by Lynn Messina
“Cool,” Lydon says with a smile. “Then I’ll go get a fresh shot of espresso to fire me up for my very important task.”
His brother shakes his head. “File.”
“Yeesh,” Lydon says, rolling his eyes. But he takes the can, filled with brochures, invitations, magazines and program guides, and starts looking through the files for the right month and year of each publication. He closes the drawers with more force than necessary, but Bennet doesn’t rise to the provocation. Instead, he sits at his desk and begins writing follow-up emails to all the current and potential funders who came to the party. Even though it’s almost three in the afternoon, he’s barely had a chance to glance at his email all day. Every time he’d settled into a task, Meryton had interrupted with another fond remembrance.
It always amuses Bennet how quickly his boss’s ruthless calculation can give way to gloating frivolity. The two traits strike him as mutually exclusive.
The loud clanging of the drawers is distracting, especially when Lydon puts on his headphones and adds off-key Jay-Z lyrics to the clamor, but Bennet doesn’t let it disturb his concentration. There are three dozen new emails in his inbox, many of which are thank-yous for a great evening, and he slowly and methodically works his way through each one.
“It’s five-thirty,” Lydon says suddenly.
His brother finishes the sentence he’s typing and glances up briefly. Then he resumes writing. “OK.”
“It’s five-thirty,” Lydon explains with meaningful emphasis.
Bennet has no idea what his brother is trying to imply. As far as he can tell, the only remarkable thing about the hour is that his brother is still in the office to toll it.
“It’s five-thirty, and John isn’t back yet. He’s been gone all afternoon.”
“He’s working.”
Lydon scoffs. “That’s what you said last night.”
“He was working last night,” Bennet points out.
“C’mon,” Lydon says, lowering his voice as he leans his head closer to Bennet’s. “The old man’s not listening. Let there be a little honesty among men. John is trying to hook her, isn’t he? Marry rich and blow this popsicle stand. It’s a good gig, amiright?”
Bennet is spared the necessity of a reply by the loud trill of his cell phone, and he reaches for the device gratefully because he really doesn’t know how to respond to Lydon. Obviously, his cynical take is way off the mark—their brother would never be motivated by greed—but the implication that what John’s engaged in isn’t all work isn’t entirely wrong. The spark between him and Bingley is real.
He answers his phone with a curt hello.
“I have a ridiculous favor,” John says quickly, “and I’m only asking it because I can’t think of another option.”
“OK.”
“Is that John?” Lydon asks. “If it’s John, tell him it’s five-thirty.”
Bennet swivels in his chair.
“Hannah just called to say she has the box of rugelach I ordered,” John says, his voice picking up speed as he rushes to explain. “There was some mix-up at Bonelle and they delivered it to the Longbourn instead of the hotel, and apparently the box has been bouncing around the building all day, and Hannah just figured out who it was supposed to go to. Do you think you could bring it here? I know a trip into Manhattan is the opposite of on the way home, but it’s too late to call a messenger, and the rugelach will most likely go stale by tomorrow morning, and I told Bingley it would be delivered today, and I would like to be a man of my word.”
“No problem,” Bennet says. “I’ll leave now.”
John exhales with surprising force. “Thank you. I’m in the bathroom. Actually, in the shower stall in the bathroom, because I couldn’t be certain sound wouldn’t travel. I feel like an idiot, but I didn’t know what else to do, and I really appreciate your helping me out.”
Bennet laughs as he imagines his usually dignified brother crouching in the corner of the Netherfield’s elegant glass stall, with its rain-shower head and ornate fixtures. “Hang tight, act normal and don’t forget to breathe. I’ll be right there.”
Perceiving a grave injustice in his immediate future, Lydon takes off his headphones and says, “You’re going to the Netherfield, aren’t you?”
“I’m just running an errand,” Bennet says, putting his computer to sleep. “It’s nothing glamorous.”
“If it’s just an errand, why can’t I do it?” Lydon asks. “I excel at running errands. Every day, I run to get coffee. Twice. You never get coffee.”
Although silently Bennet appreciates the sly reasoning, he knows acknowledging it will only encourage his brother to argue further. “It’s getting late. You should go home.”
Now Lydon wrinkles his brow, suspecting a trick. No family member has ever told him to work less before. “No, thanks. I’ll stay and file. One of us has to be responsible.”
Bennet smothers a smile at his indolent brother’s display of moral superiority. “Suit yourself,” he says, slipping his phone into a pocket as he slides his messenger bag over his shoulder. “See you at home. Don’t stay too late.”
Lydon grunts in response, puts on his headphones and turns the music up so loud the entire neighborhood can hear Jay-Z clearly. Then he takes an exhibition brochure out of the garbage can, which, even after three hours, is still half-full, and resumes loudly opening and closing cabinet drawers.
Watching the display, Bennet smiles and wonders when his little brother is going to grow up. The kid still acts like he’s fifteen years old.
Although he knows Lydon can’t hear him, Bennet says good-bye and heads over to Hannah’s office to pick up the misdelivered pastries. The special events department is located on the other side of the building, down two long corridors and past the elevator, and Bennet is more than halfway there when he remembers the clam chowder. When he returns to the office a few minutes later, the box of rugelach tucked firmly under his arm, Lydon is elbow-deep in his bottom drawer. The quart of soup is on Bennet’s desk—indisputable evidence of his brother’s intentions—but the files he had to rifle through to find it have distracted him from his original purpose. Now he’s reading budget reports and resource distribution spreadsheets, amazed and impressed by how much money passes through his brother’s hands on an annual basis.
“Dude, is this for real?” he asks when Bennet enters the room, his eyes bright with surprise. He’s not the least bit disconcerted to be caught rummaging through his brother’s folders. “You raise this kind of cash all the time?”
Bennet doesn’t know how to respond. Without question, he’s appalled by his brother’s lack of respect for his privacy and his inability to follow even the most basic office protocol. Although nobody had actually told Lydon in clear, decisive language that colleagues do not poke through the files of other colleagues, he knows his brother knows it. You can’t grow up in a house with four brothers and not learn the value of privacy.
At the same time, he’s pleased to see the boy finally showing interest in the world around him. “Yes, this is for real,” he says, withholding the lecture that’s on the tip of his tongue. Better, he decides, to encourage his curiosity than deflate it with rules and regulations he won’t follow anyway. “No museum can survive on admissions alone. If you’re lucky, you can cover your staffing needs with the take from the front desk, but every other operating expense comes from grants, donations or the endowment. That’s why the development department is so necessary. We can go over it in the morning. I’m happy to sit down with you and run through the figures.”
Lydon nods. “Yeah, all right. That sounds good.”
“Great,” Bennet says, resisting the urge to remind his brother that morning means before noon. But he can’t stop himself from neatly stacking the folders, returning them to their correct file and locking his desk drawer. Then he picks up the quart of clam chowder, reminds Lydon not to stay too late and texts John that he’s on his way.
CHAPTER SIX
The train from Forest Hills takes so long—earlier incident at a station, we apologize for the delay—that Bennet could have walked to the Netherfield faster. By the time he emerges from the 59th Street station, it’s after seven o’clock. It seems unlikely his brother is still at the hotel. If that’s the case, he’ll simply leave the box at the reception desk and go home.
“Nope, I’m still here,” John says cheerfully when Bennet calls to confirm. “We’re picking a date.”
“Picking a date?” Bennet asks as he enters the hotel through the Fifth Avenue entrance, where two liveried doormen stand at the ready to help guests carry packages or hail a taxi.
“I’ll tell you all about it when you get here,” his brother says.
Although Bennet has been to the Netherfield several times for various functions, including a gracious afternoon tea that Henry Cortland Longbourn’s wife hosted before she had the stroke from which she never entirely recovered, the grandeur of the lobby, with its soaring triple-height ceiling, never fails to impress him, and he takes the elevator up to the penthouse genuinely eager to see the lavish apartment he’s only read about in Us Weekly.
A gentleman in a navy suit answers the door. Tall, with broad shoulders and curly hair just starting to turn gray, he looks to Bennet like several people at once—butler, manservant, steward, uncle—and rather than give unintended offense, he introduces himself. During his tenure as director of corporate giving, he’s learned that nobody takes exception to an excess of good manners.
“Hello, I’m Bennet Bethle,” he says as he offers his hand.
Carl, rounding the corner of the foyer, calls out, “Who’s there, Mulberry?”
“Mr. Bethle,” Mulberry says, neatly avoiding the issue of the handshake by opening the door wider to admit their guest. “I have yet to ascertain his purpose.”
Amused to have discovered the only situation not improved by an excess of good manners, Bennet steps into the foyer, which is large and ornate, with gilt moldings, a coved ceiling and deep, rich red walls. Several feet beyond the entrance is an informal living room with mahogany trim and large windows facing Central Park. Darcy, looking equally informal in a ponytail and light-colored capris, is sitting cross-legged on the couch opposite a marble fireplace. She has a computer on her lap, but she stops typing when she hears his voice.
Bennet nods to her in acknowledgment, then looks at Carl and Mulberry as he holds up the box from Bonelle. Clearly, John had failed to mention he was coming. “I’m making a delivery. Rugelach. In case the croissants are stale again.”
Carl eyes the bakery carton with such displeasure, Bennet is tempted to assure him the pastries don’t contain cyanide or rodent droppings. Instead, he says, “If you would point me in the direction of my brother, I’ll leave this with him and get out of your way.”
A brief, awkward pause follows this statement as Carl fails to assure his guest that he’s not in the way. It falls to Mulberry, who comes with the penthouse apartment like the chandelier in the dining room and the teapot in the kitchen, to break the uncomfortable silence. “Your brother is in the library with Ms. Bingston,” he says. “This way, sir.”
“Of course, Mr. Mulberry. Thank you,” Bennet says with a glance at Darcy, who’s watching the scene from her perch on the couch. Silently, he nods at her again and smiles pleasantly at Carl, whose disapproving sneer has yet to recede.
Like the rest of the first floor—and, no doubt, the entire penthouse—the library is turned out in the style of a nineteenth-century English country house, with red walls, dark-wood shelves and elliptical arches. In the center of the gracious room is a round pedestal table at which John and Bingley are sitting with their heads close together. They’re so engrossed in their conversation, neither one hears them enter.
“Mr. Bethle to see you, ma’am,” Mulberry announces.
No, not announces, Bennet thinks with wry amusement, bellows. The library is empty save for the pair at the table, and yet the butler speaks as if he’s addressing a room full of dignitaries.
Bingley looks up with delight. “Bennet, what a pleasant surprise.”
“I was in the neighborhood, so I thought I’d drop this off,” he explains, holding up the box as Mulberry silently leaves the room.
She recognizes the logo for the bakery immediately and shrieks in delight. “Oh, you wonderful, wonderful man. I’ve been craving those.”
Bennet places the box on the table and unties the string. “John’s the one who ordered them. I’m just the delivery boy.”
Bingley immediately drops a rugelach in her mouth and smiles at John. “You’re a wonderful man, too.”
John turns a light shade of pink at the praise, but Bingley is too busy selecting another pastry to notice. Softly, he says to his brother, “I really appreciate this.”
Bennet shrugs nonchalantly. There’s very little he wouldn’t do for his brother, and hopping a subway to midtown is hardly an act of heroism.
“Coming or going?” Bingley suddenly asks Bennet.
He looks at her in confusion. “Hmmm?”
“You said you were in the neighborhood,” Bingley explains as she takes a picture of herself holding the box of rugelach with her phone. “Are you coming into the neighborhood or are you going out of it? If it’s the latter, then you must stay for dinner. Right, John? John is staying for dinner, so we can have another planning sesh after we eat.”
Bennet watches in amusement as Bingley posts the selfie (#yummy, #heaven, #dontyouwishyouwereme). “Planning session for what?”
“The wonderful, absolutely amazing ball I’m going to throw here at the Netherfield for your museum,” she says, smiling brightly. “Did I forget to mention that part? It’ll be the inaugural event of the Gold Circle Diamond Society.”
“The Gold Circle Diamond Society?” Bennet asks, darting a glance at his brother.
“The party was Bingley’s idea,” John volunteers.
“And it’s going to be a tremendously elaborate affair with too much champagne and too much dancing, and it won’t end until the first light of dawn creeps over the horizon, because I was desolate to see the party break up so early last night,” she says.
“Naturally, we have to run it by Meryton,” John says.
Bennet smiles as he imagines the look of unabashed joy on the executive director’s face when he finds out an heiress wants to throw a lavish and unsolicited party on the Longbourn’s behalf. “I don’t think he’ll have a problem with it. Have you picked a date?”
“We were just looking at our calendars when you arrived,” Bingley says. “John suggested we coordinate the ball with the opening of the Art & Style exhibit, which is set for the last week of April. At first I thought four weeks wouldn’t be enough time to pull an extravagant event together, but now I’m convinced the last-minuteness will give the party a bit of a pop-up feel. What do you think?”
“I think you’ve got everything well in hand,” Bennet observes, meaning his brother as much as the party. Despite the several relationships John has had, including one that lasted almost a year, Bennet has never seen him so smitten. Something about Bingley makes him glow from inside. He’s like a house with every light blazing.
It’s wonderful to see, and yet Bennet has his reservations. Bingley is the genuine article—sensible, good-humored, lively, beautiful—and he doesn’t doubt she would make John, whose temperament matches her own, very happy. But the differences in their situations cannot be ignored. Bingley throws parties; John works them.
Bingley claps merrily. “I think so, too. All right, then, let’s each resolve to have one more rugelach and then go have dinner. I’m starving.”
Although Bingley is the only one whose willpower necessitates the enactment of a resolution, the Bethle brothers comply and, finishing their duly allotted portion of rugelach, accompany her to the living room, where Carl is pouring red wine from a decanter. Lucy and Hurst are resting quite comfortably on the couch, her head against his shoulder, and Darcy is ens
conced in the far corner talking on the phone.
“Dinner,” Bingley calls brightly.
It takes fifteen minutes for the entire party to gather—Darcy is the last one to sit down—but Mulberry brings out the food as soon as Bingley appears. The meal is a simple preparation of salmon in a sesame-soy sauce with sautéed spinach and buttered new potatoes, and Bennet, whose usual dinner consists of one of three short-order-cook specialties (grilled cheese, hot dog or omelet) prepared by himself in his one-bedroom apartment in Queens, enjoys the fresh flavors. John, too, sends his compliments to the chef, and Mulberry promptly informs him that he’ll pass on the message to the kitchen staff downstairs.
While they eat, Bingley, pen in hand, brainstorms a guest list. Her ball, she insists, will be a big opportunity to move the Longbourn Collection beyond its usual crowd of stuffy millionaires and reliable standbys. “Let’s break new ground!”
“We can invite Tully,” Lucy suggests. “I haven’t seen him since Rome, so he’s due for a visit.”
“Tully it is,” Bingley says as she adds his name to the list. “Who else?”
“I don’t see why—” Carl begins.
He’s summarily cut off by his sister, who has now interrupted him three times. “Uh-uh. No complaints, only suggestions. Hurst, you summered on Martha’s Vineyard last year. Who can we invite from the beach?”
Hurst furrows his brow and thinks. “Muriel Watson, perhaps. She once went to the Tibetan Museum of Art on Staten Island, so she’s very open-minded like that.”
Bingley nods with firm approval. “Good thinking, Hurst. Ms. Watson is also on the list.” Then she turns to Carl and speaks with exaggerated calm as if conversing with a small child. “See how easy it is to contribute productively to the discussion? I’m sure you could do it if you tried.”
Carl grumbles, “I’m sure if I wanted to aid and abet your plan, I could suggest several excellent guests, but as I said before, I don’t see why you’re hosting a ball. It’s madness.”