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“Sure. Text me sometime, we’ll set it up, but let’s focus here, all right? Dan’s got this charity he started to help the Syrian refugees.”
Jean nodded. The traffic started to move at a faster clip as they approached the far side of the bridge. “I heard about it on the radio.”
“And my dad’s been collecting donations through my parents’ church back home, which we knew, but it turns out what we didn’t know, and Dan knew, was that my dad’s been going at it hard. He’s collected, like, four semi trucks worth of donations, and Dan is like, you know, ‘What the fuck is up with Bill Fredericks?’ And May’s like, ‘Why didn’t you call me?’ And he’s all, ‘I thought you guys knew, who am I to stick my head in where it doesn’t belong,’ you know? Roll down your window so we can get a cross-breeze.”
Jean obliged. Allie pushed her sunglasses onto the top of her head. The city rolled out in front of them, color everywhere she looked, lush green leaves overhead, orange traffic cones, the fuchsia head scarf of a pedestrian holding her daughter’s hand, and she felt light and elated to be heading to see Winston, floating on an endorphin cloud from having made up with her sister and worked out a plan.
“Dan Einarsson is worried about your father.”
“Yeah, he’s in pretty deep, I guess, and Dan’s tried to send him some staff of helpers, but my dad isn’t having it. So Dan’s idea—since me and May want to get my dad to New York, because we have to, right? We need to swarm, like Ben said, which means the whole family has to be here together, and we have to try to get my mom to see us and talk to us before this thing goes down on Saturday. So Dan thinks it would be good for my dad to ease up on the Syria thing, anyway, and his idea is to give my dad his private plane to fly out, and in the meantime Dan will send, like, three people to finish up getting all these donations ready to ship from Manitowoc.”
“Dan Einarsson is going to loan you his private plane.”
“You can just call him ‘Dan.’?”
Jean gave her a stern look. “No.”
“Suit yourself, friend. Oh, is that Central Park?”
“Yes.”
“It’s huge.” It looked different than she’d expected—much larger, and wilder.
“It’s very big, yes.”
“That’s so cool.” New York seemed kind of great, actually. There was something hidden around every corner, surprises stacked one on top of the other, so much to do and see.
“And your dad is willing to do this?” Jean asked.
“That’s where Ben comes in. May stayed behind so she can get Ben on a plane to Wisconsin, and he’s going to talk our dad into coming.”
“This is the Ben who’s always at his restaurant?”
“Yep, and I guess he’s never left it in anyone else’s hands even one day since he opened it, despite having a sous chef he’s trained for this express purpose. May wasn’t even sure she’d be able to get him to go to our parents’ anniversary party after they bought the plane tickets, and now he’s going to have to leave even earlier, which she says he isn’t going to like, but it’s not like either of us can go. We’ve got too much to do here.”
Jean pulled the car up to the curb beside a brownstone. Three steps up from the street, a uniformed doorman stood beside a red door decorated with a discreet brass plaque that read THE IMPERIAL CLUB.
“This is a restaurant?” she asked.
“This is the Imperial Club.”
“Is it like a restaurant, or…?” Jean had brought her a change of clothes from Winston’s apartment, but she’d assumed they’d be eating somewhere laid-back. Not at a place with a doorman that looked like the Swiss Embassy.
“I’ve never been inside, but I hear it’s like nowhere else in New York.” Jean got out and came around to open her door. “Enjoy your lunch, madam.”
Allie gathered up her purse and clambered out. She lowered her sunglasses for protection. “Thanks for the ride.”
“My pleasure. I’ll be texting you about that football.”
“You do that.”
She watched him flip on the stereo and pull away from the curb into the flow of traffic, waiting until the Town Car had disappeared from view before she turned to confront the hurdle of the doorman and whatever lay beyond.
—
Allie closed her menu and offered it to the waiter, a dour man who looked like every character John Cleese had ever played. “I’ll have the blood pudding.”
“Excellent.”
