Resurgence (42 page)
To reach the hub of the tree, she picks her way across bare sun-starved ground strewn with twigs and nutshells, booby-trapped here and there with exposed roots. She raps sharply on the immense trunk, withdraws to see that both boys are watching her intently.
“I just wanted to see if the Keebler Elves were awake,” she quips to cover for the bizarre behavior. But neither boy looks amused; they both look skeptical, which is quite a stretch for Simon.
“I’m sorry,” she says, “you deserve better than that. It’s silly, I know—sillier than believing in elves and this tree’s not even hollow—but I was knocking on wood to ward off . . . to keep the rain away.”
“We call it ‘touch wood’ and we do it to keep evil spirits away. Is that what you meant?” Anthony says.
“Yes, darling. That’s
exactly
what I meant. Shall we go now? You both must be starving. I know I am.”
At the house, Laurel pulls off the children’s boots and scoots them in the direction of the kitchen. She’ll follow as soon as she removes at least one layer of grass stain and mud from her feet.
The catering tents set up next to the studio yesterday, house a full working kitchen and several prep stations. They undoubtedly have water, soap, and towels on hand and are more convenient than the nearest outdoor water spigot she can think of. But how would it appear for her to go to catering staff for what she needs? Well aware that she’s slated to be the star of today’s show, and even more aware of her disheveled state, she’d likely come across as some sort of Cinderella, and look as foolish as she felt when she was caught knocking wood—touching wood—a while ago.
The water outlet she has in mind is at the far end of the arcade, in a recess adjoining the walled garden she thinks of as purely medieval for incorporating a weathered bronze armillary sphere, surrounded by unruly perennials and the ancient wisteria gone wild up the framework of the ramshackle iron stairs leading to the roof.
The spigot is next to the sturdy openwork gate to this enclosure where a unicorn can be imagined feeling right at home. Before washing her feet, she checks that the gate is locked, a ritual observed anytime she’s in the vicinity, and reminds herself to again request that the stairs be removed, if only for her peace of mind—another ritual observed whenever she dares.
Once her feet are relatively clean, she glances upward to see if Colin might still be monitoring activities from the roof; if he’s still up there he can’t be seen from this particular vantage point.
In the kitchen, the boys are devouring special-occasion sugared cereal under Gemma Earle’s watchful eye. “Thank you,” Laurel says as she passes through, “I’ll be right back. I need to speak to Colin.”
“No need to hurry, dear. It is your day, you know,” Gemma says with every indication she’ll be among the first to spill over at the ceremony.
Laurel scours the ground and first floors in her search for Colin. On the second floor, after determining he hasn’t gone back to bed, she’s about to conclude he is still on the roof when she hears his voice booming from his office. She pauses outside the open doorway to listen.
“Don’t tell
me
he’s not there,” Colin says at near fever pitch. He favors the Dorchester over all others and
always
registers under his own name. I-s-a-a-c-s. Do you hear me?
Nate
Isaacs, it is.”
Laurel rushes unto the room, shaking her head. “No,” she mouths and moves to take the phone away from him. “No,” she repeats sotto voce and when that doesn’t work, lets him know full voice that Nate is not at the Dorchester or any other London hotel.
“Then where the fuck is he?” Colin says to her without ending the call or covering the mouthpiece.
Laurel makes good her grab for the instrument this time, breaks the connection and calmly explains that Nate is in New York and now—two-something a.m. in that part of the world— might not be the best time to demand of him that the hot-air balloons be removed.
“How do you know that’s what I was gonna say?”
“I don’t, but based on your earlier reaction, it’s a damn good guess.”
“How do you know for dead certain he’s not in London?”
“Amanda told me, and if she hadn’t, I would have been able to tell from the forlorn expression she’s worn all week.”
Colin’s expression gives nothing away when he drops into his desk chair and motions her to take her usual place in the dilapidated roll-around chair. She complies, waits for the next development.
“Do you have any idea what that must have cost?” he says, surprising her with a civil tone of voice. “It’s the tarted-up barrage balloons I’m talking about. He probably could’ve given us a work of art for less—I doubt a small Bonnard would have set him back as much.”
“Oh but he did give us a work of art, sweetie. Maybe not in the conventional sense, but he did give us something we can keep forever. I know
I’ll
never forget my first sight of the . . . the sheer spectacle of it. I’m sure you won’t either.”
“No, I won’t, but don’t forget the sheer spectacle shit is incidental. The dramatic appeal’s secondary to his twitting us for not thinking to look after our own—”
“If you think he intended that display as a pointed reminder of previous carelessness, you’re wrong!” Her adamance propels the rickety chair out of the corner. “If anything, his gesture is a pointed reminder that he really
has
backed off,” she says and creaks the rest of the way across the space between them. “And truly
has
relaxed his vigilance to the extent he’d endorse and pay for the incursion of dozens of strangers onto your premises!”
“He’s not
that
relaxed,” Colin says, waving a sheaf of papers at her. “According to the work orders coerced from Sam, every last one of the ballooners and every single member of the support teams was vetted and made to sign confidentiality agreements no different than the other temps working here today. If any of their lot sells an exclusive to one of the usual rags, there’ll be heavy forfeit. I can promise you that.”
“I see. Do the work orders mention how they got onto the premises without disturbing anyone? You’d think that many vehicles coming in at once would have set the dogs to barking at the very least.”
“I’m told the dogs did go half-mad with barking and we couldn’t hear them because they’d been removed to the outermost barns. And we didn’t hear the motor traffic roll in because Sam opened a distant place in the fence where there used to be a gate.”
“Where’s that?”
“Near the oasts. The hops gate it was called, and only ever used for bringing crops to the kilns. Was sealed off when I bought the place, but for connecting with the interior service road the logical place—”
“Oh, I remember now. You mentioned it when we were trying to figure out what to do about guest parking.”
“Yeh, during the session with Amanda when she came up with the better way, the carpooling idea.”
“I wouldn’t exactly call it carpooling. More like mass transport, and I’m still a little worried about how the guests are going to feel about gathering at a municipal parking lot to be bussed here.”
“They’ll feel just fine, I’ll wager. They’ll make a party of it.” Colin sets aside the sizable stack of color-coded folders pertaining to every aspect of today’s event. “And they’re not gonna object to wearing ID bracelets. Amanda was dead right about that too.”
“Are you sure?” You don’t think that’s a little insulting or—”
“C’mon now. It’s not like we’re collecting fingerprints, and you did rather insist on that level of security, you know.”
“I know, I know.” She eases back from the desk, as unwilling as he is to make direct reference to the hard-won agreement reached in Paris.
“Anticipating your next question,” Colin says. “I have Sam’s word that the opening in the fence is manned even as we speak and will be welded shut immediately the balloons depart.”
“That’s not what I was going to ask. I would like to know, though, how long the balloons will be in place.”
“Again, according to Sam, and weather permitting, they’ll be released at half-seven and go up like the flock of doves you said you didn’t want for being too schmaltzy and contrived.”
He smirks.
She laughs.
“They won’t interfere with the fireworks, if that’s another worry,” he says.
“It’s not.”
“What is, then?”
“It’s not a worry, I should have said.”
“You’re losing me.”
“I’m not worried about the gate, the balloons, or the fireworks, and I’m going to stop worrying about the treatment of the wedding guests. There, is that clear?”
“No, because you still have that look about you . . . the one that says you’re not quite finished.”
“Very well. What
were
you going to say to Nate if you’d reached him at the Dorchester?”
“Same thing I said to you when I thought you were responsible for the balloons—Brilliant . . .
bloody
brilliant. And maybe ask him to pop round later.”
On a day rife with opportunities to choke up, Laurel gives herself high marks for getting through the emotionally charged encounter with Colin as well as she did. She was close to hiccoughs when he revealed his softened stance toward Nate and now, almost an hour later, just thinking about the unexpected revelation could make her spasm—that, and the hunger pangs rumbling through her.
Showered, shampooed, wearing a simple sundress and sandals, she returns to the ground floor and follows the sound of high-spirited conversation to the kitchen, where her brothers and sister are gathered at the table, along with Amanda, Rachel, and Susa Thorne. Anthony and Simon are playing—amicably for once—within sight in the arcade.
Laurel takes a chair across from Amanda, who is as animated as she’s been in days. But how animated would she be if she knew of Colin’s attempt to reach out to Nate? How crestfallen would she be to know that Nate could have been with them today if he hadn’t chosen to remain in New York, and Colin’s timing hadn’t been so bad? A good news/bad news proposition at best, and almost in the same category as telling her siblings they’ll soon be relieved of further responsibilities in New Jersey by way of a wrecking ball and an air ambulance. But this is not the time to divulge anything to anybody beyond what they’re all clamoring to know more about—the balloon installation, of course.
Laurel fills them in to the extent of her knowledge and Amanda’s eyes go understandably round when the instigator is named.
“Wow! Now
there’s
a surprise. I had
no
idea Nate was involved and he tells me everything,” Amanda says, caught somewhere between amazement and pique.
“I had no idea they opened the old gate to let them in. I doubt Chris did either,” Susa says, confirming Sam Earle’s account of the ultra-clandestine operation.
“I can’t believe we slept through the launching,” Emily says, forgetting that she and her brothers were jetlagged when they turned in last night and could have slept through a rooster reveille.
“However it happened, it’s the coolest thing ever,” Mike says.
“
Way
cool,” Ben concurs.
“Splendid, like giant psychedelic blossoms, they are,” Rachel says, drawing laughter for being the least likely one at the table to evoke distorted imagery.
Laurel springs up to help Gemma with platters of eggs and breakfast meats, grilled mushrooms and tomatoes. The motherly house manager takes a moment to look at her watch, blink rapidly and sniff. “Five hours, thirty-two minutes to go, my girl.”
“You’d think it was
her
son she was in a hurry to get rid of,” Rachel says, drawing more laughter and establishing a gentle joshing tone from which no one is spared.
As the meal winds down, attention shifts to the house and grounds that Emily declares superior to anything seen in Paris.
“
That
might be stretching a bit,” Laurel says.
“No it’s not,” Mike says. This place is totally rad.”
“Bitchin’,” Ben says and spears the last two sausages.
“Absolutely! Everything about it—like omigod—you must have totally spazzed the first time you came here,” Emily says.
“I suppose that’s as good a word for it as any,” Laurel says. “Tell me Rachel, Gemma, was I spazzed when I first arrived here?”
“Indeed you were, dear. Spazzed to the max.” Rachel again supplies the unexpected comment and initiates relaxed laughter.
At the end of the meal, everyone disperses except Amanda. “I have a few things to go over with you,” she says before Laurel can leave her chair.
Sated with a rib-sticking breakfast that will render lunch unnecessary, the last thing Laurel wants to look at is the printed menu for the wedding dinner. But Amanda, despite having no preordained duties beyond bridesmaid, insists on overseeing the event planner and produces a set of folders not unlike the ones Colin was issued.
The ivory deckle-edged sample Amanda presses on her resembles the menus provided at the Tavern fete for Rayce except for being a lot longer.
