excellent choice for lunching alfresco on such a brilliant day. I complimented my hostess on the success of her recent party. “A night to remember,” I told her, and she brightened. I suspect she might have brightened even more if she had known how my memorable night ended.
“It was fun, wasn’t it?” she said. “Everyone seemed to have a good time. Did you meet our son?”
“I did indeed. He suggested we might have lunch one day.”
“Do it,” she urged. “But you’ll have to phone him. He’s so forgetful—isn’t he, Horace?”
“Yes,” her husband said.
“Such a scamp!” Mrs. Sarah said and laughed. “Sometimes I wonder if he’s ever going to grow up. He still gets into mischief just as he did when he was a little boy. Remember, Horace?”
“I remember,” he said. “I still wish we had sent him to a military academy, but you couldn’t see it.”
“It would have crushed him,” she said firmly. “He’s such a free spirit.”
I had the impression this contention was nothing new but had existed since Oliver was a mischievous little boy and would continue until he became a mischievous old geezer—if his parents lived to witness it.
Jason brought an ice bucket chilling a bottle of excellent South African Pinot blanc, a wine to die for—which, I reflected, the Whitcombs’ customers were doing. Then came individual wooden bowls of lobster salad (endive and watercress) and a communal basket of focaccia with saucers of garlic-infused olive oil for dipping. That lunch, I may say without fear of serious contradiction, was superior to a Big Mac.
Mr. Horace and I ate heartily. Mrs. Sarah made a valiant effort but really just toyed with her food, forking out a few chunks of lobster meat but ignoring the greens and focaccia. One glass of wine.
“Horace,” she said almost timidly, “I don’t want to spoil your lunch, but I do think it best if I leave you men alone now. I better rest awhile.”
He rose immediately to his feet, as I did.
“Of course, darling,” he said. “Archy, continue your lunch. I’ll be right back.”
He wheeled her away. I slid back into my chair and poured myself another glass of that fragrant wine, wishing it was something stronger to dull a sudden onslaught of grief. The host returned in a few minutes, walking briskly, his Ronald Colman features revealing nothing of what he felt.
“She’ll be fine,” he told me, pulling up his chair and attacking his salad again. “We have a nurse’s aide who’ll take care of her. Sorry for the interruption.”
“Sir,” I said, then stopped, not knowing what to say.
“She insisted on joining us for lunch,” he went on. “I feared it might be too much for her. But she keeps trying—which is important, don’t you think?”
“Absolutely,” I said. “A very brave woman, Mr. Whitcomb.”
He nodded. “She is that.”
“How long has your wife been ill?”
“Too long. It’s been a dreadful ordeal. For everyone.”
He shook off his despair and called, “Jason!” The ancient one appeared immediately and Mr. Horace gestured toward the ice bucket. “Supplies running low,” he said, and a few moments later we were supplied with a second bottle along with goblets of lime sorbet and a plate of crisp anise cookies.
We finished all the edibles in sight. Even the sadness of the Whitcomb household could not blunt my enjoyment of that lunch; I gave it my 2-R rating (Ripping Repast).
“Shall we take a look at my ships now?” Mr. Horace suggested. “Bring your glass along and we’ll finish the bottle upstairs.”
“Sounds good to me,” I said.
“My study used to be on the ground floor,” he remarked as we entered the house. “But when my wife became ill and needed a wheelchair, we converted the den into her bedroom and I moved my junk upstairs. It’s worked out very well.”
He said it blithely, but I didn’t believe him. (My father would be outraged at having his den moved.) I guessed Mr. Whitcomb’s
“It was fun, wasn’t it?” she said. “Everyone seemed to have a good time. Did you meet our son?”
“I did indeed. He suggested we might have lunch one day.”
“Do it,” she urged. “But you’ll have to phone him. He’s so forgetful—isn’t he, Horace?”
“Yes,” her husband said.
“Such a scamp!” Mrs. Sarah said and laughed. “Sometimes I wonder if he’s ever going to grow up. He still gets into mischief just as he did when he was a little boy. Remember, Horace?”
“I remember,” he said. “I still wish we had sent him to a military academy, but you couldn’t see it.”
“It would have crushed him,” she said firmly. “He’s such a free spirit.”
I had the impression this contention was nothing new but had existed since Oliver was a mischievous little boy and would continue until he became a mischievous old geezer—if his parents lived to witness it.
Jason brought an ice bucket chilling a bottle of excellent South African Pinot blanc, a wine to die for—which, I reflected, the Whitcombs’ customers were doing. Then came individual wooden bowls of lobster salad (endive and watercress) and a communal basket of focaccia with saucers of garlic-infused olive oil for dipping. That lunch, I may say without fear of serious contradiction, was superior to a Big Mac.
Mr. Horace and I ate heartily. Mrs. Sarah made a valiant effort but really just toyed with her food, forking out a few chunks of lobster meat but ignoring the greens and focaccia. One glass of wine.
“Horace,” she said almost timidly, “I don’t want to spoil your lunch, but I do think it best if I leave you men alone now. I better rest awhile.”
He rose immediately to his feet, as I did.
“Of course, darling,” he said. “Archy, continue your lunch. I’ll be right back.”
He wheeled her away. I slid back into my chair and poured myself another glass of that fragrant wine, wishing it was something stronger to dull a sudden onslaught of grief. The host returned in a few minutes, walking briskly, his Ronald Colman features revealing nothing of what he felt.
“She’ll be fine,” he told me, pulling up his chair and attacking his salad again. “We have a nurse’s aide who’ll take care of her. Sorry for the interruption.”
“Sir,” I said, then stopped, not knowing what to say.
“She insisted on joining us for lunch,” he went on. “I feared it might be too much for her. But she keeps trying—which is important, don’t you think?”
“Absolutely,” I said. “A very brave woman, Mr. Whitcomb.”
He nodded. “She is that.”
“How long has your wife been ill?”
“Too long. It’s been a dreadful ordeal. For everyone.”
He shook off his despair and called, “Jason!” The ancient one appeared immediately and Mr. Horace gestured toward the ice bucket. “Supplies running low,” he said, and a few moments later we were supplied with a second bottle along with goblets of lime sorbet and a plate of crisp anise cookies.
We finished all the edibles in sight. Even the sadness of the Whitcomb household could not blunt my enjoyment of that lunch; I gave it my 2-R rating (Ripping Repast).
“Shall we take a look at my ships now?” Mr. Horace suggested. “Bring your glass along and we’ll finish the bottle upstairs.”
“Sounds good to me,” I said.
“My study used to be on the ground floor,” he remarked as we entered the house. “But when my wife became ill and needed a wheelchair, we converted the den into her bedroom and I moved my junk upstairs. It’s worked out very well.”
He said it blithely, but I didn’t believe him. (My father would be outraged at having his den moved.) I guessed Mr. Whitcomb’s
Similar Books
