Delysia was covering her mouth, laughing softly.
“I’m exhausted,” he admitted. “How do you do this all the time?”
Her face was warm, amused. Despite their early start and the inevitably late night to come, she looked fresh. Calm. Relaxed, even. “You learn to pace yourself.”
The doors to the private box opened, and the group let out a cheer. Alexander didn’t do too well at hiding a wince, and Delysia patted him on the back. From where they were he could see an opulently decorated sitting area, leather furniture, a granite bar, a table covered with silver chafing dishes. Another set of doors led out to a balcony that looked out over the diamond. He squared his shoulders and took another breath.
Just a couple more hours. Or however long a baseball match lasted.
He started when Delysia’s hand crept into his, stopping him. Come, she mouthed, and tilted her head. He followed her wordlessly a few paces back. She glanced around them as if she was afraid of being overheard.
The smile on her face was one he hadn’t seen yet. It was amused, and more than a little mischievous. “What do you say we ditch?” she asked.
He lifted his eyebrows. “Ditch?”
“Yes. Ditch.” She tucked her hand into the crook of his arm and began walking, swinging her handbag. “Get back on the train, go—somewhere. Anywhere.”
“Ditch,” he repeated, a bit stupidly. “Won’t Faye—”
“Oh, she’ll be furious,” Delysia admitted. “But really, it’s better in the end. What could be more romantic than sneaking off with your lover? Besides, I owe you.”
“You owe me.” Alexander shook his head. “You do realize that I’m making more in the next couple of weeks than I have so far this year, before taxes? And I’m likely going to get publications, speaking engagements... I can stand a Sox game for that.”
“You might, but I can’t.” Delysia swung the bag one more time, then gave up and handed it to him. “God, that thing’s heavy—and it’s all your books anyway, so you might as well. Besides,” she added, returning to her topic, and ticking off on her fingers as she spoke. “You’ve come to the SoHo Lounge, a Cirque du Soleil party, the Cereal Bar...”
“All I was happy to do,” he interrupted.
She snorted. “All you tolerated.”
“It was interesting, from an anthropological point of view.”
She hit him in the arm, and he laughed. He was never sure if his humor would land, so with most people he didn’t even try, but Delysia was looking up at him with true amusement, not the tolerance he always assumed most people used around him. As a kid who’d spent most of his time in the Southampton History Department or tagging round lectures with his father, he’d given up trying to keep up with his peers ages ago.
“The point is,” Delysia said, hugging herself against the evening chill stealing round their bodies, “I owe you. And these games have about a hundred innings, and we’ll be back before the end.”
“How do you know?”
“Aya promised she’d text me.”
“So you’ve got a conspirator, then!”
Delysia smiled, pulled away from him, and rested her hands on her hips. “Well? Your choice. I’m giving you five minutes to google what there is to do around here. I’m freezing,” she ordered.
Alexander stood for a long, long moment. Then, he met her eyes and began to laugh.
“What?” Delysia demanded.
“Come on. I’ll tell you in a minute.”
* * *
“You did this professionally?”
“Hush, he’ll hear you,” Alexander hissed. “We didn’t pay.”
For the second time that evening Delysia had to cover her mouth with her hands. The two were standing as discreetly as possible at the corner of Congress Street, hands in their pockets, on the edge of a circle of tourists preparing to go on a walking ghost tour of Boston. They tried to look as inconspicuous as they could, considering she was dressed in Mets gear from head to toe, and he Red Sox.
“We’re getting looks,” she muttered.
“That’s because we don’t match.”
That observation nearly set her off again, and a couple of people from the group looked back at them. “Fenway Park’s that way,” yelled a man with a camera around his neck, and the two quickly pretended to consult their phones.
“Thank you,” Alexander yelled back, and they ran, laughing, across the street. “I wasn’t planning to have us follow them,” he assured her. “I just wanted you to see what it looks like.”
“So you did this? You were a tour guide?”
“Myself and my colleagues were historians and storytellers,” Alexander said with dignity. Delysia was still laughing; she couldn’t picture anyone as stiff as Alexander donning a three-cornered hat and giving tours to little kids.
“You did this willingly?”
“Oh, I loved it.” Alexander spoke so earnestly she stopped laughing, immediately. “I did it first when I was here doing research. I knew a man who works for the company, he knew I was a grad student, and he offered. It was a bit of a joke at first, but I enjoyed it.”
“So that’s what we’re going to do tonight?”
“Yes.” There was a gleam in Alexander’s eyes she’d never seen before—humor, real humor. “Backward, so we don’t run into the group again. Possibly with some food...”
For the next hour or so, still dressed in their baseball gear, Alexander ushered her around the city in fine style, hamming up the tour guide routine to a degree that had her laughing one minute, gawping at him the next. They trailed the steps of the Boston Strangler—slowly, as Alexander told the story, with dramatic pauses for snacks at a food cart: lobster mac and cheese, falafel, baked beans (Delysia wasn’t sure how authentic they were, but they were delicious). They had drinks at the Omni Hotel, where Alexander swore he’d seen Charles Dickens one night on tour, peering at his group from the third floor, reflected in a mirror in the hall.
“I don’t believe you!”
“He’s why a lot of people come to the Omni Hotel,” Alexander laughed, taking a sip of the brandy he’d ordered. Under the soft yellow lighting in the bar his face was bright and rested, and inside Delysia felt very glad.
They ended the tour at a graveyard not five minutes from the hotel; Delysia looked at the headstones beneath the trees and shivered.
“I don’t want to go in,” she said quietly. Graveyards made her think of the dead, and the things that had to happen before someone died, and her mother, and how sick she was.
“You don’t have to worry. Ghosts are too busy at night to hang around headstones.” Alexander’s voice was light, but he drew closer to her. Delysia felt glad for his warm presence. “And we should be getting back anyway.”
“Right.”
Neither of them moved, however. Alexander looked lost in thought again, and for once she was content not to draw him out. She was surprised to find herself opening her mouth to tell him why she hated graveyards so much, but she closed it instead. She’d dated Nicky for ages and he still didn’t know her real reason for being an influencer. No one did, at least not here. It would take a lot more than baked beans in a paper cup and ghost stories to invite those sorts of confidences.
She cleared her throat and licked her lips, ready to suggest they head back. However, her phone buzzed and they both jumped a little. She rummaged in her handbag, peered at the screen.
“Faye,” she said after a beat.
“Is she absolutely furious?”
“Not really.” Delysia managed a smile. Faye actually hadn’t realized her star clients were missing, which was pretty funny, but she didn’t feel like explaining the joke. It was as if the chilliness of that Boston night had permeated her skin, stealing the warmth inside, evaporating it into the night air.
She also felt very tired.
Alexander said nothing, but his phone was out in an instant, and when he put it away his face had returned to its usual sobriety; her companion of the past hour and a half was completely gone. “Uber’ll be here in five” was all he said, and Delysia felt a rush of gratitude.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
He nodded without smiling. “No, thank you,” he said, and it was all she could do not to close her eyes, lean against him, revel in his warmth. “Are you all right?”
“I’m cold,” she admitted in a voice that was shakier than she liked. “I don’t like cemeteries much.” She wasn’t looking at him, so she felt rather than saw him shuck off his windbreaker, tuck it around her shoulders. She still didn’t look at him then; instead, she closed her eyes. His hands lingered at her shoulders for a fraction of a second, and he pulled away.
“Car’s almost here,” he said.
“Good.” She didn’t turn around; she was still staring out over the grounds.
“We can walk up, if you want—”
“No, it’s okay.” Walking away only meant she was trying to make herself feel better, and that didn’t help anything. She needed to stare at it until it didn’t bother her anymore. It had no power over her. Her mother was going to get better.
She had to, or none of this would be worth it—and if Delysia wanted to be able to keep going, she had to keep telling herself it was.
Chapter Seven
New York, New York
Going to sleep in Boston and waking up in New York City, even though they’d just come from there, felt surprisingly decadent. Delysia was teased awake by the scent of strong coffee tickling her nostrils. She opened her eyes and poked her nose from beneath the plush eiderdown quilt and thousand-thread-count sheets to see a cheerful round face and two hands bearing a silver tray.
“Your mister’s been up for hours. He says you’ve got an appointment as soon as we stop at Grand Central,” said the porter—Rhonda, Delysia remembered.
Delysia sat up. The privacy screen used to shield Alexander’s sofa bed was folded neatly and completely tucked away; to all observers, he’d simply gotten up earlier than her. He was seated at a small table by the window, sipping from a steaming mug. When he saw her sit up, he waved. A tantalizing smell of breakfast wafted from that direction, and Delysia wrinkled her nose appreciatively.
“Eggs, sausage, cherry scones, plain scones, cream, lemon curd...” Rhonda began rattling off. “Dr. Abbott-Hill ordered breakfast so you could eat when you wanted. It’s all under those silver serving dishes, and there’s tea and coffee besides—”
“Say no more,” Delysia said, and sprang from the bed. Rhonda’s presence made it decidedly less awkward, even though she definitely wished she were wearing a bra—not that Alexander would look anyway, she thought, and irritably. She grabbed her giant Supreme hoodie from the bedpost, wrapped it around her twice, and headed to the adjoining washroom to brush her teeth and splash water on her face.
When she came back, all traces of Rhonda were gone, and Alexander had pulled open the drapes to reveal the woods on either side of the train flashing by at a fantastic pace. “Rhonda tells me most of our guests took advantage of in-room dining this morning,” he said, dryly. “Hangovers, I suppose.”
“One shower and Bloody Mary and they’ll be ready to go again, trust me.”
She checked him out. He wore iron-gray pajamas with a subtle cherry-red check, faded but still more formal than any nightwear she owned, with a dark blue bathrobe she’d bet her latest endorsement was from Brooks Brothers belted neatly over it, and a pair of thick blue slippers. His hair was parted and combed down with water. He looked so like a refugee from the set of a ’50s sitcom that she half-expected Lucille Ball to pop out and start squawking.
Alexander caught the look and smiled. “What is it?”
“Nothing.” It’d sounded, she was pretty sure, funnier in her head.
“No, indulge me.” He shook out the Guardian with one crisp shake à la Ricky Ricardo, and that pretty much did it for Delysia. She began to laugh, then explained.
To her surprise his mouth twitched. “Blame my mother. She had some very old-fashioned ideas when it comes to nightwear. Like you do when it comes to sitcoms, apparently.”
“I like the oldies,” she retorted a little primly. “And you never rebelled?”
“I did so in other ways.”
“How?” Curious, Delysia settled herself opposite him, lifted silver lids off the serving dishes. The aromas within were bewitching, and she soon had a large china plate with eggs, scones, bacon, and fruit all vying for valuable space.
“Travel does wonders for the appetite, I see,” said Alexander, raising a brow.
She stuck her tongue out at him. So far, she thought with a quick, traitorous beat of her heart, it had been easy to suppress her growing crush in the blind light of day, with them exchanging light pleasantries. “Answer the question, Dr. Abbott-Hill.”
He laughed. “Well, I didn’t follow my father into the family business, so that was a bit of a disappointment.”
“Wine?” she guessed.
He shook his head. “No. Well, not exactly. Mostly doing what it took to keep an estate running without actually having to work. I think he thought of himself as an independent historian, but that doesn’t pay any bills.”
“So you’ve got the name without the money,” Delysia guessed around a mouthful of feather-light eggs and cheese.
“There hasn’t been money in the family for at least a century, just rotting property that should have gone ages ago.” Alexander paused. That faraway look had entered his eyes again. “Growing up with him was...interesting.” He was quiet for a long moment. Delysia was beginning to think he’d decided not to continue when he spoke again.
“You’ve seen the house—very Downton Abbey dramatic, and just as unnecessary. Very cold. Bad wiring. And he was gone a lot, doing research, presenting...” Alexander trailed off. “He was a fellow at the Schomburg, on the board or something like that. It took a lot of his time.”
“You were by yourself?”
“For the most part.” Alexander smiled, a little ruefully. “There were sitters, mostly students from the university—maybe that’s why I became interested in teaching.” He chewed on his lower lip as if he were pondering whether or not to say something, then reached down and rolled up his cuff. “See that scar?”
Delysia looked. It was slightly paler than the deep tones of his skin, made a faint indentation. She reached out and touched it with her fingertips, then nodded.
“I managed to spill water on myself, out of an electric boiler. I was ten. Dad was better after that.” His voice was matter-of-fact. “He took me along with him then, most of the time, and I guess I absorbed the love of history, if not the house. I’ve been trying to offload it for years, but houses that big are hard to sell. It is a historic house in that area, though, so I get something for that. I also have rented out most of the acreage to a winery, and that pays the bills. It was a sheep farm before that—wine doesn’t smell as bad. And it’s easier to keep the kids off the lawn.”
At that, Delysia laughed so hard she sprayed a mouthful of crumbs—thankfully, catching them with her napkin. “You realize you’re not a Boomer, right? You’re not even a Gen X, I’d guess.”
“No.” His eyes were warm and gentle. “I am ancient compared to your set, though. I’m thirty-six.”
“Hardly geriatric.”
“I suppose not.” He took a sip of coffee.
“And a Cambridge grad,” she remembered. “God. That explains everything.”
“Oh, shut up.”
The rest of breakfast was spent in companionable quiet. Rhonda came once to offer hot water and warm wet napkins to wipe jammy fingers. When she cleared the plates, she left a printed schedule in its place. “We’ll be pulling in shortly, ma’am, sir,” s
he said cheerily. “Hope you enjoyed your breakfast.”
“Photo shoot,” Delysia said, squinting at the schedule, “at Grand Central. For Ralph Lauren...”
“Ah, splendid. Is that a friend of yours?”
Delysia looked up in disbelief. Alexander was grinning.
“Got you,” he said, then went back to the Guardian.
* * *
When the Gilded Express disembarked in New York City, its occupants had plenty of options for the day. There was a Broadway matinee, lunch at Tavern on the Green, a lecture on the leisure reading habits of Robert Moses at the Grolier Club (not many sign-ups for this one, much to Alexander’s disgust) and various chartered outings to Bloomingdale’s, Tiffany’s, and other shopping meccas. The crème de la crème of the internet were all tweeting, Instagramming, TikToking, Snapchatting, blogging about their experiences. #thegildedexpress was picking up steam online in a small but vocal group of dedicated luxury brand followers, and Faye was confident they’d triple their buzz by that evening.
“It’s like Coachella. Put enough famous people in one place, no matter how tacky and disgusting, and people will follow it like it’s the Second Coming.”
If Alexander had his way, he would have spent the day following up with the enquiries that had flooded his Instagram account, emails, even voicemail. He was eager to filter through and sort the proposals, requests—he’d even seen a couple of research proposals, one from an Ivy League professor!—in the mix, something that filled him with excitement. However, his and Delysia’s itinerary today featured a morning-long photo shoot, a little too obviously titled “Midnight Train Going Anywhere,” which would be featured in the New Yorker, of all places, in a piece on “luxury influencers,” which apparently was a sub-genre of influencer?
He’d managed to bite back sarcasm on that—imagine, trying to be published there for years and finally landing in with this.
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