of strong, chocolate coffee at Annie’s, a small yet perfectly formed eatery three blocks east of Celia’s apartment. It resides in the basement of an old brownstone building and legend has it that the premises were formerly an illegal drinking den that enjoyed considerable success—and notoriety—during Prohibition in the 1920s. Annie’s had been one of Jerry’s favourite haunts and he spent many happy weekends courting Celia there. While she never admits it, Celia maintains a few things in her life that she and Jerry used to do together. I think it’s comforting for her, in an odd way. She still has his Mets baseball on her desk in her apartment, for example, and still buys smoked salmon from Schumann’s deli—even though she constantly complains about the prices and is forever asserting her intention to shop elsewhere.
At best, Annie’s can hold about twenty diners at a time: today the place was packed and a relaxed queue was forming on the steep steps leading up to sidewalk level above.
‘I think we got here at the right time,’ I said. ‘They’re queuing already and it’s only ten thirty.’
‘My mother always says it’s important to head for the restaurant with the queue,’ Celia smiled. ‘She doesn’t trust places that people aren’t flocking to. But then, she hates waiting. I’ve lost count of the number of times we pass restaurant after restaurant with empty tables just so she can wait in line somewhere else—and then have to endure her constant complaining about how long she’s having to wait. It’s a no-win situation. But, that’s my mother. Never happier than when she isn’t happy.’
‘But you still love her, eh?’
Celia smoothed out the red checked napkin on her lap. ‘Of course I do. It’s just not always as simple as I’d like it to be. See, you have to understand that we’ve never had an easy relationship. Not like I see you have with your mother. Mom always wants better for me, you know: better career, better wealth, better relationships—which is good for me, don’t get me wrong; but the end result is that she’s never satisfied with who I am or where I’m at. I always get the feeling she’s disappointed in me somehow. So,’ she brightened and I sensed the subject was being hastily discarded in favour of another, ‘how’s life for you? I heard you and Nate went to the Noguchi Museum on Long Island last week?’
‘Yes, we did. We had a great time—the art is so amazing.’
‘That’s different for you guys, isn’t it? Meeting outside of your store?’
I smiled. ‘Nate said he wanted to see if our conversations would work outdoors. As it turned out, we proved his theory.’
‘So, did he say any more about the Caitlin situation outdoors?’
It was a good question, yet here’s the odd thing about last Saturday: we talked for four hours solidly and yet even now I couldn’t actually tell you what we discussed. I hadn’t been to Long Island before and Nate knows one of the curators of the museum, so he suggested we visit. The Noguchi is awesome—especially given the approach we made to it walking over the Roosevelt Bridge which, Nate reliably informed me, was the way the great master sculptor walked to work every morning. It was impossible not to be stirred by Isamu Noguchi’s stunningly simple sculptures in marble, alabaster, terracotta, slate and glass, amongst other mediums—and I noticed that everyone walking round seemed to be feeling it too, as a sense of reverent calm pervaded each room we entered.
The only snippet of our conversation I remember clearly is when we were strolling round the Noguchi’s tranquil sculpture garden, bathed in warm autumnal sunlight. Nate suddenly went quiet.
‘This place is wonderful,’ I ventured, trying to make conversation.
Nate paused to look at a stone sculpture with water cascading over its surface, his face reflected and distorted by the undulating flow. ‘It’s peaceful,’ he said, his voice sounding far away. ‘You can get rid of all the stuff in your head here, you know?’
‘Stuff like what?’
He sighed and I sensed the weight of his concerns bearing down on his broad shoulders. ‘Just stuff. I dunno, Rosie—sometimes I wish life could be as simple as this garden. No clutter, everything in its place, just peaceful and ordered.’
‘Sounds lovely. But it would drive you mad.’
He turned to look at me. ‘Why?’
I patted his arm. ‘Because you’re a native New Yorker: you thrive on chaos and unpredictability. If everything was simple and organised in your life you’d be craving excitement in no time.’
Nate’s trademark grin made a welcome reappearance. ‘You know me so well.’
‘So what did he say then? Did he mention Mimi or Caitlin? Or anybody?’ Celia was staring at me like an impatient child waiting to meet Santa.
‘No, that was it, and then he changed the subject,’ I said, pushing my fork into the poached egg on my plate and watching the rich yellow yolk dribble over my pancakes. ‘But I got the impression that things are more or less carved in stone for the two of them. I mean, he protests a lot, but at the end of the day he’s still with her.’
A couple seated at the table beside us began to giggle and held hands across the blue plaid tablecloth. Celia and I watched them for a while.
‘Do you ever get the feeling that everyone’s moving on except you?’ I asked, accidentally out loud.
Celia let out a long sigh. ‘All the time, Rosie. All the time.’
I’m always amazed at how quickly the nights draw in during autumn and the days rush headlong into winter. It’s one of my favourite times of the year—especially walking in Central Park when all the trees are exhibiting their colours. It’s something I loved about Boston and I thought I wouldn’t see it when I moved to New York but, to my delight, New York ‘does’ autumn so well. It seems to get more magical and sparkly with every week that passes through September and October into November and Thanksgiving.
OK, time to be honest here: I really didn’t get the concept of Thanksgiving when I first came to America. It seemed like such an odd, archaic excuse for a big meal and, when I asked people about it, nobody could quite explain it in a way that made sense to me. But then I met Celia and experienced a Reighton Thanksgiving, which is, like so many other things Celia does, truly a sight to behold. Featuring three basic ingredients: food that would make Fortnum & Mason quiver; a guest list that Jay Leno would kill for; plus the unique hostess that is Celia in all her glory—the combined result is pure New York magic. It was only when I was sat by the bulging Thanksgiving table at her home that I finally understood its significance for my American friends. It’s something instilled into them from birth: the need to be thankful. And the festival has seemingly taken on a much deeper significance for people today, in light of the highly materialistic lifestyle everyone here is bombarded with every day. It’s part of who they are as a nation and adds to that strange mix of modern consumerism and a strong sense of morals from a bygone era that is wrapped around the psyches of people who live here—where it’s every person for themselves when it comes to getting ahead in life, but impoliteness is still frowned upon. Thanksgiving reminds people where they came from. And now I wouldn’t miss it for the world.
‘Celia’s invited me to Thanksgiving
