***
Dinner ends up being a five-course feast. The steaks are bloody. The wine is bubbly. The conversation, if somewhat stilted, is still nice. It’s been forever since the three of us talked, face-to-face. A meal like this one would’ve been a dream only weeks ago.
It doesn’t even matter that we’re sat smack-dab in the center of the dimly lit dining room when normally we’d request a corner table or a private room. Nor do I care when one of Mom’s fans, older than her usual demographic, snaps a sneaky phone picture of us eating. I hope this one ends up on the internet and sneaks its way onto Hector’s social media feeds. I want him to see me. I want him to know what he’s done hasn’t hurt me. Even if the whispers around us do get to me a bit.
Later, the Radio City Music Hall marquee shimmers in red, blue, and gold above us. Its dazzling Art Deco style makes me giddy as we emerge from the Town Car. Together. A trio out on the town like the old days. I’m ten and tapping my toes to the music that floats out from the lobby doors.
Dad hands out the tickets over the sound of “Is that Anna Winston-Prince?” and “Do you think she’d sign my forehead?” Usually Mom would ignore this kind of chatter from the attendees shivering in the admission line, but instead, she beelines right for them, stopping for selfies and kissing babies. Quoting her series to a riotous round of “Huzzah, hurrah! For glory and our kingdom!”
Maybe what she said in the tea room was real.We’re all due for some growth.Perhaps this generous act is a small way to garner some good press in the wake of my scandal. Anna Winston-Prince making time for her fans while attending a sold-out show is the kind of thing that gets shouted about on all the forums and blogs.
I try not to read too much into it.
Inside the theater, the concentric golden arches welcome me home. It’s been an eternity since I’ve been here. A kindly usher hands me a program and a pair of 3D glasses. The three of us shuffle down our aisle, sink into comfy velvet chairs, and prepare to be whisked into high-kicking and a thousand bell-ringing Santas.
The lights dim. The chatter stops. Despite everything, as the curtain rises, so do my spirits.
Chapter 36
There’s no way to describe the Plaza Hotel on Christmas Day other thandripping. From the plush red carpets dripping out the front entryway and down its step to its ornate chandeliers dripping crystals, the gilded palace screams classic luxury.
Mom and I are primped to the nines for Christmas tea at the Palm Court, another bygone go-to from childhood. Back then, I hated being stuffed into my nice clothes and sheathed in a cloud of hairspray, but today, I sport my Givenchy metallic leather pants. The ones I begged a pranking Hector not to steal before I realized who he was and what was happening. The mohair jacket was the perfect touch to complete the ensemble.
I know it’s wrong, but I expect to be photographed. Again, if a photo of me in this outfit happens to float past Hector’s eyes while he’s scrolling on his phone, so be it. Revenge is a dish best served in hot pants.
We check in at the underground dining hall’s guarded passage with its gold railings, striking columns, and detailed floral carpets. Christmas trees alternate with palm trees on our right, making for a magical, if also confusing, indoor landscape. Ornate architectural motifs abound around us.
“Why is Dad meeting us here again?” I ask, nearly tripping up the steps I don’t see in time.
“He forgot a gift with his assistant again. You know him,” Mom says, blasé.
When we prepared to leave without him, I couldn’t hide the confusion, but Mom brushed it off. Dad has always been an early riser, but Christmas Day was the exception. Not hearing him scuttling around the apartment, dictating last-minute emails was puzzling, but I decide not to harp on it.
All in all, we’re back to basics (if breakfast at one of the most expensive spots in the city could be consideredbasic), and I don’t want to risk that. I’m just happy to be included. Even though it seems a tadtoo much—as Hector might say.
I would’ve been happy with a second round of cinnamon buns. I might’ve even put my Wind River baking skills to good use beside Oksana.
But she has the day off, and I’m trying to scrub myself clean of that place. So I shelve the uncertainty.
Dad appears in the lobby. He holds an impeccably gift-wrapped box, corroborating Mom’s story. He offers me another smile, another micro-hug.
The Palm Court is like tea in the Wind River Inn reading room on steroids. Faux orchids pop out of flower boxes behind high-backed booths. A stained-glass skylight stands as the centerpiece of a room sheathed in olive greens and bursts of vibrant pink.
We’re set up beside a voluminous, titular palm in a bulbous pot. Its fronds hit me in the face as I sit.
Dad doesn’t even let us see the menu. He orders the most expensive prix fixe—a decadent array of unlimited tea, coffee, and champagne. Promptly, a three-tiered circular display of clotted cream, finger sandwiches, and indulgent pastries gets placed in the center of us. My taste buds are eager for the festive treats. Especially the mini Bûche de Noëls.
“To another holiday here in New York. Good health and lots of happiness ahead,” Dad says. We tip our glasses together, but nobody makes eye contact, breaking the cardinal rule of toasting. I’m unsure, but Dad’s wedding band looks askew on his hand. Mom keeps dabbing her upper lip with the linen napkin, even though she hasn’t eaten a bite yet.
I’m about to take my first taste when Dad says, “I bet you’re wondering why we brought you here—”
“Matt,” Mom scolds. She never uses his nickname, especially not in public. Her held-up hand is a blinking stop sign. “Present first.”
Dad fishes for the gift he dropped beneath the table. I set down the sandwich I’d been planning to demolish in a single bite. My parents’ eyes are expectantly cast in my direction. They haven’t watched me open a gift with this much parental enthusiasm since, well, maybe ever.
Delicately, I pull the strand of silken ribbon and the box unfurls. In the center, wrapped in tissue paper, I find a Prada bifold wallet. My fingers brush over the pebbled leather and the metallic letters pressed into the corner. I know what I’ll find when I open it. My cards, all new, all shiny, all set to be linked to Apple Pay. They’re ready for me to resume my old life.
Shouldn’t I be ecstatic? I feel anything but.
