MITCH’S PLACE WASN’T FAR FROM MINE, BUT IT WAS IN AN ODDLY hidden pocket of the city where the Lower East Side collided with Chinatown, and I’d never been there before.
“Take the F to East Broadway,” he’d texted. I emerged from the subway to find myself on a wide, heavily trafficked street dense with trucks careening off the Manhattan Bridge. On one side of the street, children played in the park; on the other side, pedestrians pushed past one another, hurrying home, trying to beat the dark. Grocery stores with crisp roast ducks hanging in the windows stood next to coffee boutiques and shops filled with pungent barrels of exotic pickles.
“Text me when you get to the paint store,” he’d said. “I’m next door. I’ll come down and let you in.”
I’d expected something old and gracious, but this building was shiny-new. Mitch was waiting near the lobby door. He hustled me inside, put his arms around me, nuzzled my neck. “I’m glad you’re here. I was afraid you’d change your mind, but you’re actually early.” Arms still around me, he led me into a tiny self-service elevator.
“I quit my job!”
“I thought you would,” he replied evenly. I glanced at him, disappointed; I’d expected more of a reaction.
He seemed to sense my mood. “You said you had to go find Lulu.” He rubbed his soft beard against my cheek. “How could you do that and keep the job? Push two.”
When the elevator door slid open, we were right inside his apartment, which gave me an immediate impression of space and light. Then I saw that it was not an apartment but a long, spare, high-ceilinged loft with windows on both ends stretching from floor to ceiling. Cabinets made of a soft butterscotch-colored wood ran down one entire wall. The other wall was white, which made the red sofa against it very bright and the geometric coffee table very black. In the middle of the room, there was a table made of the same butterscotch wood, a rectangular white island with two sinks, and a large old-fashioned high-backed black-and-white enamel stove with two ovens, four burners, and a grill.
I walked to the windows on the east end and looked down at the park across the street. A man was pushing two children on the swings, sending them higher and higher. Mitch took my hand. “Come.” He led me to the other side of the loft. As we got closer, I could see that the floor ended in a spiral stairway. The window at this end stretched down another story, all the way to the ground. In the late-afternoon light, the space was spectacular, all air and sunlight, open to the garden just outside. I could make out grass and trees, and something in the middle. A bench, maybe?
“It’s not what I expected.”
“You thought I’d have an old house, right?” Mitch kicked off his shoes, and I saw that his socks were unmatched; one turquoise, the other purple. I smiled. “Well, I used to. I bought a run-down old Victorian in Brooklyn right out of college, when you could get them in Fort Greene for practically nothing. I worked on it for years. It was an Eastlake, actually.”
“Like the lock?” I was glad I’d remembered.
“Yes! The house was always nagging at me about some detail that needed fixing, and somehow I kept doing more and more. Then a client saw it and fell in love. Made me an offer I couldn’t refuse. He wanted everything—not only the furniture but the art and the plates. Everything. I wasn’t looking to sell, but …” He ran his hand up my arm. “At first I was kind of depressed, but then I realized that he’d offered me a kind of freedom. You have no idea what a relief it is to come home and do nothing. C’mon, I’ll take you downstairs.”
I followed him down the spiral staircase. The wall behind it was painted deep green and filled with framed pictures and drawings. Most were of buildings, although here and there a photograph showed a large family skiing or boating. In one picture they were sitting outdoors at a picnic table. In another they were all standing in front of Notre Dame in Paris. I went closer to look at the most recent photograph; the father resembled Mitch so much that I had the strange impression of looking thirty years into the future.
“Big family,” I said.
“Yeah.” There was something guarded in his voice, an I-don’t-want-to-talk-about-it quality, and he tugged on my hand, pulling me down to the bottom of the stairs. The bedroom was half the length of the loft, but the enormous window made it feel open, spacious. I stopped to stare into the garden, and he came and wrapped his arms around me, nestling my back against his chest. “It’s so beautiful. Like being outside.”
He tightened his arms. “At night I lie here and look at the stars. Sometimes I wish there was a fireplace, but you can’t have everything.”
The bedroom was very different from the stark modern loft upstairs. Everywhere I looked, my eye fell on an unusual object. An antique wooden angel, obviously rescued from a church, hung over our heads, blowing a trumpet. A metal MEN WORKING AHEAD sign stood below the stairway, the ludicrously proportioned man pointing upward with a fat finger. And two worn marble pillars—holding up nothing—flanked the doorway to what I assumed must be the bathroom.
The bed facing the window was a high platform covered with a worn Indian star quilt, the colors gently faded. Mitch plunked himself onto the bed and reached beneath it. “And now for the major attraction.” A small prickle of fear ran down my back. Was this going to be something weird? He pulled out a drawer. A light came on, and I felt a rush of cool air.
“You have refrigerated drawers in your bed?”
Mitch gave me a grin you’d get from a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar. “It’s such a drag to go all the way upstairs when you’re hit with a midnight craving for ice cream.”
“That may be the most decadent thing I’ve ever seen.”
“You”—he drew me down onto the bed—“have clearly led a very sheltered life. You have a lot to learn about decadence.”
“And you’re going to teach me?”
“I intend to try.”
Neither of us said anything for quite a while.
I woke with the moon shining through the huge window. Mitch had pushed back the star quilt, and the sheets felt smooth beneath my legs. I turned my head; he was watching me.
“I hope dinner’s not ruined.” He reached out and ran his hand across my face, touching my forehead, my cheeks, my chin.
“No worries.” I stretched, languidly content. “We can always eat ice cream.”
“Absolutely not. I invited you for dinner. And dinner you shall have.”
“I’m not hungry.” My appetite had vanished so completely that I couldn’t remember how hunger felt or imagine ever experiencing it again.
“Well, I am starving.” He began to climb out of bed, and I reached for him, unwilling to let him leave. He bent to kiss me and I tugged him down again. “Don’t go.” His body, when he twined his legs with mine, felt like liquid mercury.
The next thing I remember him saying is, “Now I’m really starving.” He got up and pulled on a pair of shorts. “I need sustenance. You stay here; I’ll bring you dinner in bed.”
He padded up the stairs, and after a few minutes I heard the hiss of meat hitting a grill; the scent of charring beef wafted down the stairs. I sniffed, thinking he must have put the potatoes in to bake before I arrived; I could smell the sweet earthy scent of the crisped skins. I heard a bottle being uncorked and then the sound of liquid hitting glass.
Mitch came downstairs, bringing with him the clean scent of the vinegar he’d been mixing into the salad. He handed me a wineglass, its deep crystal bowl filled with a dark, almost black liquid.
“I bought these glasses for the old house. This is the last remaining pair.” He took a sip. “But this wine deserves them. Hugh Johnson calls Hermitage ‘the manliest wine of France.’ ”
I leaned into the glass, inhaling the intoxicating scent, all violets and leather. I could feel him watching me as I took the first sip, rolling the rich wine around in my mouth.
He went back upstairs then and returned carrying a wooden platter perched precariously on top of a teak salad bowl. On the platter were the baked potatoes and an enormous steak.
“One of Benny’s?”
“Sal’s got me well trained.” He began to carve. “I wouldn’t dare buy meat anywhere else.” He picked up a thin slice and fed it to me. The meat was rare and tender, with a metallic tang, and I thought it was impossible to imagine a sexier meal. We didn’t eat much.
I woke up again to find Mitch lying next to me with a bowl of ice cream balanced on his chest. “My idea of heaven,” he said. “Coffee ice cream and a beautiful woman in the middle of the night. What more could a man want?” When he kissed me, I tasted coffee and sugar, and when he touched me, his fingers were still cold. “In the morning”—he rolled onto my side of the bed—“we’ll take a bath.”
“You have a tub big enough for both of us?”
“It’s one of those old porcelain monsters with lion-foot legs. I took it from my parents’ house when they had their bathroom redone. They were going to throw it out.” He said this as if he’d prevented a terrible crime from taking place.
“They don’t like old things?”
“Not really. They believe in constant upgrades. They’d especially like to upgrade me.”
“Always have. I’m the youngest of four brothers, and my parents had already done a great job with Bruce, Bill, and Bryan. They’re all architects like Dad. They expected me to go into the family business. But I lacked the most important requirement.”
“And that is …?”
“The desire to make your mark upon the earth. You need that if you’re going to be an architect. I, on the other hand, believe in preserving what’s already here.”
“So you were the black sheep in the family?”
I said it lightly, but I could feel his body stiffen.
“Huge disappointment. But it was almost like they always knew I would be. Mother’s name is Betty, and my father’s Boyd.”
“And your brothers all have ‘B’ names.”
“You got it. I’m an ‘M’ in a ‘B’ family. They named me Bernard Mitchell, but nobody’s ever called me anything but Mitch. Thank God! I’d hate to be Bernie, but as far as my family’s concerned, I’ve always been a little off.”
It did not seem the moment to point out that he was with another “B.”
“They all work for Boyd Hammond Associates. They all live within fifty miles of one another. And they all married thin blond women who look so much like Amy I can hardly tell them apart.”
“Amy is married to …”
“Bryan. Valerie and Karen are just like her. Enough about me. Your turn.”
I could feel my muscles tense. I didn’t want to talk about Genie; it was too soon. But I didn’t have to go there, because he continued, “What I really want to know is how you ended up at Fontanari’s. I never could figure that one out.”
It was the perfect question; I was relieved. I told him about the Sal Test, which made him laugh until he was wiping his eyes. “They did that to Jake’s assistants for eight years? That’s insane! But I can just imagine Sal’s face when he let someone get away. I bet it ruined his day.”
“Are you crazy? It would have ruined his week, at the very least.”
“You’re right.” He reached out and stroked my hair. “Has he seen your haircut?”
“It’s only been four days!”
“So what? He’s going to be jealous that I saw you first.”
“No. He’s not.” It was the closest I’d come to acknowledging that this was—might be?—a relationship, and that wasn’t lost on Mitch. He pulled me in to his chest so we were nestled like spoons.
“You mean,” he was whispering into my ear now, “that he’ll be happy to see us together?”
I didn’t say anything, but he felt my head nod against him, and he moved closer until it was hard to tell where my body ended and his began. I fell asleep again. We were cautiously revealing ourselves to each other, and my last conscious thought was this: I’m happy.
The next time I opened my eyes, light was creeping into the room, the rising sun reflecting off distant skyscrapers. I closed them quickly, afraid of morning, worried that once we left the safety of the bed, we’d lose the hard-won closeness of the night.
But Mitch leapt up, stretching luxuriously, his entire body radiating joy. “I’ll draw us a bath.” He disappeared between the absurd marble columns, and I could hear him humming as water splashed into the tub.
When I followed him, I saw that the tub was huge, the lion feet planted right in front of the window. In the daylight I could see an old moss-covered stone fountain in the middle of the garden. “I bought that in Florence.” Mitch turned off the taps, and water stopped hissing into the tub. He tossed in a handful of salts, sending the scent of orange and clove soaring through the room. It was not the sort of thing I imagined he’d have bought himself, and I wondered about the woman who’d left them here.
“These were Emma’s.” It was if he’d read my mind. “She’s been gone for quite a while.”
I lowered myself into the water. It was hot, fragrant, wonderful. I could feel my hair begin to frizz a bit in the steam, and I ducked under the water. When I surfaced, he was walking out the door. “Aren’t you coming in?”
“Don’t go anywhere.” He had turned so I could see the lovely line of his back as he wrapped a towel around his waist and his neat, tight butt. “I’ll be back.”
While he was gone, I luxuriated in the warm water, my body still thrumming with happiness. The sun was up now, and tiny birds were hopping in and out of the fountain, fighting for position, occasionally looking in at me.
Mitch returned with a copper skillet heaped with pancakes. “I am”—he cut off a wedge, dipped it into a dark pool of maple syrup, and leaned in to feed it to me—“the world’s greatest pancake maker.”
“My dad thinks he’s the pancake king,” I said.
“Nope,” corrected Mitch. The thin little cake was feather-light, crisp on the edges, delicate beneath its glossy maple coat. He stuffed half a pancake into his own mouth. “Great, aren’t they?” He wolfed down another. “Falling in love always makes me hungry.” Mitch was sitting on the floor, working his way through the pancakes as I sat in the tub, inhaling the scent of oranges, clove, butter, and maple syrup.
“Do you fall in love a lot?”
“Oh, yeah, all the time.” His voice was light, but when he spoke again, it had lost that quality. “Actually, just twice. The first was a high school romance that lasted halfway through college. God, we were into each other! I really thought I couldn’t live without Heidi. When she found someone else, I was devastated, and it was a long time until I let myself feel that way again.”
“What happened that time?”
“Emma and I lived together for four years, and it was very pleasant. She’s wonderful, and we were great friends. Still are, in fact. She’s an art historian, and everybody thought we were perfect for each other. But I wanted …” He met my eyes. “More.”
I didn’t exactly respond. “I guess love makes me lose my appetite,” I said, before I ducked beneath the water, embarrassed. Afraid. It was going so fast.
When I came up, he was still watching me. “You guess?” He ran the last of the pancakes through the syrup on the plate. “Don’t you know?”
“No.” I wasn’t sure I should say this. “It’s just that I’ve never lost my appetite before.”
Mitch kept his eyes on me, waiting for something. When I remained silent, he shrugged, went out, and came back carrying another pancake-filled skillet. Setting it on the floor, he removed the towel and climbed into the tub, lowering himself until the water swelled almost to the rim. He gave a contented sight and reached down for the flapjacks. He ate slowly, straight from the skillet, savoring each bite while the water sloshed gently around us. When he was finished, he reached out of the bathtub and, with infinite care, set the skillet on the floor.
“How long is ‘quite a while’?” I asked.
“You mean when did Emma leave? Almost two years ago.” He gave me a lopsided grin. “But don’t feel sorry for me. I haven’t been completely alone.”
“Thanks for sharing.” I splashed water at him.
“I’m guessing that you’ve been alone for a long time?” With his hair plastered to his head and his wet beard, he seemed somehow smaller, more vulnerable, and when he smiled, his mouth took up more of his face. “Tell me what was it like, growing up in Santa Barbara.”
I looked down into the water and saw myself, such a shy kid, tagging behind my smart, beautiful, popular sister. An image floated up, some clueless grown-up telling Dad how lucky he was that Genie was such a beauty. I could see Dad’s worried eyes on me, feel his hand as he smoothed the hair out of my eyes. I glanced up; Mitch was watching me.
“I think something terrible happened that you have a hard time talking about.” He leaned into the porcelain embrace of the tub. “You can tell me.”
I closed my eyes and began. I told him first about Mom dying when I was a baby, about growing up with my big sister, my sweet father, and the aunt next door. I told him about Genie, how gorgeous she was, how perfect. “She was so beautiful that people stopped her on the street, just so they could look at her violet eyes. And she was good at everything: She had a 4.0 average, she was a great athlete, and there was nothing she couldn’t draw. She was on her way to Yale Law. Everybody loved her.”
“Must have been hard to be her little sister.”
“Sammy said that too, but to be honest I don’t know how I would have managed without her. I was shy, but she made everything easy. She always told me exactly what to do.”
He gave a little grunt. He was a good listener, watching with silent intensity as I talked. When I got to the part about Cake Sisters, he reached across the tub and turned me, wrapping his arms around my chest so we were spooned together in the water. I could feel him breathing against my back, but it was easier to talk when he couldn’t see my face. He listened silently, stroking my arms gently as I told him about Genie insisting we do the thirty-thousand-dollar cake. How she stayed up all night working on it, never sleeping. I got to the part about Beverly’s wedding and the speeding Jag coming around the corner. “Then I dropped out of school and came to New York”—the water had grown cold by now—“and you know the rest.”
Mitch reached across me to pull the plug and turn on the tap. “That’s really hard, Billie,” he said. The hot water splashed into the tub, a burst of steam warming the liquid around us.
He turned me then, so he could see my face. “But you’re beautiful too. And talented.”
“Talented? At what?”
He stared at me, as if I was missing something so obvious he didn’t think it needed to be put into words. “Last I heard, you were the girl with the perfect palate, the only stranger Sal Fontanari has ever allowed to work in his precious shop.” He turned off the tap, and in the silence his voice was louder. “You’re a talented writer too. And, if I’m not mistaken, you’re about to put a book together. You sound pretty good to me.” He leaned back in the tub and closed his eyes. “I’m so comfortable, but we should get going. Let’s meet at The Pig for dinner tonight, okay? I’ve got a lot to do before we go to Akron.”
“You’re coming with me?” When did that happen? Was it even a good idea? We were so new, and I had no idea what I’d find there. “Aren’t you busy with …” I stumbled before I got the words out. “Pickwick House?”
“I am busy.” He picked up my left foot and massaged the sole. “But I’d like to help.”
“I could take Sammy.”
“That”—he dropped my foot—“would be a terrible mistake. Consider how much more useful I’ll be.”
“Why is that?”
“Because”—he picked up my right foot and began to massage it, sending ripples through my body—“Sammy has no idea how to do this kind of research.”
“And you do?”
Now he dropped my right foot. “That’s what historians do: research. Do you even know where you’ll begin?”
“What would you suggest, oh, great historian?”
He was unperturbed. “Go to the library. Ask for the old phone books. Begin with the forties and work your way forward. Look up the address of everyone she mentions in the letters.”
“That’s a lot of people. Swans, Strohs, Cappuzzellis …”
“Don’t forget mean Miss Dickson. She might prove very useful. Or not. Research like this is time-consuming. And you’ll hit mostly dead ends. But that’s how you do it.”
“Then what? Knock on doors? Ask if anyone remembers a family that used to live there seventy years ago?”
“No.” His voice was matter-of-fact, as if anyone with a brain would know this. “First you call.”
“Old phone numbers? That’s insane!”
“You’d be surprised.” He’d gone back to my left foot. “I’ve called seventy-five-year-old phone numbers and hit the jackpot first try. Akron being a small town is a bonus; a house will often stay in the family for many generations. You could get lucky and save a lot of time. C’mon, take me with you. Besides …”
I looked at him, expecting a little romance. What Mitch said was, “Didn’t you say Mrs. Cloverly lives in Cleveland? Close to Akron? I want to meet her.”