Fifty-three

We followed Addy’s clicking designer heels along a museum-like, marble-floored corridor where first edition copies of her six New Amsterdam novels were mounted like old masters, each in its own illuminated glass case.

Now it was my turn to gush. “I devoured every one of these books. The way you brought New York’s history to life deepened my love affair with this city.”

“Thank you, Clare. You’re very kind.”

We soon discovered the “parlor” was actually an extension constructed at the back of the mansion. The space was Gothic Revival by design, with an elaborately carved stone hearth, tiny gargoyles in each corner of the ceiling, and heavy mahogany furniture.

The room was intense, daunting, maybe even a little scary.

“How cathedral-esque,” Esther whispered in my ear. “Will the Hunchback of Notre Dame be joining us?”

I bit my tongue to keep from laughing—or shushing her, because I realized that Madame, in all her octogenarian wisdom, was absolutely right about bringing Esther with me.

Madame knew that I idolized this author, and that Addy was a formidable presence. Add them up and Esther was doing precisely what Madame hoped she would. Esther’s prickly cracks couldn’t help but release some of the air from Addy’s inflated world. And what a world it was.

The massive round dining table at the center of the room looked as if it could seat all of King Arthur’s knights. For today, however, I saw only three place settings, and at the center of the spotless white tablecloth was a sizable antique vase displaying an arrangement of lovely blush-peach roses, their riot of petals opening in unique cup shapes.

Addy noticed where my gaze had strayed.

“It took the breeder fifteen years and three million British pounds to create these floral works of art. What I love most about these exquisite blossoms is their literary connection. They’re named after the most memorable of Shakespeare’s heroines.”

Esther nodded knowingly. “Lady Macbeth.”

“Goodness no!” Addy looked appalled. “These are Sweet Juliet roses. I have a fresh bouquet placed in this room every morning.” She sighed, gazing at them. “They’re my only weakness.”

Addy gestured for us to sit, and we found ourselves facing a line of massive arched windows, framed in stone with a clear view of neatly cut hedges and beyond them, the Brooklyn Heights Promenade and its awe-inspiring view.

By now the cloudy morning had given way to a crisp, sunny day. From our high vantage, we could easily watch the public strolling along the esplanade; barges moving up and down the sparkling, choppy waters of the East River; and in the distance, sight-seeing helicopters buzzing around the Financial District’s skyscrapers—all under a brilliant blue late-morning sky.

The young woman who took our coats reappeared in an apron and set down plates. “For your brunch service today, Ms. Babcock’s chef has prepared appetizers of semi-cured goat cheese with sweet paprika. One is topped with a freshly blended fig paste and the other with boquerón, a Spanish-style, vinegar-macerated anchovy. The vinegar mellows the fish. Both are served on crostini toasted with duck fat.”

Esther winced at me and silently mouthed, “Duck fat? I love Wacker! I can’t eat this!”

“Just eat the cheese and toppings,” I mouthed back.

She frowned at the plate and leaned close to whisper, “I thought brunch meant Belgian waffles and fruity pancakes topped with ice cream.”

“Apparently not in Brooklyn Heights,” I whispered back.

Thankfully, Addy was too busy discussing our beverage service to notice our miming.

“No wine, Elena. Bring us a liter of the Vichy Catalan. Chilled, but no ice…”

Meanwhile, I amused myself with bites of the chef’s amuse-bouche.

Crostini meant “little crusts” in Italian, and that perfectly described this slice of freshly baked semolina baguette gently browned in duck fat with a dash of salt and white pepper. The goat cheese, creamy and delicious with a subtle hint of sweet paprika, mitigated the unctuousness of the duck fat and paired well with both the tangy anchovy and sweet fig paste.

Esther unceremoniously licked off the cheese and toppings and slapped the duck-fat toasted bread back on her plate. Then she pushed up her black-framed glasses and got down to business.

“So, Ms. Babcock—”

“Please, call me Addy! We’re all friends here.”

“Okay, Addy,” Esther said. “Let’s make like girlfriends and dish. We’re dying to know everything you remember about the Writer’s Block Lounge.”