I was unloading grocery bags—cleaning supplies for the crew of four who came every two weeks to take care of floors and windows; a few bottles of wine; green shrimp for a scampi—listening to the phone messages.
Beep. “Mr. Wilkerson at Sulka’s calling. The suits Mr. Mondleigh ordered are ready to be picked up.” Beep. Whirr.
I checked the time; I could fetch them that day, if I hurried.
Beep. “You are adorable, Mr. Bear,” the familiar voice, low and rough-edged, like a cat’s purr. “Absolutely adorable. Even a non-Irish girl loves emeralds. I know it’s a couple of days early, but I could make a pitcher of green beer—if you wanted. I’ll be here all afternoon, in case you felt like calling. I’ve got no plans for tonight. So if you’d like to do something? I’m available.” Beep. Whirr.
My instructions were not to call Mr. Theo at the office except in case of emergency; this was no emergency message, although the voice, vibrating, implied a certain urgency. I grinned, and laid a bottle into the wine rack.
Beep. “Theodore Mondleigh. You don’t know me. My name is Rothman, Howard Rothman. From Minneapolis. I have a software company that does business with Hal Patricks. Hal gave me your number, and from what he says I’m interested in talking to you. I’ll be in town Monday; I’m booked into the Hilton all week. It sounds like we both might make some money, so give me a call and we’ll set something up. It’s Friday, eleven fifteen my time.” Beep. Whirr.
Again, I checked the time, picturing the sun making its arced way over a map of the United States to figure out whether I should be adding or subtracting an hour, then gave myself a mental shake: what did the time matter? Why was I so concerned with the time?
Beep. “Theo? Your father wants you here in time for lunch tomorrow…something about papers he wants you and Davy to look at. That’s the first thing. Do you remember, we’re having dinner with the Rawlings? Be sure to pack something appropriate. They’re more…formal than we are. Oh, and Davy said he’d like a game of squash Sunday morning. I’ll book a court. There was one more thing…but I can’t remember. I hope it wasn’t important.” Beep.
Distracted by hopefulness: that explained me to myself. I was counting days until…
Whirr. Beep. “Teddy? If you can’t make it Saturday, how about Tuesday for dinner? It’s been too long, much too long. You’ll love hearing about my new job—it’s a giggle, I promise. But you’ve been hard to get ahold of for the last two or three weekends. What’s going on? Anything interesting? Oh, it’s Muffy.” Beep. Whirr.
I remembered Muffy. Muffy was fluffy, that was why I remembered her. Mr. Theo’s affiliation might have been Episcopalian, but his tastes were Catholic.
Beep. “Theo? I remembered, your father wants a general outline of your will. He’s rewriting his. I hope…you don’t mind?” Beep. Whirr.
Well, hope springs eternal.
Beep. “Gregor? I won’t be in for dinner. Don’t wait up.” Beep, beep, beep.
Which meant that he didn’t plan to be home that night. I looked at the mound of raw shrimp—more than I could eat on my own. A De Jonghe certainly wouldn’t freeze, but with the shells still on, although not as tender as fresh, still, in a shallot-tomato sauce, over a pasta…It is the lack of waste I admire most in French kitchens. If you live in New York, you have to know how close we are to being buried by our own garbage, and you may even think it serves us right.
I thought I could get the shrimp wrapped and into the freezer before I headed over to Sulka’s, and double-checked the time.