Porter Mallory did not fidgit, but his body, which should have been at ease in Bouley's cushioned chair, wanted to. His guest was not late, it lacked several minutes still of the hour. He himself had been quite early, to ensure all was arranged as he had specified. Not that he need have worried. Porter Mallory was a frequent patron of the luxurious TriBeCa restaurant; his preferences were known, his wishes catered to. Yet, he was nervous – only slightly so, but still. Not in many years had he experienced nerves of this sort. He sipped at his tiny glass of fine, dry sherry, glanced at the half-bottle of brut champagne, icing in silver.
Ivy Lynn's arrival, unsurprisingly, caused a tiny commotion – all heads turned, all courses interrupted for a moment. A uniformed minion hastened to take her wrap – golden sable (Derek's gift to his wife upon the birth of their daughter), usher her to her seat. Porter rose, breathed. Watched his guest's approach. Ivy wore a dress of dark green silk jersey. It looked, and was not, Porter knew, a simple frock. The quiet rich cloth pleated and draped about her curves, suggestive rather than explicit. Ivy could wear any color, but green was especially becoming to her.
"My dear Ivy, I am overjoyed. You are entrancing – your dress is divine – a beautiful green leaf to set off an incomparable golden rose."
Every dimple evident, "Porter, you are an indecent flatterer." Looking around her, "this is just beautiful – I've never eaten here. What a treat! Thank you so much!" Unaffected delight. As Porter had anticipated, the room was a lovely setting for Ivy – the soft warm ivory of walls and columns a background for her vividness; the gold leaf of the mutiple-arched ceiling and the leaping firelights glowed and flickered in her hair.
Waiters presented amuses bouches and menus, popped and poured champagne.
"Eileen has spoken to you, I take it?"
Ivy nodded, "she called this morning. I'm not allowed to tell Derek, yet – she said she'd tell him tonight – they're having dinner, too." It had been hard – impossible without conscious will – to keep the smile off her face since that call. "I'm thrilled to pieces, Porter. How about you?"
"The same, of course. Beyond words. But – in all honesty, a bit nervous, as well."
"Pull the other one, Porter. I can't even imagine seeing you nervous."
"You see me so now. Truly. Ivy, musical theatre has been the great love of my life, almost as far back as I can remember. Yet," he broke off as sea urchins arrived, paired wine attending; kept silence for the savoring.
"Oh, my God, that was delicious," Ivy murmured. "Seriously, though, Porter, you of all people don't need to be nervous – you're wonderful, and you know it."
"You are very kind. And – without false modesty, I know I – we – will be very good indeed. But – very good isn't what I want. Not even close. I want to be – and I want us to be – splendid, magnificent.
"And I have never, in my life, played a romantic lead. There are aspects to this I am wholly unfamiliar with. I must learn them, understand them, master them. Will you help me?"
Ivy looked at Porter, considering. "Never? Not even in school? Actually, I didn't play a lot of leads, either. Not until "Bombshell," and Marilyn isn't exactly a traditional romantic lead. Daisy, either, for that matter. I mean, of course, I'll help any way I can, but I'm not sure I know myself what it is you want to master. If that makes sense." She grinned. "But I'm down for us being splendid and magnificent. Anything toward that, I'm in."
Mushrooms with toro, in garlic-coconut broth, new glasses, wine. Bites taken, a coo from Ivy.
Porter smiled. "No, not even in school. And our cases are different. I have always known I was not, as they say, leading man material. You cannot have had the same knowledge – since you are, quite unmistakably now, an absolute peach of a leading lady, and must have known yourself such, even in the making, in your heart.
"Part of how I work, Ivy, is to spend time with the actors who play characters with whom my own character has relationships. Getting to know the feel of them, the tenors of their personae. It helps me create the feel of the life of the man, for myself. The unseen fabric. I don't explain this well, and I apologize. It isn't something I talk about, but I knew I must with you, for this."
She nodded, frowning slightly. "I think I get that. You took Ana out a lot, didn't you? And Simon some, and Sam a little. But not me, not Jimmy. Because there aren't relationships there."
"Just so. And, on a side note, I ought to have made this invitation earlier, Ivy – I have wanted to know you better for quite some time. And I ought, also, to make an overture to Jimmy – it is rather shameful of me to have left it this long."
"Would you? Porter, I'd really appreciate your reaching out to Jimmy. He might even beat you to it. I don't want to say anything specific," she answered the quizzical look, "I don't really know anything specific, but he needs someone to talk to – someone he doesn't have a lot of history with, and I think he thinks you might be it."
"I will most certainly do so, then. Jimmy is more than welcome to my ear any time, and my counsel - if he wants it. That it would gratify you is lagniappe."
Foie gras with quince and sherry produced sighs of pleasure on both sides of the table.
"Back to us, though – and "Kiss Me, Kate," and Fred and Lili," Porter's heart skipped – he had not before spoken the name of show or character aloud – he had made this real, concrete. "If you are very kind, Ivy, you will let me court you a little – ever so harmlessly. That, too, toward a beautiful, talented woman, is something I've no experience with – and Fred certainly does. May I, dear Ivy?"
Ivy considered her host. "Porter, does anyone, ever, say "no" to you?"
He laughed. "Rarely. Very rarely. But, then, I am rather particular about what I ask, and of of whom."
"I won't start a trend, then. Not too many dinners like this, though, I'll turn into a blimp and Eileen'll fire me." As veal with sweet corn in lemon verbena appeared.
"You would be surprised, Ivy – the dishes here are, in fact, made with much more an eye toward health than you would imagine from the taste. The chef is a marvel. However, we need not dine always – there are art exhibits, museums, films, concerts, and we will, I trust, sing a bit together – I've a small, but good upright at home, and I can play serviceably.
"And, too, if you care to, I would adore to have you – and Derek, of course, and darling Miranda, and your nanny – I am sorry, I don't recall her name – spend a weekend at my home in New Orleans. We might even manage it between closing the MTW run and Broadway, if the timing is favorable."
Apricot, rosemary granite, apple-ginger sorbet. Ivy could maybe persuade herself this symphony of flavors was a healthful dish. And the wine was poured sparingly each time, just enough to match the tasting portions.
"Can I think about that? Traveling so far with Miranda – she's never flown, I don't know how she'd react. I'd love to see New Orleans, some time, though. I never have . . ."
"We must make it happen, then. Think as much, as long, as you wish – the offer is open. If you prefer to come on your own – if that would be easier to arrange – nothing would please me more. Whatever works for you – and your family – will be my pleasure to accommodate."
"Oh, my God. What is this?" Something chocolate, under chocolate sauce. And ice cream.
"This, my dear, is the famous "chocolate frivolous." It is a souffle, with coffee gelato. Now, with both "chocolate" and "frivolous" in its name, how can you resist?"
"Oh, I'm not resisting. But I'll be taking extra dance class and doing double workouts for a week." Ivy grinned. "I'm not complaining – this evening is worth it. Totally. I've never eaten anything like this. Derek – he doesn't care about food much – he just eats what's there, he rarely even notices what it is."
"Bring him to New Orleans. Food-love is in the very air – perhaps we can liberate him. And, Ivy, one point – a pound of boiled crawfish has 30 calories. I'll bet you can't eat five pounds."
"You, Porter Mallory, are a tempter."
As they rose to leave, Porter draping sable over her shoulders, she looked up at him - "You won't forget – about Jimmy?"
She was genuinely anxious, he saw, and was touched. He had not realized how much Ivy cared for young Jimmy Collins. Sororal, not romance. "No," he promised, "I won't forget."