Ms America and the Brouhaha on Broadway (13 page)

Fate smiles upon us—or at least Oliver does—and we’re able to race back to the apartment when we’re sprung from the theater. I slip on a Little Black Dress made of corded lace with sheer chiffon veiling the bodice. I step into my black patent leather T-strap pumps with pyramid studs, dramatize my makeup, and am good to go. Shanelle is styling in a fit-and-flare minidress made of thin strips of jungle-print silk. And Trixie stuns us in a white swingy minidress with beads and crystals embellishing the halter neckline.

We bundle ourselves in our coats and take a cab to the Nolita neighborhood of Manhattan, so named because it’s just north of Little Italy. It’s very trendy, with one boutique after another mixed in among tiny bars and cafés and restaurants of every type imaginable. We pass an Albanian butcher and a Chinese grocery with boxes of exotic greens and iced fish for sale right on the sidewalk. The streets are tree-lined and narrow, almost impossible to drive through because of the cars parked on both sides. And talk about apartment buildings with character: rising above the storefront level are brick structures of five or six stories, many with elaborate fire escapes of beautifully wrought iron.

Mario is waiting for us at the appointed location, dashing in the luxurious camel-colored overcoat I remember from Winona. Fashionable people crowd the sidewalks, but to my eye no man is more handsome. He hugs us one by one and ushers us inside a dimly lit Italian restaurant that looks old school, with white lace curtains at the front window and the tin ceiling Tonya so covets.

“Follow me,” he instructs, and leads us all the way through the packed restaurant to the rear. And beyond. I bite back a protest when without hesitation he pushes open a metal door boasting a sign that reads: DO NOT ENTER / EMPLOYEES ONLY. Then he continues to move at the same assured pace through the slender kitchen. To my amazement, no objections rise from the harried cooks. We reach a black door that looks as if it will spit us out into an alley.

But instead it opens onto a small room lit softly from above by a mesh of white fairy lights. A handful of tables draped with white cloth are arrayed beneath, most occupied by diners but one four-top empty and waiting.

“For us,” Mario says with a smile, and sweeps us to our seats.

The door closes behind us, erasing the din of the kitchen and indeed of the entire metropolis. It may be urban life at its most hectic beyond these brick walls, but here it’s as if we’ve been transported to a serene, unhurried world.

“It’s a restaurant behind a restaurant,” Trixie murmurs. Clearly she’s as awestruck as I am.

Even unflappable Shanelle seems undone. “I had no idea this sort of thing existed.”

I look at Mario. “Trust you to find this place. It’s magical. Thank you for bringing us here.”

He helps me into my seat and bends to whisper into my ear. It’s warm and cozy in this hideaway, but still I shiver. “I wanted to show you something special, Happy. That will never change.”

I lay my napkin in my lap. Part of me wishes Mario would stop being so amazing. I guess I might as well hope for the stars to quit the sky.

“Do the people out front know about this in the back?” Trixie asks as Mario sits down. Now that all of us have shed our coats, I see he’s wearing black trousers and a slim-cut dress shirt in a warm teal.

He shakes his head. “You have to be a little bit in the know. That’s one of the incredible things about New York. There are so many secret places.” His eyes return to mine. “You could spend a lifetime getting to know them all.”

Gazing into Mario’s eyes, I can’t think what to say. Fortunately Shanelle can. “I always think London must be like that,” she says. “Someday I want to find out.”

Trixie giggles. “But for now, let’s stay put and eat!”

We laugh as Mario gestures to a chalkboard on the wall on which the evening’s specialties are printed in a careful hand. “It’s a chef’s choice menu back here. I hope you don’t mind.”

As if any of us would. A few minutes later we’re toasting with a lovely red cocktail I’ve never heard of.

“A
Bicicletta
,” Mario explains. “Campari and white wine with club soda.” Served over ice with a lemon twist. “Named for the older Italian men who swerve home on their bicycles after indulging in one too many.
Salute
!”

The meal proves to be a feast. Prosciutto and fig bruschetta. Bowtie pasta with sausage and leek sauce. Scallops baked in their shells, topped with herbs and bread crumbs. For dessert, Amaretti pudding. And throughout, wonderful wine, one red and one white.

Mario could not be more gracious. Over the appetizer, he wants to know how we like Nolita. “It’s where Martin Scorsese grew up. And Francis Ford Coppola shot scenes from two of the Godfather movies around here. On your way in, did you pass Old St. Patrick’s Cathedral on Mulberry Street?”

“Is it some relation to St. Patrick’s Cathedral on Fifth Avenue?” I ask.

“It was the seat of the archdiocese before the new cathedral was built,” he tells us, which makes me think my mother would like to tour the church here, too.

Over the pasta and fish courses, we discuss Lisette Longley and
Dream Angel
. And eventually arrive at the topic of the Belfer Building.

“I could find out who landed the apartment Lisette wanted,” Mario says. “A while back I looked into buying a pied-à-terre here. I’m still in touch with the agent I used.” He turns his dark gaze on me. “I don’t have to ask why you want to know.”

“As usual,” Shanelle says, “she suspects homicide.”

“You know what she’s like,” Trixie adds.

“In my own defense,” I say, “I have been right about these things in the past.”

I’m acutely conscious of Mario’s eyes on my face and of the smile that curves his lips just the tiniest bit. Yes, he does know what I’m like, especially when it comes to corpses. But that doesn’t seem to put him off. Though over dessert I do sense a new distance between us, when we four are the only diners left in the quiet room.

“I was on the set of
Todos Los Días
,” he begins, before abruptly shutting up.

We suffer a moment of awkward silence before I clear my throat. “We know you’ve been seeing Esperanza Esposito, Mario.” I force myself to go on. “She’s lovely. I hope she makes you happy.”

He seems to have to search for what to say. What he finally comes up with is a trifle noncommittal. “It’s been fun getting to know her.” He’s been staring at me all evening, but now his eyes won’t meet mine.

“It’s too bad we didn’t get a chance to meet her tonight,” Trixie says.

“She’s having dinner with some Univision people,” Mario says. “You know, the Spanish-language media company.”

It doesn’t surprise me that Esperanza is meeting with media bigwigs. To hear the tabloids tell it, she’s an up-and-coming Eva Longoria. Of course, I think with a sniff, Eva began as a beauty queen, from Texas no less, where the competition is stiff. Señorita Esperanza can boast no such credential on
her
résumé.

“What I’d love to hear about,” Shanelle says, “is what’s going on with Mariela and Consuela.”

Mario’s 16-year-old daughter and her tempestuous pole-dancing mother. This chapter of Mario’s history, with Consuela’s teenage pregnancy, echoes my own. The difference is that Mario and Consuela didn’t marry.

“They’re both fine,” he reports. “Mariela is still seeing Theo”—he grimaces at the mention of the boyfriend with whom his daughter nearly made a sex tape—“and she’s been cast as Maria in her high school production of
West Side Story
.”

“I didn’t realize she has a strong singing voice,” I say.

“It’s not good enough for Broadway, but it’s good enough for high school. And it’s improved with voice lessons. Mariela actually agreed she could use some, which to me is progress.” He produces a Proud Papa smile, which fades with his next remark. “And Consuela is still dating Manny del Rio.”

“The Miami developer,” Trixie recalls. “Those two were pretty hot and heavy last I heard.”

“Still are. Mariela doesn’t like him, though, and I’m not crazy about him, either. Not that what we say has much effect on Consuela. So we had some drama over the holidays. We never get through without at least a little.”

“I don’t know a family that does,” Shanelle says.

In short order we’re forced to abandon our hideaway for Manhattan’s hectic Friday night. On a still bustling street, I hug Mario goodbye and thank him for hosting our glorious dinner. I try not to wonder when I’ll see him again. I know I shouldn’t hope for it, but I do all the same.

“I’ll call you after I hear from my real-estate agent,” he murmurs before putting us in a cab. If Shanelle and Trixie weren’t with me, I’d turn around to watch him through the rear window until he disappeared from view.

It’s only once we’re returned to our apartment and in our pajamas with our faces cleansed and moisturized that thoughts of Mario flee my mind. With her hair tied back in her white jersey head wrap, Shanelle settles onto the bed and gestures for Trixie and me to join her.

She takes a deep breath. “I promised I’d tell you tonight what’s going on with my mother.”

Some of Shanelle’s story I’ve heard in the past. That she grew up in Dallas with her mom and maternal grandparents, no dad in sight. That her mom gave birth to Shanelle when she was seventeen, the age I was when I gave birth to Rachel. That she and her mother, who never married, moved to Mississippi when Shanelle was sixteen, after both her grandparents died.

Outside our floor-to-ceiling windows, Manhattan pulses. The nighttime cityscape is as different from Biloxi as different can be. Yet as Shanelle speaks, I am transported to that small city on the Gulf Coast, ravaged by Hurricane Katrina but risen again, beckoning with sandy beaches and Civil War history.

“What’s going on with your mom that has you so worried?” Trixie murmurs.

Shanelle’s eyes are sadder than I’ve ever seen them. “For the last few weeks, out of the blue, she hasn’t been herself. She’s been really distracted. She can’t focus on anything, not the simplest thing. And she is
so
closed off. I mean, she’s always been private, but she’s more withdrawn than ever. I have never seen her like this.”

I rub Shanelle’s leg. “You said earlier she might be ill.”

Shanelle can’t speak for a few moments, and when she does a tear spills from her eye. “The thing is, my grandmother died when she was my mom’s age. Fifty-two. She died of leukemia.”

Trixie and I glance at each other. We both see where this is headed. Trixie’s voice is soft. “What exactly are you worried about, Shanelle?”

It takes Shanelle a while to speak again. Then: “I hate even to say it. But I’m worried my mom has leukemia just like Grandma did.”

She collapses in sobs, which of course sets off Trixie and me. It’s impossible, at least for me, to see a dear friend cry and not be moved to tears myself.

Finally Shanelle is again able to speak. “My grandma died when I was ten. It was horrible. I don’t want my mom to go through that. And she’s so young! She should have decades more.”

I lay my hand on Shanelle’s leg. “I totally get why you’re so worried, but maybe it’s not as bad as you think. I mean, is your mom actually saying she feels sick or going to the doctor a lot?”

“She’s not saying she feels sick. She refuses to say anything when I ask. And if she were going to the doctor, I wouldn’t know unless she told me. I’m not with her all that much, between work and Lamar and Devon—”

She throws back her head. “It’s just that it would be
so
like her to get bad news and not say a word. So I wouldn’t worry.” Her voice catches on a sob. “As if I’m not worried now! I just can’t bear the thought that I might lose her.”

“Don’t go there,” Trixie says. “It certainly sounds like there’s something wrong, but I agree with Happy that it might not be that bad. Don’t jump to the worst possible conclusion.”

“What advice did you give me yesterday?” I say. “Don’t borrow trouble.”

“I think you need to know more,” Trixie says. “Maybe give your mom a call tomorrow and try to get her to confide in you.”

“You think I haven’t tried to get her to open up?” Shanelle cries. “She won’t!”

“I bet your mom felt like she had to be strong all your life,” I say. “Because she had to be both your parents. Maybe try telling her that things are different now, that she can lean on you.”

“Tell her you
want
her to lean on you,” Trixie says. “That you really want her to trust you that way. And, you know, that’s a transition we all have to make if our parents live long enough.”

Shanelle thinks for a while. Then: “Well, tomorrow is Saturday, so my mom will be off work. That makes her more relaxed, usually.”

Another idea occurs to me. “Maybe over the phone she’ll tell you something she wasn’t able to say to your face.”

Shanelle’s lips tremble and again she dissolves in tears. A few weepy moments follow, but in a strange way they’re wonderful moments, too, to be with my BFFs sitting in the dark and sharing life’s ups and downs, which I hope we’ll be doing long after we trade our stilettos for sensible shoes.