The Monarch Restaurant and Bar was located on King Street in the Village. Rachel liked its green wooden doors and awning, and the trees outside, just starting to come into their full foliage. The menu, posted in the window, looked modern American, and, she noted, had a nice vegetarian (not vegan) section.
John implied Marge spent her birthday here- that was obvious. Rachel wondered with whom. She didn't think it was John or Mary, but given Marge's connections and just plain awesomeness, it could be anybody.
So, how could she find out? Just go in and ask if Marge had a reservation on the 1st? She discarded that idea after pondering it for a moment. Were restaurants in the habit of releasing that kind of information to strangers? Probably not. But what if Margaret Bailey herself was in the neighborhood, and came in to ask, maybe to confirm her reservation? That would definitely work. Rachel Berry was an actress, after all. She could pull this off.
She was so excited at the idea, some obvious problems with the plan never occurred to her.
"May I help you?" asked the young woman at the hostess station.
"Yes!" Rachel replied, striding up. "My phone calendar got corrupted, and I wanted to confirm my reservation for April 1st." She pulled out her phone, anticipating affirmation.
"Of course! Under what name?"
"Bailey. Margaret Bailey."
The hostess flicked a glance at her before entering the name in the computer. She chewed her lip, looking at the screen.
"Ms….Bailey, would you excuse me just a moment? There seems to be a problem with the query. I have to recheck something" Rachel nodded, and looked around after she left. It was nice and quiet; the few early diners seemed well-attended by the staff. She noticed a collection of photographs on the back wall, but couldn't make out any names or faces. She was pleased with her performance.
"Ms. Bailey?" Rachel smiled and turned. The hostess had returned with an older gentleman in a dark suit.
"Yes?"
"I'm Jack Valentino.I'm the owner. There seems to be a problem with that reservation. Could you come with me? I'll personally attend to it myself."
"Certainly!" This was getting fun, she thought. They started to walk away towards the back, when the man suddenly stopped and leaned close so they wouldn't be overheard.
"Are you going to tell me who you really are now?" He was smiling, but Rachel could see that was just for the diners' benefit. The jig was up, apparently. But she didn't panic. Instead, she dug in her heels.
"I beg your pardon?" Maybe he'd just tell her to leave. Instead, he simply smiled and led her to the back wall, where the photographs were. He pointed at one, and her heart sank. There she was, looking impossibly beautiful, with the caption:
Margaret Johnson, 1982. Performance: A Midsummer Night's Dream.
"These are Obie award winners, right?" Rachel asked, awed.
Jack smiled. "Of course. I founded this place as a haven for Off-Broadway people. Margaret Bailey is one of my best customers. And a good friend." He looked at her quizzically. "Are you a fan of hers? If so, you must have been eight years old when you saw her." He put a hand on her shoulder. "She hasn't been on a stage in ten years, you know." Rachel nodded, sadly. Jack looked more intrigued than angry, though. They entered his office and she sat opposite him across his desk.
"So—can you at least tell me what's going on?"
A waitress appeared in the door asking if they wanted some coffee or something else to drink.
"Could I have some water, please? "Rachel asked, meekly, embarrassed now. Her mouth was dry. Jack ordered a coffee.
"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have lied," she said. And when he simply nodded, she went on to tell him everything. She also said all she wanted to know was if she was celebrating it with others. If so, then she would plan a party some other time. But if not, she really, really wanted to honor Marge with a party, and she was starting to formulate one in her head that would do that (assuming Marge agreed). Surprisingly, Jack seemed sympathetic.
"I'll tell you what. As I said, Margaret is a good friend." (who didn't she know?), "So are John and Mary Sheets. I'll talk with them and confirm your story, then I'll talk further with you." Rachel smiled, excitedly. He took her left hand. "I think it's wonderful you would want to honor her this way. And it's nice to know she is impressing young people like yourselves." He paused, looking thoughtful. "You should have seen her then. She was amazing. "
Rachel smiled, adding, "Maybe we'll all see her on stage again, someday." As she turned to leave, she said, "Thanks for not throwing me out," and gave him her phone number.
Later that evening, as she and Finn were having pizza, Jack called and said he had confirmed her story, and said something that broke her heart: For the last ten years, Marge had a standing reservation for one for the late supper at 11PM on March 31st.
"That is so sad," she said.
"Why is it sad, necessarily?" Finn asked. He smiled at Rachel's puzzled expression. "Rachel, she loves Nigel as much now as when he was alive. Maybe she talks with him, shares her life, and remembers." He paused, then said, solemnly, "I would do the same thing if I lost you."
She just stared at him, stunned. Then: "No." She was emphatic, shaking her head vigorously. "No. You cannot. Promise me you won't." She had to make him understand. "Promise me you'll find somebody else."
He was smiling at her, damn it! "I can't promise that, baby."
"Then at least promise me you'll try, try to be happy."
"I can never be unhappy again, knowing that you love me, and I deserve to love you. That can never change. I might grieve, mourn your loss, but nothing can change the fact that I found happiness with you."
Rachel stopped fighting it then. How could she, when she felt, at her core, exactly the same way?
"I still want to honor Marge's birthday with a party," she said, pouting, and, before he could say what she knew he was going to say, "If she lets us, of course."
XXXxxx
They were talking about birthdays. Geoff was having a bad night, and was Marge's only customer. He was looking forward to the evening of the 29th, when Elena arrived. But that was a week-and-a-half away, and the Skype session at the party, while sweet and unexpected was no compensation for her actually being in his arms.
"What's the best birthday present you ever got, Marge?" Geoff asked.
"My husband," she said without hesitation. "John and Mary Sheets took Nigel to one of my performances the day before my 25th birthday, and introduced us to each other backstage after the show. We had dinner together late that night and rang in my birthday with champagne."
"Sounds wonderfully romantic, Marge," Geoff said, impressed. He noticed how her waitress persona fell away when she spoke about it, and how she looked completely different—softer, more vulnerable. She looked much younger, but the sweetness of the memory was tinged with sadness, giving her a melancholy beauty. Her deep-set green eyes reminded him of Elena's. His heart went out to her.
"Yes, it was." She sighed, and he saw her rubbing the picture in her apron pocket. "Nigel was … a true romantic when it came to me. He talked the owners of that theatre into letting him bring in a catered dinner on their stage every March 31st after the night's performance, so we could mark my birthday at midnight."
"That's beautiful."
She gave a short nod, holding back tears as she looked at him with a small smile.
"So, what about you, Geoff? What's the best birthday present you ever received?"
"That's easy," he replied, reaching into the neck of his hoodie and pulling out a silver medal on a chain. He pulled it over his head and handed it to Marge, who looked at it intently.
"It's a St Christopher medal," she said, smiling. "Did Elena give it to you?"
Geoff nodded. "She gave it to me when I turned fourteen. He's the patron saint of surfers." Marge looked up, surprised and delighted. "Back in the 60's, surfers started giving St Christopher medals to their girlfriends and boyfriends to signify going steady."
"Awwww", said Marge, "How sweet is that? Did you give her one?"
"Of course!" Geoff grinned. "If you flip the medal over, though, you'll see why it's even more special."
Engraved on the back of the medal, set flush to the surface, was a beautiful Star of David. Marge looked up curiously.
"You're Jewish?" He shook his head.
"No, but my maternal grandmother is. Elena said she wanted to give me a medal that joined my two religious heritages."
"What a marvelously thoughtful gift," Marge gushed. "And she was fourteen when she gave you this?"
"No, she was still thirteen. Her birthday is May 27th. We actually met in July."
"So you waited nine months before deciding to go steady?" Marge threw him a playful sidelong look. He laughed.
"No, our allowances had to wait that long. We were only thirteen when we met, remember." Marge grinned. "We exchanged puka shell necklaces to mark the official start, which was actually in September."
"It must have been hard, going to different schools."
"Well, it was good practice for now, I guess," he said, and she heard the weariness and longing in his voice.
Another customer entered the diner, so she left him to his studying, and by 3:30 he was ready to try and sleep a bit, and left.
A car passed; she glanced at it idly, chin resting in her hand as she leaned on the counter. She started polishing again. The dark-stained cherry wood gleamed under the bright diner lights, reflecting her face back in its shiny surface, but it wasn't the face of Marge, the world-weary diner waitress. It was her real face instead, the face of the still-beautiful stage actress. Wondering what that meant, she paused and stood, almost at attention, liked she used to do when marshalling her thoughts just before stepping out on stage. All the familiar smells and sounds came back, and for the first time in a very long while, she felt the pull of her old life again. But doubt quickly followed. How could she do it without him?
He was her muse. To whom could she go to explore her ideas about characters, to double-check her acting instincts, to point her to other theatrical works that could give her interpretations depth and complexity? They had worked so well together; didn't he tell her how well she improved his understanding of the performance of a work, its living aspect, and how that helped better inform his understanding of the written words themselves? Didn't he say she was the reason his lectures were so popular with students?
She felt stuck, until, suddenly, in her mind's eye she saw him laughing, reminding her she was successful before they ever met.
"It was so much better with you, though," she told him aloud, hoping he could hear. She felt the tears come.
He gave no answer. There would be no sign to guide her. All she had was herself, and the restlessness of not doing what she loved to do. No, that wasn't quite true, she thought. She did have her love for him, and the love he left to her. And her friends.
That gave her a rush of self-confidence. Maybe it was time to see if she could do it on her own, and in doing so honor that love. Maybe it was time to audition for the part of herself.
XXXxxx
He may have adored her, but Marge knew Nigel was growing impatient. The stereo system was off, and she could hear him pacing. What he didn't know wouldn't hurt him, she thought: the owner of the restaurant was holding their table for her, and wouldn't hand it over if they were a bit late. And she wanted to look perfect for him tonight. One didn't turn 30 every day. Well, technically Nigel wouldn't turn 30 until tomorrow, but she wanted him to herself before the party with their friends the next evening.
She slipped her emerald silk, sleeveless dress over her head, adjusted it, then did a final touch up of her makeup. Her red hair was tied back in an elegant ponytail, with pearl drop earrings and matching necklace. He loved her freckles. Slipping on her wedding rings, she exited the bathroom, feeling happy, beautiful, and excited.
"Well," he said, looking gorgeous himself in a gray, perfectly-tailored Savile Row suit, "That was definitely worth the wait." He kissed her cheek so as not to smudge her soft red lipstick, and held her black coat as she slipped it on.
Marge snuggled close to Nigel in the town car she had rented as it made its way from Williamsburg into Manhattan. They talked about a planned off-Broadway version of the avant-garde playwright Peter Handke's The Ride Across Lake Constance. She liked the play more than Nigel did, and was pushing her agent to get her an audition.
"I love the idea that the characters in the play are given the actual names of the actors playing them," she told him. "When else am I going to get to do that?"
"When you star as yourself in the play based on your autobiography, luv," Nigel replied. "That sounds like a much better deal." God, how she adored this man.
He said he just didn't like the play's structure, and that it would stick in his craw every time he came to see her in it. Marge kissed him for that, knowing full well he would come to every performance he could anyway-as he did every other play in which she had worked, good or bad, since they met.
They were only fifteen minutes late. The Monarch was a well-established restaurant on King Street in Greenwich Village, which catered to off-Broadway actors by holding very late hours. With one Obie award under her belt the year before meeting Nigel, she knew the owner very well.
They were shown to their table, and, as if by magic, a chilled bottle of Bollinger champagne appeared.
"Happy Birthday, Old Man," Marge joked, clinking his glass with hers. In the soft light of the restaurant he looked so happy and content. She wanted that moment to last forever.
They had roast lamb for dinner, his favorite. Even their use of the cutlery was in sync; Marge had adopted Nigel's holding of the fork in his left hand at all times, tines facing down, and employing the knife for pushing food onto the back of the fork, as well as for cutting. It felt strange at first, but she soon came to appreciate not having to clumsily switch hands to cut and then eat meat, and that it forced her to eat more slowly. She never acquired his fondness for using an egg cup, however, nor his passion for Indian food, but Nigel enthusiastically embraced her love of French and Mexican cuisine.
"Time for dessert," she said, with a sly grin, and nodded mysteriously to their waiter. They were enjoying the crème brûlée when he returned again, this time holding a large, wrapped box. Nigel raised an eyebrow.
"Open it, baby," she purred. It was a black slipcase, with the words "Original Master Recordings" in gold running along the top, and "The Beatles—The Collection" embossed on the sides. Inside were the band's 13 British studio albums, half-speed mastered from the original master tapes, and pressed on special, flawless vinyl.
His favorite band, in sonically perfect form (he despised compact discs).
"I saw you staring at it in the record shop," she said, when all he could do was look at her in complete, speechless adoration, "And I knew you'd never buy it for yourself."
"This is the best birthday present I've ever received," he said, eventually, and she helped him finish off the Bollinger before heading home. He showed her his appreciation that night, and by taking his first sick day ever from work the next day, which the two of them spent on the couch, in musical nirvana, until it was time for her to go to the theatre, and for him to sit in the front row, playing the part of her biggest fan.
She still celebrated "Fab Four Flu Friday", once a year.
