When she hesitated, he’d cleared his throat. “I’ll invite Faye, if you want.”
“No, no need,” Delysia had said hurriedly. She trusted him, she guessed, but her stomach was still churning. His being a virtual stranger aside, Delysia was more than a little apprehensive at the thought of going with Alexander to what was sure to be some tony place out in the Hamptons, but Faye was enthusiastic. It would make some great fodder for social media. “You haven’t been out to Long Island since that Great Gatsby fete last winter!” she’d said when Delysia called her to give her the address.
Delysia took a look at the outfit she had ready for that day. Before she’d met Alexander, this Saturday had been reserved for a boozy brunch in Brooklyn with a group of girls who worked for MAC Cosmetics. However, the distressed overalls, red-bottom stilettos, and Fair Isle tube top she’d planned seemed not quite right for a late morning out in Southampton with a history professor. A rummage produced a simple pair of jeans, brown riding boots she hadn’t had a chance to wear yet, and a crisp blue button-up.
She twisted her wet curls up into a loose bun on top of her head and put on a swipe of clear lip gloss, grabbed the same Versace purse she’d had last night, and finally switched on her phone.
The notifications pouring in sounded like a tinny, electronic hailstorm. It was almost automatic; when her phone switched on, she had to transform from being a sleepy, hungover girl with regrets about the night before to a peppy online socialite whose face glowed with fun. She logged into her account and made a cheery comment about heading out to Southampton for the day, then took a makeup-and filter-free selfie.
It took about ten minutes to work through the stack of notifications, and another five to look over the correspondence that Faye had sent that morning. Alexander had been quick. He had already signed the proposal form that Delysia had left with him last night, along with making a few minor adjustments.
When she arrived outside, squinting into the morning sun, she spotted Alexander waving at her from the interior of a large white Jaguar parked at the curb. When she pulled open the door, she offered him what she hoped was a casual smile and slid into the front seat of the car. The interior smelled like it had been freshly detailed; it was pristine, and walnut paneling gleamed along the dashboard and doors. It looked very well taken care of, and very expensive.
“This was my father’s,” Alexander said as if he’d read her mind. “I lusted after it for years, and when I finally got my doctorate he relented and passed it on. It was the last gift he gave me before he died.”
“It’s quite a gift.” Delysia reached out to touch the dashboard with slim, purple polished fingers. She still couldn’t quite look at Alexander, but he seemed perfectly at ease, not bothered at all by the fact that they’d kissed the night before. Perhaps she shouldn’t be bothered either. “I’m sorry I was late.”
“It’s fine, we have the full day.” He looked over at her and offered that slight, guarded smile of his. “No paparazzi this morning?”
“There never is any paparazzi,” she said, fighting a blush. Then she laughed. “I’m not a real celebrity. They don’t come unless Faye calls and pays them. Last night was as set up as setup gets.”
“Everyone seemed to know who you were, though. Both at the door and at the party.”
“Well, social media—it’s a new type of celebrity.” She felt a little bit uncomfortable dissecting her livelihood with Alexander. “I think the sociologists at Southampton University might have a better idea of how to describe my work. I honestly don’t always understand it myself.”
“Fair enough.” Alexander navigated into midmorning traffic with ease. He wore a cotton shirt with frayed cuffs, worn down from what looked like years of washing, and a pair of brown cords, thin and faded at the knees. “You look very nice,” he said. “I’m afraid this is my usual weekend look when I’m working on the Pullman cars...there is water in the back if you want it,” he added with all the formality of a five-star Uber driver.
“No, that’s okay. I had something before I came down.”
“Isn’t rent really expensive in this part of the city? I can’t imagine living in Brooklyn.”
Oh, can’t you? At her estimate it would take about forty-five minutes to get to Long Island from here, just the border, not to mention the boonies where he probably lived, and she couldn’t imagine making this sort of small talk all the way there.
“You know what?” she said, and she turned abruptly so that she was facing him.
Alexander raised his eyebrows.
“Let’s not pretend that we are actually in this to become the best of friends,” Delysia said, then tempered the blunt statement with a dimpled smile. “What I mean is, I find small talk pretty painful and I’m sure you do, too.”
Alexander laughed out loud. “I’m in academia. Small talk is part of my job.”
“Yes, I know,” Delysia replied, “but despite that you somehow managed to get into the most exclusive room of the SoHo Lounge last night. Want to share how that happened?”
“I honestly have no idea,” Alexander said. “I showed my driver’s license and the next thing I knew some big fellow in a shiny suit was walking me upstairs and offering me drinks.”
“And your cousin was already there,” Delysia pointed out. “Your cousin, the senator.”
“Right.” His brow furrowed. “He’s a member, apparently. I suppose that explains it.”
“Huh.” He looked sincere, anyway. It was on the tip of Delysia’s tongue to ask about precisely what it meant to be an Abbott-Hill, but she held back. For now.
Delysia busied herself angling her mobile over where their knees sat side by side, separated by the gearshift. Alexander’s hand rested on it, strong and tan and covered with curling dark hair that matched the golds and siennas and sand-colored strands, mixed in with the black on his head. She took an overhead shot of their knees close together, captioned it guess who? I’m close! into her account. She turned off notifications for the time being, and focused her attention on her companion.
“Is that for us?” he asked.
“Yes, I’ve posted it just now.”
“At least we’re dressed this time,” he said dryly, and despite herself Delysia began to giggle. He looked over and gave her one of his lightning-quick smiles; it was like a flash of sun hitting the water, breathlessly bright, and then it was gone.
He’s handsome. It wasn’t the first time she’d thought that. She shifted uncomfortably.
“Who was that photo of, anyway?” Alexander asked.
“It was a model I met on a movie set a couple weeks ago. I just put it up to tease everyone. I had no idea I’d attached the wrong handle to it until the next day.” She blew a tendril of hair out of her face. “You must have been horrified.”
“You have no idea.”
“Well, I’m sorry,” she said, and gave him the most wheedling smile in her arsenal. “It all worked out well, though, no?”
“That’s yet to be seen, isn’t it?”
“Well, I’m an eternal optimist.”
“I’m beginning to see that.”
* * *
Once they hit the bridge, Alexander asked if he could put on a podcast, “for work.” Delysia, eager to avoid awkward conversation, had agreed immediately. The episode featured two Englishmen who seemed determined to out-reference each other when it came to...classic Greek myth? Delysia tried hard to follow for all of five minutes, then promptly curled up on the leather seat and fell asleep.
When she was woken by Alexander’s gentle hand on her shoulder, she sat up and blinked rapidly, feeling like she’d been transported to some other world—from a postcard, perhaps, or the front of a puzzle box. The Hill house was mostly white and gray stone, pillared, and shrouded by trees so old and so heavily foliaged that branches sagged to the ground. Alexander was parked on a dirt driveway t
hat looked like it could accommodate at least six cars.
“Is this where you live?” Delysia yawned and rubbed her eyes.
“It is.”
“I thought your parents were dead,” she blurted out, and then could have kicked herself for being so tactless.
“They are. I moved in afterward, to take care of the house. And the train’s about a ten-minute ride from here. I’ll get your door.” And Alexander ducked out into the crisp fall air. He didn’t even meet her eye, so she could look apologetic, at least.
She shouldered her bag and followed him up the walk. Faye was standing at the door, much to Delysia’s surprise. She was wearing what Delysia supposed was her version of a Hamptons Housewife look: jodhpurs, a black cashmere turtleneck that clung to her bony frame, a thick argyle scarf, and bright yellow Hunter boots.
When she saw Delysia her eyes widened. “You’re late,” she snapped.
“What are you doing here?” Delysia demanded.
“Alex asked me.”
“Alexander,” he corrected politely, and gestured that they should move forward into a large, marble-tiled foyer. The interior was full of light from large windows that decorated the entryway. Alexander pulled his brogues off, replacing them with a pair of shapeless wool slippers sitting at the door. Delysia reached for her own boots, but he shook her head. “Don’t bother. The floors are wood and it’s freezing here... I usually don’t turn on the heat till Christmas. I’m going to light a fire, though, so we’ll get a bit of extra warmth. This way.”
The interior of the house was opulent, although in the shabbiest way possible; faded oriental rugs and dated, heavy wood furniture decorated the space, along with framed photographs of people who Delysia assumed were the Abbott-Hill family ancestors. The dining room was an enormous space with a large fireplace big enough for three small children to sit in side by side. Alexander got the fire going, left and reappeared with crackers, cheese, wine, fruit, bread. Faye pulled out her laptop. Delysia, who was shivering, gratefully accepted the offer of a faded wool shawl.
“This doesn’t seem much your style, Alexander,” teased Faye.
He chuckled. “It’s not. Don’t worry—it wasn’t my mother’s,” he said quickly to Delysia. “That would have been a bit morbid, I think. Augusta Savage stayed here a few weeks out of the year in the ’60s, when my grandparents owned the house. She hated the cold. They’re usually in mothballs, but I pulled out a few for the Smithsonian last year. They didn’t want that one.”
He returned back to his computer. Delysia and Faye stared at each other, at him, and at the shawl.
Delysia draped it around her shoulders and said not one word.
Faye lost no time whipping the two into shape. “I,” she declared, “have created a virtual storyboard that breaks the trip up into days and nights. There’s places for the train to stop so folks can get off, venues to visit, meals, activities on board...every minute needs to be accounted for.”
“Ports?” Alexander repeated. Both women stared at him.
“What, did you expect us to sit and listen to you lecture for a week?” Faye demanded after a beat, but in good humor.
“I beg your—”
“There’ll be one stop in every city,” Delysia said patiently, before they started to squabble, “with something to do in each. Boston, New York City, Philadelphia and Washington, DC. I’m thinking about restaurants, lounges, clubs, and getting a sense of the local nightlife. There will be some people we’ll be obligated to visit, and record ourselves visiting, for merching purposes. They give up the goodies; we get them the likes, make them look like their product is essential for the lifestyle we’re trying to portray...”
“That may not be everyone’s speed,” Alexander said tactfully. “I’d like this to be an opportunity to educate some of these young people, as well.”
“Not your speed, you mean,” Faye butted in. “With all due respect, Alexander, I’ve studied your career, and read the stuff you post online—your history blogging, I mean. And this trip can’t all be the opera and bibliographic lectures.”
“I do realize it’s not as...sexy,” Alexander said acidly. “I just think...”
“There will be a balance of both,” Delysia cut in to ease the tension, although secretly she agreed with Faye. Alexander frowned, but he held back and poured Delysia a glass of wine instead. She took a long sip. “Thanks. And that’s how it works, unfortunately. My mother calls it digital prostitution,” she quipped.
“Making Faye our madam in this situation, I suppose,” Alexander said dryly. The two women stared at him; his mouth twitched. “Figuratively speaking, of course.”
Delysia reached out and patted his arm with a manicured hand. “You’ll get used to it, I promise,” she said lightly, although part of it stung. “Think of it as being...a courtesan of luxury.”
“Interesting.” Alexander lifted his brows. The word hung in the air for a moment; Delysia felt his eyes steady on her face. Faye looked at him, then her, then smirked just enough to make Delysia blush, and hard.
“Let’s do this,” she said after clearing her throat.
The three fell to work. There were more details than they realized, which popped out as they went along. Tiresome, unromantic details. Timing, for example, and scheduling caterers to meet the train, and maintenance, and working with Amtrak’s scheduling, and necessary permissions, and more. Letters had to be procured from each of their sponsors, to submit to Southampton University for Alexander’s two-week leave of absence. Tax forms had to be completed. Spirited ideas became long to-do lists. Alexander refilled the cheese tray twice. Faye opened a third bottle of wine.
“I’ve never heard of many of these people you’re bringing on board,” Alexander murmured.
“Well, you’ve got plenty of time to do the research. Thank God we’re going to get official planners for all this,” Delysia groaned. Her shoes had come off after all, and she was sprawled in the captain’s chair at the head of the table, her feet propped on another. Faye was busily importing tasks into a shared calendar for the group, and Alexander was fiddling with a pen and staring into the fire, a thoughtful look on his thin face.
“What?” Faye demanded through a mouthful of popcorn.
“Nothing. I do need to take Delysia out to the Pullman, though, and it will be dark soon. Perhaps we should call it an evening.”
Faye made a noncommittal noise without looking up from her screen. “Sounds good.”
Alexander stood, looming over Delysia for a moment before extending a hand to help her up in one of those oddly old-fashioned gestures of his. Were he a certain type, she would have thought it was an excuse to touch her, but his grip when he took her hand was warm and impersonal, and he let go as soon as she was steady on her feet. When she managed to look away, she saw Faye looking speculatively. She swore inwardly.
“Let’s go,” she said briskly, eager to escape the prying eyes of her manager.
“Yes, let’s,” Faye purred, gathering her belongings with more speed than she thought the woman capable of. “I drove for once, so you don’t need to worry about me. You two have fun.” She pointedly ignored Delysia’s glare.
* * *
The two were soon ensconced in the Jaguar, headed for the train station. Delysia was grateful for the warmth of the car after the chilly house; her companion, however, seemed impervious to cold. She rubbed her hands together, tucked them under her arms.
“You’ll have to bring a jacket if we come again,” he said mildly. “I’ll give you my sweater when we get to the train. It’s very cold there, but I’m used to it.”
Delysia’s first instinct was to protest, but she shut her mouth. It was cold, in a way that she just never felt in the city. And this was only October!
“You’re probably also quite hungry,” he added.
“Oh, no, I’m fine—” she began to prote
st, but her stomach growled as if determined to reveal her lie, and he flashed her that odd smile of his again. “Brooklyn is a long way off,” he observed. “I’d have raided the fridge, but we haven’t had proper food there since my parents’ silver anniversary. And that was catered,” he added as an afterthought. “Do you care for soup, at all? I’ll order something and have it delivered.”
“To the train station?”
He grinned. “I’ve done it before. I may not be a social media guru, but I’ve more than mastered the dark occult of the UberEats order.”
“Oh. Soup is fine, thanks.”
“Any preferences?”
“Um, no. I’m not picky.”
“I’ll surprise you then.”
True to word, they were at the station in minutes, and after parking Alexander was leading her through a courtyard and a small patch of woods, to a series of tracks in the back. It was well within view of the main station, so it shouldn’t have felt as spooky as it did, but there was something about the chilly dusk and quiet landscape that made her shiver in a way that had little to do with cold. It felt—old, with that odd haunted vibe Alexander’s house had given off.
Alexander kept glancing over at her; his face was concerned. “Perhaps I should have loaned you a coat,” he said, and in a moment he stopped and pulled off his sweater. Delysia caught a flash of taut, tanned stomach and the waistband of black boxer shorts before he tugged his thermals down and handed her the sweater.
She began to protest, but he cut her off in a decidedly professor-ish manner. “Put it on,” he said briskly. “You’re already catching your death out here and I promise I don’t have cooties.”
Delysia opened her mouth to argue further, but he moved toward her as if to jerk it over her head himself. “Okay!” she huffed, and pulled it on. That smell of soap and lemon starch that she’d inhaled while held against his tweeds last night engulfed her senses again, and she suddenly felt not only warmer, but flushed. She tugged the sleeves down to cover her hands.
The Sweetest Charade Page 6