The year? 1986. The month? August. The place? Your apartment balcony; ‘tis a balmy, summer’s eve in The City That Never Sleeps. You look over Central Park, the fleeting sun catches the beautiful reds and golds of the changing leaves. A soft summer wind catches your silk nightgown, gently attempting to whisk you away into the night with it. You wish it would.
Five months have passed since your unforgettable tryst with Mr. Sinatra. That night was a whirlwind of passion, sensual exploration, and pure love. He made you feel so young.
But that night is far behind you.
Woody hasn’t come over in weeks. This morning, he drove Soon-Yi to school after a particularly nasty soccer incident left her injured. Such a responsible man, that Woody Allen. What a morally strong individual.
Tubs of ice cream and jars of pickles are strewn across your apartment. Your insatiable cravings for these contrasting delicacies only reinforces your deepest, darkest, fear for the inevitable.
You’re pregnant. And Frank Sinatra is the father.
The phone rings, and you let it ring out. Once. Twice. Three times. He’s taught you how to keep someone in suspense.
You pick up the handset.
He cuts you off. “I know.”
“What are we going to do?”
“Yes, Frank. We. It’s yours too.”
“It? Don’t call my son an it.”
“We don’t know if it’s a boy or a girl yet!”
“I’m due for another boy, Mia. Don’t let me down.”
“You think I’m going public with this? What will the press think? What will Woody think? We can’t have kids, Frank! He’s infertile!”
“Psh. Big surprise.”
“Frank, what is the matter with you? What happened to the wonderful, sensitive, kind man from five months ago?”
There’s silence, at first. He lets out a long sigh. You’ve caught him.
“Mia, I’m, I’m sorry. Ever since that damn Kitty Kelley book came out, my family and I haven’t been the same. I’ve lost everyone important in my life. Except, except you.”
Zing went the strings of your heart. He has a way of getting through to you.
“Frank, it’s okay.”
“I want to see you.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“I know it isn’t. But I need to talk to you. Face to face. Cheek to cheek.” You hate it when he quotes himself.
“Frank, as much as I want to see you right now, that would be somethin’ stupid. Not just for me, but for you, too.”
“You’re right. That’s life, I suppose.”
Another pregnant pause.
“Frank, I have to go,” you reason. “I need to rest.”
“You rest. Goodnight, sweetheart.”
You set down the phone, thinking this will be the last you’ll hear from Ol’ Blue Eyes. But, in fact, you two shall meet one final time in precisely four months, the night before you deliver your son: Satchel Ronan O’Sullivan Farrow Sinatra.