by Xavier Mayne
“My point exactly! Now you know our boys will be testing the tensile strength of that plaid fabric even before they say their vows and all of that talk of commitment gives them a marriage boner. We must be vigilant. And we must get there, darling, we simply must.”
“What do you plan, my love?”
“I’m glad you asked. It’s simply too brilliant. In fact, I have no idea why no one else seems to have thought of it. The ash cloud is currently over the Atlantic Ocean. That means planes flying east cannot get through. So, what we’re going to do is fly west.” He stood back to give this idea—and Nestor’s impending accolades—the room they deserved.
Nestor stared for a moment. “But is not England east of here?”
“Yes, but by going west, we avoid the whole mess!”
“We fly around… the whole world?” Nestor whispered, eyes wide.
“Now you’ve got it,” Bryce cried, clapping his hands and bouncing excitedly.
Nestor’s uncomprehending eyes followed him: up and down, up and down.
“Genius, right?” Bryce prompted. Nestor’s delay in celebrating his brilliant solution was getting tiresome.
“Yes, henius. That is the word I was wanting,” Nestor cooed.
“There we are. Thank you. Now, I have many arrangements to see to. Reservations to change, tickets to buy—”
“But, my love, how will we pay for?”
“Leave that to me, honey, leave that to me.” Bryce paused for a moment’s thought. “Actually, not entirely to me. Open up your suitcase and toss out anything that says ‘I played a footman on Downton Abbey’ and replace it with some ‘I forgot to pack underwear’ and a little ‘I wouldn’t mind a spanking.’”
Nestor nodded. These were directions he understood. He hurried off to the bedroom to modify his wardrobe for the week.
“Never fear, my beloved troopers,” Bryce swore to the ceiling. “I am coming to you.”
The dock, New York
“MESSIEURS DONNELLY and Birkin?”
In a room full of tuxedoes, this man moved with an even more extravagant formality. He was dressed in white tie and morning coat, with spotless white gloves.
“Yes…?” Donnelly replied, somewhat uncertainly.
“So pleased to make your acquaintance, sir. I am Rutherford, your butler. Are you ready to board, sir?”
Donnelly rose. “I guess so,” he said, looking to Sandler with eyebrows raised.
“Good to go, chief,” Sandler replied, hefting his duffel.
“Please, sir,” Rutherford objected gently. “Allow me.” He reached out and relieved the men of their duffels. He turned and handed them to a very young man dressed in a way that Donnelly would have considered cliché even for a bellboy in a 1940s hotel comedy. Then he reached out for Sandler’s messenger bag, but a subtle shake of Sandler’s head was enough to dissuade him from asking to take it as well. “This way, gentlemen.” He held an elegant, gloved hand out to point the way toward a door that now stood open.
The butler spoke in the hushed, proper clarity of British Empire, which had doubtless ruled over the island of his birth. Donnelly couldn’t quite place the undertones that lurked beneath the BBC-issue accent, but Rutherford’s ebony skin spoke of a tropical origin. The man could have been forty or seventy; his bright eyes and brilliant white smile gave no sense of age whatsoever.
As they walked, Rutherford led the way through several more doors. “Your luggage, Mr. Donnelly, has already been brought aboard. I have taken the liberty of unpacking for you.”
“Thank you,” Donnelly replied, completely overwhelmed by the strange world of privilege he had suddenly stepped into.
“How’d you manage to get your luggage here?” Sandler asked.
“We had our suitcases sent in advance so we wouldn’t have to lug them around. I completely forgot about it, actually. I had been trying to think of how I could meet the dress code in the dining room with just what I have in my carry-on.”
“Have no worries about that, sir,” Rutherford said suavely. “Your tuxedos are the finest I think I’ve ever seen.”
Donnelly stumbled a bit. “Tuxedos? We don’t own tuxedos.”
Rutherford nodded, as if something that had been nagging at him had suddenly been cleared up. “They arrived separately from your luggage. There seemed to be a gift card attached to the box. I set it aside for you—unopened, of course.”
Donnelly shook his head. He had been completely unprepared for things to suddenly start working out perfectly. Perhaps his luck really was changing.
They made their way through the almost completely empty ship—clearly the masses had yet to begin boarding—and arrived at a bank of elevators in the main lobby. The four of them—butler, bellboy, and Donnelly and Sandler—boarded one that stood open, and they rose several decks before the doors opened again. As they proceeded through restaurants and shops toward the front of the ship, Rutherford turned to explain. “Your elevator is far forward, on the starboard side.” Donnelly nodded, overwhelmed by the size of the ship, and was simply trying to remember the path they were taking so he could find his way later.
Finally they reached a small alcove with just a single elevator in it. Rutherford drew a card from his waistcoat pocket and touched it to the brass plate where a button would normally be. Instantly, the doors glided open.
“Gentlemen,” Rutherford said, sweeping his hand out and stepping to the side.
Donnelly and Sandler entered the elevator, and the two uniformed men followed them. Only as they began to rise did Donnelly realize that the back wall of the elevator car was glass. They suddenly had a view of the entire pier and the hundreds of passengers who were beginning to shuffle toward the ship.
“The elevator is keyed to your cards only,” Rutherford said. “It will take you to decks 7 through 11. Your suite is on deck 10.”
At that moment the doors slid open. They had arrived. Rutherford and the bellboy stepped out of the elevator and stood aside once again, and Donnelly, awestruck, stepped directly from the elevator into the suite that would be his and Sandler’s home for the voyage. Rutherford showed them around the bedroom, the sitting room, the dining room, and the two bathrooms. Finally, they arrived at the large plate-glass doors that led out to the balcony.
“You’ll notice,” Rutherford said as they stepped out onto the teak expanse, “that because of the solid walls on both ends, no one can see onto your balcony once we’re underway. Should the weather be conducive to sunbathing, you needn’t worry about anyone intruding upon your… privacy.” He set this word down gently, with the practiced inflection of discreet service.
“Thank you,” Donnelly replied a little awkwardly. He was recalling the use that he and Brandt had made of the balcony at the Villa Hermes and willing himself desperately not to blush at the memory.
“If it suits, it would be my pleasure to pour the champagne.” They nodded, and Rutherford glided back into the suite, leaving them on the balcony.
“This is amazing,” Sandler said, leaning on the railing and taking in the commanding view of the ship and harbor. “It would have been so romantic.” He looked at Donnelly and seemed to realize his mistake. “I’m sorry, that was really rude.”
“Don’t worry about it. This is so far beyond anything I’d ever imagined that it’s not possible to be disappointed. I mean, it would be awesome to have Ethan here, but it’s hard to look at all of this and feel anything but lucky.”
“Gentlemen?” Rutherford stepped back out to the balcony with a silver tray bearing two flutes of champagne. The bellboy emerged from his wake with a silver ice bucket on a stand, which he set near the railing.
They each took a crystal vessel.
“Should you require anything—dining in your suite, reservations, or anything else—please touch 1 on any of the phones. That is my direct line.”
“Thank you, Rutherford,” Donnelly said, momentarily panicked that he should be tipping everybody.
But Rutherford
simply smiled, set the silver tray on a table, and nodded to both men. He and the bellboy let themselves out.
“Well,” Sandler said, holding his flute aloft. “Here’s to smooth seas and the reunion that waits on the other side.”
“I’ll drink to that,” Donnelly said, touching his glass to Sandler’s.
About an hour later, after they had polished off the bottle of not inexpensive champagne, Donnelly got a little unsteadily to his feet. “Well, there are two showers in this palace, and I think I’m going to make use of one of them. You are welcome to the other, of course, should you feel the need to freshen up.”
“It’s been thirty-six hours and a thousand miles by car and boxcar since I showered. I think it’s high time.” Sandler rose as well, and they made their way back into the suite.
Suitably refreshed, they took in the spectacle of the lifeboat drill and then decided it was time for dinner. They had to change, of course, as the dress code for the restaurant dedicated to denizens of these rarified suites was stringent.
“I don’t actually have anything posh enough for this,” Sandler said when they returned to the suite. “I normally stay in the background, and my entire wardrobe is chosen for wrinkle-resistance rather than style.”
“No worries,” Donnelly replied as he opened the closet into which Rutherford had unpacked Brandt’s baggage. “You’re close to Ethan’s size. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind you wearing his dinner jacket and slacks. He wasn’t exactly looking forward to wearing them himself, truth be told.”
“Not much for fashion, is he?”
Donnelly rolled his eyes. “You could say that. Given the choice, it would be jeans and a sweatshirt and some awful baseball cap every single day for him.”
“Sounds like you’d prefer he dress up a bit?”
“Hardly. I prefer him naked, actually.” Donnelly winked roguishly, which made Sandler burst out laughing. “Now, he’s about your height, but he has a bit more… bulk.”
“You mean he actually works out?” Sandler asked as Donnelly held a shirt up to him.
“It shouldn’t be too bad. He carries most of his weight in his chest, and arms. And those shoulders. Oh, and that butt of his….” Donnelly looked off into the distance.
“Need a moment alone with your memories?” Sandler asked with a wink.
“Later, when I have time to reflect,” Donnelly replied with a Mae West growl. “Here—try these. And if nothing fits, we’ll hit the gym in the morning and see if we can’t get you filled out a bit.”
Soon they were dressed and on their way down to dinner on deck 7, to which their private elevator whisked them instantly.
“Now, remember,” Donnelly cautioned as they entered the restaurant, “if we’re seated at the duchess’s table, let her drop the first f-bomb. It’s only polite.”
Sandler laughed and crossed his heart to make his vow of decorousness.
“Ah, Messieurs Donnelly and Birkin,” the maître d’ intoned as they approached the podium. “This way to your table, please.”
They followed the lanky, elegant man through the restaurant, all the way back to the far corner where a table for two was set some distance from the others next to a large window. The crystal vase of red roses declared to all present that this was the honeymoon table. The maître d’ pulled out one of the chairs, and Donnelly motioned for Sandler to take it. He took off his messenger bag and set it next to him as he sat. Then Donnelly was seated and more champagne was poured.
“So, what exactly did you do for the guy who paid for all of this? Because it kind of seems like you must have given him a kidney or something,” Sandler said as he sipped the champagne.
“It wasn’t quite that extravagant,” Donnelly replied. “We just helped him get himself out of an awkward situation.”
“Awkward like a mafia hit squad?”
Donnelly laughed. “No, a marriage that had turned bad. But you’re not far off with that mafia hit squad thing. James’s soon-to-be ex-wife had pretty much set out to ruin him, and we did what we could to help. It’s not like we saved his life or anything—we were just in the right place at the right time, through a run of coincidences that no one would actually believe. But her father felt like he should take a swipe at us just out of spite and ruin our wedding reception. So James set this whole destination wedding thing up at the last minute to make it up to us.”
“And you say I live an exciting life,” Sandler said with a grin. “You’ve got some complications of your own there.”
“You know, now that you mention it, the last two years have been unbelievably complicated. Life wasn’t like that before. I swear, sometimes it feels like we’re characters in the most ridiculous book you can imagine. Who would read this stuff?”
Sandler laughed. “I would. I totally would.” He reached his champagne flute across the table. “Here’s to more adventures, even more unbelievable than the ones that came before.”
“Careful what you wish for there, mister,” warned Donnelly. But even as he worried about tempting the fates, he touched his glass to Sandler’s and drank more expensive champagne.
When they returned to the suite after dinner, it had in their absence been prepared for a romantic evening; there were rose petals on the bed, heart-shaped chocolates on each pillow, and yet another bottle of champagne icing in a silver bucket. The two men stood at the foot of the bed, staring at the spectacle.
“Well, isn’t this romantic?” Sandler said, the irony in his voice rendering the question rhetorical.
“Wow. Rutherford’s on his game.”
Sandler picked up the bedside phone. “Good evening, Rutherford. Would you be so kind as to make up the sofa bed for me? Yes, thank you.” He set the phone down. “He sounded a little disappointed, but he’ll be here momentarily.”
“Poor guy,” Donnelly replied. “This is probably the first time he’s had people in this suite who wouldn’t be risking a broken hip just getting into bed together.”
Sandler laughed. “My hip would probably be only the first of many things Ethan would break if I even came close to this bed.”
“Oh, now, he’s not that sensitive about other guys. In fact, he hasn’t shot anyone in the kneecap for weeks now.” Donnelly hooted with laughter until he was interrupted by the gentle chime of the doorbell.
Sandler backed out of the bedroom, looking a little fearful for the safety of his kneecaps, and opened the door to admit Rutherford.
“It will take me just a moment to make up the sofa, sir,” he said to Sandler as he got to work moving couch cushions. “Did you enjoy your dinner?”
“Yes, we did, thanks,” Sandler replied.
“We actually may have enjoyed dessert a little too much,” Donnelly added, coming in from the bedroom.
“Oh, Mr. Donnelly, you look like a man who doesn’t enjoy dessert often enough,” Rutherford said with a smile. “And you too, Mr. Birkin.” He turned back to making the bed, with perhaps a slight sadness on his face.
“Rutherford,” Donnelly said, a little awkwardly, “I feel I should tell you that Mr. Birkin and I are not… together. In fact, my fiancé was supposed to be with me on this voyage, but he was unable to get to New York in time, so he’s meeting the ship in Southampton.”
“Ah,” Rutherford said. “I apologize. The reservation said that you were about to be married. I do hope I caused no offense.”
“No, none at all,” Sandler said, smiling warmly. “We thought it was very sweet. And if Mr. Donnelly were not marrying a handsome and dangerous man to whom he is forever devoted, I might have been inspired by your rose petals to… well, let’s just leave it at that, shall we?” He winked at Rutherford, who with a hint of a grin returned the gesture.
“There you are, sir. I will return in the morning to take care of the sofa, so don’t bother with the sheets and blankets. I hope you will find it comfortable.”
The men thanked him and saw him out.
“He seemed disappointed that we wouldn’t be rol
ling around in his rose petals, didn’t he?” Donnelly said as they closed the door.
“I think Rutherford is a little sweet on you, actually,” Sandler teased.
“Again, I think it’s down to our being fifty years younger than his usual guests. But it’s nice of you to say.”
“Drink before bed?” Sandler asked, walking to the wet bar and opening the cabinet. “We’ve got some nice Scotch here, and—oh, some Tanqueray.”
“Tell me there’s tonic and a lime and you’ve got a deal.”
“This is your lucky day.” Sandler set to work making gin and tonics.
As Donnelly stood looking out at the dark, flat horizon the sea had become, lost in his thoughts, Sandler appeared at his elbow with a tall glass.
“Your Tanqueray and tonic, sir?” he asked in his best approximation of Rutherford’s dry patrician accent.
“Fucking delightful, my good man,” Donnelly replied, his jaw aristocratically tight. He took the glass and reveled in the first sip. “That, sir, is a finely crafted beverage. It is precisely what I needed.” He turned back to the window, his smile fading as he watched a few more stars sparkle into view.
Sandler stood next to him, as if trying to see what it was Donnelly was looking for in the twilight. After a long moment, he spoke. “He’s probably feeling exactly the same way right now,” he ventured softly.
Donnelly nodded, not looking away from the window. “If I know Ethan, he’s charging north from Madrid like a vandal horde, laying waste to everyone who crosses his path. I hope he has at least one moment like this along the way.”
“I hope so too,” Sandler replied.
“And I hope he’s not alone,” Donnelly continued. “I hope he has someone to stand by him the way you have stood by me.”
“Something tells me you would have found a way here without my help,” Sandler said. “You talk about how Ethan’s the strong one, but I’ve seen you—seen your determination.”
Donnelly finally turned away from the window. “You haven’t just helped me with travel arrangements, though you’ve come up with some amazing stuff—and I do appreciate it more than you can possibly imagine. But it’s not just that. It’s… this,” he said, lifting the drink. “You somehow know exactly when I need to have a drink and get mopey for a bit. And then you know exactly what to say to shake me out of it. I hope Ethan has someone to do that since I can’t be there to do it for him.”