Riz Noir was a new restaurant just down the road from Louis Armstrong International. Mas heard good things about it from the Feds that flew in periodically from D.C. She had been wanting to check it out, and today was her opportunity.
She reserved a window table for lunch. Her jet took off at 3 p.m., and it would be fun to watch the planes take off while they ate. It always put her in a flying mood.
It was overcast and drizzling by the time they pulled up to the curb in Beth’s Cadillac, though she would have been just as happy riding on the back of her daughter’s BMW. It reminded her of her husband Julian’s Harley. He pulled her over to give her a ticket one fine day in the summer of ’75. Her mama always said there was something about a man in uniform, and when Officer Julian Mas of the NPOD stepped up to her driver’s door, Beth understood exactly what her mama was talking about. It was love at first sight, and she scandalized her entire family by becoming a biker chick on the weekends, even though the man was a cop and even though she married him in a proper church wedding.
But today wasn’t a good day for a bike ride. Besides, Mas had her briefcase and a carry-on to contend with, and Beth had her huge, heavy purse. And then there would have been the long-term parking fee at the airport for the bike. Cars did have their advantages, and this was one of them.
Beth dropped three quarters in the meter, and they walked hand-in-hand into the restaurant. She pretended she was still a little wobbly from a broken ankle the summer before, but the woman was fit and trim from years of disciplined exercise, and was already back to short bouts of jogging. Mas knew she was just using it as an excuse to hold her hand, and she found it endearing.
They followed the hostess to their table, gazing out the windows at the rainy afternoon as an airliner took off from Louis Armstrong nearby. When Mas was a child, her daddy would fly model airplanes for a hobby. Nowadays, any sort of aircraft reminded them both of Sunday afternoons picnicking in the park with the other mothers and children, as all the fathers and their teenage boys fiddled with their buzzing contraptions, launching them upstairs for mock dogfights and pylon races. Mas could still vividly remember the smell of the fuel, and the glue and epoxy in the garage when her father was building or repairing one of his biplanes. The man was a craftsman. She learned her attention to detail from sitting at his side and watching for hours as he told her stories about being a cop.
The hostess gave them their menus and left. Beth opened her purse and took out two gleaming glasses, along with two sets of polished silverware. Her daughter indulged her, and set the restaurant’s glasses and utensils aside as Beth laid out the things she brought from home, a set for herself and one for her Chrissy-girl.
The busboy came up and saw what the game plan was at once. One of those... he thought. This’ll be fun.
He filled their private glasses with ice water and removed the restaurant’s glasses and flatware with a smile. Beth smiled a pleasant thank you, and so did her daughter. He nodded, and moved on to the next table before they asked for anything strange. Beth had a sip of water, and found it refreshing. Mas was secretly relieved.
She was tolerant of her mother’s eccentricities. Beth didn’t trust restaurant help and that was that. She was always pleasant to them, but she would watch them like a hawk. It used to drive her father crazy, but Beth had been a waitress when she was single and saw some dreadful things, and there was just no arguing with her.
Beth smiled at her daughter and Mas smiled back. They both had the same charming squint, although genetics had nothing to do with it. Mas used to mimic her as a child, until it became an engrained habit. They scanned their menus and chatted about the offerings. After a few minutes, they were ready to order.
The waiter appeared, but he kept his eyes on Mas. The busboy had given him a heads up about the older lady. Mas grinned at him, and he grinned back.
“Hi,” she said. “We’ll have the deux plats de poisson rose, kreyol, avec du banane mur frie. And pour le riz, je prend un plat du riz avec djon-djon.”
“Mmmm, that sounds delicious!” Beth said with a grin. Food always sounded better in French.
“And my mom would like a glass of Marcelle Joseph Cabernet, and I’ll have a Serac on ice.”
“And could you bring us some warm bread?” Beth asked him. “Very well,” he said, jotting it all down. “Will there be anything else?”
“Yes,” Beth said, reaching into her purse. He waited to see what she would be pulling out. Probably a corkscrew.
She handed him a Visa card. “I’m paying,” she informed her daughter.
“Mom...!” Mas began, but her mother waved away her protestations.
“Hush. I want the points.”
Mas smiled and sat back, letting her have her way. The waiter moved off with the card tucked inside his ticket book.
Beth reached across the table and grasped her daughter’s hand, so proud of her. She was given to sudden eruptions of affection. “It’s a miracle how much you look like me!” she said. “I’ll never get over it.”
Mas fondly stroked the back of her mother’s hand with her thumb. Beth tended to get particularly effusive and sentimental when Mas was going out of town. Mas used to find it embarrassing, but as she grew up she learned to roll with it, and now she thought it was sweet. It was just her mother’s way; for all the apparent dramatics she was completely sincere.
“You and Daddy picked a baby that blends right in,” Mas told her.
“Our lost little lamb,” Beth said with a teary smile. “That’s what we used to call you.”
Mas just smiled, remembering.
The waiter brought their salads and set them down. He cranked some fresh pepper for Mas, but Beth passed. His busboy poured Mas’ Serac on ice as the waiter poured Beth’s red wine. The ladies smiled a thanks, and they were left alone.
Mas picked up her fork, but Beth folded her hands in prayer and bowed her head. Mas promptly put her fork down and did the same.
“Lord above,” Beth prayed, “Thank you for this bounty, and for all your blessings great and small. And thank you for our trials, Lord. They help us see the joys of life. Amen.”
“Amen,” Mas murmured. They crossed themselves, and Beth picked up her wine.
“That was beautiful, Mom.”
Beth smiled at her. “I just made it up. You inspire me.”
Mas blushed, and picked up her drink as well. Beth popped a bit of warm bread in her mouth and followed it with a sip of red wine. Mas joined her in a tiny sip, then put her drink down and dug into her salad. She was hungry.
Beth watched her daughter eat. “You’re tired,” she observed.
Mas closed her eyes briefly, and nodded. There was no way to hide it, and there was no use denying it. A mother could always tell. Especially hers.
“The food will help me sleep,” Mas said.
Beth smiled, and cut her salad into smaller chunks. It also gave her a chance to look it over, but nothing seemed amiss.
They ate in silence, watching the planes land and take off in the gray drizzle of a winter afternoon. Beth finally looked back to her, a shadow of concern puckering her brow. Mas peeked at her. Here it comes, she thought, and she was right.
“You don’t have to do this, Chrissy.”
Mas stopped eating, and sighed. Beth puckered her lips, almost as if she regretted what she just said. In truth, though, she didn’t regret it one bit, and Mas knew it.
Beth searched her daughter’s eyes, struggling to find the best way to convey what she was feeling. Mas sat still, allowing her to have the moment she needed.
“Your daddy knows you loved him, and I know you loved him,” Beth said. Her eyes were tearing up and turning red.
Mas nodded, but she was unsure how to respond. Her mother wanted to say more, so Mas gave her the time to express whatever she felt she had to say. It was the least she could do under the circumstances, she thought. She was flying off to a foreign country to track down a serial killer, and her mother was understandably concerned.
“There’s nothing you have to prove, honey. You were always our darling daughter from the moment we laid eyes on you, and you always will be. Love isn’t bound by flesh and blood, Chrissy. Love is forever.”
Mas could only nod again, and tears began to form in her eyes as well. Her mother was quietly weeping and dabbed at her mascara.
Mary Beth Mas took a deep, brave breath, and forcefully let it out. She was a cop’s widow, and she wasn’t about to break down in public. It was a commitment she made at his funeral, and she was going to honor it no matter what.
She deliberately wrapped her hand around her wine glass and held it up with a brave smile. Mas lifted her Serac.
“To Daddy,” Mas said. It was her toast to recite, every time they ate together. It had been their tradition since the time she was twelve, since her father’s wake.
“To the man of our lives,” Beth replied, just as she had a thousand times before.
They clinked their glasses together and drank a toast of love, honor and remembrance.