Mrs. Von Bizmark looked at Max with pity, as if it was a shame he didn’t have some essential piece of information. “Didn’t Anna tell you?”
“Tell him what?” Anna asked, instant icicles of anxiety stabbing up and down her spine.
“That the mayor is coming?!” Mrs. Von Bizmark seemed on the verge of apoplexy.
“I’m so sorry, I must not . . . have . . .” Anna of course knew it was possible that the mayor might come, but she had been haranguing his office for confirmation for the previous two days. “Did you speak to him on the phone?”
“His chief of staff called first thing this morning. I’m sure I told you,” she said to Anna, who knew that the more Mrs. Von Bizmark insisted, the more likely she was fibbing.
“Well, thank the Lord!” Max exclaimed, throwing his hands up and dispelling the tension. “We need that damn communist!” He grabbed two blank place cards and wrote MAYOR and MAYOR +1 and put them next to KVB and PVB on the table. A little reshuffling and Max was clucking like the proud mother of a newborn. Max, sensing Mrs. Von Bizmark’s displeasure, made a quick exit.
After a tense half hour of Mrs. Von Bizmark prowling the office; examining all the flowers, mail, and packages; and calling downstairs to ask Barclay if there was anything else waiting to come up, she announced, “I so do not want to go tonight.”
It had been hard concocting just the right red herring for the evening: something black tie, intimate, superelite, and of Mr. Von Bizmark’s world so that in the lead-up, Mrs. Von Bizmark would not discover the ruse. But it had to be enticing enough to ensure she would not put up a big fuss about going. In the end, Mrs. Von Bizmark believed the night ahead promised a private Yo-Yo Ma solo recital in the Otto Kahn mansion for Carl Icahn’s eighty-fifth birthday. “It would be so nice to just stay home.” She sighed. Anna said nothing. Nudging her was rarely effective. You just had to let them realize things on their own. She held her breath. “But I guess I must go. It’s Carl, after all.”
“Glam squad will be here in twenty,” Anna said.
As soon as the Mrs. had disappeared upstairs to shower, Anna texted Chef, who was waiting in the basement lounge. She showed up at the back door in her white jacket, already annoyed and flustered, with three enormous wooden crates stamped PUGLIA on a dolly. “We’re late,” she said. Anna called for Cristina on the intercom. Alfie lifted the crates onto the kitchen floor, and Chef drove a crowbar right into the largest, cracking it open to reveal a cooler full of ice and a cornucopia of Italian seafood—enough for at least eight people. Cristina appeared, and Chef started barking at her to find a platter for the seafood. “Deep. Big, like this . . . for crushed ice!” Cristina scurried off.
Right on cue, they heard the ding-ding-ding of the elevator and Mr. Von Bizmark’s heels striking the hardwood.
“Happy anniversary, Mr. Von Bizmark!” Chef said the moment he crossed the threshold into the kitchen.
Cristina, back with two enormous silver platters shaped like clamshells, ejected a terse, “Happy anniversary!”
Finally, Anna added, “Happy anniversary, Mr. Von Bizmark! Follow me.”
As soon as Mr. Von Bizmark entered the office, Julie said, “Happy anniversary, Mr. Von Bizmark.”
“Thank you, Jenny.”
“It’s Julie,” Anna corrected as quietly as possible. She plucked two sheets of paper off her desk and handed one to Mr. Von Bizmark. Julie quietly watched this exchange, ready to jump in should Anna need backup. Her heart hammered in her chest as he read the minute-by-minute agenda. He chuckled at the first item, and Anna smiled cautiously.
7:00 Pianist arrives (wears earplugs for privacy)
7:15–7:30 Mrs. Von Bizmark to descend—Mr. Von Bizmark to uncork a twenty-five-year-old magnum of Pol Roger
“A magnum? Really?” he asked. “There are only two of us.” Whoa boy, Anna thought to herself. If he balked at that, wait until he heard about the custom-imported foodstuffs.
“You know how much Mrs. Von Bizmark loves a magnum!” Anna reminded him. “Remember what she said at New Year’s?”
“‘They’re festive,’” he and Julie said at exactly the same time. Who could forget Mrs. Von Bizmark remarking this very thing to justify the gobsmacking increase in expense between regular bottles and the double-size ones? But Mr. Von Bizmark breezed through the menu, already bored by it all, and entirely missed the point about the food Chef had gone to such expense and energy to procure. The most critical moment of the evening would come at:
8:15 Pianist plays “Our Love Is Here to Stay”
“Our wedding song,” Mr. Von Bizmark commented, for the first time without a trace of negativity. He seemed to soften ever so slightly.
It’s working, Anna thought to herself. “Yes! Exactly! When you hear that, you—”
“Ask her to dance.”
“That’s right!”
“It says so right here.”
8:18 Ask Mrs. Von Bizmark to dance
“Are you sure I need this level of guidance?” Mr. Von Bizmark asked. “I have managed to have dinner with my wife before.”
“The important thing is that you get her to the center living room window for . . .” Anna pointed to the next agenda item.
8:21 FIREWORKS
“Seriously?” Mr. Von Bizmark asked.
“They should be right outside for about sixty seconds. It’s a custom display.”
“She does love fireworks,” he remarked. “And I’m sure that will go off without a hitch,” he added unironically. Without ungluing their eyes from him, Anna and Julie reached back to knock on wood. “How much will this cost, anyway?” Mr. Von Bizmark said, perhaps for the first time ever. Before Anna could answer, he sighed, said, “Never mind,” and read on:
8:30 Dessert with Peony
Additional gift
9:00 Carriage ride around the park
Harry Winston gift
“What’s the additional gift?” he asked. “An Airbus?” Julie laughed too hard and stifled herself.
“A photo album. Julie put it together. She’ll love it.”
“But how will I keep all this straight?”
Anna produced a four-by-six-inch index card with the entire agenda simplified, reduced, and printed in two columns. “Don’t forget to tell her where all the food is from!” she said, flipping it over to reveal a list of all the items and their origin. Mr. Von Bizmark tucked it in his pocket, thanked Anna, and went upstairs to get ready.
At the back door, Alfie handed Cristina a truckload of brown-paper-wrapped cherry blossom branches. When Anna tried to help place them in strategically arranged vases all over the living room, Cristina shooed her away. She returned to the kitchen to remind Chef, “Don’t forget to tell Mrs. Von Bizmark about Puglia.”
“Do you have any other advice?” Chef said sarcastically, backing away from the enormous ice platter half-decorated with seaweed, edible flowers, and lemon wedges. “Jump right in if you want.” Her face flushed with pressure.
“Just reminding you!” Anna said and circled back to Cristina in the dining room, lining up all the necessary service items for seafood: those tiny forks, escargot holders, finger bowls . . .