“Yeah, right,” she said.
“Yeah,” I told her. “Right.”
“I don’t believe a word you’re saying … but say it again.”
So I said it again. And this time I took a key out of my pocket and dangled it in front of her eyes.
Boomer’s aunt is famous. I’m not going to name names, but it’s a name everyone knows. She has her own magazine. Practically her own cable network. Her own line of housewares at a major chain store. Her kitchen studio is world famous. And I happened to have the key for it in my hand.
I turned on all the lights, and there we were: in the center of the most glamorous baking palace in all of New York City.
“Now, what do you want to make?” I asked Lily.
“You’re kidding,” she said. “We can actually touch things.”
“This isn’t the NBC tour,” I assured her. “Look. Supplies. You are an ace baker, so you deserve ace raw material.”
There were copper pots and pans of all sizes. Every sweet and/or salty and/or sour ingredient that U.S. Customs would allow.
Lily could hardly contain her glee. After a split second more of reticence, she started opening drawers, sizing up her options.
“That’s the secret closet,” I said, pointing to an out-of-the-way door.
Lily went right over and opened it.
“Whoa!” she cried.
It had been the most magical place for me and Boomer growing up. Now it was like I was eight again, and Lily was eight again. We both stood, awed supplicants in front of the bounty before us.
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen so many boxes of Rice Krispies,” Lily said.
“And don’t forget the marshmallows and the mix-ins. There’s every kind of marshmallow, and every kind of mix-in.”
Yes, for all of the floral arrangements Boomer’s aunt got just right, and all the wine tours given in her name, her favorite food just happened to be the Rice Krispie treat, and her goal in life was to perfect the recipe.
I explained this to Lily.
“Well, let’s get to it,” she said.
Rice Krispies are designed to be a clean food to make—no flour, no sifting, no baking.
And yet Lily and I made the mother of all messes.
Partly, it was the trial and error with the mix-ins—everything from peanut butter cups to dried cherries to one ill-advised foray into potato chips. I let Lily take the lead, and she in turn let her inner-baking freak out. Before I knew it, marshmallows were melting everywhere, cereal boxes were toppled, and Rice Krispies were finding their way into our hair, our shoes, and—I had no doubt—our underwear.
It didn’t matter.
I had thought Lily would be methodical—a checklist kind of baker. Much to my surprise—and delight—she was not like this at all. Instead, she was impulsive, instinctive, combining ingredients at whim. There was still a seriousness to her endeavor—she wanted to get this right—but there was also a playfulness. Because she realized that this was playing, after all.
“Snap!” Lily said, feeding me an Oreo Krispie treat.
“Crackle,” I purred, feeding her a banana crème Krispie treat.
“Pop!” we said together, feeding each other from a pan of plum-and-Brie Krispie treats, which were gruesome.
She caught me looking at her.
“What?” she asked.
“Your lightness,” I said, hardly knowing what I was saying. “It’s disarming.”
“Well,” she said, “I have a treat for you, too.”
I looked at the pans and pans we’d made.
“I’d say we have treats for everyone in your extended family,” I told her. “And that’s saying a lot.”
She shook her head. “No. A different kind of treat. You’re not the only one who can make secret plans, you know.”
“What is it?” I asked.
“Well, do you like to be surprised, or do you like to anticipate?”
“Anticipate,” I said. Then, when she opened her mouth to tell me, I jumped in with, “No no no—I like to be surprised.”
“Okay then,” she said, smiling in a way that was almost devilish. “Let’s pack up these treats, clean up this kitchen, and take this show on the road.”
“Somewhere there are babies to catch,” I said.
“And words to find,” she added mischievously. But she wouldn’t say anything more.
I readied myself for the surprise.
twenty
(Lily)
December 31st
Imagine this:
You may not own the claim to a friend called Boomer who can get the key to his famous aunt’s cooking studio.
But you are more than delighted to be a beneficiary of said key’s treasures.
Snap. Crackle. Dash yum.
In exchange for said privilege, perhaps the opportunity exists for you to call upon a great-aunt nicknamed Mrs. Basil E. and ask that she telephone a cousin named Mark to harangue this cousin into giving you the key to a very different kind of kingdom.
What do you do?
The answer is obvious:
You get that key.
“Cheap shot, Lily,” my cousin Mark said as he stood at the entrance to the Strand. “Next time, just ask me yourself.”
“You would have said no if I’d asked you.”
“True. Trust you to manipulate what a sucker I am for Great-aunt Ida.” Mark eyed poor Dash, then pointed a finger warily at him. “And you! No funny stuff in here tonight, you understand?”
Dash said, “I assure you I could not contemplate any of your so-called funny stuff seeing as how I have no idea why I’m even here.”
Mark scoffed. “You bookish little pervert.”
“Thank you, sir!” Dash said brightly.
Mark turned the key to the front door and opened the store to us. It was 11 p.m. on New Year’s Eve. Revelers streamed by along Broadway and we could hear loud, festive gatherings a couple blocks up at Union Square.
This quiet bookstore, our evening’s destination, had closed hours before.
For us, and us alone, it had opened on New Year’s Eve.
It pays to know people.
Or it pays to know people who will call certain cousins and remind them who put aside a trust fund many years ago for their college education and all that’s asked in return is one teensy little favor for a Lily bear.
Dash and I stepped inside the Strand as Mark closed and locked the door behind us. He said, “Management has requested that in exchange for this privilege, you two pose for some publicity shots, wearing Strand T-shirts and holding Strand bags. We’d like to capitalize on your fame before the tabloids forget all about you.”
“No,” Dash and I both said.
Mark rolled his eyes. “You kids today. Think everything’s a handout.”
He waited, as if expecting us to change our minds.
He waited a few more seconds before throwing up his hands.
To me, Mark said, “Lily, lock up behind you when you leave.” To Dash, Mark said, “Try anything with this precious baby girl and—”
“STOP DOTING ON ME!” Shrilly let out.
Oops.
Quietly, I added, “We’ll be fine, Mark. Thank you. Please leave. Happy new year.”
“You won’t change your minds about those publicity shots?”
“No,” Dash and I both proclaimed again.
“Baby stealers,” Mark muttered.
“You’re coming over tomorrow night for Christmas on New Year’s Day dinner, right?” I asked Mark. “Mom and Dad get home in the morning.”
“I’ll be there,” Mark said. He leaned in to kiss my cheek. “Love you, kid.”
I kissed his cheek in return. “You too. Be careful you don’t become a growly old man like Grandpa.”
“I should be so lucky,” Mark said.
He then unlocked the front door to the Strand and stepped back out into the New Year’s Eve night.
Dash and I remained inside, staring at each other.
Here we were, alone together in our city’s most hallowed ground of bookishness, on this city’s night of biggest holiday anticipation.
“What now?” Dash asked, smiling. “Another dance?”
On the subway train from the cooking studio over to Union Square and the Strand, there had been a Mexican mariachi playing in our train car. A full five-piece band, no less, in traditional Mexican costumes, with a handsome, mustached singer who was wearing a sombrero and singing a most beautiful love song. I think it was a love song; he sang in Spanish, so I’m not sure (note to self: learn Spanish!). But two separate couples sitting nearby started randomly making out when the guy sang so beautifully, and I have to believe it’s because the song’s words were that romantic, and not because the couples didn’t want to fork over some dinero to the musician passing round the donation hat.
Dash threw a dollar into the donation hat.
I took a risk and upped the ante. I said, “Cinco dollars if you’ll share a dance with me.” Dash had asked me out for New Year’s Eve. The least I could do was return the favor and ask him for a dance. Someone had to step up already.
“Here?” Dash asked, looking mortified.
“Here!” I said. “I dare you.”
Dash shook his head. His cheeks turned bright crimson.
A bum slumped in a corner seat called out, “Give the girl a dance already, ya bum!”
Dash looked at me. He shrugged. “Pay up, lady,” he said.
I dropped a five-dollar bill into the musician’s hat. The band played with renewed energy. Anticipation from the crowd of revelers on the train felt high. Someone muttered, “Isn’t that the baby stealer?”
“Catcher!” Dash defended. He held out his hands to me.
I’d never imagined my dare would actually get called in. I leaned into Dash’s ear. “I’m a terrible dancer,” I whispered.
“Me too,” he whispered in mine.
“Dance already!” the bum demanded.
The revelers applauded, goading us on. The band played harder, louder.
The train pulled into the Fourteenth Street Union Square station.
The doors opened.
I placed my arms on Dash’s shoulders. He placed his hands around my waist.
We polkaed off the train.
The doors closed.
Our hands returned to their respective owners’ sides.
We stood at the door to a special storage room in the basement of the Strand.
“Do you want to guess what’s in here?” I asked Dash.
“I think I’ve got it figured out already. There’s a new supply of red notebooks in there, and you want us to fill them in with clues about the works of, say, Nicholas Sparks.”
“Who?” I asked. Please, no more broody poets. I couldn’t keep up.
“You don’t know who Nicholas Sparks is?” Dash asked.
I shook my head.
“Please don’t ever find out,” he said.
I took the storage room key from a hook beside the door.
“Close your eyes,” I said.
I needn’t have asked Dash to close his eyes. The basement was cold and dark and forbidding enough, except for the beautiful, musty scent of books everywhere. But it felt like there should be some element of surprise. Also, I wanted to remove some Rice Krispies lodged in my bosoms without him noticing.
Dash closed his eyes.
I turned the key and opened the door.
“Keep them closed just a little longer,” I requested.
I removed one more Rice Krispie marshmallowed to my bra, then extracted a candle from my purse and lit it.
The cold, musty room glowed.
I took Dash’s hand and guided him inside.
While his eyes were still closed, I took off my glasses so I’d seem, I don’t know—sexier?—upon new reflection.