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“Was it …” he tried to ask, but the pressure in his chest was pushing up into his throat, closing it off.

“A hatchet job? Geez, I sure hope not. I haven’t seen it yet … just heard it was in. I figured I’d let you have what I hope will be the fun of seeing for yourself.”

“Thanks,” he forced out.

“Next time, maybe they’ll let me review you. I’ll say that you never poisoned me.” Another chuckle, but this time Joe didn’t smile.

“Yeah, well … thanks again.”

“Don’t mention it. What are friends for?”

Even as he hung up, Joe’s mind was racing ahead. He’d check with Mr. Shamik at the newsstand three doors down, find out when his delivery would arrive. If it was late today, he’d ask Annie to grab a copy on her way over from work to pick up Laurel, whom he’d hired for the holidays to letter menus for him.

With his sourdough bread rising, Joe called to Rafy-just back from Puerto Rico-to keep an eye on things; then he ducked outside, dashing half a block in the freezing rain only to be told by Mr. Shamik, who was kind enough to put in a call to his distributor, that he wouldn’t be getting his Metropolitan delivery until some time after four. Hours away! How could he wait that long?

Well, he’d just have to, that’s all. And maybe once he read it, he’d wish he hadn’t.

Back inside, Joe headed up to the dining room, to Laurel. He found her at a booth in back, exactly where he’d left her several hours ago. She sat hunched over the table. A stack of completed menus was piled at one elbow. At a glance, Joe saw that she’d done something extraordinary. He’d only intended for her to neatly write in the appetizers, entr้es, and desserts, and their prices. But this …

Picking up a finished menu from the pile, he saw that every corner and blank space was filled with delicate, exquisite ink drawings. Morning-glory vines twisting around the borders. A bird’s nest with tiny speckled eggs. A crested spoon, with a top-hatted mouse sipping from it. Joe felt a tremor of delight travel through him.

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Years ago, backpacking through Mexico with his college roommate, in a dusty roadside dive, he and Neal sipping their Cuervo Golds and slapping at flies, he’d come across a crippled boy with a guitar-kid couldn’t have been more than twelve, and was blind as well. As Joe and Neal sat down, the boy had begun playing the sweetest music Joe had ever heard-“La Malaguena,” Villa-Lobos, even some Vivaldi-and the dust, heat, and flies somehow had ceased to exist. Joe had never forgotten that boy, and sometimes he could hear the boy’s sublime music in his head.

He was hearing it now.

Leafing through one menu after another, he was so awed that he all but forgot about the Metropolitan review. My God, Laurel had done this? She was just a kid. These looked like the work of a Tenniel or a Beatrix Potter. Each menu was unique-a basket of wildflowers, ladybugs having a picnic, koala bears peeking impishly from behind a screen of eucalyptus leaves, a ring of winged fairies dancing atop a sunflower, tiny monkeys contorted to form various letters in the alphabet, a polar bear carrying an Eskimo family on its back.

Did she have any idea how talented she was?

Her pictures made him think of Christmas. First, at Mom and Dad’s for their annual holiday get-together, it had been the usual, Mom in her diva caftan holding up a brittle, cheery front while Dad told endless inane jokes to so-called friends, neighbors, a second cousin he hardly knew, opening every gift except the Van Gogh art book Joe had brought him. And then Joe had noticed Sammy, their driver, wearing the shirt Joe had given Dad last Christmas, and before Joe could say or do something he’d regret, he’d mumbled an excuse and slipped away, taking his wrapped gift with him. Dad never even noticed him leaving.

Joe, catching the BMT at Bloomingdale’s, had headed for Brooklyn, planning to surprise Annie and Laurel. But the surprise was on him. Walking into that shabby living room he’d felt so good, instantly enveloped in warmth and Christmas spirit. Dolly had gotten there ahead

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of him, armed with a mountain of presents. But the way Laurel had looked at him when he handed her the shopping bag of gifts he’d brought, it was as if he’d presented her the moon on a silver platter. He’d forgotten about the art book, which he’d thrown in the bag along with the perfume for Annie and the Monopoly game for Laurel, but when she tore off its wrapping paper, Laurel could hardly contain her delight. Wide-eyed, she’d turned the pages, stopping to gaze rapturously at “Starry Night,” his own favorite.

“This one,” she said in the tone of voice she’d have used if she were shopping, picking out a new coat or a pair of shoes.

Then Joe’s eyes had met Annie’s, and in hers he’d seen something altogether different. Gratitude, yes. But a kind of amused weariness as well. As if to ask why, if he was going to spend that kind of money, hadn’t he given her something more practical? And looking around the painfully bare room, with its threadbare sofa and single derelict chair, brightened only by the spindly Christmas tree decorated with construction-paper chains, popcorn strings, and tinfoil stars, Joe had felt sheepish. What good was Van Gogh when you needed winter gloves, thick blankets, sheets, and towels?

But then, looking back at Laurel, caught in Van Gogh’s spell, he’d known that this somehow was more important to her than any of those things.

Now, gazing down at her as she sat motionless, except for the scratching of her fountain pen, Joe was struck by her loveliness. A patch of sunshine had found its way down the airshaft and through the high transom window above the table at which she sat, casting a silvery light that made Laurel’s skin look almost transparent.

“Laurey,” he called softly, Annie’s nickname for her. She looked up at him and blinked, her blue eyes overbright and her cheeks flushed, as if he’d abruptly awakened her from a deep sleep. Joe held up a menu. “These are really something. I mean it. Who taught you how to do this?”

Laurel blushed, but he could see how pleased she

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was. “Nobody,” she said. “I learned how myself. Mostly, I just draw what’s in my head.”

“That’s quite an imagination you have.”

Her color deepened. “Annie says I daydream too much, that if I spent half as much time studying, I’d probably get straight A’s.”

Joe considered this, then said, “Maybe … but I happen to think daydreaming is pretty important too. Van Gogh, when he painted ‘Starry Night,’ couldn’t have been thinking about how many times six goes into eightyseven.”

“Well, drawing isn’t the only thing I can do,” she was quick to inform him. “I’m learning how to sew. I made this.” Proudly, she smoothed the front of the plaid shift she was wearing.

He whistled. “I’m impressed. Your sister show you how to do that?”

“Annie?” Laurel laughed, and rolled her eyes. “The only time she ever tried to sew anything, she stuck her finger and it bled all over everything. She says she doesn’t have the patience.”

Joe thought of how restless Annie always seemedeven sitting in one place, she couldn’t quite keep still, hands gesturing, legs crossing and uncrossing, foot bobbing. And those alley-cat eyes of hers …

“Somehow”—he smiled—“that doesn’t surprise me. But you …” He tapped the stack of finished menus. “These should be in a book, or hanging on someone’s wall. They’re too good for this.”

Laurel looked down. Her long lashes cast honest-toGod shadows over her cheeks-she had the longest lashes he’d ever seen. Jesus, in just a few more years, she was going to be a knockout.

“Thank you for saying so, it’s very nice of you,” she said primly, as if she’d picked up her manners from some etiquette book. Her voice dropped to a hush. “But it’s just for fun, really. Just doodling. When Miss Rodriguez catches me during class, she really yells at me. She thinks I’m not paying attention. But you know what …” She looked up at him again, her eyes wide and blue. “… I

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think better when I’m drawing. Know what I mean, Joe?”

“Sure, I do. I feel that way when I’m making an omelette.”

“Huh?”

“Not just any omelette, mind you. I’m talking about Omelette เ la mode de Joe. Come on down to the kitchen with me, and I’ll show you. You hungry, kiddo?”

Laurel hesitated. “Annie said I shouldn’t get in your way.”

“Hey, we’re not just talking empty stomachs here—knowing how to make an omelette is important. Because what if you ever get stranded on a desert island?”

Laurel giggled. “You’re silly.”

Joe put on a serious face, drawing the corners of his mouth down and straightening his eyeglasses. “You mean you’ve never eaten seagull eggs? And, hey, did you know a single ostrich egg would make an omelette big enough to feed ten people?”

Her smile was radiant, warming him.

Downstairs, in the warm brick-walled kitchen, Joe showed her how to crack eggs one-handed, without letting any bits of shell fall in the bowl. While Rafy and Holt were shelling Maryland crabs for she-crab soup, Joe stood at the butcher-block island, watching Laurel expertly whisk the eggs.

Seeing the glow on her face, he could almost-almost, but not quite, dammit—forget that his career as a restaurateur might soon be demolished.

The buzzing of the service door cut through the clattering of the wire whisk.

Joe went to answer the door, and a tall figure bundled in a dripping coat rushed in, nearly colliding with him. Annie. What was she doing off work so early?

“Joe, you’ll never believe it! It’s incredible! Oh … I’m all out of breath. It’s pouring cats and dogs. And I ran six blocks without stopping.” She shook her wet hair, spraying his face with icy droplets.

He waited while she caught her breath, his own heart wildly knocking with impatience, his lungs sucking in air, as if he were the one who had just run six blocks. Good

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news? It had to be … she wouldn’t look this happy otherwise.

Annie’s face was flushed and sweaty. She tore at the buttons of her shabby, sopping coat. Underneath, she wore a skirt and blouse, loafers, knee socks that were bunched down around her ankles. Her legs were chafed raw by the icy rain blowing outside. He spotted the magazine rolled up under her arm, and he felt his heart lurch.

He wanted to wrench it from her, but he waited.

“Three stars!” she cried at last, throwing her arms around him. He caught a whiff of damp wool mingled with the perfumy scent of chocolate. “Oh, Joe, I’m so happy for you! Isn’t it wonderful?” She drew back, flipping open the magazine. “And just listen to this: ‘As soon as you walk through the door, you feel as if you’re in a cozy country inn, with deliciously hearty food to match … the Oysters Rockefeller, if a bit of a clich้, were perfectly cooked, the grilled salmon and spicy venison stew worthy examples of regional cuisines elevated to the level of haute …’ “

Joe couldn’t speak or move. Then in a dizzying rush, it came to him, what this would mean: the rent, the payroll, and his overdue wine bills. He’d be able to pay them all. And one day, maybe even take another floor …

A sound like wildly chiming bells careened in Joe’s head.

“Joe!” Annie was pulling at his arm to get his attention. “Your phone. It’s ringing!”

Joe rushed into his office and snatched up the receiver. Probably his first reservation from the review. Jesus, the word travels fast.

“Joseph? Is that you?” No one but his mother called him Joseph.

Joe felt himself tense, drawing in on himself the way a sea anemone curls up when poked.

“Darling!” She rushed ahead without waiting for him to speak. “Dad and I just saw it. It’s marvelous, isn’t it? Hugs and kisses and all that. And can you guess who just called me … just this very minute? Frank Shellburne. You know Frank, always looking for a tax dodge. Well,

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when he read that review, he wanted to know immediately if you’d consider selling out. I told him I’d have a word with you, and maybe you two could set up a meeting. Joseph … are you there?”

“I’m here, Mother.” But his excitement was gone. He felt like Wile E. Coyote, flattened by a boulder while the Road Runner on a cliff stood above him, cackling with mad glee. “I’m here,” he repeated dully.

“Promise you’ll at least consider it,” she said. “Daddy says it’s not too late to squeeze you in next semester at Yale. He’ll have a word with-“

“Mother, I have to go,” Joe cut her off, struggling to remain civil.

It came back to him, the ugly scene after Caryn died, •when he told them he was dropping out of “Yale. Dad reading him the riot act, and Mom sobbing, How can you, after all we’ve done for you? Center stage, just like always, everything he did somehow having to revolve around them. And all the years of holding himself in, going along with their demands, like that time-he’d been ten or eleven-Mom forced him to return the necklace he’d planned on giving Cloetta for her birthday, a tiny gold crucifix that he’d saved his allowance for months to buy, saying it was much too extravagant, it would only embarrass Cloetta. But this time, he’d shouted at them, accused Dad of only wanting a son he could show off like a trophy to his Appellate Division cronies. And rushing to get the hell out, he accidentally knocked over and shattered Mom’s favorite Staffordshire lion.

Now, he made himself speak evenly, even politely. “Look, do you want me to put you and Dad down for one night this week? If you ate here once, you might be surprised. Hell, you might even like it.”

“Joseph, there’s no need to swear.” He could just see her, her red lips rolling in against her teeth, a disapproving crease appearing between the perfect arches of her eyebrows.

Joe fought down the dry laugh rattling up his throat. “I’ll say a rosary as penance,” he told her. “And an extra ‘Hail Mary’ for good measure. That ought to satisfy the

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big guy upstairs. Anyway, just to be sure, you put in a good word for me next time you’ve got him on the line.”