Chapter Ten #2
“We will begin with a consommé and a white Burgundy, perhaps a ’34 Chablis, followed by the pheasant and the ’29 Domaine de la Romanée-Conti. And the baked Alaska, I think.”
The waiter bowed. “Very good, sir.”
Eustace picked up his spoon. Melody did the same, hesitating. It smelled faintly fishy. “What is it?” she asked.
Eustace, who had at this point already consumed his, fought back a laugh. “It is caviar, my dear. Beluga, I’d say. I’m getting hints of the Baltic. My guess is Romanoff. Have you never had it?”
Melody shook her head. She had heard of caviar, of course, but had never had any, much less would she be able to distinguish the brand.
“Ma petite muse, you are too, too wonderful. You are a perfect innocent. Unspoiled in any way. I simply adore you.”
Melody wasn’t sure she would call herself a perfect innocent, but she refrained from responding in favor of following Eustace’s example and placed the spoon’s contents into her mouth all at once. The flavors swirled on her tongue, and she found the concoction to be rather delicious.
“You see?” Eustace said, reading the pleasure on her face.
***
The meal was easily the best Melody had ever had in her life, better even than the one she had eaten at the Empire Room.
It wasn’t just that it was delicious, it was artistic.
The way the food was arranged took the whole experience to another level of delight and made her feel as if she were eating at .
. . well, at a palace or something. She wondered if any of the girls at school had ever eaten such a meal.
No one in Merriweather would have dined at such a place, except perhaps Frank and Julius.
But if they had, she wondered, why would they give this life up to go and live in plain old Merriweather, where the nicest restaurant was the High Hat?
“Cigarette?” Eustace pulled a silver case from inside his jacket and held it out.
She shook her head and watched as he selected one, long and thin. Even his cigarettes were elegant, almost feminine. They reminded her of something her mother smoked on special occasions, not the thick, smelly Old Golds or Chesterfields the men of Merriweather smoked.
He lit one and inhaled briefly, almost daintily. Then he leaned his elbow on the table and flicked his wrist back, holding the long cigarette erect.
“Well, even if I’m not to meet your family anytime soon, you really must meet mine,” he said somewhat coyly. “Mother will adore you.” He took a quick puff of the cigarette.
Melody’s eyes widened at the prospect. She had thought he was joking about meeting her family, a subtle way of teasing her about her agrarian roots, but if he really did want her to meet his parents, he must feel more for her than she had perceived.
“I’d be happy to meet your family.” Melody hid her excitement by taking a sip of what was left of her cognac. Wait till she told the girls!
“Mother and Father are in Europe at the moment, however,” he explained.
Melody felt herself deflate a little.
“They are visiting my sister. She is in Switzerland at Le Rosey.”
“What is Le Rosey? A resort?”
Eustace laughed. “No, ma chérie. It is . . . well, I suppose you’d call it a finishing school. The very best, you know.” He inhaled again and blew a light cloud of smoke over his shoulder. “Just the right place to make all the right social connections. Royalty and all that.”
“Oh.”
“From there they travel on to our villa in Lake Geneva until June.”
Melody deflated further. By June, the semester would be over, and she would most likely be back in Merriweather for the summer.
“But perhaps you would meet my uncle.” His eyes squinted as he inhaled deeply, studying her. The waiter appeared and set an ashtray at Eustace’s elbow.
“Your uncle?” Melody’s hope revived.
“Yes, he lives with us.” Eustace flicked his ash into the tray. “He’d be delighted to meet you, I’m sure.” He snuffed out what was left of his cigarette. “Shall we say next Sunday?”
“Yes, alright, then.” She tried to say it as casually as she could.
“Delightful. I’ll send a car. One p.m.?” He downed his cognac. “Shall we dance?”
Melody agreed eagerly. She had been wanting to dance all evening. “But do we have time?”
“Dearest, no one arrives at the opera until the second act. Come,” he commanded, rising and holding out his hand.
Melody placed her gloved one in his and allowed him to lead her to the small dance floor where several other older, mature couples were already waltzing.
Melody dearly loved to dance; besides attending nearly every school-sponsored function, she and Cynthia and the gang used to be in the habit of going to the Aragon almost every other week.
Compared to its crowds, where the increasing number of servicemen were all vying for space on the sticky dancefloor, the Athletic Club was utterly divine!
No clumsy Loyola boys tripping over themselves or the here-today-gone-tomorrow young privates and lieutenants.
Eustace drew her close and carefully placed his other hand midway (never lower!) down her back before beginning to twirl them.
Melody followed his lead. He was an exquisite dancer, and in his arms—and in this elegant place—she felt she must have died and gone to heaven.
Freddy had been right. This was where she belonged.
She had served her time in the dusty old Merc, and now it was time to enjoy herself.
They danced three waltzes before the fairy tale finally came to an end, Eustace eventually signaling for their cloaks and for his car to be brought round.
He was gentle and careful while helping her into the waiting phaeton, and as they zoomed through the brightly lit city streets to the Lyric to watch the love story of Rodolfo and Mimi unfold, she was tempted to lean her head on his shoulder.
She did not, however, as, upon getting into the car beside her, he had maintained a respectable distance between them.
She sighed with pure pleasure. Finding Eustace, she decided, as she pinched herself to be certain, was simply too good to be true.