Happy Birthday
“I should like a cake this year, I think.”
“For…?”
“For my birthday.”
“Oh! Are you having a birthday again? Well, of course! Which kind?” as she said this, Roberta’s mind raced through all the favorite varieties evinced over the years, the cakes shared at fancy parties, the impromptu bakery stops on one trip or another, the fine delicacies tasted and sampled and treasured. She can’t think of a single one enjoyed more than any other, and remembering them all made her want to wander back to the kitchen and search for whatever might be hiding in the cupboards.
“Oh, I don’t know. There really have been so many.” Lollie pondered this for a moment and looked down her nose and over her gold-rimmed glasses at Roberta with very stern, arched eyebrows. “Now, Bertie, you remember what happened to the drawing-room curtains for Old Aunt Brandewyn’s party.”
“I wouldn’t presume,” Roberta said loftily, knowing full well that the insinuation pertained to the use of candles as decoration. She would have thought that the fact that Old Aunt Brandewyn was most often pickled through over-consumption of her namesake and therefore was quite capable of turning into a flame thrower when applying her 180-proof breath to a conflagration of two hundred candles would be pertinent information to any conversation regarding —
“What was that, Bertie?”
“What?”
“You were mumbling?”
“No, no, reviewing ingredients. I shall have to go survey the cupboards.”
Lollie chuckled to herself as Roberta bustled from the room.
Several days later, there was a great deal of shouting and clanging from the kitchen.
“Everything all right?” Lollie asked from behind the newspaper in the drawing room as Bertie went streaking by, followed by clouds of grey. Lollie was slightly disappointed: Bertie hadn’t even noticed Lollie’s muddy gum boots perched on the antique coffee table. She must be disturbingly preoccupied to not squawk about that!
“Gremlins!” Bertie shouted.
“Language!” Lollie called back.
There was a loud clanging noise from somewhere down the hall, and Bertie returned a moment later with a burnt frying pan in one hand, a half-melted spatula in the other, and her hair sticking all ways. She wore smudges of soot over nearly every stitch of clothing and portion of exposed skin like badges of honor.
“What?” she asked, absently.
“Language, dear. As Father would say, no excuses for mindlessness.”
“What language?”
“You shouted something.”
“I…” Bertie wore a puzzled look upon her face beneath the brown curls that had apparently been dusted with half the flour in the town. The light dawned.
“Oh! I said gremlins.” She smiled and flipped the frying pan over.
Lollie’s eyes went wide.
“I see.” She said. She stood up and went to the outside telephone in the foyer.
In the formal dining room of their favorite hotel in Paris, they enjoyed a sumptuous meal, decadently and delicately prepared and presented. Later there would be Opera, and a midnight viewing of all of Lollie’s favorites in the Louvre. Tomorrow would bring their traditional visit to the Catacombs. They ate together happily.
Afterwards, the grinning waiters wheeled out the House Specialty, decorated with a few candles, while singing a substantially inappropriate celebratory tune from Lollie and Bertie’s younger years that had most of the nearby customers blinking wildly.
“I still can’t believe they said it will take three weeks to root them out.” Bertie said, querulously.
“You’ve said that three times now.” Lollie pointed out with an arched eyebrow.
“Truth bears repeating.” Bertie sniffed.
“Ah, that was one of Father’s favorites, wasn’t it? Too bad about the birthday cake,” Lollie said, “I know you were excited to make it for me. It’s a shame the gremlins were so hell-bent on infesting the kitchen.”
“Too many cooks.” Roberta grumbled, taking a bite of the oozing caramel on the plate in front of her and sighing happily.
Or not enough of them, Lollie thought mischievously.
Some truths should never be mentioned at all.
Happy Birthday Lollie! Love, Bertie
