Frankie recognized him immediately. Charlie Acton, Omaha, Nebraska. He was a year behind her at Princeton. Nice Guy. A little straight. Army ROTC. He was someone Frankie said “hey” to while walking across campus. She didn’t really know him except for a zoology class they had together, and she hadn’t thought about him in at least twenty years. Charlie kissed Samantha and sat down beside her.
“Sorry I’m late, sweetheart, I got caught up with that interview.”
“Well, we’re having a wonderful time. Jil’s telling us about Amir’s engagement party at the Vatican.”
“Wow! Sorry I missed it. Great to see you, Jil.” He embraced Jil in the way that Frankie recently noticed straight men pointedly do.
“Francesca Weissman.” He took her hand. “I haven’t seen you since sophomore-year zoology. I was so happy when Samantha told me she had run into you.”
“Were you two college buddies?” Jil asked.
“I always wished we were. Just very nice acquaintances,” Charlie answered, and helped himself to a caipirinha. “Deixa bebida!” He raised his glass and tossed off the toast in effortless Portuguese.
“What does that mean?” Frankie put down her glass.
Charlie laughed. “It gets you drunk.”
While Jil repeated the pope’s closet story for Charlie during dinner, Frankie remembered talking to Charlie once after class. It was the day he was rejected from the Ivy Club. Frankie had very deliberately never tried to belong to any eating clubs. Instead, she spent her time outside of class stage-managing for the Triangle Club, the illustrious collegiate theatrical group. But Charlie decidedly wanted the validation. Charlie was a bit awkward as an undergraduate. He listened to James Taylor and Simon & Garfunkel when everyone else had moved on. Frankie remembered that for weeks he carried around a copy of This Side of Paradise in his back pocket. Charlie was the kind of kid who wore a denim jacket because that’s what he grew up wearing in Omaha. Frankie also remembered he always called her Francesca. He said it was what F. Scott would have done.
When the dessert bowls came Jil exclaimed, “I love these bowls. Très moderne classique.”
“It’s Alvar Aalto.” Charlie casually mentioned the name.
“The Finn?” Jil asked only to underscore that, of course, he knew the origins of modern design.
“Yes. We’re collecting him now. After dinner I’ll take you into the library to see the most terrific chair. In my mind Aalto makes Mies look like Ethan Allen.” Charlie smiled wryly at his insider put-down.
“Ever since I burnt all of Charlie’s old home furnishings all hell has broken loose.” Samantha laughed heartily.
A waiter appeared with a dessert tray of sliced bananas, nuts, ice cream logs shaped like miniature bananas, hot fudge, and whipped cream in silver pitchers.
“Ooh-la-la! Are these the hot fudge sundaes we all read about in Manhattan magazine?” Jil twinkled.
“Francesca.” Charlie turned away from his wife. “You’re a Princeton graduate. Explain to our guest what bananas, hot fudge, and ice cream generally add up to.”