around the famous Palm Court with its sky-high stained-glass ceiling curved upward like a colossal bejeweled brooch. It cast an ethereal yellow light onto the white-linened tables. Pia ran her fingers along the carbonite stone wall in the long hallway and said, “Isn’t God amazing? Creating man with the ability to imagine this?”
“Conrad Hilton, one of the owners years ago, destroyed the original stained-glass ceiling to install air-conditioning. God created him, too.”
Pia didn’t respond.
A brass-edged escalator carried the sisters down to the basement level, where they were going to have lunch. Like a secret city, it was a Gatsbyesque expanse of shops and gourmet food, an unearthed treasure of chocolate, pizza, elaborate millinery, custom perfumes, sushi, charcuterie, oysters, artisanal cheese, coffee, and cupcakes. Anything anyone with style could ever want to eat or buy.
“Two for lunch?”
A hostess greeted them at the Food Hall—a huge open room dotted with high communal tables and curving Carerra marble counters. Each counter faced a food station, though as the hostess explained, “You can order anything you want at any station.”
Before Muriel could request a quiet corner away from the noise, Pia said, “Seat us in the middle of the action.” Shrugging, Muriel followed the hostess to two bar chairs in front of a large sizzling grill. One of the grill chefs clacked his tongs in greeting. Two older men in suits that cost more than Muriel’s monthly rent looked up when the sisters sat down.
“Ladies,” they said in unison.
“Gentlemen,” Pia replied in a Marilyn Monroe sort of way. Muriel blushed even as the men ignored her. Many times she’d witnessed the way a man’s gaze lingered on her sister. At thirty-one—precariously close to New York’s expiration date—Pia was still asked for her phone number. Muriel, eight years younger, was asked for directions. Never had Pia been a woman unseen. Men wanted her in their limo, on their arm, in their bed.
“Any chance we can buy you ladies lunch?”
Muriel quietly fluffed her scarf, allowing her sister to let the men down easy. The man nearest Pia—with his tan hands and spangly watch—looked at Pia alone. While attractive enough , Muriel was the sort of woman men looked through . They saw their iPhone messages clearly, or the swivel of young hips in tight pencil skirts, but men rarely noticed Muriel unless they were standing opposite her in Joanie’s office trying to land a part. Even then Muriel was convinced most male actors gazed deeply into her eyes merely in the hope of spotting their own tiny reflections.
“Why not?” Pia said, causing Muriel’s mouth to fall open like an unlatched basement window. “Unless you’re Hindu,” she added gaily, “you only live once.”
Both men erupted in laughter and the tanned one flagged down the waiter. “I’m Richard, and this is my business partner, Edward,” he said, reaching out to shake Pia’s hand.
“I’m Sonny, and this is my sister, Cher.”
They laughed again. Muriel laughed, too. How could you not? When she wanted to, Pia could wring charm out of the air itself. As could their mother. When she wanted to.
Chapter 14
“C’ MON, SLOWPOKE! ”
Pulling her mother’s arm behind her, Muriel expertly weaved through the weekend crowds in Times Square.
“I’m on your tail, cowgirl!”
Saturday matinees had become a tradition. A tradition . Muriel was beside herself with joy. They caught the L train into the city, interlocking fingers on the subway. Together, Lidia and her younger daughter dashed up Broadway through the winter’s cutting air, the breezy warmth of spring, the perfect limbo of fall. On those Saturdays Muriel felt positively carbonated, as if she’d once been an orphan and was now an only child.
“Giddy up, Mama. We don’t want to miss curtain.”
“Yeehaw!” On rare occasions, Lidia even skipped.
With her chin lifted, Muriel felt superior to the
“Conrad Hilton, one of the owners years ago, destroyed the original stained-glass ceiling to install air-conditioning. God created him, too.”
Pia didn’t respond.
A brass-edged escalator carried the sisters down to the basement level, where they were going to have lunch. Like a secret city, it was a Gatsbyesque expanse of shops and gourmet food, an unearthed treasure of chocolate, pizza, elaborate millinery, custom perfumes, sushi, charcuterie, oysters, artisanal cheese, coffee, and cupcakes. Anything anyone with style could ever want to eat or buy.
“Two for lunch?”
A hostess greeted them at the Food Hall—a huge open room dotted with high communal tables and curving Carerra marble counters. Each counter faced a food station, though as the hostess explained, “You can order anything you want at any station.”
Before Muriel could request a quiet corner away from the noise, Pia said, “Seat us in the middle of the action.” Shrugging, Muriel followed the hostess to two bar chairs in front of a large sizzling grill. One of the grill chefs clacked his tongs in greeting. Two older men in suits that cost more than Muriel’s monthly rent looked up when the sisters sat down.
“Ladies,” they said in unison.
“Gentlemen,” Pia replied in a Marilyn Monroe sort of way. Muriel blushed even as the men ignored her. Many times she’d witnessed the way a man’s gaze lingered on her sister. At thirty-one—precariously close to New York’s expiration date—Pia was still asked for her phone number. Muriel, eight years younger, was asked for directions. Never had Pia been a woman unseen. Men wanted her in their limo, on their arm, in their bed.
“Any chance we can buy you ladies lunch?”
Muriel quietly fluffed her scarf, allowing her sister to let the men down easy. The man nearest Pia—with his tan hands and spangly watch—looked at Pia alone. While attractive enough , Muriel was the sort of woman men looked through . They saw their iPhone messages clearly, or the swivel of young hips in tight pencil skirts, but men rarely noticed Muriel unless they were standing opposite her in Joanie’s office trying to land a part. Even then Muriel was convinced most male actors gazed deeply into her eyes merely in the hope of spotting their own tiny reflections.
“Why not?” Pia said, causing Muriel’s mouth to fall open like an unlatched basement window. “Unless you’re Hindu,” she added gaily, “you only live once.”
Both men erupted in laughter and the tanned one flagged down the waiter. “I’m Richard, and this is my business partner, Edward,” he said, reaching out to shake Pia’s hand.
“I’m Sonny, and this is my sister, Cher.”
They laughed again. Muriel laughed, too. How could you not? When she wanted to, Pia could wring charm out of the air itself. As could their mother. When she wanted to.
Chapter 14
“C’ MON, SLOWPOKE! ”
Pulling her mother’s arm behind her, Muriel expertly weaved through the weekend crowds in Times Square.
“I’m on your tail, cowgirl!”
Saturday matinees had become a tradition. A tradition . Muriel was beside herself with joy. They caught the L train into the city, interlocking fingers on the subway. Together, Lidia and her younger daughter dashed up Broadway through the winter’s cutting air, the breezy warmth of spring, the perfect limbo of fall. On those Saturdays Muriel felt positively carbonated, as if she’d once been an orphan and was now an only child.
“Giddy up, Mama. We don’t want to miss curtain.”
“Yeehaw!” On rare occasions, Lidia even skipped.
With her chin lifted, Muriel felt superior to the
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