thanksgiving until I was at college and went home with a friend, and they had a ‘real’ Thanksgiving, instead of the crazy ones my mother dreamed up. One year she served trout,” he said, reminiscing as they did the dishes, and Blaise laughed as he rolled his eyes. “You’ll see when you meet her. She’s one of a kind.”
“Our Thanksgivings were very traditional,” Blaise remembered. “My father always brought the turkey home from the butcher shop where he worked. It was always the best one, and way too big for our family of three. We ate turkey everything for a week.” She smiled, thinking about it. Once in a while she missed her parents—they had been dead for almost thirty years. Her life as it had evolved and was now would have been completely foreign to them. But she thought they would have been proud of her.
They sat in the living room and talked for a long time that night. Simon didn’t feel like an employee anymore. He felt like a friend, or a guest. And anytime they got together, they seemed to talk for hours. It was midnight when they said goodnight and went to bed. And Blaise was up early the next day. She was already in the kitchen, drinking coffee, when Simon got up. He always came to the kitchen dressed, even when he looked half asleep. He was respectful of her home. She had never seen him in pajamas or a bathrobe, even when she ran into him in the kitchen late at night. With Simon there, the kitchen had turned out to be the hub of the house. He was always cooking something, working on his computer, or Salima was hanging out. She enjoyed talking to Simon for hours too.
He poured himself a cup of coffee and sat down, looking worried, and she could see that something was wrong. She wondered if it was Megan, but it wasn’t. “I wonder if I made a mistake inviting my parents. They can be so nuts. And if they’re having a bad day, you’ll hate them. I do regularly. I was always afraid to introduce them to my friends, for fear of what they’d do or say. And they haven’t improved with age. If anything, they’re worse, and think that age gives them the right to do and say anything they want, especially my mother. And now I’m nervous introducing them to you. I feel like a kid again. I called my father and told him yesterday, and he thinks I’m nuts. Maybe I am.”
“Don’t worry about it. They sound like fun. And parents are never embarrassing if they’re someone else’s. They’re not mine, so I’m sure I’ll enjoy them. Hell, look at the people I’ve interviewed in my life. Do you think they were all normal and polite? Some of them were really rude. A couple of them threatened to hit me. Some Mafioso pulled a gun on me once when he thought I had insulted his wife and insinuated she had an affair. I didn’t. I said he did. But whatever your parents do, it will be nothing compared to the people I’ve met. In fact, I can hardly wait.”
Blaise debated at length what to wear for them. In the end, she wore a plain white cashmere sweater, a short black leather skirt that showed off her legs, high heels, and a string of pearls. It seemed the right combination of respectful and a little kicky, since Simon said they were odd and he didn’t think they’d dress up. He said his mother was partial to hand-woven things she bought in Mexico, made by the Indians in bright colors, or ponchos, or vintage clothes she found at auctions or garage sales. He had no idea what they’d wear to meet Blaise, but probably nothing normal. That would be too simple, and too unlike them.
But they surprised him, when he opened the door to them promptly at four o’clock. They had never been on time in their life, and Simon was shocked. His father was wearing a tie, although it was slightly askew and one point of his collar was bent and pointing up, and the shirtsleeves peeking out of his jacket were too long, which gave him a slightly goofy look. He had hair like Einstein, and a warm smile that reached his eyes as he shook hands with Blaise and Salima, and Blaise fell in love with him immediately. He looked like someone you wanted to hug. He was as tall as Simon, but stooped over, and despite the slightly cockeyed tie and collar, he looked like a very distinguished man. Simon looked a lot like him, but he had his mother’s eyes, which were dark. His father’s eyes were blue, and he had white hair, and looked a little like Pinocchio’s father in the fairy tale. And his mother was still beautiful with dark eyes and a wild mane of salt-and-pepper hair that had once been jet black like her son’s. She had worn a plain dark blue dress and flat shoes and was carrying a dark blue Hermès Kelly bag. Simon had never seen her look so respectable in her entire life. No poncho, no cowboy hat, no sparkling red shoes like in The Wizard of Oz, all of which she was capable of. And she was wearing an armload of bangle bracelets that she never took off. She had slept with them for thirty years and collected them one by one. It made Blaise think of the Cartier bracelet she’d been given in Dubai. She never took that off now either. It was beautiful and simple and had been a fabulous gift.
“You have a very pretty apartment,” Isabelle Ward said primly as she sat down, with slightly pursed lips. She had a beautiful full mouth and perfect teeth. It was easy to see why Simon’s father had fallen in love with her when she was an eighteen-year-old girl and his student. She must have been a knockout. And Blaise said as much to Simon as they brought the tea tray in together while Salima entertained them and told them all the things that she and Simon had done recently, on their many adventures.
“Can’t you take her someplace more fun than a hardware store?” his mother scolded him with a disapproving look. “And the post office?” She looked around the room again then, as his father’s head bobbed and he smiled benignly at all of them. He looked like he was enjoying himself as Simon handed him a cup of tea. It was his favorite kind, and then his mother spotted an object in a far corner that caught her eye. It was a silver-plated skull that Blaise had brought back from one of her trips, in this case from Nepal. “Doesn’t it upset you having something like that here? Think of what they did to the person they took it from. It’s such a violent object to show off.” She looked disgusted as she said it and examined Blaise more closely. She was trying to decide if her hair was its natural color or she dyed it. She couldn’t figure it out, so she asked.
“No, it’s my natural color,” Blaise said with a warm smile, and Salima laughed, as Simon tried not to groan and gave his mother a quelling look, which she ignored.
“You must have gray in it at your age. Mine went gray at twenty-five. Do you use a rinse for that?” It was the kind of conversation women normally had at the hairdresser, or with close friends. But his mother was never afraid to barge right in. Boundaries had never existed for her. And she came across them like hurdles at a track meet.
“Yes, actually, I use a rinse. But I’m lucky. I don’t have a lot of gray.”
“Have you had your eyes done? They look very good.”
“No, I haven’t,” Blaise said, and laughed. “Maybe I’m not as old as you think.”
“I read somewhere that you’re fifty-two.”
“I’m forty-seven. That’s bad enough,” Blaise said without artifice, as his mother sat admiring the drapes.
“Beautiful fabric,” she said, as Simon prayed she would have nothing more to say about Blaise’s looks or her age. She was his employer, after all. “Strange color, though. I imagine if people sit too close to them, they look sick.” They were a slightly odd shade of yellow that Blaise had fallen in love with and still liked and thought was very chic. Simon’s mother did not agree. And Blaise laughed as she listened to her. She had no filter and said whatever went through her head. She stared at Blaise’s skirt after that, and Blaise felt suddenly self-conscious, more so than about her drapes. “Your skirt is very short, but you have fabulous legs. By the way, I loved your interview with the French president last year. Is he as handsome as he looks on TV?” It was a topic that interested her since she was French.
“More so,” Blaise said with a winning smile, as Simon’s father engaged Salima in conversation and was very sweet to her. “Your son is a fabulous chef,” Blaise complimented him, hoping to distract his mother for a while, and she smiled the moment Blaise said it.
“Yes, he is, isn’t he?” she said in a matter-of-fact way, as she continued to comment on the furniture, the surroundings, her children, and whatever else came to mind, and she said Salima was a very pretty girl. Simon looked like he was dying, and his father was good-natured through it all. He was used to the sensation she made everywhere she went, and had for thirty-five years. She had been just like that when she was young. It was part of what he loved about her, her openness, and indifference to what anyone else thought. She was her own person, and had never been afraid to be. And he had been totally enchanted with her since the day they met and still was. He looked like a happy man. And Isabelle Ward commented on him too. She called his inventions “ridiculous,” but said they had been very lucrative, which had allowed them to buy a very nice house, far nicer than any of the other professors, or even the president of the university. She seemed pleased about it.
She asked Blaise then what interviews she was planning to do next, and Blaise said she was going to Israel before Christmas, to interview the prime minister.
“What an interesting job you have. I’m a poet, you know. I’m sure Simon told you. Actually, I brought you my new book,” she said, opening her purse and handing it to Blaise. She had autographed it and opened it and then offered to read one of the poems, which she promptly did, while Salima tried to keep a straight face. She was the most eccentric, outrageous woman Blaise had ever met, and she could see why Simon was embarrassed by her, but Blaise liked her anyway. In a funny way, she was refreshing. There was no artifice about her. You knew exactly what she was thinking at all times.
Simon looked as though he’d been released from prison when they finally stood up to leave. Salima said goodbye and disappeared while Blaise went to get their coats, and as soon as she left the room, his mother turned to him with a worried expression.
“You’re sleeping with her, aren’t you? She’s much too old for you.”
“In the first place, she’s not old. And in the second, I’m not sleeping with her. She’s an extremely famous woman, and an icon all over the world. The last thing she’d want is a little schoolteacher like me,” he said humbly, discounting his extreme intelligence, and unaware of how he looked.
“That’s ridiculous. You’re much better than she is. And your grandfather has a title, for heaven’s sake.” His mother looked disapproving, as Simon prayed that Blaise would come back with their coats quickly, so they could leave. He was already past his limit for what he could tolerate. “I’m sure she’s in love with you,” his mother said loudly, just as Blaise came back in the room and pretended not to hear. She thanked them profusely for coming, and they thanked her for the tea.
“Good luck in Israel. I hope nobody throws a bomb at you. That would be very unfortunate. Simon really likes his job,” his mother said to Blaise.
“I’m sure I’ll be fine, I’ve been there before.” Isabelle Ward kissed her on both cheeks then. Her French accent and her customs were still noticeable even after many years in the States.
A moment later they left, his father still bobbing and smiling, and his mother looking respectable for once, but still not acting it. And Simon fell to his knees in front of Blaise the moment they were gone.
“I beg your forgiveness. My mother should have been muzzled at birth. My brother and I have volunteered to do it a thousand times, but my father won’t let us. He still thinks she’s cute, particularly now that he’s going deaf so he doesn’t have to listen to her. I swear, I will never bring them back. I’m sorry that I invited them, and I will never, ever do it again. I’m sorry about your hair and the curtains, the length of your skirt, and everything else she said. Ohmygod, I need a drink,” he said, getting up, as Blaise laughed at him.
“She’s very funny, and I like them. Don’t apologize. Your father is adorable. And your mother says everything the rest of us wish we could, but we don’t have the guts. She is one ballsy woman,” Blaise said admiringly. She could only imagine what it must have been like to grow up with a mother like her.
“She thinks we’re having an affair,” he said, looking miserable. He was mortified by everything his mother said. He always was. He felt fourteen again, but he was relieved to see that Blaise was undisturbed by it and actually amused, which he found hard to believe. She had been an incredibly good sport, in his opinion.
“What makes her think that?” Blaise asked, about the affair.
“I have no idea. She’s always announcing who is having affairs with who, particularly among their friends, or movie stars she’s never met. She thinks she’s psychic, and once in a million times she’s right. I told her we weren’t.” He was afraid Blaise would be offended by what she said.
“Did you tell her your virginity is safe with me? I’m too old to go after you,” Blaise said, smiling at him. “I’d get arrested for child molestation,” she teased.
“Don’t be stupid,” he said, looking annoyed. “You’re only about ten years older than I am.”
“Fifteen,” she corrected him, not that she wanted to add more years, but it was the truth. He was thirty-two and she was forty-seven, which they were both aware of.
“That’s not a big difference. My father is twenty-two years older than she is. And he married her when she was eighteen and he was forty.”
“Men can get away with that. Women can’t.”
“I don’t agree with you. It may cause more comment when the woman is older, but it’s no different. And who cares? You look younger than I do, and you have more energy than anyone I know. You don’t look your age,” he emphasized again.
“Neither does your mother. She looks fabulous.”
“Why couldn’t I have been born to a deaf-mute? Then she could insult everybody in sign language and most people wouldn’t know what she was saying. Thank you for being such a good sport. I feel like a complete idiot for inviting them. I know better. I just wanted them to meet you and Salima, and I guess insanely, I wanted you to meet them. I’m very proud of my father, and mortified by my mother, and always have been, with good reason.”
“Part of being an adult, someone told me once, is accepting your parents as they are, with all their failings.” She was trying to calm him down, to no avail. He looked totally shaken.
“That’s a tall order in my mother’s case. I don’t think I’m capable of it.”
They walked into the kitchen then, and Blaise took out a bottle of wine. She opened it, poured him a glass, and handed it to him. He needed it. And he looked at her with grateful eyes as he took a sip.
“Thank you, for your patience and understanding, and the wine. Do you have a Valium to go with it? I think I need one.”
“She was fine,” Blaise reassured him again, and as she did, he looked at her with a strange expression. Their eyes met and held as they had before, and suddenly for the first time, she wondered if his mother was right. Maybe she was psychic. All she wanted to do now was put her arms around Simon and comfort him. Maybe she was in love with him. And what if she was? How disastrous would that be? His parents would be horrified, and the world would laugh at them, or her at least. She never took her eyes from his as she thought about it, and then rejected the idea. She poured herself a glass of wine then, and tried to think of something else. But suddenly, all she could think of was him. He pulled her into his arms then, and put his arms around her. And as he stood holding her, neither of them moved or said a word.