The Rare Event

by P D Singer

  If everyone assumed that Davis was his date for the evening, Jon didn’t care. He’d brought Ricky to other functions, and frankly, Davis was much better behaved. He didn’t have to wonder what kind of embarrassing comment would come out of the other man’s mouth. There was plenty of overlap in social circles, and if Davis didn’t immediately remember someone, a “how are Olivia and Chip?” conversation about his parents usually worked.

  “I haven’t sent in a bid on the silent auctions,” Davis muttered as they made their way around the tables where certificates for various donated goodies lay.

  “If I accidentally win more than one, you can have the other,” Jon suggested. “I wouldn’t renege, but I don’t want to do a double donation.” He’d written his bids for some restaurant certificates and a few other services on his RSVP card, so his actual donation to the Friends of the Opera was still uncertain but several times what the retail cost of the items would be. “Or you can bid on something in the live auction.”

  “Wonder what they’ll have?” Davis mused, and soon it was time for dinner.

  Excellent meals and interesting conversations with the Riesners and two other couples were punctuated with solo performances by various members of the opera company. Davis added some entertainment of his own, mouthing, “I am dying of consumption…” during a duet from La Traviata. Jon had to cover his snickers with a bit of fake coughing.

  Before the desserts were wheeled out, Jon’s mother, the busy social bee, buzzed from table to table, collecting “Darling, so wonderful to see yous” and pledges like pollen. Now she accepted an air-kiss from Mrs. Riesner before bending to whisper in Jon’s ear. “Jon, darling, I have a problem.”

  “What do you need?” He couldn’t imagine what had gone wrong or how he could fix it.

  “Some of the donations for the auction have been withdrawn, and we may not make our goal.”

  His heart sank at the thought of making up that shortfall. Jessica continued, “Would you mind terribly, dear, I know it’s an imposition, but would you donate an evening of, I’m not sure, pleasant company, market expertise, a squash game, but something that we can auction as a good reason to spend a few hours with you?”

  That was much easier to agree to! “I can do dinner and a chat about randomness as it affects the stock market; would that work?” He’d been reading some nearly subversive literature on the subject, which dovetailed nicely with his thinking on rare events, and he could probably spin hours of discussion on it, or digress to alpha, beta, and gamma as measures of volatility.

  “Beautiful! That should open some wallets!” Jessica beamed. She turned to Davis. “What about you, dear? May I make the same kind of horrible imposition?”

  “It’s a good cause; would a site visit and a discussion on, oh, call it ‘the anatomy of a skyscraper’ be useful?” Davis wrinkled his eyebrows. “I can make everyone wear totally unnecessary hard hats and show them how elevators and sway reducers function.”

  “I knew I could count on my boys!” She planted maternal kisses on each of their heads. “Write a brief description for the auctioneer, please, darlings?” Jessica left them each a note card and was off to work the next table.

  “That sounds rather interesting,” Mrs. Riesner said. “I hear quite enough about the stock market at dinner as it is, though.” She patted Jon’s hand. “You may go for a low price; so many people here are in the financial industry. Or be bought by someone more interested in your pretty blue eyes than what comes out of your mouth.”

  Jon met her eyes ruefully. “That’s what happened the last time I agreed to one of Mother’s auctions.” He ignored Davis’s small chuckle, not willing to dignify it with a response.

  Mr. Riesner watched the server bring out clear glass cups with fanciful layers of colored froth and chocolate. “It may be someone whose own eyes are worth looking into, you never know.” He ate the bit of chocolate latticework that stuck out of the green foam.

  Jon’s cup had pink froth with the chocolate, which turned out to be raspberry chiffon. “It’s one evening, and a good cause—it only has to be someone willing to bid.” He plied the spoon happily to the accompaniment of another tenor singing something smooth and seductive.

  After the well-justified applause for the singer, Jessica Hogenboom joined the chairman of the group on stage. “Ladies and gentlemen, thank you all for your kind support.” A tuxedo-clad man came to the front, thanked the organizers, and presented them with flowers. “Our wonderful ladies will be bringing envelopes to the tables, to let you know what you’ve already won in the silent auctions, and can bid accordingly. We’ll give them a few moments, so that if you’ve won, say, an afternoon at a dress rehearsal, you can choose your next bid so that your party can follow up with a delicious dinner at one of our marvelous sponsor restaurants.”

  “Mother’s fundraisers probably pull in as much as Wolfe Gorman does,” Jon whispered to Davis, once she’d set an envelope in front of him. “Looks like I have dinner for two at Allegra.” He’d bid on it thinking to take Ricky to the trendy new restaurant, and now, well, he’d have to see. He’d write a check and exchange it for the certificates, and it would be something to stick in the drawer until there was a reason to use it. Unless…. He scribbled an addition to his little card, which one of his mother’s colleagues came to fetch.

  “Thank you, Jon, and er, Davis.” She took the cards to the dais in front.

  “What do we do now?” Davis muttered.

  “They’ll call us to the front when they want us,” Jon whispered back. “Smile at everyone—it raises your price. Keep them in tenors so we don’t have to do this again in the spring.”

  The auction began: costumes retired from use in Aida, paintings, ceramics, dress rehearsal admissions, voice lessons from chorus members, before Davis’s name was called. He sauntered to the front, looking, Jon had to admit, good enough to eat in that well-fitted tux, his blond hair combed away from his face, making eye contact around the room while the auctioneer ad-libbed from the note card. “Join Davis Willingham, master of architecture, and he’s”—whispered aside to Jessica—“yes, single as well as knowledgeable, ladies.” Davis didn’t flinch, but Jon did. “Who will take a group of up to eight on an engineer’s tour through the Alban Building, one of New York’s tallest structures. He’ll tell you all about the anatomy of a skyscraper, and what makes these buildings function. Be prepared to wear flat shoes and a hard hat, and he promises there won’t be a quiz after.”

  Davis never lost his pleasant expression, even when the auctioneer said a great deal more than the card could have possibly contained. “Who’ll start? Five hundred?”

  The bidding went briskly, with many raised hands around the room. Mrs. Riesner bumped the price to four thousand dollars but dropped out after that, since a party across the room seemed determined to carry off this prize. The bidding faltered at slightly over seven thousand, until Jon added his two cents, or two hundred dollars, as it were. “Seventy-three hundred,” he called, and the other bidder shot right back up to seventy-five. “Seventy-seven,” he called again, just as the auctioneer took a breath that could have been meant for, “Going… going….”

  “Seventy-nine!”

  Davis jumped a little and grinned in the general direction of the forceful call, and Jon couldn’t resist bumping the price tag another eight hundred dollars, very carefully, knowing that one nudge too much could leave him with a very expensive afternoon with a friend. The room hushed at this duel, and when the hammer came down on eight thousand seven hundred dollars, applause broke out. Davis looked stunned. He stopped to chat with the winning bidders, apparently a consortium of women. Approving of Davis’s social instincts, Jon sat back, pleased with himself, and then wondered if he’d “sell” for as much.

  He’d find out right about now—“Jonathan Hogenboom of Wolfe Gorman Equities will be escorting his lucky patrons to dinner at Allegra for an evening of randomness.” Nearly zipping to the microphone, he, too, made the jour
ney to the dais, his confidence belied by his speed. He’d been quite clear in his description, but the auctioneer was turning it into something it wasn’t. He captured the microphone and tried to undo the damage.

  “Actually, ladies and gentlemen, that’s the philosophy of randomness and how it applies to the stock market.”

  Someone called out, “Does that also include a discussion of the poetry of C.P. Cavafy?”

  “Only if I read some between now and then.” Jon knew exactly where that had come from—Cavafy’s theories had featured prominently in his recent readings. He commanded his face to stay pleasant, but his heart sank—at least one other person here, and probably another hundred, had read the same books. The author might even be here, though Jon hadn’t spotted him.

  “Let’s open the bidding: who’ll give me five hundred?”

  The silence was deafening. No bids. “Come on, five hundred to start,” the auctioneer cajoled. “Ah, five hundred from the gentleman. Who’ll make it seven-fifty?” He scanned anxiously for another bid. “Seven-fifty?”

  “Seven-fifty.” It sounded rather as if Jessica Hogenboom had a frog in her throat.

  Jon’s heart thudded. Should he play the showman and beckon the audience to bid? The temptation grew to bid on himself, just to avoid spending the evening with anyone who bought him out of a sense of obligation. The auctioneer requested a thousand, and at last the bid came on cue, a thousand, then twelve-fifty and fifteen hundred, seventeen-fifty. “Who’ll give two?”

  No one.

  “Two thousand dollars?”

  “Three.” That flat, confident number dared anyone to bid again.

  “Thirty-two?” But no, no one challenged the high bidder, and the gavel came down on three thousand dollars for an evening of Jon’s time and expertise. Numbly, Jon made sure he knew who to thank, and he didn’t have to take any extra steps to get to his seat, either. It would be a highly interesting evening that he’d agreed to. “Thanks, Davis. You didn’t really have to rescue me from abject humiliation.”

  He got a big grin in reply. “You bumped up my price. Hey, I’ve made a donation, you’ve got a table at Allegra, and I can probably stand whatever babble comes out of your mouth.” He sat back in his chair and took another sip of the after-dinner coffee. “And unlike the ladies who bought me, I won’t end the evening with hard-hat hair.”

  Chapter Twenty

  HE’D had plenty of practice keeping busy on the weekends when Ricky didn’t want his company, so Jon didn’t have more than twenty-four hours alone to spend mourning the broken relationship. Knowing that he’d protected himself and being glad of it were two terribly different things, and his nights were long and restless. Now he had to look at Ricky again come Monday morning.

  Working in close proximity with him would be doubly difficult, for Jon had lost none of his desire for his lover and the reawakened heartaches over his lost second family had only sharpened his grief. He tried not to look at Ricky during the morning meeting, but was more than aware that Ricky had been looking at him, then scratching away at his paper.

  The morning caricature might portray Jon as a loser, a pinch-mouthed Scrooge, or almost anything unpleasant that Ricky could think of, and he’d thought of a great many things about their colleagues. His cartoons had often provided a wry chuckle, but never had Ricky turned his pointed humor on Jon. That was something he could go his whole life without seeing, a visual expression of the contempt that his ex-lover must feel for him now.

  Logan, though, lifted the corner of his mouth in that insufferable way. Returning his glance with a flat stare, Jon watched the smirk dwindle and die. Finally Logan busied himself digging in the bottom desk drawer.

  The extra rounds of applause for his big score of the previous Friday rang hollowly—Jon didn’t want another reminder that he’d passed on the congratulations Ricky would have offered him on the brocade couch. Dwight clapped louder than anyone, drawing some odd glances from the others—they’d get used to his new look. Jon escaped to his office at the first possible moment.

  “Jonny?” Ricky’s voice came softly from behind him, followed by the snick of the door latch. “I missed you.”

  “What?” Jon turned around, hardening his heart against the pain of those words coming now, after a lonely Sunday with too much time spent imagining what Ricky had been doing. “Not distracted with every handsome man on Fire Island?”

  “I passed them all by, actually.” Ricky sounded surprised by that admission. “I know, it doesn’t sound like me. But I did.” He held out one hand, but Jon would not draw him closer on the strength of that shocker.

  “That’s a first.” Bitterness he’d kept tightly contained leaked out of Jon now. “Why?”

  “I—don’t know.” Ricky let his hand drop to his side, and his eyes fell too. “I meant to find someone but… I didn’t. I mean, I did, but I didn’t keep any of them long enough to… well.”

  Once again, too much information. Jon shut his eyes against the words, as he had shut them against scorecards from other weekends. “I don’t want to know, Ricky. What you do isn’t my business anymore.” No, Ricky had never been shy about sharing his adventures.

  “Even if it’s what I’m not doing?” Ricky’s voice went a half octave higher. “Isn’t that something you’d rather know?”

  “If you tell me that….” Jon had to marshal his thoughts. “It means you could have been not doing it before. And that only hurts more.”

  Ricky dipped his head and spoke to the carpet. “I… Jon, I….” He jerked upright and met Jon’s eyes. “If I’m celibate between times I’m with you, isn’t that like monogamy?”

  He had to think—Ricky’s logic had a certain seductive appeal. But—“No. Monogamy isn’t accidental. It’s on purpose and it’s consistent. This weekend was an accident. It will probably be different by Wednesday. Friday, at the latest.”

  “Not if I’m with you. What are we doing on Wednesday?” Oh, Ricky could wheedle with the best of them, but Jon didn’t plan to accept that.

  “I don’t know what you’re doing. I have a date.” The shoe was on the other foot now.

  Ricky jerked back in surprise. “That was fast.”

  “It’s not a date date. I got bought at an auction at the Friends of the Opera.” Jon shut up—he didn’t have to explain anything, and why shouldn’t he date? Not that Davis was a date. It wasn’t like Ricky had shied away from other company.

  “Really. What are you doing?” Ricky sounded stunned. “And with anyone I know?”

  “Dinner at Allegra, discussion of randomness in the stock market, and,” he couldn’t resist adding, “the associated rare events, with Davis.” That last came out more quietly, as Jon realized how gloating he sounded, though truly it was over the statistical matters.

  “You’re taking Davis to Allegra?” Ricky’s jaw dropped. “You’ve never taken me there.”

  “Allegra is sort of an accident of the silent auction.” Jon wouldn’t defend his evening any more than that. It wasn’t as if he was picking up strangers in bars. “And I had originally planned to take you, except we aren’t seeing each other anymore.”

  “I don’t want it to be like that, Jon.” Ricky took one step forward, the paper in his hand rustling against his trousers.

  “Me, either, but I don’t want a part-time relationship with you or anyone else.” The knife twisted in Jon’s heart at Ricky’s words, but he would not go back to what they’d had before. “And you told me you wouldn’t make promises you wouldn’t keep.”

  “I won’t. What if….” Ricky stopped, and Jon died a little inside. “What if I tried? A guy can learn.” He came a step closer.

  “Either you do or you don’t. You haven’t yet. And—” It would be so easy to lunge at this bit of hope. “If you don’t, then you have everything you want and I’m back to where we were, and it’s a place I’m not going.” Jon had nowhere to back up to, but he stood, the better to defend his space. “You’ve had almost two years,
why now?”

  “Like I said, a guy can learn.”

  “It’s a bit late for that, Ricky. Don’t you have some balance sheet to dissect?” Jon pulled his chair out. “I do.”

  “Yeah, I guess I do.” Crumpling the paper in his hand, Ricky turned and hurled the wad into the trash on the way out the door.

  HE’D gotten Jon’s mouth just about right; it really helped to have the model at hand. That sweet curve of lower lip tapering into a thin corner—Jon had been really good about holding still for most of the meeting. Ricky had wanted to show off what he’d drawn.

  And then to find out that Jon had a date for Wednesday! Not a date date, whatever that meant. That was nonsense. Either it was a date and Ricky had competition or it wasn’t a date and it could be three men at dinner. If Jon was going to have dinner with someone he thought of as family, Ricky’d be there to make his claim clear. Even if Davis wasn’t feeling brotherly, Ricky’s mere presence should keep him in line, and he’d convince Jon somehow that what they had didn’t need to be over. Ricky wasn’t going to let him go alone. Er, with Davis. Alone with Davis. Damn it! Out of sheer frustration, he’d crushed his drawing and tossed it away. He’d just do another—he was getting better at it.

  Logan and a stack of papers waited for him—Ricky drew a deep breath and went back into Wall Street trader mode, his mind on money. He’d show Jon; he’d make a pile, and they’d be in the washroom on the couch again faster than he could blink.

  “Okay, Logan, let’s take a look at this other outfit, because they might be a good diversification to Lasker.” A tame lender and a builder should feed into each other nicely and be all growth, and Ricky’d picked a major supplier to Lasker, who would certainly prosper from the sales. Ricky clicked open his Bloomberg, set it on a low volume, and prepared to suck in information. Logan handed him a thumb drive and then left his hand resting on Ricky’s forearm.