Within twenty minutes or so, people begin making movements to the door, my mom and Claire first among them.
“Thank you, Lawrence, a fantastic evening, but the old ladies are turning into pumpkins at the ball,” Claire says, giving him a hug. My mom leans in and whispers something in his ear that makes him smile and nod. They both receive hand kisses from Shawn, and then he leaves me behind to make sure they are deposited safely in the car service he arranged for the evening. He doesn’t trust regular taxis on New Year’s Eve. The driver will drop them off and then circle back for us; I’ll have to pack up equipment and such before we can leave anyway.
The rest of the guests make their good-byes, some eliciting promises of shared recipes from me, and soon it is just me and Lawrence in the kitchen with Olga, his cleaning lady who always works his parties. She has done a miraculous job of stealthy silent cleaning as the evening progressed, and in the short time since dessert, she has loaded the dishwasher again and placed all of my spotless equipment back into their carrying bags. Always easier leaving than coming, with the food consumed. I load the bags of gear into the now-empty coolers for ease of transport.
“The driver will be back for us in about thirty minutes—he’ll text when he’s close,” Shawn says, wandering into the kitchen and receiving the mug of tea I hand to him.
Olga shoos the three of us out of her kitchen, and we repair to the living room to sit.
“Well, dears, another year. Have we any resolutions?” Lawrence asks.
“Hmm. Good question. I think I resolve to make this lady here as happy as I can for as long as she’ll let me,” Shawn says.
“I approve of that one,” Lawrence says.
“As do I,” I say.
“What about you, my girl?”
I think about this. My bet list isn’t exactly full of resolutions, per se, and it would feel like cheating to name any of those things. “I resolve to let him.” This comes out more serious than I mean it to, but the look on both of their faces lets me know that it was safe for me to say.
“Another good one.” Lawrence nods.
“And you, my little yenta? What do you resolve?” I ask.
“I resolve to take full credit for your love and expect that your firstborn café au lait baby will be named either Lawrence or Eunice, for my mother.”
We laugh at his seriousness, and then Shawn looks at his phone and nods to me that the car is back. We thank Lawrence again for his generosity and hospitality, and I promise to see him Tuesday as usual. We both grab a cooler and roll them out and downstairs, and Shawn and the driver load them into the back of the SUV.
On the drive home, Shawn tells me all the silly things that he talked about with my mom and Claire, all the embarrassing stories they shared about me growing up, the touching stories they told him about my dad and Uncle Buddy. It means a lot that they were so candid with him, so I can forgive them for telling him about the time I pooped in the bathtub and completely freaked out the babysitter while they were having a dinner party downstairs.
At my house we load the coolers into the kitchen, let Simca out into the backyard for a quick evening toilette, and head upstairs.
“I think I’d better get started on my resolution,” Shawn says.
“Well, then, I’d better get started on mine,” I say, moving into his arms. We melt into the bed together, and it is sweet and deep and joyful. In the dark, just before we drift into sleep, Shawn murmurs to me.
“We are not naming our daughter Eunice.”
“No, we most certainly are not.”
“Happy New Year, Eloise. I love you.”
I take the deepest breath I’ve ever taken, and whisper back, “I love you too.”
I’m pretty sure he fell asleep without realizing that the dampness on his chest wasn’t sweat.
Sixteen
I hand Shelby a cup of coffee, just the way she likes it, light and sweet.
“Bless you. How are they doing?” she asks me.
“See for yourself.” I motion over to the island, where Teresa and Ian are separating eggs, dropping the whites into bowls and the yolks into the mouths of twin volcanoes of flour. There is a huge pot of Sunday gravy on the stove, a rich tomato sauce full of pork neck and sausage and oxtails, fragrant with onion and garlic, and hiding a pound of whole peeled carrots. The carrots are Teresa’s family recipe secret for a bit of sweetness without grinding up the vegetable, which changes the texture of the sauce. They’ll be fished out at the end, soft and imbued with the meaty savoriness of the sauce, and will serve as a special “cook’s treat,” drizzled with olive oil and sprinkled with coarse salt and ground pepper. In the oven, a tray of meatballs, roasting to browned perfection, to be simmered in the sauce and served on the side. Teresa starts to show Ian how to use a fork to gently begin to mix the egg yolks into the flour to get the pasta dough started. His apron is covered in meat juices and there is tomato in his hair, and I’ve never seen him happier.
“Look at that boy. Like a little bitty Bastianich.”
I laugh. “He’s taking to it like a fish to water. I’d be ready for some serious Italian feasts in the coming weeks.”
“Perfect. Ingredients are plentiful, results are delicious and palate friendly for the other monsters, and frankly it’s what I crave in the gloom of Chicago winter.”
“Yeah, me too.”
“So, date night tonight?” she asks with a sparkle. I finally fessed up to her after New Year’s about Shawn and she is over the moon for me.
“Yes. He’s taking me to MK.”
“Ooh. Fancy.”
“Well, we figured out that we both know Erick, the chef, a little bit, so we thought it would be a fun place for a date night.” We’ve been staying in a lot, cooking together, for the past couple of weeks, but Shawn mentioned the other night that he doesn’t want to get complacent with me, he doesn’t want to stop planning special nights out, so I agreed to an upscale dinner. Besides, Erick is one of my favorite people and chefs, and the meal will be spectacular. And his pastry chef, Lisa, is one of Marcy’s best buds, so I know that dessert will be a ruinous postdinner feast of amazing sweets.
“I think that is just so lovely. Thank you for bringing Teresa over—he’s having such a great time. I worry sometimes that he takes it so seriously.”
“Yeah, it’s why I wanted T to teach him this stuff instead of me. She’s a mom of three boys, so she has that nurturing energy and way of talking to him like a kid that I just don’t have. I know I’m helping make him a great technician, but truly amazing cooking isn’t really so much about technique, it’s about heart and soul, and I don’t want him to ever be missing that part of it.”