“Don’t worry,” I say. “They aren’t from Ryan.”
“Good,” Meg says, “because that would have thrown a real wrench in Operation Get Lanie Laid this Friday.”
I won’t disappoint Meg by explaining that the odds of me getting laid on Friday are slim for many reasons. Not the least of which is that I need to be bushy-tailed on Saturday morning to escort Noah around the Cloisters. If you’d asked me a week ago, I probably couldn’t have thought of anything worse than having a hangover while hanging out with Noah Ross. But the truth is, since our escapade last Friday, I’ve been looking forward to our visit to the uptown cousin of the Met. Or at least, not dreading it. It feels possible now that he’ll actually get an idea for the book.
“Noa Callaway sent them,” I say casually, looking at the tulips.
Meg raises an eyebrow. Rufus plops down on a box of books.
“Noa Callaway sends flowers?” Meg says.
“The transition must be going well,” Rufus says.
“My mother had a tulip garden,” I say, fingering the flowers’ waxy leaves. “I’ve always loved them.”
After a minute I realize they’re both staring at me.
“You okay there, Lanie?” Meg says.
“Of course.”
“Good,” Meg says. “Stay that way. Because Rufus has chosen Subject on Suffolk as our venue for Friday night. Dress to impress.”
“Come on, Meglicist,” Rufus says, using his pet name for her. “You can do better than that.”
“Okay . . .” she says, “dress to undress.”
I laugh, because I know my friends well enough to hear in the cadence of their voices that this is a laugh line, but the truth is, I haven’t heard the past couple exchanges. My mind went back to my mother, to a memory I have of pulling weeds together when I was a little girl.
As soon as Meg and Rufus leave, I write to Noah.
From: [email protected]
Date: March 9, 11:45 a.m.
Subject: wondering
Thanks for the flowers. They’re beautiful. I’ve never seen tulips this color. My new office—which feels enormous and sort of like I’m squatting—needed them.
Can I ask you something? Why do you send tulips, over any other flower? They’ve always been my favorite, and I’m wondering what they mean to you.
From: [email protected]
Date: March 10, 11:53 a.m.
Subject: re: wondering
You told me once your middle name is Drenthe. I assumed it was a family name and guessed that you were Dutch. Was I wrong?
See you Saturday. It’ll be fun.
* * *
“What’s this?” BD asks in a happy singsong over FaceTime Friday night. She’s been checking in on me each day since Ryan and I broke up. “Is that eyeliner I see? And a hint of bosom! Are you in a Lyft?”
“Indeed, I am going out tonight,” I say as my driver turns down Second Avenue toward the Lower East Side cocktail spot Rufus claims I’ll love.
The night is cool and a little damp, but I did go with one of my more low-cut dresses and heeled boots. Mostly because I knew Rufus and Meg would have been aghast if I’d shown up in what I really wanted to wear, a very comfortable tan thrift store turtleneck.
“You know,” BD says with a wink, “sex with a stranger is a double mitzvah on Shabbat!”
“I’m not sure the ‘stranger’ part is actually in the Torah,” I say. “Hey, can I ask you something?”
“You can always ask me about sex toys—”
“No, BD . . . my middle name—I know it’s a city in Holland, but we’re not Dutch. You and Grandpa were both born in Poland.”
“Before the war,” she says, “your grandfather lived in the Netherlands. He was born in Drenthe. Your mother must have told you that?”
“Maybe,” I say, but when it comes to conversations with my mother, too much predates my memory. And I remember as a child that BD seemed so pained, so un-BD when she talked about what she’d left in Europe, that eventually, I stopped asking. I’m glad my grandfather lives on in my middle name. “So, Mom’s tulip garden . . .”
“An homage,” BD says, with a flourish of her hand. “She grew up gardening with your grandfather.” BD looks away from the camera. She’s in her kitchen, making popcorn, which she burns at each attempt. Her voice changes, and I wish I were there with her instead of having this conversation on the phone. “He lost all his family in the war. He never went back to Drenthe, but he wrote about it.”
“In his poetry? Do you still have it? Can I read it?”
“Elaine,” she says, “I’m going to ship you the biggest sack of poems you’ve ever seen.”
“Thanks, BD. I’d love that.”
“What about our other project?” She drops her voice to a whisper. “The Noa Callaway situation. Any breakthroughs?”
BD quirks her brow and I realize that I’m smiling. I try to wipe my expression clean, but it’s BD, and she knows my feelings anyway.
“Check back with me tomorrow,” I say. “I’m taking him to the Cloisters for inspiration. I probably shouldn’t tempt fate by saying this, but I have a good feeling about it.”
I glance out the window as my Lyft driver slows to a stop. We’ve arrived in front of a crowded bar at the corner of Houston and Suffolk. Through the windows, I see high ceilings, dim chandelier light . . . and Meg on top of the bar, taking a shot with one fist in the air.
“BD,” I say, “I’ve got to go walk in to a real hot mess now.”
“Have a wonderful time, dear.” She air-kisses the camera. “And don’t be afraid to lead with your bosom!”
As soon as I step into Subject, Rufus spots me through the crowd. He waves me over and gives me a hug. “You just missed Meg’s Coyote Ugly moment.”
“I think I caught the finale through the window.” I squeeze Meg’s shoulders.
“Don’t worry, it was amazing,” she says, sipping the new drink the bartender has placed before her. “You know I took Irish dancing in college. And, well, people wanted to see.”