That had been Sylvia' s secret conviction- had she not been forced to work in her father's store, she could have been high school valedictorian-but how had Hal known? "What I can do is make up recipes in my head," she said, swirling her second glass of wine. "I know how much baking powder will make things rise, and how many eggs will hold things together, and what you can substitute if you run out. If you know the right proportions, you can make anything," Sylvia said, blushing. She had never said anything so puffed up before, but now that she had, the idea reverberated with self-evident truth like the Declaration of Independence, or was it the Constitution? "They say Beethoven composed the Ninth Symphony after he was deaf," Hal said, refilling her glass. "Symphonies are not in my repertoire, but anything else... " He laughed. "A bargain, Sylvia; you make dinner tomorrow, and I'll paint your portrait." Sylvia no longer believed what she saw in her mirror. What miracle could she hope for from a painting? But cooking for more than one stirred some cauldron deep within her: roast lamb, potato souffle, green beans almandine, spinach mushroom salad, chocolate torte. Who could resist those savory syllables? So mornings she'd consult the cookbook in her head, make her list, and shop. Afternoons she'd sit for her portrait in the maple armchair with the flowered cushion that went with the bedroom set that couldn't make Judy happy. Hal set up his easel, sketched an outline, and began painting. He wouldn 't Jet her look, but she sensed each brushstroke on her skin. He told her how he'd been a printer, a salesman, a sailor in the war. She didn't ask which war, and he didn't expect her to. He was the same Depression generation as Irving. Like him, he had gone to Brooklyn Tech and, like him, had taken any job he could get. The ground seemed solid underfoot, so Sylvia talked about her own life. She told him she had gone to James Madison High, and she had loved school. ln eleventh grade she owned one white blouse, washed and ironed every night, worn one day with a scarf, one day with a tie, one day plain, when she ran for class president, Jl
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