Because their anniversary happened to fall on a Monday, the possibilities were limited. Everything on Mount Washington was closed, along with most of the nicer places in Shadyside. Taking her to the club was a last resort, sure to be held against him, though if asked, she would say it was fine. He needed to be creative. He’d heard good things about La Lune Bleu in Aspinwall, except that meant they’d have to cross the bridge at rush hour. The Landing in Verona was supposed to be fancy. Café Sam in Oakland. Henry hedged, checking their menus, scrolling through their reviews, dissuaded by complaints of bland food and bad service. It seemed risky, on such an occasion, to go somewhere new.
It was their forty-ninth, one shy of the big one, as if fifty was the finish line. Emily and Arlene and the children had already started planning for next year. Lisa wanted to be part of it, which annoyed Emily. Trying to find a venue was a production, and then there were the food and drink packages, and whether to hire a band or a DJ and putting together the guest list and invitations. Henry eavesdropped on their progress, alarmed at the cost, but kept his misgivings to himself, as if paying for everything excused him from participating. It was not his responsibility.
This anniversary was. Last year they’d gone to The Point, an old favorite, and while the food wasn’t memorable, there was a jazz combo they stayed to hear, moving to the bar for a nightcap. It was too much, on top of the wine, and she’d kissed him on the way to the car, her hot mouth shocking him, and at home, after a glass of sherry, thanked him for the nice evening. Now he scoured the listings in Pittsburgh Magazine, certain no one would be playing on a Monday night.
They used to go to Minutello’s with the Pickerings and the Millers, taking home straw-jacketed Chianti bottles to make candleholders for the back porch, but it wasn’t what Emily would consider fine dining. The same for Poli’s and Tambellini’s, and anything in Bloomfield. Sushi he ruled out, as well as Chinese, Thai, Indian and Mexican—all too hard on the stomach. Of the few remaining choices, none was wonderful, and knowing it could be a mistake, rather than book something he wasn’t thrilled with, he called The Landing.
The woman who answered was British and chipper, which immediately reassured him. He asked for a quiet table with a river view.
“And would this be a special occasion?”
“It’s our anniversary.”
“I’ll make a note of it. Congratulations, by the way.”
“Thank you.”
He was glad he’d called. He felt better having reservations, as if the rest would be easy.
If the fiftieth was golden, he and Emily joked, the forty-ninth was gold-plated. He had no gift for her besides roses, an old standby, and again he was tempted as the weekend passed to book them two tickets to London. Waiting for dessert, he’d slide the envelope across the table and watch her face change. A third honeymoon, just the two of them, wending their way north through Yorkshire, driving on the wrong side of the road, stopping at pull-offs to walk the windswept moors like characters out of the Brontës. They’d stay in castles and take the train up the coast to Glasgow, eat kippers and eggs for breakfast and spend the day visiting distilleries. If it all seemed a pipe dream, it was because they’d been happy there, free, for a short time, of their normal lives. They were alone, no cell phones or email to break the spell, plus it had been twenty years, the hassles of travel softened by time, leaving only the highlights—long, inimitable dinners and late-night taxi rides. He recalled standing naked at the window of their inn one morning after having made love to her and looking down on the tourists posing before the statue of Shakespeare and feeling a strange exultation, as if he’d discovered the secret to life. It would be different if they went back now—that animal happiness no longer possible—and yet the idea returned again and again, tantalizing. Next year he’d be expected to come up with something big, so maybe then. He’d have to do a little legwork, put together a folder. The prospect pleased him, and he felt lighter, as if he’d already surprised her.
He wrote the time on the calendar, but not the name of the restaurant.
“So we are eating dinner,” Emily noted. “We just don’t know where.”
“I know where.”
“Not the club.”
“Not the club.”
“Have we eaten here before?”
“We have not eaten here before.”
“The plot thickens.”
“I hope you like it.”
“Why wouldn’t I?”
“I don’t know. It’s a pig in a poke. It could be wonderful, it could be terrible.”
“Where did you hear about it?”
“If I told you, it would ruin the surprise.”
“I hate surprises.”
“I know,” he said.
He kept her guessing to the end. As they were dressing to go out, she asked him to help her with her necklace. She sat at her vanity, bowing her head as he battled the tiny clasp.
“You’re really not going to tell me.”
He fastened the catch, took her by the shoulders and kissed her neck. “You look lovely.”
“Thank you, so do you. That doesn’t answer my question.”
All afternoon a steady rain had fallen, and traffic was bad. He’d left extra time, and still, crawling along Washington Boulevard with everyone heading home, he was afraid they were going to be late.
“That new Spanish place in Aspinwall,” Emily said, thinking they were taking the bridge.
He shrugged, mum.
“You are a stinker.”
At the light, when they peeled off and headed upriver, she shook her head as if it couldn’t be right. “What’s in Oakmont?”
“A very nice golf course, I hear.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
Though it was only two lanes, and narrow, Allegheny River Boulevard was fast, an overtaxed commuter route. He expected traffic would get better as they went, but instead of thinning out and picking up speed, it stopped altogether. They sat at a standstill, wipers shuttling, taillights spangling the windshield.
“We’re not moving,” Emily said. “There must be an accident.”
Ahead of them, cars were turning around.
“That’s not a good sign,” she said.
“I don’t know where they think they’re going.”
“There must be a back way.”
“Not that I’m aware of.”
“Maybe if you cross the river and come back.”
“That’s all the way past Oakmont.”
They inched up and waited. The clock on the dash changed. He thought he’d left enough time, but obviously not. He hated being late, and had to quell a rising panic. It was Monday, they wouldn’t give away their table.
“I’m feeling a bit peckish,” she said.
“Me too.”
They were under a tunnel of trees. When the wind blew, rain knocked on the roof. More cars were pulling three-pointers, pickup trucks four-wheeling over the weedy shoulder and gunning past the other way. The Olds was too big to swing around, another reason to wait it out. He tried KDKA but the news told them nothing.
“This is ridiculous,” Emily said.
“It is.”
“I take it we’re late.”
“I don’t think it’ll be a problem.”
“I can call them.”
“I don’t have the number with me.”
“That’s convenient.”
“I’m sure this will clear up. It’s not that far.”
Sitting there watching the clock tick off the minutes, he blamed himself. He knew he shouldn’t have picked a new place. They should have just gone to the club. After all this time, why did he still feel the need to impress her?
Behind them a siren wailed, growing louder. A police car raced up the oncoming lane, its Klaxon blasting a warning.
“They’re just getting here now?” she said.
He shook his head, as stumped as she was, and then when they finally got going again and caught up to the police car, it wasn’t an accident at all. The stoplights by a strip mall were out. In a reflective yellow vest, a policeman stood in the middle of the intersection, directing traffic with a flashlight. The state store was dark, and the Giant Eagle.
“I hope wherever we’re going has power,” Emily said. “Otherwise we’re not eating tonight.”
“Don’t jinx us,” Henry said, too late.
All of Verona was out, from the train tracks down to the river. When they pulled up to The Landing, it was dark and the lot was empty.
“I’ve heard about this place,” Emily said. “It’s supposed to be very good.”
“I guess we’ll never know,” Henry said.
There was a handwritten sign on the door too small to read. He got out, braving the cold, and climbed the steps to investigate. SORRY! it said, CLOSED DUE TO POWER FAILURE. As he was returning to deliver the news to Emily, the door swished open behind him, and a bright voice called, “Are you the Maxwells?”
“We are.”
It was the woman he’d spoken to on the phone, not a pasty Brit, as he’d imagined, but deeply black, long-limbed and pretty, confusing him. “I’m terribly sorry. I know this is a special occasion. What I can do is call around and try to find a table for you somewhere else, if that’s all right. I know Oakmont has power. How do you feel about Moody’s? It’s got a view, and their food is excellent.”
Henry balked, still wanting some say in their fate.
“I think you’ll like it. Let me give my friend Christian there a call.” She was dialing before he could disagree, and turned away, a hand clamped to her ear.
Emily lowered her window and beckoned him over. “What are we doing?”
“She’s going to try to get us in somewhere in Oakmont.”
“It’s nice of her to do that.”
“I’m sure she feels responsible.”
“It’s not her fault the power went out.”
The woman descended the steps. “You’re all set. Just ask for Christian. He’ll take care of you.”
Her name was Alison, and she was right, Moody’s was easy to find, and cozy. Christian had champagne waiting for them, a thoughtful touch, refilling their glasses until Henry declined, saying he needed to drive. Emily kept going through dessert, a white chocolate espresso torte she polished off, scraping the plate with the edge of her fork.
“Thank you,” she said in the car. “It was definitely a surprise.”
“To me too. Happy Anniversary.”
“Happy Anniversary. I hope you don’t mind if I close my eyes. I think I’ve had too much to drink.”
“Probably a good idea,” he said, and as they drove home along the empty road, the streetlights shining down all around them, he understood how lucky he’d been.