Danielle Steel: Happy Birthday: A Novel

April had her father’s natural discretion and simplicity, and her mother’s passion for hard work. No one worked harder than her mother, April knew. Her father had a much gentler, less ambitious view of life. The academic life suited him well. And both her parents readily admitted that their union had been a mismatch from the first. Their marriage had lasted only eight years, and they divorced when April was seven. Her mother had already been building her career by then, and her father said he didn’t have what it took to stick it out. He was in way over his head in her world. They were good friends now, and the divorce had never been bitter. They were just totally wrong for each other, and Valerie had always said to April that her father was a good man. He had married her stepmother within two years of the divorce. Maddie was a speech therapist who worked with children in the public schools, a far cry from Valerie, with her TV show, major career, endless licensing agreements, successful books, and glamorous public image. She hadn’t been as big a star when he married her, although she was heading that way, but Valerie had become one over the years. Maddie and April’s father had had two more children, two girls, Annie and Heather, who were respectively now nineteen and seventeen, and both good kids. Heather helped April in the restaurant sometimes in the summer and wanted to teach. Annie was a math genius, and a sophomore at MIT. They were all nice, decent, normal people, and both her parents enjoyed coming to the restaurant to eat. Her father often brought Maddie and Heather to dinner on Sunday nights, or for brunch, and Annie when she was home from school. He was very proud of April, and Valerie was too. And April loved the fact that there was no animosity between them and everybody got along. It made life easier for her. She couldn’t imagine living in a family with parents who hated each other after a divorce, although she had seen it happen to friends as she grew up. The only bad thing that had ever happened to her was the torturous relationship she’d had with the chef in France, which was probably why it had come as such a shock and hit her so hard. Until then, no one in her life had ever been abusive to her, or even unkind. She always said she never wanted to go out with another chef and was quick to say that most of the ones she knew were nuts.

As she drank her café au lait in the immaculate, quiet restaurant kitchen, she made some notes for additions to the menu that day. They would introduce the white truffle pasta at dinner, and they had two fish specials that day, and she added a Grand Marnier soufflé just for fun. The people who worked in the kitchen would start drifting in at nine, to start doing the prep work. The waiters came in at eleven, and the restaurant opened at noon.

April left just as the first of the sous-chefs, the under chefs, came in. She had an acupuncture appointment at nine. She went religiously twice a week, mostly to help her handle stress.

The acupuncturist she went to was on Charles Street, three blocks away. And over the years she’d gone to her, they had become friends. Unlike April, Ellen Puccinelli was married and had three kids. She had trained in England with a Chinese master, and said that she kept working just to stay sane and get some time away from them. April always enjoyed her time with her, it was part relaxation, part gossip with a girlfriend, and part shrink. Ellen usually brought her husband, Larry, and kids to dinner at the restaurant on Sunday nights. She was four years older than April, and her three rowdy boys were cute kids. She had been married for ten years. Her husband was a contractor, and life was something of a juggling act for them, living in New York.

Ellen smiled broadly as soon as April walked in, wearing jeans and a heavy sweater and the clogs she wore to work. Both women enjoyed what they did.

April took off her shoes, watch, and heavy sweater and laid her long, thin frame down on the immaculately draped table. Ellen’s office was always warm and cozy. It was the perfect place for her to relax. April’s long dark hair was in a braid that hung off the table. Ellen was a small woman, with short blond hair and big blue eyes. She looked like a pixie, and so did her kids. She had pictures of them on her desk.

“Isn’t today your birthday?” Ellen asked her, as she reached for April’s wrist to take her pulse. It always told her what was happening with her, which part of her body was being impacted by stress, long hours, or too much work.

“Yes,” April acknowledged with a rueful grin, “it is. I thought about it this morning and started getting really depressed, and then I figured what the hell. I’m lucky I have the restaurant, I can’t worry about what I don’t have.” Ellen was frowning as she took April’s pulse and didn’t comment. “Okay. What’s wrong? My liver, my lungs, or my heart? I had a cold last weekend, but I got over it in two days,” she said proudly, and Ellen smiled.

“Nah, just the usual stuff.” Ellen smiled at her friend. “Some of your defenses are down, but that’s normal for this time of year. We’ll do some moxa.” April loved the warm pungent smell of the moxa that Ellen lit on her belly and deftly removed before it burned her skin. It was both warming and healing and the part April loved best, but she didn’t mind the needles either. Ellen was so good at what she did that she never hurt her, and April always felt relaxed when she left. She’d been doing acupuncture since she got back from Europe, and swore by it, and Ellen was very good. “Any new men in your life?” she asked with interest, and April laughed.

“Four of them, in fact. Three new weekend waiters, and a sommelier I stole from Daniel Boulud.” She chuckled and Ellen shook her head.

“I meant real ones. There’s more to life than just cooking.”

“So they tell me,” April said, and closed her eyes, as Ellen continued to heat the moxa on April’s belly. It felt great. “I was thinking about that this morning. I used to think I’d be married and have kids by the time I was thirty. Now I can’t even imagine it for the next several years. Maybe when I’m thirty-five. I used to think thirty was so old. I still feel like a kid.” She looked like one as well. Like her mother, April didn’t look her age, and she had her mother’s looks, except for the dark hair. They had the same hazel eyes and perfect unlined skin. They were lucky. And April never wore makeup, she couldn’t see the point. It just melted on her face in the heat of the kitchen. She only wore it when she got dressed up and went out to a dinner party or on a date, which hadn’t happened for several years.

“You’ve got a lot to feel good about,” Ellen reminded her. “Most people don’t have successful restaurants at thirty. I’d say you’ve done pretty well.”

“Thank you,” April said quietly, as Ellen removed the moxa and started with the needles. She stopped after a minute and took April’s pulse again. She had an uncanny knack for sensing anything that was off balance, and she was rarely wrong.

“Are your periods screwed up again?” she asked after doing two more needles, and April smiled. Hers had been irregular for years. It was one of the ways the stress of her work manifested itself. Sometimes she didn’t have a period for several months. She was on the Pill, to try and stay regular, and to cover the occasional “slip,” although she didn’t have many. But she didn’t want to take the risk. And she hadn’t had a sexual “slip” in quite a while.

“I haven’t had a period in two months,” April said without concern. “Whenever I work a lot, I don’t get one for months. I’ve been pushing pretty hard. We added some new things to the menu last month.”

“Maybe you should check it out,” Ellen said casually as she did needles on April’s upper arms.