Fred’s was an elegant little Madison Avenue lunch spot on the ninth floor of the high-end department store Barney’s. It drew mostly wealthy women bent on defying age, wearing high heels, skinny jeans, diamonds. Eva was in a far corner, looking a bit like a Baroness in a two-piece deep blue velvet suit, accented by a small hat with sharp angles. Her gloves were ivory and she held a martini. She reached across and put her free hand over mine when I sat, and the sensation of the silky glove’s cloth was soothing. I felt that if I didn’t look away I would weep. I was glad I’d chosen a large pair of sunglasses, led by a desire to cower from the world.
“These are odd times,” she said. “Try the wedge. It’s amazing.”
We both ordered the Fred’s Wedge salad and I joined her in a martini. She ordere
