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"Oh," Melanie said, turning. "Happy birthday, Christie."
"Yes," Richard cried like a parrot. "Happy birthday."
Jefferson followed them away and I headed for the kitchen. Mr. Nussbaum's face brightened the moment he set his eyes on me. Mommy said he had been with the hotel forever and probably lied about his age. She estimated him to be in his early eighties. During the last few years, he had agreed to take on an assistant, his nephew Leon, a tall, lanky, brown-haired man with sleepy chestnut eyes. Although he always looked half-awake, he was a wonderful chef and practically the only person Nussbaum would tolerate interfering in his kitchen.
"Ali, the birthday girl," Nussbaum said. "Come . . . see," he beckoned and I approached one of the counters on which he had trays and trays of hors d'oeuvres prepared. "There will be three different kinds of shrimp, each baked in a special dough, fried won-tons, fried zucchini and a cheese selection, some with ham and some with bacon. That one Leon made," he added and pointed. "Come," he said and took my hand to show me the fine cuts of prime rib.
"I have a chicken in wine sauce for those who don't want the beef. See what my baker has made," he added, showing me the small rolls and breads. The breads were shaped into musical notes.
"You can't see the cake yet. That's a big surprise," Mr. Nussbaum said.
"It all looks so wonderful."
"So, why shouldn't it be wonderful? It's for a wonderful young lady. Right, Leon?"
"Oh, yes, yes," he said, cracking a smile quickly.
"My nephew," Mr. Nussbaum said, shaking his head. "That's why I can never retire." He beamed his smile at me. "But you don't worry about anything. Just enjoy."
"Thank you, Mr. Nussbaum," I said. I left the kitchen and headed for the lobby, but when I rounded the corner, I met Uncle Philip, who was coming from the old section of the hotel.
"Christie," he cried. "How wonderful—a chance to congratulate my favorite niece privately. Happy birthday." He embraced me and pulled me to him and then pressed his lips to my forehead, softly at first and then, surprising me by continuing his kiss down the side of my head to my cheek.
Uncle Philip was handsome, a debonair man who always dressed elegantly in tailored sports jackets and slacks with creases so sharp they looked like they could cut your fingers, gold and diamond cufflinks, gold rings, and gold watches. His hair was always well trimmed and brushed, not a strand out of place. I never saw him w
ith shoes not polished into mirrors. His idea of being sloppy was wearing a jacket without a tie.
Aunt Bet was just as prim and prissy, not wearing anything that wasn't in style or created by some designer. She never came down unless her hair was perfect and her make-up was applied to bring out what she believed were her best features: her long eyelashes, thin mouth and small chin.
Uncle Philip did not release me after he lifted his lips from my cheek. He held me out at arms' length and looked down at me, nodding.
"You have become a very, very lovely young lady, even lovelier than your mother was at your age," he said softly, so softly it was practically a whisper.
"Oh no, I'm not, Uncle Philip. I'm not prettier than Mommy."
He laughed, but still kept me in his arms. I was beginning to feel uncomfortable. I knew that Uncle Philip loved me, but sometimes I felt I was too old for his affectionate hugs and caresses and they embarrassed me. I tried to shrug out of his arms without being rude, but his hold grew a little tighter.
"I like the way you're wearing your hair these days," he said. "Your bangs make you look very grown-up, very sophisticated." He ran his forefinger along my forehead gently.
"Thank you, Uncle Philip. I'd better get out front. Aunt Trisha is arriving any moment."
"Oh yes, Trisha," he said, smirking. "That woman drives me mad sometimes. She can't sit still. She's always spinning and turning and rushing here and there, and those hands . . . they're like two birds attached to her wrists always trying to break free."
"She's like that because she's a performer, Uncle Philip."
"Right. The theater," he said, his voice light but his look serious as he looked down, still holding me.
"I've got to go," I repeated.
"Me too. Happy birthday again," he said, kissing my cheek once more before he released me.
"Thank you," I said and hurried away, some-thing wistful in his look making my heart skip a beat.
Just as I entered the lobby, I saw Mommy greeting Aunt Trisha. They hugged as I ran across the lobby. Aunt Trisha was wearing a dark red dress with a long skirt that came nearly down to her ankles. When she spun around, the skirt flew about like the skirt of a flamenco dancer. She had sandals with straps up her calves and wore a white shawl loosely around her shoulders. Her dark brown hair was drawn back from her face and pinned up in a chignon that I thought looked very glamorous. Long earrings made of sea shells dangled from her lobes.
"Darling Christie!" she cried and held out her arms for me. "Look at you," she said, holding me out at the shoulders. "You grow more beautiful every time I visit. This one's headed for the stage, Dawn," she said, nodding.
"Perhaps," Mammy said, gazing at me proudly. "Are you hungry, Trish?"
