Loving Frank

"What is that?"

"What?"

"On your thigh?"

"Oh, that's your address. I didn't have any paper," the girl shrugged and tugged the hem of her dress down to cover the ink. She picked up a flute of sparkling wine and peach puree, a Bellini, and said, "I was going to write it on my hand. This is better, right?"

An address on a slim runner's thigh and bottles of champagne. Four lawyers, two teachers, two masters degrees, one move toward a doctorate in psychology, and me. I didn't quite know how we all knew each other, but for years, four of us had been meeting to discuss books. In the past year or so, our group had doubled in size.

In the past, neighbors had complained about our decibel level. In some restaurants, I could hear our table from the bathroom. The girl with the address on her thigh could hear us from the first floor when she entered the building; we met on the fourth.

The host's husband seemed somewhat put out when chased from the house. The apartment. He'd put together a playlist for us and we talked music in between words about the book, Loving Frank, historical fiction based on the extramarital love affair between Frank Lloyd Wright and Mamah Borthwick.

He'd seen the spread, the host's husband. Frittata. Asparagus. Baked French toast. Banana bread and zucchini and orange chocolate chip muffins. Fresh fruit. Mixed greens. A lemon bundt cake with fleur de lis baked into the side and powdered with sugar. Champagne.

With hanging head and hangdog eyes, he shuffled out to a bar, to meet up with a friend, to watch football.

Earlier in the day, a man called to ask me to watch football. He called to ask me to do just about anything but football was first on his list. Walking through the market and sidestepping to avoid a stumbling toddler, I stopped and shopped for carrots. A butternut squash.

"What are you doing today?"

"I'm actually on my way to book club," I said.

"Book club, huh?" he asked. "Do you watch football?"

"I do, but I'm heading to book club."

"Wouldn't you rather watch football?"

"No."

Not with him. Not instead of my plans, my friends, my Sunday afternoon with book club.

I'd crawled out of bed with three hours sleep to walk to the market for zucchini and banana. I'd grated. I'd mashed. I'd baked seven little loaves that filled my apartment with the sweet smell of home that greeted a friend and me as we came in from Oktoberfest to nap on a Saturday afternoon.

I had plans to pick up a friend. To drink a Bellini. A mimosa. To listen to music. To talk. To spend hours together and long for more, something else, something sooner than our November plans. To laugh over an address on a thigh.

The last-minute offer couldn't compete.


Tag: Books Friends Loving Frank