salmon, and, if we have the time, maybe even listen to them tell about “the troubles.”
I can see that David likes the idea of stopping in Ireland. What with his Irish mother and an early, indelible romance with Joyce, he’d gotten along famously with the McGuires the last time they were in New York.
“It sounds good,” he says, “and it’ll put us in Cannes in September when the crowds are gone and the weather is perfect every day. I’ll check into it tomorrow.”
“I can’t wait,” I say, and we squeeze close together, looking, I suspect, from the back a lot like lovers planning their honeymoon. Oh, gosh, how lovely it all is.
After law school, David spent a year in Europe, a good part of the time just eating his way through the south of France. The best year of his life, he claims, until he met me. Now it’s his grand desire to combine both highs and go back to all those glorious places, this time with me and enough money to order the bouillabaisse.
Though I’ve never been that far south in France I can practically recite the entire menus of La Réserve, le Moulin de Mougins, and L’Oasis, I’ve heard them so often, and I can almost see the narrow cobblestone streets of the medieval city of Saint Paul de Vence and smell the open markets early in the morning. Sometimes my good fortune frightens me. I’m experienced enough to know that you always have to pay for it somehow. I just hope an orphaned childhood and a lousy first marriage are enough credits to carry me awhile.
Right this minute is a perfect example of the pay-as-you-go plan. In the midst of all this delicious honeymoon planning I’m still lugging around that disturbing San Francisco news, waiting for the least conspicuous moment to spring it on him. We’re on Sixtieth Street already, and I promised myself I’d deal with it before we got home.
“Jo,” David says, smiling down at me, “I think we’re coming into the best time of our lives, and the remarkable thing is we’re actually ready for it. I feel I am anyway.”
“Me too, definitely.” Well, I’m certainly not going to tell him about San Francisco now and spoil all this.
Quietly, hand in hand, feeling content and comfortable, we stroll up Central Park West, the stolid, old apartment buildings, well kept and elegant with age, lining one side, while on the other, Central Park stretches out in its most pristine glory, in full spring bloom of pinks and whites and new greens.
“See,” I say, “I told you this was better than the East Side.”
“What about Carl Schurz Park?”
“Better.”
“You may be right.”
“I am. But then again, on a night like this New York could probably take on Paris.”
“Damn it!” David says, stopping.
“What’s wrong?”
“One of your many West Side attractions, that’s what.” And he starts scraping the bottom of his shoe furiously on the curb, with curses and groans and strong condemnations of every dog owner on the planet.
“David,” I say in the middle of his scraping, “I have to go out to San Francisco next week to do some interviews. We have to postpone the party. Sorry, honey.” It did seem like the perfect moment.
“What interviews?” I can see he’s only half-listening.
“The ones with Swat and Imogene. I told you I had a little more legwork left to do. Don’t you remember?”
“Christ almighty! It must have been a cow.” Then to me with an edge, “No, I don’t remember you saying you had to go out to San Francisco.”
“Well, how did you think I was going to get the interviews?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t think.”
“But you knew those people were in prison, so how was I going to talk to them unless I went out there?”
“Can you get me that piece of cardboard sticking out of the garbage?”
“It’s only going to take about three days. I’ll be home before the weekend,” I say, handing him the top of an old shoebox.
“Can’t you do it the following week? Everything’s all set
I can see that David likes the idea of stopping in Ireland. What with his Irish mother and an early, indelible romance with Joyce, he’d gotten along famously with the McGuires the last time they were in New York.
“It sounds good,” he says, “and it’ll put us in Cannes in September when the crowds are gone and the weather is perfect every day. I’ll check into it tomorrow.”
“I can’t wait,” I say, and we squeeze close together, looking, I suspect, from the back a lot like lovers planning their honeymoon. Oh, gosh, how lovely it all is.
After law school, David spent a year in Europe, a good part of the time just eating his way through the south of France. The best year of his life, he claims, until he met me. Now it’s his grand desire to combine both highs and go back to all those glorious places, this time with me and enough money to order the bouillabaisse.
Though I’ve never been that far south in France I can practically recite the entire menus of La Réserve, le Moulin de Mougins, and L’Oasis, I’ve heard them so often, and I can almost see the narrow cobblestone streets of the medieval city of Saint Paul de Vence and smell the open markets early in the morning. Sometimes my good fortune frightens me. I’m experienced enough to know that you always have to pay for it somehow. I just hope an orphaned childhood and a lousy first marriage are enough credits to carry me awhile.
Right this minute is a perfect example of the pay-as-you-go plan. In the midst of all this delicious honeymoon planning I’m still lugging around that disturbing San Francisco news, waiting for the least conspicuous moment to spring it on him. We’re on Sixtieth Street already, and I promised myself I’d deal with it before we got home.
“Jo,” David says, smiling down at me, “I think we’re coming into the best time of our lives, and the remarkable thing is we’re actually ready for it. I feel I am anyway.”
“Me too, definitely.” Well, I’m certainly not going to tell him about San Francisco now and spoil all this.
Quietly, hand in hand, feeling content and comfortable, we stroll up Central Park West, the stolid, old apartment buildings, well kept and elegant with age, lining one side, while on the other, Central Park stretches out in its most pristine glory, in full spring bloom of pinks and whites and new greens.
“See,” I say, “I told you this was better than the East Side.”
“What about Carl Schurz Park?”
“Better.”
“You may be right.”
“I am. But then again, on a night like this New York could probably take on Paris.”
“Damn it!” David says, stopping.
“What’s wrong?”
“One of your many West Side attractions, that’s what.” And he starts scraping the bottom of his shoe furiously on the curb, with curses and groans and strong condemnations of every dog owner on the planet.
“David,” I say in the middle of his scraping, “I have to go out to San Francisco next week to do some interviews. We have to postpone the party. Sorry, honey.” It did seem like the perfect moment.
“What interviews?” I can see he’s only half-listening.
“The ones with Swat and Imogene. I told you I had a little more legwork left to do. Don’t you remember?”
“Christ almighty! It must have been a cow.” Then to me with an edge, “No, I don’t remember you saying you had to go out to San Francisco.”
“Well, how did you think I was going to get the interviews?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t think.”
“But you knew those people were in prison, so how was I going to talk to them unless I went out there?”
“Can you get me that piece of cardboard sticking out of the garbage?”
“It’s only going to take about three days. I’ll be home before the weekend,” I say, handing him the top of an old shoebox.
“Can’t you do it the following week? Everything’s all set
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