The Ramblers (25 page)

Thatcher cackles. “Shit, you've got some balls on you, young man. I already like you better than the Paki.”

The Paki.
This guy is a bigot.

“Now, this is between us, son,” Thatcher says, his voice lower, “but the truth is, I've been holding out hope that she'd find someone like you, a good-hearted Midwestern chap with an ounce of bite, and here you are. I can see past the tattoo nonsense; you are at heart a straight arrow. My kind of kid.”

Tate traces the small tattoo of a camera on the inside of his wrist, doesn't know what to say to this. He smiles, sips his drinks, aware that there will be more.

“Want to know something?” Thatcher says, eyes blazing, moving
to the edge of the chair. His voice dips into a scratchy whisper. “I stood right here in this room one year ago and I told him in no uncertain terms that he wasn't going to marry her. The whole thing was absolutely ludicrous. My little girl converting to Islam? I wasn't just going to stand by and watch this madness. I told him that I loved her far too much to let it happen. I gave him a week to end it. I was clear that if he didn't do it, I'd have to resort to plan B and send his family a little note about how pleased my wife and I were that our kids would be getting married. He stood his ground and refused to part ways—I give him credit for that—but I had to do what I had to do and here we are, in a better place.”

Disgust pulses through Tate's veins.

“She's brilliant, my Smith. I've told her again and again that I'd love for her to come work for me, but she scoffs at the idea. She seems intent on remaining a contrarian. I should've had sons. Maybe then I'd have someone to take over my business. Instead, I'm stuck with my girls, and I love them, but it isn't the same. And Smith, I swear she's out to ruffle my feathers. I'm just waiting for her to throw in the towel on this foolish ‘business' of hers and get some sort of new ‘idea.'” He makes air quotes, scoffs, drinks more.

“Sir, with all due respect, she's passionate about what she does. You should be proud,” Tate says. The moment the words are out, his pulse quickens and he wonders what the hell he is doing testing this man.

“Is that so?” Thatcher says, blue eyes glinting, a bemused smile spreading over his face. He pours himself another drink, swallows half of it immediately. Tate can see it in his eyes, how gone he is. “How do you think this following of passion was possible in the first place? Do you think the seed money for this precious company of hers fell from the big blue sky? No, it didn't. I wrote her a check because I love her and I want my girls to be happy, but that doesn't mean I have to be pleased with the bullshit. I'm allowed my opinions, Trent.”

“I suppose you are, but I think you should celebrate the fact that your daughter hasn't tethered herself to a miserable quintessentially
prestigious job just for the sake of it and isn't frittering away her days like many people in her position would do. She's working hard at something she cares about. And she's giving back, too. Personally, I find it inspiring. And it's
Tate
.”

“Balls,” Thatcher says, chuckling.

Tate looks toward the door and startles when he sees Smith standing there, leaning against its frame. She's barefoot and her hair is pulled back. She clutches a glass of white wine and smiles.

“I'm going to steal Tate, Daddy,” she says softly. How long has she been standing there? It's clear from the wistful expression on her face, from the affection in her voice, that she did not overhear her father's ugly confession. Tate feels thankful for this, a sudden urge to protect her. He will not tell her what he's just learned. Not yet, at least. He knows how this information would destroy her.
Shit,
he thinks, wishing he'd gone to bed an hour ago.

“I'm hard.”

D
on't say I didn't warn you,” Smith says, walking Tate along the path to the guesthouse.

“Wow. You weren't kidding around. He's a piece of work,” Tate says. Thatcher's bombshell explodes again and again in his mind. What kind of father would do this to his own daughter? No wonder she's confused about what happened. He feels a newfound respect for Asad for not telling her how it went down. It would have poisoned her relationship with her father.

“I still love him though. I still love him even though he's hard-nosed and doesn't get it at all and is so unbelievably tone-deaf. I personally think he gets a kick out of giving me shit, but thank you for sticking up for me back there,” she says. “I've
brought a few guys around here at this point and not a one has had the guts to put Thatcher in his place.”

“I'm not sure I put him in his place,” Tate says. “But I couldn't help myself.”

“Well, I like that. Here we are,” she says. “El Guesthouse. I called it, didn't I? I'm sure Bitsy went all out stocking the kitchen for you boys.”

“After that feast, I don't think I'll need to eat for weeks,” he says.

“It wasn't torture, was it?” she says. “You survived okay?”

He nods. “It appears so. We'll have to see if there's any fallout tomorrow.”

Smith puts her hand on the doorknob but pauses, stands on her tiptoes and kisses his cheek. It's all very fast and innocent, but just feeling her skin against his fires him up. She opens the door and walks inside. Another extravagant space, no expense spared. Endless furniture and books and art. The soothing hum of heat being vented through the ceilings and floors. She walks him to a bedroom past the kitchen and flicks on the light. His suitcase has been unpacked.

“Will this do?” she says with a smirk.

“Oh, I think it will.”

“Okay, I'm going to head back and deal with my wedding speech. I've never in my life procrastinated like this.”

“Good luck,” he says, taking her hand.

She squeezes it. Looks straight into his eyes. “Good night, Tate.”

He watches her leave, her body moving slowly toward the door, slipping through. He plops down on the bed and looks around. Just another bedroom. No big deal. He changes out of his clothes into a T-shirt and a pair of boxers and heads to the kitchen to see if he can find another beer. Briggs is there. He's also changed out of his dinner clothes.

“Hey,” Tate says.

“Hey.”

He's buzzed and riled. It takes every ounce of restraint not to tell
Briggs what just happened with Thatcher. “Where the fuck are we?” he says, laughing, opening the fridge. “It's three times bigger than my childhood home. I'm not sure what's going on.”

“This, my friend, is what happens when old money meets new money,” Briggs explains. “Bitsy comes from this flush New York family, blue, blue blood in that one. Miss Porter's, Sarah Lawrence, Colony Club. And then you get Thatch, the son of a Midwestern salesman and a nurse, who works his ass off and makes it to Princeton and then lands Bitsy and then strikes gold and can't stop spending to save himself. An interesting combo. He can be a dick, but I've been around long enough to know that they're a good family. Sally and Smith are amazing girls.”

“They look so much alike. It's crazy. They even have the same mannerisms.”

“Yup,” Briggs says, taking a long swig of his beer. “Absolutely. Feel free to fantasize about the two of them. I do.”

Tate laughs. “You ready for this, man? This marriage thing?”

“Yeah,” Briggs says. “I'm ready. I'm pumped.”

“Good, man. Good.”

“Sally said your ex was playing around?” Briggs says, a serious look on his face.

Tate sips his beer. “Indeed,” he says, matter-of-factly, surprised that he's feeling less and less embarrassed about admitting this detail.

“She ruin you? Or would you do it all over again?”

“I'd do it again, man. I'm an idiot. I'd do it all again in a heartbeat.”

Back in his bedroom, Tate grabs for his camera and starts photographing everything.
Still lifes of a foreign land,
he thinks. In the bathroom, he takes a piss, stares at the white wicker basket full of magazines and catalogs:
Town & Country, Hamptons
magazine, and
Scully & Scully
. He hears his phone buzz in the other room.

Smith: They like you.

Tate: Who's they?

Smith: Bits & Sally. Thatch too.

Tate: Big thumbs up. Now I'll actually sleep. Phew.

Smith: If B weren't there . . .

Tate: Yes?

Smith: I'd sneak over barefoot in my nightgown and let you warm me up.

Holy shit.
Where is this coming from? He certainly felt she was flirting earlier, in the car and at the pond, but it was all subtle and he wondered if it was even all in his head. This now is the opposite of subtle. This is fucking hot. A dream. His pulse picks up as he types . . .

Tate: I would warm you up. What else would you do?

Smith: I'd sit on the edge of your bed and tease you.

Tate: Tease me?

Smith: Yes. You'd try to touch me, but I wouldn't let you.

Tate: Why?

Smith: Because it isn't time.

Tate: FYI, I'm hard.

Smith: Did I need to know that?

Tate: Yes. You did . . .

Smith: I'm wet . . .

Tate: Fuck.

Smith: I can't believe I just wrote that.

Tate: Believe it.

Smith: What are we doing?

Tate: ???

Smith: Happy Thanksgiving, Tate.

Tate: Happy TG, S.

Hand on his cock, he closes his eyes and imagines her. She's in a nightgown. It's short and sheer, a soft see-through pink. She's barefoot even though it's cold, running in the grass toward him. She appears at his door shivering, teeth chattering, nipples hard as hell, hair a fucking mess. She gets under the covers with him.
Relax,
she says, and he lies back. Her hands are frozen . . . She grabs him . . . puts him in her mouth . . .

Fuck. He hops up. Runs to the bathroom, finishes in the toilet. He's not about to make a mess of those fancy sheets. He doesn't want to do
anything
to fuck this up.

He likes this girl.

Friday, November 29, 2013

“Life can only be understood backwards; but it must be lived forwards.”

— Søren Kierkegaard,
Journals IV A 164

Dearest Clio,

I'm thinking of your name. Clio Eloise Marsh. Clio is, as you know, the Muse of history. History is everything and it is nothing. It's important, but it need not define you. I'm your mother. Your MOTHER and I've been a lousy mother and a brilliant mother maybe too but you've always been my bright light, my greatest LOVE. Love can be paper light, paper white, and love can be a monster, a dreaded darkness, a tempest of regret and discovery and islands, so many islands with jutting rocks and creatures and you are in the boat, sailing along and it's up to you and it's not up to you because you're not the CAPTAIN, but just a passenger. I want you to go, GO, have a good life, full, crammed with passion and purpose and questions and forgiveness—so important to forgive—and curiosity and GOD and birds, you love them so and I love that you love them, and big books and the little nothing books nobody knows too, and clues and laughter. We haven't laughed enough yet. We will. We will laugh at it all. And you will understand, it will make sense, AHA, AHA, you will say, yes, yes, you will be a mother one day, and see what it's like to crack open with hope and worry and desire and pain and most of all love. But it's not simple. It's hellos and good-byes, nevers and forevers, and go away and come back, please come back, forgive me, I'm flying, I'm falling. The world is big and bad and good too, ancient riddles, chaos, phenotypes and genotypes and survival and death and life and loss and energy and voyages forward and back and inside. Remember when Charles lost his daughter Annie? Remember how sick he was, how sorrowful? I cried for him, I cry for him, because there's nothing worse than losing that kind of love. But she was in pain, she was not well, she was not meant to linger. Poor little Annie. Poor Charles. You are loved, my muse.

Mama