The Opposite of Drowning

by Erin McRae

  It is. And if you’re wondering if the whole situation is one big Charlie’s Angels joke, be assured you’re not alone.

  Eliza had to fake a coughing fit to cover her laugh.

  She then sorted through her inbox and only half-listened while someone else informed them of an industry cocktail hour in December that their collective presence was very strongly desired at. Another email from Harry appeared.

  Oh goodness. A holiday cocktail party. Spare me.

  Surely it can’t be that bad, Eliza typed back, though personally she doubted it.

  Surely it can, Harry replied.

  Perhaps we should go together, then, Eliza offered.

  And stand in the corner being as badly behaved as we are right now?

  More or less.

  When Eliza looked up from her laptop again, Harry caught her eye and shot her a smile that showed his teeth.

  THE TERM HOLIDAY COCKTAIL hour was, of course, a misnomer; it would definitely last longer than an hour. And despite the twinkling lights, fake fir garlands and gold and silver baubles strung up around the bar – and the fact that Christmas was barely a week away – there was no additional holiday slant to the event. Eliza wasn’t quite sure why she had to be here and was already regretting her choice of shoes. An evening in a hotel bar with the rest of New York publishing and annoyingly watery drinks was no one’s idea of a good time.

  Still, the evening wouldn’t be a complete waste. Face time was always good, especially with her life as an itinerant consultant. She never knew where she might meet her next client or the person who would introduce her to them.

  And Harry was there. They hadn’t yet found a secluded corner in which to trade snark, but Eliza was sure that was a matter of time. For now she could make her own requisite small talk while watching Harry out of the corner of her eye.

  Harry turned from conversation to conversation with polished ease. In itself, that was nothing remarkable. What was notable was the way Harry was going about it: A casual hand on someone’s elbow. His head tilted to the side as he listened to someone talk. Or his head tilted down so that, even at his height, he could blink and look at someone through his eyelashes.

  Harry was flirting. Not with any intent, as far as Eliza could tell. But here was a man doing what she had always done at this kind of event, for, she had to assume, the same reasons: To get what was wanted. In the cloistered, regulated environment of her girlhood – and now her adulthood – Eliza had despaired about her tactics being dictated by her gender. But here was Harry, calmly doing everything she had learned to do. The sight was a relief on a soul-deep level she hardly had words for. They were alike in ways she was still realizing.

  He was wrapping up a conversation with a silver-haired man in a double-breasted suit that didn’t quite fit the occasion. Eliza considered breaking off her own chat to go suggest they refill their drinks and find a quiet corner to retreat from everyone else. But before she could make a move, Harry lifted his eyes and met her gaze across the room. Eliza felt herself blush. She’d been staring, and now she’d been caught.

  She stayed where she was, heedless of the conversation still happening at her elbow, while Harry made his way over to her.

  Eliza shifted her weight in preparation for turning to face him fully. She was trying to think of something to say when the heel of one of her hated shoes slipped and she gave an almighty wobble, complete with spilling her drink and nearly swinging her clutch into someone’s face.

  If she’d been blushing before, her cheeks were burning now. She apologized to all around her as gracefully as she could while also trying to get her shoe back on her foot and attend to the spill with inadequate cocktail napkins. Harry, the bastard, merely stood and watched, though if Eliza were honest with herself she would have hated him if he’d sprung to the rescue.

  “How’s your evening going?” he asked mildly when she had more or less collected herself.

  “Fine, until you came over here,” Eliza shot back.

  “My apologies,” Harry said, without the hint of a smirk on his face.

  Eliza considered whether she might hate him anyway. “Have you had any successes tonight?” she asked.

  “For myself, or for the company?”

  “I would hope for yourself.”

  Harry did smile at that. “A few hints of interest. Some promises of future meetings. We’ll see. You?”

  Eliza shook her head. “The usual. Shaking hands. Making friends.”

  “I’m surprised you even came,” Harry said. “It’s not like you actually work for us. You wouldn’t have incurred anyone’s wrath if you hadn’t gone. Or at the least left early.”

  “Meeting people today is good for having work next month. Or next year. Consulting being what it is.”

  “So this is what you do?” Harry asked, turning so that they faced the room together and his shoulder very nearly brushed hers. “Go from company to company, telling them to modernize and fuck tradition?”

  That Harry cursed was no surprise to Eliza at this point, but hearing it was still a delight. Especially with him standing there looking so polished and mild-mannered. “More or less.”

  The reality, of course, was that with her impending marriage to Cody she couldn’t tie herself to a long-term career in New York or most anywhere else. Contract work could move with her. A settled job...that would be harder.

  “Sounds dreadful,” Harry observed. “Having to start fresh every year or so.”

  “It’s not my ideal,” Eliza admitted. “Or at least, it’s not supposed to be. Moving around so much, it’s hard to feel like I belong anywhere. To a position or to a city. But maybe I don’t. I get to travel so much, like to Wales. I have a lot of gratitude about those opportunities –”

  Harry cut her off. “Fuck gratitude.”

  Eliza was taken aback. “Come again?”

  “Fuck gratitude,” Harry repeated. “What does it change? If you’re grateful, keep doing what you’re doing, and up your donations. Or do some damn activism, work for a non-profit. Telling me – telling anyone – you’re grateful means nothing.”

  “What do you do?” Eliza was somewhere between offended and fascinated.

  “How about we know each other a little bit better before I let you in to the charitable deductions portion of my tax return? My point is that expressing gratitude is not the same as demonstrating it.”

  “Do you think I don’t know that?”

  “No. But I think you were speaking from a script. You don’t need to put on the performance of it with me. I’m not interested in it. I want to hear what you really think.”

  “All right, then,” she said, feeling unbalanced and yet entirely at ease. “All that travel, all those experiences, but I never seem to put down roots. I’m the wrong sort of organism for that. I never feel like I’m home.”

  Harry nodded solemnly, glancing sideways at her. “I know what you mean.”

  “Do you?”

  “I’m a grumpy middle-aged man who makes my livelihood from words. We’re both from the same sort of place, and neither of us are at ease there. I know something about exile.”

  He said it like a joke, but Eliza knew he didn’t really mean it as one, so she didn’t laugh.

  “Do you have plans for the rest of the night?” she asked.

  “I was going to go home and stew over the mess of my Vienna manuscript. Why do you ask?”

  “Do you want to go back to the office and order Chinese food again?” She hoped she didn’t sound like she was asking him out on a date, although maybe she was. Mostly, she hoped he would say yes.

  Harry smiled that small, feral smile that showed his teeth and that Eliza was learning meant that mischief was afoot. “I have a better idea.”

  “HOW IS GOING BACK TO work a better idea when that’s exactly what I suggested?” Eliza asked twenty minutes later as they stood on the sidewalk in front of their office building. The winter evening was cold and she tucked her gloved hands into the
pockets of her coat as she looked up at the lit windows above them. Colored lights blinked in some of them, an attempt by their occupants to be festive.

  “But this isn’t what you suggested. Not exactly.” Harry opened one of the big glass doors and held it for her. Then, instead of heading toward the bank of elevators, he led the way to the other side of the lobby and a flight of stairs running down to Eliza didn’t even know where.

  She soon found herself standing in a hallway she hadn’t known existed. The corridor wasn’t well lit and was punctuated here and there with doorways that looked like they might lead to store rooms. Or crime scenes. She knew if she had any sense at all, she’d be afraid.

  “Are you going to tell me where we’re going? Because this feels a little like a murder basement.”

  “You’ll see in a minute.” Harry strolled ahead of her down the hallway and stopped to peer through a little window set in one of the doors. “Good, we’ll have it to ourselves. Here we are.”

  He paused to punch a code into a keypad on the door, and there was a soft mechanical whir as the door unlocked. Eliza followed Harry inside as he flipped on the lights. To her astonishment they were standing in a kitchen. Not a huge, industrial-sized one such that a restaurant or office cafeteria might use, but still big and gleaming and, as far as she could tell, well-stocked with equipment and food.

  “What is this?”

  “Secret test kitchen.” Harry took off his coat and tossed it onto one of the stools that surrounded the central island. His suit jacket followed it.

  Eliza had to tear her eyes away from watching him unfasten his cufflinks and roll up his shirt sleeves. “I don’t know which of those words to ask about first.”

  “You can thank our beloved Philippe. Well, him and all our cookbook authors past and present. The powers that be need somewhere to make sure all those nice recipes work, and, of course, take photos of them. Hence....”

  “Secret test kitchen,” Eliza finished for him. “And so...we’re going to cook? What, exactly?”

  “If I’m not mistaken.” Harry started opening cupboards. “We have a batch of Philippe’s newest line of sauces in.”

  “You’re joking,” Eliza said.

  “Only if you want me to be.”

  “I’m not great in the kitchen,” Eliza confessed, watching as the small pile of implements and ingredients Harry laid out on the island grew.

  “That’s fine,” he said easily. “Did you think I was going to bring you here and then make you work?”

  I didn’t know what to expect, Eliza thought. In manners and dress Harry was so like everyone she had ever lived around, and all of them would have expected a woman to cook. But he was so entirely different. His gentleness, laced as it was with alternating scorn and weariness, baffled her as much as it drew her in.

  So she seated herself on one of the stools ringed around the central island. If Harry said he didn’t expect her to help, she would sit right here and watch. She wasn’t surprised, exactly, but she was impressed that he kept on working by himself. She’d been on many dates at many nice restaurants, but never had she had anyone make food for her like this: With their own hands, right in front of her, and evidently with a great degree of pleasure.

  As he worked, Harry talked, narrating his actions as he diced vegetables and cracked eggs. The tone of his voice was instructive but mild; He wasn’t trying to educate. He was just talking, as much to himself as to her. Eliza got the distinct impression that he talked this way when he was alone in his own kitchen.

  Because Harry clearly did spend time in his own kitchen; his ease and skill made that evident. Watching his hands, Eliza felt like he was allowing her to see something very private, even intimate, about himself. I’ve seen him shirtless in just his swim trunks, but even if I’d seen him naked it wouldn’t be like this. The thought made something at once pleasant and frightening shiver up her spine, and she felt her cheeks grow warm with embarrassment. It was hardly fair to think such things about a coworker who had escaped a stultifying event with her and was now making her dinner.

  Actually, entirely fair, her traitorous mind informed her. Not appropriate. But certainly fair.

  “Here, what do you think of this?” Harry plated the omelet, fluffy with farmer’s cheese and herbs, and set the plate down in front of her with one hand and a knife and fork with the other. The utensils clinked softly together.

  Chapter 5

  Old News is a Terrible Way to Ring in the New Year

  Harry

  A FEW SHORT DAYS AFTER the cocktail party – and after cooking for Eliza in the test kitchen – Harry paced his office. He was on hold with the airline: He was supposed to be flying to Italy tonight for Christmas, but unless he managed to change his flight the blizzard coming in was making it increasingly unlikely he was going anywhere. And he desperately wanted to get out of New York. Even if Steven wasn’t going to be at the Manuscript Miscreants’ annual holiday gathering and even if he still wasn’t sure how he was supposed to feel about Meryl’s relocation.

  Harry felt a slight pang. If he succeeded in getting out of the city in time, it would be two weeks before he saw Eliza again. But she certainly had holiday commitments of her own. At least this way he wouldn’t have to think about what he wasn’t a part of.

  What would it be like to go on holiday with her? that small, traitorous part of his mind, that had become much less small and much more traitorous in the past few weeks, asked. To not deal with the affable mayhem of his friends; to not stay in a large house that was still too small for all of them; to spend the time instead, oh, he didn’t know... in some little pensione somewhere. Outside of Florence, perhaps. Or south, towards Naples. Or the sun of Sicily. They could hike up to one of the old forts or go to one of the points where the seas met.

  Harry was jolted out of his reverie by a ghostly shape drifting down the hallway toward his open office door. It was none other than the subject of his daydreams, wrapped in a misty grey sweater, looking unearthly in the morning light. Like that damned ghost horse.

  “Hello,” Harry greeted her. His phone, still playing hold music, was pressed to his ear.

  She blinked at him. “I thought you were leaving today.”

  “I was. Am. Hopefully. Weather,” Harry said with an explanatory gesture out the window where snow was already beginning to fall in thick, heavy flakes.

  “Ah. Airline?” Eliza hovered in his doorway.

  “Yes.” Harry waved her into the office; if he was stuck waiting on hold forever, at least he could have some company. Assuming Eliza didn’t have somewhere else she needed to be.

  “Good luck, then,” Eliza said, crossing the room to the armchair in the corner and settling down into it. She’d been sitting there much more often of late, whenever they ordered dinner in together and frequently during the day when she came in to grouse about Philippe or just bounce ideas off of Harry.

  “What are you doing for the holidays?” Harry asked, perching himself on the edge of his desk.

  “Back to Boston to visit my family. Of course.” Eliza gave him a dry smile that didn’t reach her eyes.

  “Of course,” he echoed. How well he remembered trekking back home over Christmas to see ageing relatives and attend stifling parties. He didn’t imagine Eliza was looking forward to it any more than he had.

  Eliza leaned her cheek on her hand. “My mother assures me that there will be an absolute whirl of social events and that there’s no way I will have time to even think about being bored, so I shouldn’t worry about packing as many books as I did last year.” She gave an indelicate snort. “As though there’s nothing better about the holidays than spending it schmoozing with people I don’t know and share nothing in common with.”

  “Your father’s business associates?” Harry hazarded a guess.

  “Mhmm.” Eliza looked like she was about to say something else, but changed her mind and looked out the window instead. “That snow is getting worse.”

  “Qui
te. You should –” he broke off his own sentence and stared at his feet, flustered and horrified. You should come to Italy with me instead, had been on the tip of his tongue. Which was the kind of thing he absolutely should not – must not – say.

  Eliza glanced at him curiously. Harry wracked his brain for an idea.

  “While I’m gone. If I’m gone,” he amended gloomily. “There’s a meeting tomorrow of reps for our mid-sized press association. You should go for me. Not to take notes or anything, Jonathan could do that if I needed. But you might make some useful friends. Or at least learn some useful things. And if you do, please, please send me snarky texts about it.”

  Eliza considered that for a moment. “I will,” she said, finally. “On two conditions.”

  “What are those?”

  “I get to call you to complain about Philippe, and next time you go to Rome, you invite me.”

  He stared at her. Had she read his mind? Been enjoying the same fantasies as he had been? Hardly that, Harry told himself stiffly. She was just being Eliza: Bright and sharp-edged and always with something funny and frank to say no matter the situation.

  She’d fit in well with the Miscreants, Harry’s oh-so-traitorous brain said.

  He narrowed his eyes at her. “Deal.”

  TWENTY HOURS AFTER he’d left his home, Harry finally trudged up the walk to the house in Trastevere. He hurt nearly everywhere, and he was in desperate need of a shower. So when his weary knock on the door was greeted with Dennis flinging an arm around his shoulders and dragging him inside, Harry had to take a deep breath not to snap at him. He let go of the handle of his roller bag and didn’t even flinch when it clattered to the ground.

  “I need a drink and a bath,” he announced. “Preferably simultaneously.”

  Forty-five minutes later he was clean, dry, and much less grumpy. He also had a drink in hand because really, it was Christmas and why not.

  All told, there were a dozen people in the house. Most were gathered in the living room, draped over sofas and each other with the ease of long familiarity. He could see a few of them in the kitchen, poking through cupboards and debating whether and when to make a supply run for groceries. Two more were kneeling together on the floor in front of the fireplace, surrounded by crumpled magazine pages and wood chips and arguing about the best way to build a fire.