Alexander, completely oblivious, was striding up to a stationary train car and fiddling with a massive lock. “This is the lounge,” he said, excitement bleeding into his voice already, “and that there’s the sleeper, over there. It was modeled after Queen Elizabeth’s, has a full bath and seating area...”
His words blended to a comforting drone as his voice blew over them both, warm and quick. He lighted an old-fashioned lantern at the door, handed it to her. “Mind your step. Now—”
A faint buzzing interrupted him; he pulled out his phone with a quizzical expression. “Oh, food is here. Would you mind?”
Delysia shook her head, and Alexander legged it back toward the main station, leaving her alone with the car.
Delysia hadn’t had such an odd afternoon in a long while, nor such a quiet one; seeing this only seemed to add to the surrealness of the world she’d entered. Walking into the train car was like going back in time, or at the very least creeping unnoticed onto a stage or movie set. The warm yellow circle of light illuminated rich upholstered seats, gleaming walnut wood, plush carpet. Even dusty and faded with age, one could tell this had once been the height of luxury. She carefully placed the lantern down on a round table and walked the length of the car, pausing to touch mustard-yellow velvet drapes with her fingertips.
“It’s something, isn’t it?” a hushed voice came from the doorway, and she turned to see Alexander standing there, paper bag in hand. She nodded.
“Feel free to look around,” he said, and busied himself spreading napkins on one of the car’s many card tables, and taking out four Styrofoam containers of steaming soup. “You said to surprise you, so I just got four types,” he continued. “Sweet potato, tomato cream, barley, and Italian wedding.”
“I love Italian wedding soup,” Delysia said absentmindedly. She tried to peer out of a window, but she couldn’t see anything; it was boarded up. She touched the windowsill; she could not see the elegant scrolling in the dim light, but she could feel it beneath her fingers.
“It’s all original paneling,” Alexander said, cracking open what she presumed was the Italian wedding soup. He opened a foot-cabinet beneath the table and pulled out thick white bowls, spoons, mugs. It was obvious he’d done this before. He gestured for her to join him and she did, ignoring the flatware and choosing to sip directly from the Styrofoam cup. Alexander poured a stream of tomato soup into one of the proper bowls, then picked up a thin silver spoon.
“The doorman,” said Delysia, after a beat to enjoy the hot, seasoned richness of the soup, “told me last night that you probably could buy half of Manhattan. He didn’t tell me you owned a train.”
Alexander laughed. “I’m not sure where he got that information. I inherited a sleeper and a lounge car,” he corrected, “and it’s all that’s left of a fairly large fleet.”
“Your family owned a whole fleet?”
“Kind of.” He chewed his lip for a moment. “It was a pride thing, really. My father’s people were—comfortable. They were all in business, traveled a bit, and...well, you know how it was during those times, traveling for us.”
“I know,” Delysia said, taking a long sip of soup, eyes on his face.
“The Abbott-Hills invested heavily in railroad travel early in the century and maintained a whole fleet of private and luxury cars, among other things. Was meant to be specifically for private use and the use of other Black families in their circles, so they wouldn’t have to deal with all of that, but they lost most of their investment when the railroads wouldn’t give them equal use, and folks started relying more on automobiles. My parents used these cars for Christmas Eve train rides—a Polar Express type of thing, but the maintenance ate up the profits.”
“And yet you kept them anyway,” she mumbled through a mini meatball.
“It’s a hobby for me. My father worked on the restoration when he was alive.” He looked a little embarrassed. “The history meant a lot to him, and he sort of passed it on to me. We were—my mother died rather early, and we were alone for a lot of my life.”
“I’m sorry,” Delysia said softly. Her parents had been separated since she was young as well, but more by circumstance than tragedy. “That must have been hard.”
Alexander gave a self-deprecating shrug. “It was more for him than me, I think. I was fine. I had a slightly odd upbringing, but I was fine. I’d probably have to get rid of them eventually, or donate them. They rust if not in use. Among...other things.”
“Okay.” Another pause, and one long enough for her to really look at him. He was close without crowding her, perched on the padded couch they shared; his body radiated warmth that was just as filling, as comforting as the soup. She barely knew him, but he felt—simple. Safe. Time seemed to slow down around Alexander, but only because he had no need to hurry. With anyone else she’d want to fill in the silence with chatter, banter, jokes. Silence felt comfortable with Alexander Abbott-Hill.
“So—so,” she said after a long moment of sipping soup and gazing at the faded opulence, doing its best to dazzle her in the weak light, “this is what nights like this will be on board?”
He half-turned and treated her to one of those slow, vulpine smiles that made her tummy flip despite herself. It wasn’t lust, at least not all of it; that she recognized and never panicked over. This was more...liking their closeness, and liking it very much.
“Does the prospect bore you very much?”
“It seems...nice. Restful. Long as there’s Wi-Fi,” she added.
He rolled his eyes, but the amusement didn’t fade from his face. She could feel those dark eyes tracing her face, lingering on her mouth. “This will be our suite, if I can get it refurbished in time.”
“Our...” Her traitorous mind suddenly conjured up an image of them kissing in that club doorway, lit up completely with the harshest of bulbs—Faye had sent her a short video. She’d looked tense and skittish, but Alexander...he’d been cradling her close, tenderly even, and kissing her as if they were alone—and had the entire night ahead of them.
“Um—” She almost upset her poor abused Styrofoam cup, barely felt it when Alexander pressed a napkin into her hand. “We probably should talk about that. I mean, arrangements for—”
“Arrangements for exactly how far we plan to go with the ruse,” Alexander said patiently.
“Yes!”
“I was hoping to leave that up to you,” he said, and leaned back in the seat, fixing calm dark eyes on her face. “Were you offended when I kissed you, Delysia?”
The way he said her name gave her an oddly disturbing thrill.
“I mean, we’ve talked about almost every legal aspect of this arrangement, thanks to Faye,” he continued, “but I don’t want to do anything that makes you uncomfortable. I asked, yes, but that—you seemed...”
“I get it.” She was grateful for the dim light; her ears were burning. “No. I mean, it wasn’t a big deal. It’s less than what I posted on Instagram.”
“Oh, that wasn’t me, so I can’t hold it against you. But, seriously—I don’t want you to be uncomfortable around me or think I’m going to...pounce on you all the time.”
“No.” Her fingers sought out hair to twist round the tips, but damn it, she’d pinned it up. “I mean, you surprised me, but I said yes. And I obviously—” She laughed, a little nervously. “I did it again, so it couldn’t have been that disgusting to me. I’m a friendly drinker.”
Alexander looked like he was suppressing a smile. Delysia ran her tongue round the inside of her mouth; it was suddenly dry. “I don’t get the impression, though, that you’re the type for excessive PDA,” she said.
“It has been a while,” Alexander said dryly, “but you’re right. Listen, Delysia. Let’s keep it simple. Admit nothing, deny nothing. I’ll follow your lead.”
The words hung in the air between them, heavy and tempting. Delysia focuse
d on his mouth in a near-hypnotic state; she couldn’t look away. It was the only decadent thing about his face, she thought. Full, but not so much as to make it unmasculine, fleshy, and the warmest she’d ever kissed. Oh, God. She wanted to kiss him again, and now.
“Maybe some arm holding, some hand-in-hand?” she mumbled, dropping her eyes.
He grinned. “My parents didn’t even do that much. Different generation. But yes—again, I’ll follow your lead—within reason, of course. You can do whatever you want with me,” and the words hung in the air, heavy.
I have a damned dirty mind. Delysia gave herself a hard mental shake—she would not let it go there—and shot her companion a bright smile. “Done.”
“And for the record,” he said, in those odd clipped tones he favored. She still couldn’t tell what it was—Long Island, Boston, England? “It was nice. Yesterday, I mean.”
“Stop it,” she mumbled, finally gave up and lifted her hands to her face. “God.”
He laughed and began cleaning up their soup mess, tossing Styrofoam packages into a plastic bag reserved for that purpose. “Let’s get you back to Brooklyn.”
Chapter Five
The next few weeks were an intensely paced tangle of activity, between school, Delysia’s engagements, which Alexander was now very much a part of, and planning what they chose to call the Gilded Express.
The date, once solidified, fell precariously close to Thanksgiving. He’d learned much about what was possible through social media, including manipulating the most mundane images imaginable—eating a ham-and-mustard sandwich, for example—to look like something incredibly exciting, carefree, enviable—sexy even, if that’s what they wanted. However, he had not yet managed to make grading papers look like anything but the misery it was.
At least his students seemed more engaged. Delysia, true to her word, had included Alexander in nearly every part of her very public—and head-spinningly busy—life. Today, a cloudy Sunday that smelled like snow, he was at her home for an impromptu photo shoot.
“Hey,” Delysia greeted Alexander once she buzzed him up, more than a little out of breath, as if she’d rushed out of the shower or dressed quickly. Perhaps it was because he was meeting her at home, but it was one of the few times he’d seen her less than put together. She wore faded leggings, baggy at the knee, and a threadbare MIT sweatshirt that was frayed round the neckline and cuffs. She’d cut the neck out of her sweatshirt, and one slim shoulder poked out. Most of the hair he could see was wrapped tightly round a formidable-looking set of metal rollers. The rest was wrapped in a scarf of kente cloth.
“Don’t say anything,” she said immediately in a tone that was half-pleading, half-exasperated. “I overslept.” She’d requested that he come over that day to film a “how we met” segment for her page in response to fans flooding both their spaces.
Alexander mimed zipping his lips. If Delysia wasn’t late, she was almost late, and he’d grown used to it in their weeks of working together. “Not a word,” he said cheerfully.
It all was rather...odd, for lack of a better word. Alexander had spent the first week or so as Delysia’s boyfriend trying madly to keep up with the correspondence as well as juggle his teaching duties, and finally had broken down after the third sleepless night. When he’d finally confided in Delysia and Faye, they’d laughed in his face.
“Are you trying to keep up with all that yourself? You poor thing,” Faye laughed. “I can assign someone to run the account for you, if you want.”
“No, that won’t be necessary, thank you.” A part of him resisted. He wasn’t like Delysia, or like her fellow influencers—he was in academia, and he was doing this strictly for the benefit of his career. This was temporary, he reminded himself. After the trip was over and she was back full-time at Southampton, this charade would dissolve, and he’d be back to normal. Hopefully, with a few more opportunities, but generally back to normal.
After thinking it over he handed the whole lot over to Natalia to manage, with the addition of a stipend, of course, which she claimed rather triumphantly. At least he knew he could trust her to ensure that some historical content made it in among the fluff.
The second hurdle to clear had been rather an embarrassing one. The week after the Kim party, he’d found himself invited to yet another “thing”: this time, a birthday party at the Brooklyn Botanical Garden for influencer Callie Rose. There’d been an excruciating photo shoot involving scooters and skateboards, lawn games, and an absolutely raucous picnic catered by a man he vaguely remembered from late-night viewings of the Food Network while grading papers.
After, the group had changed clothes, piled into a fleet of party buses, and headed into the city for an evening of drinking and dancing, at yet another converted nightclub, this time in Harlem. There were toasts, and posing, and a trip that should have taken a bit over an hour took two, with all the stopping to pose and stage “moments” that included everything from dancing with the driver to poking their heads out of a moonroof, in the hammiest way imaginable.
Alexander had been grateful that the Kim twins were not among the celebrants that night. He’d been wary of them since Eden’s birthday party. Delysia had been animated, and warm, and cheerful, snuggling against Alexander with an almost deferential shyness that hinted at an intimacy she was too modest to show. It was masterful theater really.
Aside from the ruse, Alexander could not understand how Delysia managed to keep this type of schedule. It would have been different if he thought she’d actually enjoyed it—and for the most part, she looked like she did—but there were moments where a wistfulness crossed her face, a wistfulness that made him wonder about things he probably had no right to ask. They were at that stage where he was not yet certain what was off-limits. They were playing lovers, but they weren’t even friends.
Did he even want Delysia Daniels as a friend? He wasn’t sure what he could possibly offer her in that capacity. He wasn’t sure what he could offer anyone like Delysia, except monetary value with an expiration date.
Afterward, when he’d been panting from dehydration and a lack of sleep, the caravan had set off for pancakes at a greasy diner in Williamsburg. He’d watched longingly from the window as the night sky softened to gray then peach as his companions consumed piles of food and drank even more, stopping to document everything.
He was seriously considering giving the group the slip when Callie, who was sitting in her fiancé’s lap and scrolling on her phone, let out a shriek, then a laugh. “Oh my God!”
“What?” said Delysia.
“Alexander,” Callie said, pressing her hand on her mouth to cover the giggles, “someone got you. At my party. And the club. And the party bus—holy shit, you’ve been memed—”
Around them, people pulled out their phones, going to Callie’s account, demanding to know where. Alexander was confused. He knew what a meme was, of course, but why would he be—
“Oh my God,” Delysia murmured under the cover of all the hilarity, then scooted over in their booth, closer to him, pressed against his side in a way that quickly was feeling familiar. He registered the sweet spiciness of her skin, even after hours out, before she produced her phone. “Look.”
He’d held it up, squinted at it. There was him, in the club they’d been in only hours earlier. He was leaning against a wall, arms crossed, eyes half-closed, and his expression—
“Oh, dear,” he murmured, and everyone at the table exploded in mirth.
“The caption, read the caption,” gasped one of the influencers, a yogini from Chicago who also dabbled in ceramics, if Alexander remembered correctly.
He looked. There wasn’t one, there were several, all under the same picture:
When my trainer catches me doing half reps
Annoying Uncle: where my hug at??? Me:
When someone u hate is breathing
It hurts to live
Alexander was horrified.
To make it worse, there were more memes, screen-shot and shared by enterprising followers. In every single picture he was in, he looked like he was in excruciating pain. There was one in the club, another during the croquet match on the lawn when his eyes were half-closed, yet another when a minor celebrity he still didn’t recognize was yammering at him as they were all having drinks...
“Nicky is going to be livid,” said Callie with perhaps a little too much glee. “My friend, you are trending.”
* * *
Faye had not been impressed, not in the least. “What were you thinking?” She’d almost lost her trademark cool at their next planning meeting. “Always assume cameras are around, Alexander!”
“I wasn’t annoyed,” he protested. “That’s just my face!”
“You don’t look annoyed so much as bored. And that’s worse. Annoyed I can spin.” She inhaled, puffing her cheeks out. “You clearly need some work.”
The incident resulted in a crash course on camera-readiness, led by Faye, acting as his Henry Higgins in a Dries Van Noten jacket and an unlit Virginia Slim tucked behind her ear, rather than the pipe. “Starchy is fine,” she lectured, “but bored is stuck-up. You don’t need to grin—that would look idiotic. A neutrally pleasant look is ideal.” Sensing that Alexander would not be able to parrot some of the more popular social media stars, she trotted out classic icons instead. Barack Obama. Fred Rogers. Tom Hanks. Bob Ross. Kate Middleton—
“Kate Middleton? Really, Kate Middleton? Why on earth would I want to be like her?”
“The woman’s a gem. If you can still smile after paparazzi nearly run you over...” Faye’s eyes took on a bit of a faraway look, and then she snapped back to attention. “Anyway. Look at their pictures, Alexander. They can be sitting next to most reprehensible people in the world, and that pleasant half-smile never moves. It’s classy. Diplomatic. Photogenic. Un-meme-able.”
The Sweetest Charade Page 7