The Ramblers (2 page)

“People will see us.”

C
lio sits alone at the hotel bar.

She traces her fingertip around the rim of her empty champagne flute and surveys the aftermath of the party. The lobby and bar are littered with wineglasses and crumpled cocktail napkins, evidence of exuberance and good cheer. Wooden skewers with clinging shreds of chicken satay are tucked here and there. A crimson scarf has been left behind on a velvet chair. Towers of plates wait to be whisked away.

Henry's staffers dart about with a quiet efficiency, attacking the mess, transforming chaos back to order. All will be pristine in no time and the Here Inn will sparkle for the first guests, who will check into their new rooms in a matter of hours. Henry has done this four times before, and
he swears this is the most fun part, when real people arrive toting their literal and metaphorical baggage.

In the beveled mirror above the bar, Clio catches a glimpse of herself and barely recognizes what she sees. The pin-straight hair; the dramatic eye makeup, now smudged; the twinkling silver dress. She crosses and uncrosses her legs on the leather bar stool, kicks off the brutal, borrowed heels, massages some feeling back into her toes.

For a sublime second, a sentence floats through her head unsolicited, an impossible thought.

I am happy.

Can this be? Is it too soon? It hasn't even been a year.

She feels a smile take over her face. Not one of the artificial, fake-it-to-make-it smiles she's perfected over the years as a matter of survival, the smile she flashed so many times tonight in an abiding effort to pass muster, but a real-deal smile.

Jett, the platinum-haired bartender, returns from hefting bags of empty bottles out back. A recent Juilliard grad, he harbors dreams of Broadway.

“I can't believe how quickly this place came together in the last month,” Clio says, looking around and taking it all in. It's all so perfectly Henry: the pressed-tin ceiling, dark wood moldings, vintage chandeliers and mosaic floor. There's a real Christmas tree with tiny white lights by the wood-burning fireplace and the room smells of oak and pine. “When I left town, it was still a construction zone.”

“The crew worked around the clock. You should have seen Mr. Kildare—he was right in there, screwing in lightbulbs and drilling holes . . .”

“Well, that must have been a sight,” she says, smiling at the image. “It doesn't surprise me. Henry lives for the details.”

“That he does,” Jett says, filling her glass reflexively. “Where were you anyway?”

“South America, for work,” she says, stretching her arms to stifle a yawn. Jett seems intrigued, so she continues. “My department has
a grant to study Andean hummingbirds.” Jett's eyes glaze over a bit. “I just flew in this morning so I could be here for the party, and I'm not really seeing straight. Can't tell if the champagne is helping or hurting.”

“In my experience, champagne helps until it really doesn't,” Jett says through a knowing smile. “So what's better? Chasing down birds or rubbing elbows with fancy New Yorkers?”

“The former,” she says. “By a long shot.”

“Thanksgiving plans?” Jett asks as he wipes down the bar.

The mere mention of the holiday makes Clio stiffen and sip. She needs a few days to fortify herself before she thinks about Thanksgiving. “I'll be in Connecticut, with my father,” she says quietly, her eyes clouding. She finishes her drink in one swift gulp, tips her glass out to Jett for more. “And what about you, Jett?” she asks. “Big plans?”

“Oh, I'll be right here,” he says, slapping the bar. “Another VIP night at the hotel. But tonight was the big one. I think it went well. Seemed like a great party.”

She nods, takes a too-big sip of champagne. “It
was
a great party,” she says, her voice light and drifting. Jett disappears into the kitchen and she flips through the pages of a leftover book.
Here Is New York
by E. B. White, Henry's literary hero and the inspiration for the hotel. It had been Henry's idea to give each guest tonight a copy as a parting favor.

A blast of cold air hits her. Clio turns toward the front door and sees Henry stumbling in from the street, alone. He ducked out not long ago for a cigar with the last of his guests, two nattily turned-out
New Yorker
editors and the etiquette columnist from
Town & Country
. His cheeks are rosy and his fedora threatens to topple. He spots her and sidles over, flashing a dazzling smile. She slips back on her heels and slides off her stool to stand as he approaches.

“Warm me up, m'lady. It's absolute winter out there,” he croons, loosening his bow tie. The booze has brought out the dregs of his accent, which is all but gone after two decades in America. His blue
eyes are unusually bright. He lifts Clio to sit on the bar top and presses himself between her legs. The marble, white with gray veins, is cool on her bare thighs.

“There's poetry in the wreckage, eh?” he says, looking around at the postparty disarray.

“Indeed there is.”

“God, I've missed you, my Bird Girl,” he says, tucking her hair behind her ears, kissing each lobe. “I'm so happy you're back. That you're here.”

“I've missed you too,” she says, running a hand through his hair. It's grayer than it was even six months ago.

Jett reappears to check on his boss.

“Pour me a nip of Jameson, will you? Neat,” Henry slurs over her shoulder.

“Yes, sir,” Jett says.

“Oh, laddy, no. Lose the ‘sir' stuff. I know I'm old as dirt, that I've got years on you young things, but let's just pretend for the evening, shall we?”

Clio watches as Jett unscrews the bottle and pours, the brown liquid glistening in the crystal tumbler.

“Well, well,” Henry says, taking Clio's face between his cold hands. “We bloody
did it
.”

“
You
did it,” she says, correcting him.

“
We.
”

“
You.
All you,” she says, pulling him to her. Tonight's success was not a stroke of luck or the aligning of a mysterious assemblage of stars. In the six months Clio's known Henry, she's barely seen him sit still. It's been an inspiring blur of long nights watching him squint into a glowing computer screen, a flurry of contracts and certificates and architectural floor plans, mad dashes around Manhattan to curry favor with investors and expeditors and media players, elaborate furniture and art sprees, all leading to this moment, the realization of a dream and a lot of hard work.

“You, me, tomato, tomahto, never mind. We did it and it's time to
move on,
” Henry says, and kisses her again. It's not a delicate peck appropriate for public, but real and almost rough, magnificently forceful. He knocks her glass over and the remaining champagne spills, pooling on the bar. He puts his mouth on her ear, his breath warm and laced with tobacco. “I thought they'd never leave. All that schmoozy-dooze kissy-kissy bullshite and all I could think about was you, getting you upstairs . . .”

“You're
drunk
, Henry,” Clio whispers, stating the obvious. She contorts her arm behind her to blot puddles of champagne that soak through to her skin.

“Drunk? Is that the best you've got, Professor Marsh? I'm miles past drunk. I'm bollixed. Gee-eyed. Langered. Plastered. Rat-arsed. The list goes on.”

“I'll make a note to work on my Drunk and White lexicon,” Clio says, and grins, proud of her timely levity. It's never been her strong suit. “I found you a Christmas present, you know.”

“Did you now?” he says, and there's a boyish excitement in his face. “Is it under the tree?”

“Calm down, Mr. Kildare. All good things in time.”

“How in the world did I get so lucky?”

“You and I both know I'm the lucky one.”

Henry shakes his head, finishes off his drink. He wipes his face with the back of his shirtsleeve, then kisses Clio's bare shoulder.

“Oh, Clio, it's crazy . . . it's stupefying, really. Nearly fifty years on this good Earth and suddenly I'm a joyful bloke.”

“After tonight, you deserve nothing less,” Clio says.

“Yes, yes, because tonight was a massive hooley and this fine joint is up and running, but it's beyond that, you know,” he says, grinning, tapping his finger to her nose. “I'm plain elated and my Lord, it's
you
. You are to blame for this. You and your clever friend Jameson, I reckon. In cahoots, you two.”

A whiskey-soaked soliloquy. A tumble of feeling, of words. Clio
flushes with embarrassment and puts her hands to his lips to quiet him. He laughs and slides a hand up her dress, high up her thigh, buries his face in the nape of her neck. His eyelashes tickle her skin as he blinks.

“I have no idea what happened to my suit jacket,” he confesses through laughter, his mumbled words wet on her neck. “Could've used it out there in the Arctic. Ach, it's bound to turn up.”

“It will,” Clio says as he stands again. She places her hand on his chest. A button dangles from his vest. His shoes are untied. His hair is mussed from the wind. That mischievous, messy twinkle, camouflaged briefly by nerves and decorum tonight, is back. Clio traces the shape of his hand in hers, the edges of his badly bitten nails.

“What about
you
? How are
you
? You've been off sleeping in tents and chasing your birds and here you are, right before me, a bloody vision. How are you feeling, my darling? You must be exhausted.”

“I actually feel great,” she says, remembering her revelation from moments ago. She nearly whispers the word: “happy.”

The music that's been playing in the background all night seems louder all of a sudden. Bono's voice bellows around them. “
And all I want is you . . .”

“Yes, I want you. Tell me you want me.” He lifts her chin with his forefinger, pulls her face to within inches of his. He kisses her again, then pulls away, awaits her answer.

“I want you,” she says putting her hand on his cheek. “Oh, do I want you.”

And she does. It's unlike anything she's felt before, this anticipatory burn. Time can't move fast enough.

“You know what I think?” he says. “I've behaved myself all night long. I've been a good and rightful boy. I've jumped through my hoops and done my deeds, but now I'm free to let you in on my plan. You know very well how I fancy a good plan.”

She nods. He's a planner, this Henry.

He places a hand on each of her knees, presses his body into her
again, flicks off her shoes. His voice dips deep into his nighttime growl. “Close your eyes.”

She does.

“This is how it will go: We will make it only as far as the elevator. In we'll waltz, all manners, and the doors will close and I will push you against that back wall because I know you like a bit of rough-and-tumble and back you'll go, and I will lift this little frock that's driving me bloody mad and I will drop to my knees . . .” His hand inches up her leg.

“Keep going—”

“The best part,” he whispers now, in her ear, “the clincher, my dear, is that tiny little camera tucked into the ceiling.
People will see us.
Tell me the thought doesn't get you wet. I dare you, tell me.”

“Let's go,” Clio says, looping a finger through his belt, yanking him closer. “Now.”

He lifts her, floats her down to the floor, and as he does, she feels him stiff against her.

She drops to the ground to collect her heels. When she stands, she locks eyes with a man she doesn't know.

“Not so fast, you two,” he says.

“Don't worry.”

T
he man wears a dark suit. His eyes are a blazing electric blue. Has she seen him before? He's strangely familiar and Clio can't figure out why. Does he work at the museum? Is he a fellow professor at Columbia? He stands there, just staring at them with a look of sharp disapproval, until his face splits into a censorious grin. Then he tackles Henry in a hug.

“Well, Hanky. Sloshed again, I see. Fitting.”

“Bloody hell, Patrick,” Henry says, returning the exuberant embrace. “What on earth are you doing here?”

“You know exactly what I'm doing here,” he says, grinning, winking at Clio. “I finagled a last-minute client meeting in the city to surprise you. Then the bloody flight was three hours delayed, but what the hell, better late than never. And this
fresh-faced vision must be Clio? You said she was younger, Henry, but good God, robbing the cradle, are we?”

“Settle down, Pat. She's thirty-four. Your age,” Henry says, pulling Clio between them. “Meet Patrick Kildare, my baby brother. Pat, meet Clio.”

Ah, that's it. She's seen pictures of Patrick, the youngest of Henry's three brothers. He's the one who lives in Silicon Valley and works for Google. Married, two little boys whose toothless grins are all over Henry's iPhone. With one hand, Clio straightens her dress and extends the other to shake Patrick's. The resemblance, she appreciates now, is staggering. They have the same eyes, the same long lashes and unruly brows, the same inky black hair. The same straight nose and square jaw and cleft chin. But Patrick is conspicuously younger, hasn't yet grayed at his temples. His skin is still smooth, free of lines. He's slimmer, missing that slight paunch that's come from years of working hard and living well. It's startling, really: she's looking at Henry fifteen years ago.

“How was the party?” Patrick says. “What all did I miss?”

“Oh, it was just brilliant,” Henry says. “Couldn't have asked for a better turnout. Who's who from
Condé Nast Traveler
and the
New York Times.
Graydon Carter from
Vanity Fair
. That funny young gal everyone's always raving about. What's her name again, Clio?”

“Lena Dunham,” Clio says, wincing as she slips her heels back on.

The guest list was indeed something of a coup—tastemakers (oh, terrible word) from all over the city, media heavyweights, names from the targeted literary, restaurant and hospitality worlds.

“How long will we have the pleasure of your company?” Henry asks, his arm slung around Patrick.

“Not long, don't worry. Will squeeze in some face time and cocktail nonsense with my clients here and then be on my way. I'm afraid the wife will have my head if I'm gone much longer.”

“We're booked pretty solid, thank the Lord, but I think I can finagle a room for you. Come, let's get you a nip of something to warm you
up,” Henry says. Jett stands by, waits for orders, but Henry dismisses him for the night and slips behind the bar himself, squinting to study the bottle labels. “Ah, the good stuff, here we go.” He pulls down a bottle from the top shelf.

“I'm going to head up,” Clio says. “You two catch up. I'm spent.”

“Stay for
one
more drink, won't you?” Henry says, tugging at her hand.

“Yes, one measly cocktail with the miserable fellow who came all the way across the country to meet you?”

A real flatterer, this one,
Clio muses, but she can't help but be touched. She wonders what Henry's told him about her.

“I think you two will do just fine without me,” she says, starting to go, her exhaustion setting in. “It's really wonderful to meet you, Patrick.”

“Likewise, dear,” Patrick says, squeezing her hand. “I'll see you in the morning.”

Clio stands on her tiptoes to kiss Henry's cheek. As she cuts through the dimly lit lobby, she glances back and sees the two brothers on opposite sides of the bar, hunched over rapidly disappearing amber cocktails, their foreheads almost touching. It's a tender scene; they seem quite close.

She presses the elevator button and waits.

The elevator arrives and Clio steps in, takes deep breaths. As the doors close, an arm reaches through and pulls her out. It's Henry, breathless, visibly undone. He nibbles his nails, then encircles her waist, looks right into her eyes. “I'm so sorry about this, Clio. I had no idea Patrick was going to show up. I'm glad he's here, don't get me wrong, but I'm desperate to get you out of that dress and . . .”

“It's fine, Henry,” she says. “He's your brother. Spend time with him. I'm not going anywhere.”

“But I haven't seen you. God, who knew three weeks could be an eternity? And then you're leaving me again on Wednesday, damn you.”

“Trust me, I'd rather stay here with you.” And suddenly the idea of
being with her father alone in her childhood home for the last time fills her with dread. She hadn't even known the house was for sale when he e-mailed her two days before she left on her research trip to tell her he'd accepted an offer on it from a young family who wanted to move in right after Thanksgiving.
Don't worry about coming home,
he wrote in the e-mail, the words a well-worn refrain.
I just wanted you to know.

She pulls away from Henry, crosses her arms in front of her.

“Promise me you'll wait up for me tonight? I know you're wiped, but I have something for you.”

“What is it?” she asks, her stomach clenching.

“Don't worry,” he says. “I know you don't like surprises. But trust me. You'll like this one.”

He calls the elevator again, and she steps inside, turns to face him. The doors close between them and she is alone.