Which explains why I’d been sitting alone for almost an hour nursing a beer at a table for two in One If By Land, Two If By Sea in Greenwich Village, my favorite eating spot (that used to be our favorite eating spot). I doubted the romantic tale that in an earlier time it had been Aaron Burr’s stable, but such cynicism is the inevitable byproduct of marrying a lawyer—especially a much-sought-after trial lawyer.
I’d reserved that particular table so I could see both the front door and the pianist playing soft jazz on the baby grand. Contra Steinway’s traditional ebony finish, this one was the same rich mahogany as the pianist, who that night was covering the Ella Fitzgerald songbook.
The discreet sign on the piano simply identified her as Meisha. It left unsaid that her stunning piano and vocal talents were no match for her timeless beauty, which I knew to be but a pale echo of her inner beauty (no, I’m not an objective observer). She smoothly segued from Autumn in New York to My Funny Valentine, adding her smoky vocal to the latter.
She was more than doing justice to Ella’s classic interpretation when, right on cue, my phone vibrated. Speaking softly to avoid irritating, I didn’t bother with a greeting.
—Let me guess, you had to stay to prepare for a really important trial tomorrow… Or something.
—No, no, I’m not being nasty, dear, just trying to save time. How much longer do you think you’ll be, or are you going to blow me off again? I started having to add the “off” at least a couple of years ago.
—Yes, of course I want you to come. After all, it’s our tenth anniversary, which means it must be Valentine’s Day again.
—No, I’m sure another 45 minutes won’t be a problem. They’re very understanding about such matters. I didn’t add that I’d assured them of a handsome bonus whether or not we ordered.
—See you then. Hope you were able to work it all out. Or in. (I managed to toss in the last without a snicker and ended the call. As had become our norm, neither one of us professed our love.
It was well over another hour, of course, before I saw her negotiating the winding path between tables. She was the very image of a junior partner at Motte&Bailey Esqs., LLC—medium height, slim, the top button of her greige power suit undone, skirt a modest inch above hosiery-clad knees, black four-inch Ferragamo pumps. She’d released her blonde locks from the business bun to flow in gentle curls. Those glacial-blue eyes, haughty cheekbones, straight nose, and delicious lips were highlighted by the scantest of makeup wizardry.
Hitchcock would have signed her in a New York minute.
Had this been a normal night out when she kept me waiting, I would have later discovered her to be recently showered, probably refreshed with her favorite pomegranate douche, and just a hint of her signature scent. Apparently she believed that such post-tryst ablutions forestalled any suspicion of dalliance, a curious self-deception for an otherwise brilliant barrister.
This, though, was no normal night out. She click-clacked up to the table and, as usual, waited for me to stand and pull out her chair. I wasn’t going to continue my role as her dogsbody, but fortuitously, Karl—my favorite waiter in my favorite eating spot—materialized to do the honors. That was a very good thing. My failure to serve would have created an awkward scene, to say the least. I worried momentarily that Karl could read my mind, then chalked it up to his decades of experience reading diners’ body language.
I gave her my best phony smile. She threw down the gauntlet even before she put down her purse. “Not even a hello how are you?” Meisha began her third set with The Lady is a Tramp. My smile relaxed to genuine.
“What would you like to drink, Lilith? As I recall, you’re partial to Tanqueray gimlets. Since you’re getting such a late start, let’s make it a double.” Karl re-materialized to take our drink orders, I switched to whiskey.
“I didn’t say I wanted a gimlet.” I shrugged. She didn’t have to say it, they’d been her mother’s milk since our first date those long years ago. When Karl brought our drinks I wondered if she would toss hers in my face, but waste not want not—true to form she just drained it. I sipped my bourbon-and-branch.
“You really don’t have to be a raging asshole, you know.” She leaned back in her chair, settled in for yet another round of our seemingly endless title bout. My smile grew broader as I savored the thought that, unbeknownst to her, our interminable sparring was destined to end that night.
Meisha finished all of Hart’s original version of The Lady Is a Tramp, including the verse and all 12 chorus parts, then smoothly shifted to Cole Porter’s offbeat offering Miss Otis Regrets. Lilith and I examined the menus that Karl brought and repeated our drink orders without ordering food. I listened to the music, she fiddled with her phone.
Meisha sang as beautifully as she played, and she played as beautifully as she looked. I still periodically pinched myself that this amazing woman serenading us found something in me to like, let alone (as she frequently insisted) to love. After delighting the diners with another half-dozen of Ella’s classics, she closed out the set—and her evening—with a reprise of My Funny Valentine. It was, after all, Valentine’s Day.
Her closing set inspired more-than-polite applause; some of the more appreciative approached the piano to deposit a dead president or two in the tip box. Even sophisticated New Yorkers didn’t hesitate to show their appreciation of her effortless playing, sensuous voice, and earthy beauty.
After the applause trailed off, she got up from the keyboard, picked up some papers, and sashayed—no other word suited—to our table. The mid-calf ivory sheath, slit both sides to just above the knee, seemed to glow against her rich sienna.
Handing me the sheet music for The Lady Is a Tramp, she asked, “Is this what you wanted, Mr. Warden?” I nodded and handed it to Lilith. She gave me a suspicious look, then opened it and looked inside. Her eyebrows went up and her jaw fell down, a betrayal of surprise usually avoided by canny lawyers.
“What the—” I interrupted before she could drop her beloved F-bomb.
“Why, it’s a Petition for Divorce, dear. I’m sure you’re familiar with them, although this is probably the first one you’ve seen with your name on it.”
Karl materialized for the third time, picked up my phone, and took her picture as Meisha proclaimed, “Harriet Lilith Marguerite Endicott Warden, you have been served.” My then-current wife was unhappy that Meisha had revealed her first name was “that goddamn old-fashioned” (her words) Harriet, not Lilith, and it really chapped her ass that everyone heard she’d taken my name when we married—even though the minute she graduated from Yale Law she never answered to it again.