A Splendid Gift by Alyson Richman Page B

correct.
    But he assured her he had received the transmission loud and clear and that he would be there.
    ***
    She had her apartment ready by eleven o’clock. She had bought flowers for the dining room table and prepared a meal of roasted chicken and a salad. She had set the table with her good china and sterling, all wedding gifts from her brief marriage.
    She dressed her slender frame in simple shapes that accentuated her figure. She wore her hair like Rita Hayworth and lined her dark eyes with kohl.
    She served the salad in a fluted bowl. She had already cut the chicken into slices, to avoid Saint-Exupéry seeing her wearing an apron and holding a carving knife.
    ***
    He arrived more than two hours late.
    Her ten-year-old son, Stephen, was at school, but would be returning home within the hour. She had nearly given up hope when the doorman rang and said she had a visitor.
    “Send him up!” She could barely contain her excitement.
    And when she opened the door, there wasn’t a hint of exasperation in her voice despite his late arrival.
    “You made it!” she said, as she opened her arms to greet him. As he leaned in to kiss her, they discovered that the scent of her perfume was a word common to both of them.
    “Rose,” he said, inhaling her fragrance as he kissed her.
    She smiled as she felt his lips on her cheek. “Yes,” she said. “It’s my favorite.”
    ***
    That first afternoon, in the elegance and comfort of Silvia’s Upper East Side apartment, Saint-Exupéry discovered a well-needed refuge, even though his hostess barely spoke a word of his native tongue. For as soon as he stepped over her threshold, he felt at home. Like his mother, Silvia possessed a rare gift of making every space she inhabited beautiful.
    He admired her colorful collages—the clippings of cabbage roses and tendrils she adorned on small plates and her framed pieces of needlepoint. He took note of how artistically she had arranged the vase of fresh flowers, and how even her black poodle was perfectly groomed. Whereas his wife created a tornado in her wake, Silvia emitted a sense of tranquility and ease.
    What he wanted to tell her—though he lacked the words in English—was that her home reminded him of France. He had the sensation that he could have been in Paris, or in the dining room of his childhood home in Saint-Maurice. He closed his eyes and savored the chicken. Silvia both soothed and enchanted him.
    He reached out toward her as she came closer, lifting the silk hem of her dress. After seeing her taut thigh, he forgot all about Silvia’s homemade apple tart.
    ***
    Over the next several weeks, he sought her out often. She was a tonic for his restlessness. He would typically surprise her late at night, bearing a bottle of wine and a folder full of his latest writings. The moment he removed his coat and slipped off his shoes, a sense of relief washed over him. Without uttering a word, she would usher him to the sofa, hand him a glass, and massage his feet in her deft hands.
    She learned that she needn’t go through the trouble of roasting a chicken on his behalf. He requested only scrambled eggs and a tumbler of gin. The fragrance of the butter melting in the frying pan or the jingle the ice made as she handed him his cocktail, were rituals he adored.
    ***
    He believed Silvia possessed a unique magic, one that he had sensed from their very first encounter, when her eyes shone and her hands danced for him alone. It was as pure as the language of children. Two souls bound together without the use of words.
    That she was a mother also endeared her to him. He loved her little boy, Stephen, often amusing him with small pranks. He taught him to make water balloons and crafted him an airplane from Popsicle sticks. He brought him a set of colored pencils and encouraged him to write and draw.
    On the evenings when her son was at her parents’, they’d go out to dinner at Ruby Foo’s, feeding each other dumplings. They drank cocktails