Fifty-One

Girard’s restaurant was like I remembered, and having him greet us as we walked in, a welcome surprise. He wore a sleek suit in charcoal with a peacock-blue silk dress shirt. Their red thread linked them together and matched the hue of Aunt Evelyn’s gown. Now that I could see the physical manifestations of two people bound together, wedding rings seemed a formality.

He lifted Aunt Evelyn’s fingers to his lips and kissed them and then whispered something in French in her ear. She giggled. A lone blue morpho danced over their heads.

“You both look beautiful,” he said, offering an arm to me while my aunt took the other.

I placed my arm in his. “Thank you.”

We stepped inside and were escorted to one of the private rooms. The opulence of the main dining room was a fraction of what I was led into. Girard explained that there were three private rooms styled after three of his favorite art nouveau artists: Alphonse Mucha, René Lalique, and Gustav Klimt.

After having seen Klimt’s exhibit, I imagined that room to be full of golds and bursts of jewel tones. René Lalique, the master of glass, was a familiar name because the aunties collected and coveted his pieces. His room must showcase Girard’s personal collection.

We entered the Alphonse Mucha–inspired room and were surrounded by murals of ethereal fairy women in flowing robes. Their soft, ageless faces contrasted with the heavy line work of flowers and vines. About a decade ago, I’d seen an exhibit featuring advertisement art and saw one of Mucha’s works.

“Oh, Girard.” My aunt placed a hand against her chest. “You remembered.”

He turned to me. “Evelyn and I took a train to Prague and saw his work there. She and I have fond memories of the city.”

The focal point was an exquisite bronze bust in the corner of the room, encased in a glass box. “This is a replica of Mucha’s bust of Nature. A version in white and gold is housed in the Virginia Museum of Fine Arts.” He smiled. “There are variations out there, but I’ve always been partial to this version, which was shown in Brussels.”

The sculpture was highlighted by two iridescent green earrings and an accented headpiece. He pointed to the gemstone. “The original is malachite. As you can see, I’ve asked them to use jade.”

“It’s an excellent choice,” I said.

He moved to pull out a gilded chair for me. I thanked him and took my seat. My aunt followed suit.

The table setting was exquisite. The plates, golden cutlery, and crystal all bore swirling, organic fluidity that was associated with the art movement. These differed from the less ornate silver set in the main dining room.

It was opulent for an intimate family dinner, yet for this momentous occasion, it was worth it. Girard and Aunt Evelyn never broke physical contact. Even now, their fingertips touched on the tabletop.

A server walked in and spoke with Girard and, moments later, reappeared with an enormous silver platter ladened with crushed ice and seventy-five oysters on the half shell and a small tray of accompanying mignonettes: traditional, sweet, and spicy. The silence between my aunt and me expressed our shared reverence for this particular mollusk.

Girard chuckled. “I see you’re like your aunt. I could give a tour of where they are from, but I think it’ll be more beneficial if you ask me questions after you’ve tasted them.”

My aunt and I shared a wink and toasted each other with shells.

If I could eat only one thing in the world every day, it would be oysters. The unusual texture polarized diners. The lucky ones, who weren’t repelled, became addicts. To enjoy this delicacy was to love the taste of the ocean; nothing else brought the intensity of the brine, or the power of those vast waves. They come in two shapes: cupped, from deep ocean waters, and flat, native to Europe.

The key to eating oysters was to savor the meat and drink the flavored water in the shell. Each had a subtle, distinct taste. My favorite—Kumamoto—was buttery and rich.

Before adding any extra condiments, I preferred to taste them naked and raw. I picked up a flat oyster. The moniker deceived: it was, in fact, rounder and smaller. The oyster slid through my lips, carrying a hint of citrus along with the signature saltiness.

I raised the rough, rounded shell toward Girard. “Which one is this?”

“Arcachon from the Brittany region. A lovely note of citrus, yes?” He pointed to a shell on the third tier. “Try that one.”

The oyster carried a slight greenish tinge. The flavor was bold and decadent with a memorable finish. I loved it so much that I grabbed two more.

“Those are Marennes-Oleron, and they are my favorites of the breeds found in France.” Girard smiled and plucked a few of them off the tray.

My foray into French oysters was a lesson I wouldn’t soon forget. Girard turned out to be a fellow connoisseur as he explained which region each breed came from. Soon, we stacked the empty shells, clinking them together. They mimicked the sound of pieces of ceramic.

My aunt let out a contented sigh. “This was lavish. Merci, Girard. What a wonderful start to a meal.”

“You’re most welcome.” He turned to me. “Thank you again, Vanessa. You’ve given me what my heart most desired, Evelyn back in my life.”

I blushed. “It’s really not my doing. I mean, you and Aunt Evelyn could have gotten together on your own. Eventually.”

My aunt laughed. “It would have taken much longer, perhaps even years, without your help. You are quite good at this.”

The situation between her and Girard had been tenuous. If I hadn’t chosen to intervene, we wouldn’t be having dinner together now.

“Evelyn tells me we’re not the first couple you’ve matched,” he said.

Three couples: Uncle Michael and Jack, Ines and Luc, and Aunt Evelyn and Girard. Setting them up was instinctive to me in the same way certain people correct a tilted picture frame on the wall when entering a room. When I saw two people who were meant to be together, I didn’t question it. It was like I could see their red threads without seeing red threads.

Aunt Evelyn creased her brow. “I’ve been thinking about your accident. There are so many unanswered questions. I’ll need to confirm with my sources, but now, I think, I can make sense of all this.”

“What?”

“A part of you died that day,” she replied.