by Natasha Boyd
"Thank you," I tell him, expecting him to leave so I can get back on the phone, but he reaches under the tablecloth and flips up a side, turning the cart into a table, then he rights a silver candle stick and lights the candle from a lighter he slips out of a pocket. Then he picks up the wine bottle and holds it out for me to inspect.
"Fine," I mutter with a nod. "Thank you. I can do it."
He continues on and cuts the foil, winds the corkscrew in, and pulls it with a flourish. He turns an upside-down wine glass onto its base, pours a small serving and looks at me expectantly. Ugh. I start forward impatiently. Swirling it once or twice I do the requisite sniff and sip. "Fine. Thank you."
He nods, then pours a glass, and finally whips off the cover of the plate. The aroma of roast meat, herbs, spices, and caramelized fruit wafts up, and my mouth waters. The waiter hands me a check, which I sign and add in a tip. Then he bows and takes his leave.
Finally.
I grab the phone, only to see it's off. Battery must have died. Emmy probably thinks I hung up on her. Damn. I plug it in. Her battery is for shit, I just charged it when I checked in a few hours ago.
I pull the desk chair to the temporary table and put the napkin on my lap. I stare at the delicious looking meal. In all the dinners I've had alone in my life, though I try to avoid them, I don't remember feeling this alone. Weird. I take a sip of the red wine. I chalk it up to the day I had where I had to face a family I'd rather forget I had. And not having my normal distractions around me. And then talking with Emmy. I enjoyed it, sure. But part of me feels stripped down. Like I lost something. I don't like it. It makes me nervous. The phone makes a sound that tells me it has turned back on. But I make no move to get it.
I think of her getting her burger, and I feel ill. Like I've done something I shouldn't. Laid expectations. I just bought her dinner. If we'd stayed on the phone, it would have felt like a date. As it is, the sheer fact that she'll be eating a meal I bought her while knowing I'm eating mine at the same time makes me feel like a line of intimacy has been irrevocably crossed. And if there's one rule I've had that has kept me in good stead, it's to avoid intimacy at all costs.
The duck is amazing. She was right about that. Her phone buzzes with a text, and another and another. I don't touch it or look at it. It never rings. And then it's quiet for the rest of the night. I pull my laptop back out and work till I can't keep my eyes open, then sleep solidly for six hours.
When I wake up, habit makes me pick up the phone.
Emmy: Are you alive? Did the room service waiter kill you?
Emmy: Did the duck kill you?
Emmy: Oh my God, you ordered me a burger! Thank you. Although I almost didn't answer the door.
Emmy: Thank you. Truly. I can't think of anything more I needed right at this moment. Here's a pic. You may have noticed if you've been nosy in my photos that I like to take pictures of food.
*PICTURE OF A BURGER*
Emmy: I'm guessing my phone died. But that's not why you didn't call back, is it? I have something to say. I'll email it.
I immediately open my laptop and go to my email.
To: Tmontgomery
From: Tmontgomery
Subject: Phone
I'm guessing you feel a bit like me right now; awkward about how weird it is that we were talking on the phone like that. I understand why you didn't call back. So just know, I consider the burger payment for the outstanding dinner recommendation I gave you. Nothing more. Now we're even. But it was a spectacular burger so here's a link to a breakfast place you'll love, and they make the best coffee and squeeze their own orange juice. Just turn left out of the hotel, walk three blocks, then left down the cobblestone alley. You'll see it on the right with the blue awning. Tell Armand I sent you, if you like. That earns me a free cappuccino every now and again. When you get a chance let me know the address of a place I can drop off your phone before I leave New York. Otherwise I'll drop it off at the front desk of the Planter's Inn when I get home to Charleston tomorrow evening. I hope you enjoy your stay in my spectacular city. It's a very special place. Maybe it's time to get to know your family. Thank you for agreeing to this phone swap rather than cancelling your phone. I apologize that it was so inconvenient, but know that the alternative would have been even more painful for me. So thank you. Again. It was nice to almost get to know a handsome stranger.
Regards,
Emmaline Angelique Dubois
I close the email without responding. I feel slightly ill.
Then I find myself staring blankly at the screen for a few moments. There's too much to process in the email. The biggest point I get is that I'm being politely brushed off. "You're hot, but not for me, before it gets weirder let's just . . . not."
Knowing I'm usually the one doing the brushing off, being on the receiving end pisses me off. I saw an Apple Store on my way to the hotel yesterday. I could easily walk in, and this could be over. But that would be callous to leave her without a phone. And I may not get close to people, but I'm never callous. Fuck, why am I still thinking about this? Shaking myself from her email, I scan through my inbox.
An email from Mr. Ravenel says the meeting at the law offices is confirmed for ten a.m. I don't like this pulling of the strings my grandfather is doing. It's dramatic and ridiculous. An email from Dorothy has an attachment. Here's all the public information I could find about Montgomery Homes & Facilities and an estimated valuation. I open the document and scan through until I reach the bottom line of the net profits and do a double take. Holy shit, the old man had been busy. I'm surprised Isabel hasn't tried to see me already. Then I see an email from her.
To: Tmontgomery
From: Imont@monthomesandfacdotcom
Subject: Your grandfather
Trystan
I apologize for my less than warm reception yesterday. It was an emotional day and a shock to see you. You have your mother's eyes, you know. I was wondering if there'd be a chance to pop by and see you, say for breakfast? Beau told me you are staying at the Planter's. I'll meet you in the salon at eight am.
Until then,
Isabel Montgomery
I check my watch. It's seven. No way in hell I'm seeing her. This isn't running away, I'm simply not ready. I take a shower, throw on my jeans, a button-down, and my brown boots, grab my phone and laptop, and I'm out the door in fifteen minutes and out the hotel a minute after that.
13
Trystan
I leave the hotel and before I realize it, find myself following Emmy's instructions. Charleston has barely woken up, and the humidity has yet to rise. Before long I'm entering what I hope is the small cobblestone alleyway Emmy mentioned in her email. Instinct tells me these were the streets between the main fancy houses and where the horses were kept, similar to the mews houses in London.
Every ten meters or so there's a gate into a courtyard where a small carriage house or old stable can be found. Many of them have been clearly turned into residences, albeit tiny, some galleries and the like. I notice the blue awning not too far ahead, but my surroundings have me captivated. I don't miss London, I never have. It's not that it's so reminiscent of a place I don't miss. And it's eons away from even the most charming parts of the Village in New York, but something about this place feels . . . right.
I shrug off the feeling and head inside the breakfast shop, breathing in the scent of freshly baked bread. It's small, every square inch has been properly utilized. There are barn wood floors and corrugated tin. It's industrial in a rustic way. There are only seven tables inside, most can only fit two people. A man with slicked back dark hair with a white apron wrapped around his wiry frame is taking an order from a hipster couple in the corner. Other than them, I have my pick of tables. I choose a small table in the far right corner. The menu is a card presented on a small chopping board held in place by an elastic band, and there are only five breakfast items available.
"You must be Trystan," an accented voice says to me.
I look up, startled. "Armand, I presume?" He's of indeterminate age. His dark hair has some gray threading through it. His skin is olive, his descent of unknown origin. To me he could just as easily be Native-American as he could be Middle-Eastern or Greek. He's good-looking though, and something about that annoys me.
He grins and gives me a slow perusal from my messy post-shower hair, down to my beaten-in chukka boots that cost four hundred dollars to make them look old. "Well," he says.
"Well, what?" I counter.
He makes a tsk sound.
I lift an eyebrow in return.
"Hmm," he says. "Bien. Now, what can I get you?"
Weird.
After my rich dinner last night, I feel I should go little on the lighter side for breakfast. I order homemade gluten-free granola (nod to Emmy) with Greek yoghurt, local honey, bananas and blueberries, fresh orange juice, and an espresso. Armand hums with what I hope is approval then walks back behind the counter.
I wonder if there's a place like this near me in New York—simple, stylish, cozy—that I simply haven't ever bothered to notice, and I resolve to find one. The closest I can think of is perhaps something in Chelsea Market.
When my food comes I take out Emmy's phone and snap a picture. I'm not sure why I do it, and I definitely don't send it to her. Maybe just proof I took her advice.
I open my laptop and spend the next hour making sure I'm as knowledgeable as possible about Montgomery Homes & Facilities before Isabel Montgomery tries to argue I'm unable to run it.
* * *
With about forty-five more minutes to kill before the meeting at Mr. Ravenel's office, I pay my check, wave at Armand, and decide to walk around the city. Some of the first horse-drawn carriage tours of the day have started up, and on almost every street corner I hear snippets of Charleston history. This famous person lived here, slaves were traded there, this used to be a church and now it's a restaurant, this pink house is four hundred years old, Blackbeard used to frequent that pub. If I ever come back to this place, I know I'd be fascinated by some of the stories. I almost studied history at university, but at the last minute chose economics. I'd loved these stories as a child the few years my mother tried to come home to the family. Right now, though, it does something to me inside, like opening up an emotional trash can lid that really should stay closed.
I grab the earbuds I keep in the outside pocket of my laptop bag, and I wonder what kind of music Emmy has on her phone. She has Spotify, but I'm disappointed to see it's the free version that needs Wi-Fi. I go over to her purchased music selection and scan it with a sinking stomach. It's a potpourri of girl power: Taylor Swift, P!nk, Katy Perry. I sigh and hit shuffle, making sure to turn it down more than usual so no one can overhear. By the time I take the last few steps to Mr. Ravenel's office, timed to be one minute late in order to avoid any small talk, I'm ready to take on the world and think most men suck. It makes me think of my reaction to the messages Emmy received from that dating app. No wonder the women are so pissed off in these songs. I resolve to make sure Dorothy knows she can wear trousers to work if she feels like it. In all the time she's worked for me she's come to work in a knee-length skirt, hose, and low sensible heels. She reminded me of one of my school teachers back in England, which was exactly why I'd hired her.
Everyone is already seated at the conference room table when I arrive. I greet Mr. Ravenel's receptionist, noting she's wearing a pantsuit today. Why am I so focused on women's apparel all of a sudden? "How long have they been in there?" I ask.
"They just sat down. Can I bring you coffee?"
"No, I'm good. Thanks." I smile tightly and head into the proverbial ring, avoiding the searing gaze of Isabel Montgomery.
"Let us begin." Mr. Ravenel stands and closes the door behind me and then pulls his chair in closer to the table and peers at each of us over the frames of his spectacles. "The reason for allowing an overnight reprieve was to allow any knee jerk reactions to the news yesterday to be processed before getting to the limitations and stipulations of the disbursements set out in the will. This was at the request of the late Mr. Montgomery."
He gives Isabel a meaningful glance. "At the time of the drawing up of the last will and testament of the late Mr. Montgomery, he was found to be of sound mind and had the blessing of his family physician. In addition, I personally asked that he see a mental health professional too, in order that there be absolutely no concern about his mental capacity." I feel sure the glance Ravenel gave Isabel was because she has already been calling the will into question. "Especially given that these stipulations are rather . . . unorthodox."
* * *
When I leave two hours later, shell-shocked and three times richer than when I walked in the door, I simply stand on the sidewalk. I'm not shell-shocked by the valuation of what I'm now worth, I'm shell-shocked by the stipulations that go along with it. Someone walks into my back and I stumble forward, waking from my shock.
"Sorry. Oh hey, Trystan." It's Beau. The two of us face each other on the street outside the law office. He looks as stunned as I feel. Damn, but my grandfather was a twisted son of a bitch.
"You want to grab some lunch?" Beau asks.
"Sure." I shrug.
"I've been living out at the house on Awendaw. I don't know what's good around here anymore. Let's walk and see what we find."
"I know someone who will," I say and pull out the phone. The need to connect with Emmy at this moment is overwhelming. Someone completely removed from the weird shit in my life right now.
* * *
Breakfast was great. Lunch?
* * *
Thankfully, she responds right away.
* * *
Emmy: Are you close to Market Street?
* * *
"Are we close to Market Street," I ask Beau.
He nods and points to the left and we cross the road.
* * *
Yes.
* * *
Emmy: Great. Head to 5Church. If you have any awkward silences you can just look up.
* * *
I frown. That was a weird thing to say, but I go with it. It's like she knows I'm about to have lunch with my cousin for the first time in approximately eighteen years. Awkward, indeed.
* * *
"5Church," I tell Beau and give him the address she sends in her next text.
* * *
Opposite the old slave trading market pavilions, which now sell sweetgrass baskets and bric-a-brac, and squeezed between two five-story buildings, is an old red brick church with a modern tempered-glass door. "Here we are, I guess." I lead the way up the stairs and inside.
We both stop and stare. Inside it's dim. There's a bar running the whole length of one side. The light fixtures are pendants covered with a curl of white feathers like a folded angel wing. But the most arresting sight is the massive, intact, stained-glass window soaring the entire height of the back wall and streaming fractured prisms of light into the room.
"Wow," says Beau. "I never even knew this was here." Then he points up to the ceiling, and I follow with my gaze. Lines and lines of text are painstakingly painted in row after row. There's not an inch of space without words. I read a few sentences here and there; it seems familiar. Every now and again a word is pulled out and written in supersize.
"What is that?" I ask squinting, though I recognize it the second the question leaves my lips.
"The entire text of The Art of War by Sun Tzu," the hostess at the stand responds. "Lunch for two?"
I nod and we follow her to a booth on the wall opposite the bar. Of course it is. The only book I've read cover to cover several times over. One of my economics professors assigned it as part of his course in mergers and acquisitions; it has served me well.
My phone buzzes as we sit down, and I pull it back out of my pocket.
* * *
Emmy: I wish I could see your reaction right now.
* * *
I grin.
* * *
St
unned. But with that introduction the food better be good.
* * *
Emmy: Ye of little faith. And you're in a church!
* * *
"Your girlfriend?" asks Beau, nodding to the phone.
I jerk my head up. "Oh, no. Just someone who knows the best places to eat in Charleston. I don't know her." I shake my head as if it's nothing, but Beau's still looking at me quizzically, and I decide if we're about to rebuild our relationship I may as well share. "Actually, it's kind of a funny story." I proceed to tell him the entire phone switching debacle. I leave out the fact we talked on the phone for over half an hour last night.
When I get done he slumps back against the high-backed bench seat. "And I thought my life just took a turn for the weird and wonderful. You have me beat."
I rub my hand over my jaw. "I wouldn't say that. So do you have a girlfriend? Are you even close to doing what he wants?"
"Getting married? Hell, no. I haven't ever gone past a tenth date to my knowledge."
"Ten. That's not bad. I draw a line at three. Four if we haven't . . . you know." I feel terrible saying that out loud. But it's the truth. I date women so I can have sex. I don't do relationships and commitments.
There's no judgement on Beau's face. "I should rein it back to four. Getting all the way to ten gets you in all sorts of trouble. Lots of women around here are looking to trap a Montgomery. Though," he looks up at the stained-glass window and crosses himself, "thankfully, I've been careful."
I give a mock shudder. "So how's your mom doing, by the way?" Beau's parents split up the same summer my mother managed to make herself persona non grata with the Montgomery family again.