Happy Birthday: A Novel

After talking to him, Valerie walked into the living room and turned on the TV. There was news on every channel, special reports, and as she flipped through the channels, she saw the footage of Jack Adams being taken away by ambulance, and then a live feed of him sitting up in bed, looking weak but smiling. He insisted that he hadn’t been a hero but just did what he could, which he said wasn’t much. He said the leg was doing fine, although there was a nasty rumor going around that he might not be quarterbacking anymore that season. He insisted the rumor wasn’t true, and the interviewer laughed. Once they went back to a shot from the studio, the anchor said again that Jack had been a hero helping to get the women out of the building. They quipped for a minute that it wasn’t surprising that Jack Adams would be the one to escort the women out, since it was no secret how much he liked women and what a womanizer he had been during his NFL career, and perhaps still was. Everyone in the studio laughed, and Valerie was pleased to know that he had survived. He really had been a hero with her, trying to protect her from the sniper in the lobby. She wanted to send him flowers or champagne, or something to thank him, and wondered what hospital he was in. She called the network a few minutes later, and they told her he was at New York–Presbyterian Hospital.

She said something about it to April, who had a better idea. “Why don’t you send him some decent food? He’s been to the restaurant quite a few times, I can find out what he likes. If I remember correctly, I think he loves our meat loaf. We can send him some chicken too, and mashed potatoes. They can heat it up in the microwave for him.” It sounded like a great idea to both of them, and April called the restaurant to arrange it.

After that, Valerie called Marilyn’s family to express her sympathy. They were devastated. It made the horrors of the day before even more real to her, and her own survival seem even more miraculous, to both of them. Marilyn’s mother tearfully said that she had gone to her apartment to pick up the little Yorkshire puppy Valerie had given her on the Christmas show, and she was going to keep her. Marilyn’s tragic death was going to make the segment agonizingly poignant.

Valerie spent the rest of the day at home, in a bathrobe, relaxing and resting, before going back to work the next day. There was no reason for her not to, since she hadn’t been injured, but she was still looking very shaken and sad about Marilyn when April left her to go back to the restaurant. She promised to bring her mother some food too. And a waiter had already taken a cab to New York–Presbyterian Hospital with the food for Jack, and a message from her mother. The two women hugged before April left the apartment. She hated to leave her mother for even a minute but needed to check on things at the restaurant.

She called Mike from the cab. He sounded busy when he answered.

“Bad time?” she asked cautiously.

“No. I’m just on deadline, and the newsroom is nuts today. You can imagine it after yesterday.”

“I just wanted to thank you again for being with me.” Her voice was gentle, and he smiled.

“I’m glad I could be. How’s your mom today?”

“She’s pretty shaken up, but so am I, and I wasn’t even there. Her assistant was among the casualties, and she’s very upset about that too.”

“Are you feeling okay?” He didn’t inquire directly about the baby, but she knew what he meant.

“I’m fine.” He was sorry for what they’d all gone through. It had even been emotional for him, and he didn’t know her mother. It was shocking to hear that eleven people had died.

April had an idea then, but she didn’t know how he’d feel about it. “My family comes to the restaurant for dinner on Christmas Eve. You’re welcome to join us, if you’d like to. I don’t know if that’s something you’d like to do, or not.” She didn’t want to push him, but she felt closer to him now, and brave enough to ask, after the time they’d shared the day before, waiting for news of her mother.

“I told you, I don’t do holidays. They were such a nightmare in my family when I was a kid, with my parents drunk and beating each other up, I’d rather pretend they don’t exist. But thanks anyway.”

“I understand,” she said quietly. She couldn’t even imagine growing up in a family like his. It was not surprising he didn’t want kids. Being one in his world had been bad enough.

“I’ll call you after the holidays,” he promised, “or before that, if I need comfort food,” he said, and laughed. He had begun to understand her restaurant and why it was so popular. It wasn’t Alain Ducasse or Taillevent, which she might have been capable of replicating, but in some ways it was something even better, and he could see the merit of it now. What she offered met a real need for her patrons. It was real food for real life, as she put it, and the best of its kind.