Oh God. This was quickly going off the rails.
“I’m sure Freddie has plans,” she said, waving off the invite.
“I’ll think about it,” Freddie answered as if she hadn’t said anything at all.
“Fantastic!” James clapped his hands together. “Now, where’s the powdered sugar?”
Anne turned to Freddie, ready to apologize, but he spoke first.
“I should get going. I didn’t realize how late it was,” Freddie said.
“Oh, okay,” she replied, trying to appear nonchalant. “Well, thank you again. For helping me with the tree.”
“No problem,” he replied, then he turned toward the door.
“I won’t tell Cricket you were here!” James called after him, but he was already gone.
Anne exhaled.
“That man has an air of mystery around him and it’s so hot. Don’t you think?” James asked as he opened the flour, sending powder all over the counter.
She shook her head, trying to curb her smile. “Let’s start this cake already.”
CHAPTER 17
Anne had just about come to terms with celebrating Thanksgiving alone in her pajamas with an order of Chinese food and a Christmas movie marathon on her laptop, when she received a text from her father.
DAD
What are you doing for Thanksgiving? I have a res at Balthazar. 6:00pm.
The shock was only mildly embarrassing. It wasn’t that she thought her father didn’t care—though that was always a nagging question—only that Walt Elliot was the center of his own universe. While both Anne and her mother had come to terms with it in their own ways—Bianca had divorced him, and Anne tried to keep tight control of everything else in her life—it was only Anne who still harbored hope that he would eventually share a scrap of affection with her.
If that meant spending a holiday specifically designed to be celebrated at home at a swanky restaurant in Soho instead, so beit. It wasn’t exactly a secret that her father adored Balthazar—at one point during Kellynch’s heyday, he had the maître d’s number and used the “bat phone” entrance, a privilege reserved only for the most exclusive clientele. The effortlessly chic brasserie, where New Yorkers and celebrities sat side by side on the long zinc wooden bar dining on rich French cuisine, was a place to be seen without being pretentious. It radiated a refined elegance—something Walt aspired to but could never quite grasp. Of course, if his continued attempts required Anne to enjoy a delicious gourmet meal every now and then—maybe even dessert—who was she to say no?
She had spent the last few weeks living off ramen noodles and the Korean snacks they sold at Helwig Deli, so while she got ready Thanksgiving morning, she daydreamed about warm French onion soup, crème brûlée, and one of those baguettes that was as long as her arm. It sounded glorious, even if it meant listening to her father’s complaining—what was sure to be a never-ending litany about Brooklyn, his credit freeze, and his overall predicament, as if he had been merely an innocent bystander to it all. But she could power through.
Just think crème brûlée, she reminded herself.
She bundled up in her navy blue peacoat and knit hat, then headed downstairs at half past five to make sure she arrived on time. The air outside was brisk and an array of Christmas decorations dotted the different stoops as she walked across town. She moved briskly, like every New Yorker, but still let herself enjoy the walk through the Village, how the city shifted to avenues and cobblestoned streets lined with art galleries and boutiques. Soho welcomed her like every Manhattan neighborhood did, warmly and then with a blaring taxi horn. After she turned onto Spring Street, she made her way over to the prominent red awning of the restaurant.
She opened the black-rimmed glass doors to a wall of sound—conversations and laughter and clinking of silverware and glasses. She took off her hat and coat as she moved to the hostess stand.
While she waited for the couple in front of her to be seated, she felt a stab of guilt over not visiting her father in Brooklyn. For the past couple of months, she had been so concerned about cleaning up his messes that she had forgotten to worry about him. Yes, he was difficult and self-centered, but he was still her father, and she knew he defined himself by his social status. Now he was living in a different borough, MacKenzie was living in Ibiza, and his only source of income was in limbo. Suddenly, the prospect of dinner didn’t seem so daunting.
The hostess reappeared and Anne stepped forward.
“Hi, I think my father has a reservation,” she said. “Walter Elliot?”
The tall, willowy woman looked at the screen in front of her, then smiled. “Ah, yes. Follow me.”
They made their way past the bar, then the cozy red leather booths, and into the heart of the restaurant. Then, suddenly, a high-pitched shriek sliced through the air.
Anne froze. She knew that shriek. It was the soundtrack to a hundred different nightmares over the past five years.
Denise Sinclair.
“Aaaaaaaaaaanne!” The star ofDivorce Divasemerged from the far corner and started toward her, bumping into the chairs of numerous diners along the way. She was clad in a gold-encrusted designer wrap dress, the same color as her signature platinum-blond hair. The only thing different from the last time Anne had seen her was that her Pomeranian, Chanel, was decidedly absent from her tanned arms where he was usually perched.
