Perusing The Novels

     Three men were in the kitchen. One was in jeans and a t-shirt washing dishes at a three-part sink. Another, wearing checkered pants, a white shirt, and an apron, stood at a stove on the far side of the room stirring a pot. The third, closer to us, with knife poised over a cutting board on an island in the center of the space, was wearing all white, from his chef’s hat, shirt, pants, and apron, to the elegant little tie around his neck. There was no question who was in charge—the man with the knife had the bearing of royalty.

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As we moved toward the island, Bernice called out, “Oh, Dan-ye-el,” with the French emphasis and a singsong voice that turned the name into three syllables.

     The chef looked our way, and immediately his eyes lit up. He put down his knife and came around the island to greet us, grabbing Bernice’s free hand and bowing to smother it with kisses.

     “Ma chérie!” he enthused. “Have you finally decided to become my mistress?”

     Daniel appeared to be in his forties, with a full head of brown hair, slightly gray at the temples, and a neatly trimmed salt-and-pepper beard and moustache. He moved with the grace of a ballroom dancer, and I got the feeling he orchestrated everything, from his meals to his interpersonal relationships.

     “And . . .” she paused, “over there by the stove is Daniel’s apprentice, Peter. I’m sorry, Peter, I don’t know your last name.”

     The young man at the stove turned around and looked our way, giving a tiny smile at being acknowledged. He was also in his twenties but considerably shorter than the other men, about five feet six or seven, with a head of curly blond hair and a youthful, clear-skinned face. “It’s Smith,” he said with a shrug. “Sort of boring but reliable.”

     And over there at the sink, with soapsuds on his ear, is my son Mike.”

     Mike, a gangly young man in his early twenties, gave me a mock salute with a dripping-wet, long-handled brush.  I got the impression he didn’t take anything seriously.

     On the way to the table, I had noticed a tall, lanky man at the bar, who was holding his thumb up in front of his eye, the way an artist does who is measuring distance. He was also dressed formally, but with a long jacket, rather than the short one John was wearing. He now approached our table, bearing with a towel draped over his arm and carrying a tray with our drinks.

     He placed my glass in front of me. In a very proper English accent he said, “Dry Sack for the lady. Pity.” He turned to Bernice and put her Virgin Mary in front of her. “Ah. The Virgin Queen. Double pity.”

    “Hello, Reggie. Meet my friend Ariel. Ariel, this is Reginald Whitson, one of the owners of this den of iniquity and inane humor.”

     Just at that moment the back door opened. A woman with platinum hair, designer jeans, and a long, bulky turtleneck sweater hurried in with several grocery bags. She deposited them on one of the counters and turned to Mike.

     “Michael, be a love. Take a moment to fetch the rest of the packages, won’t you?”

     To my ear, her accent was British, but with a subtle difference. I realized this must be Reggie’s Australian wife, Penelope. She was gorgeous. She must have been in her early 40s, but she looked 25. Even under the bulky sweater, I could see she had a figure like Marilyn Monroe, and she had a face that might launch a thousand ships. She was exquisitely groomed, from her make-up to her gold pendant earrings and her perfectly manicured nails.

     He looked at us for a moment, then hunched forward, furtively glanced from side to side, and reached around behind himself. A second later he was aiming a banana at us as if it were a pistol. In a rasping voice, he said, “Give me your coats, and no one will get hurt.”