“Does it?” He seems glad. “You have nothing to fear from me.”
“I mean you no harm,” I quote him from ten years earlier, from that snowy day at Bergdorf’s under the pink tinsel trees and tunnels of evergreens when we bought the Princess Diana hat and the golden chocolates. I’m not sure he makes the connection. “So, how long are you here in New York?”
“I’m here for good,” he states. “I sold the ranch.”
This news stuns me, and I bottle up the flow of skaters, until Evan gets me moving again. “That can’t be, you’re always going, leaving, flying off somewhere.”
“Not this time.”
Evan fills me in on his family. His mother remarried two years ago, a dentist with a practice in Dallas, and she has taken fondly to city life and is in the process of opening her own internet cafe. His older sister, the buyer in Boston, the one who always loved Princess Diana, is married with three children and living in New Hampshire on a farm with her husband where they grow lavender; she has a website he informs me, they sell all things lavender. His younger sister Janie is nineteen and dancing now with the Winnipeg Ballet. The youngest, the spirited Kylie, is eighteen and studying fashion design at a university in Texas.
“Kylie is just itching to transfer to Parsons here in New York. Thank God I got such a windfall of an offer on the horse ranch. It was downright bizarre the way it happened. Some eccentric old guy approached me to buy it, and offered five times what the ranch was worth. He claimed his family owned the land in the last century, and that it was important to him to have it back. I never even met the guy; it was all handled through his oddball British lawyer in a bowtie and bowler hat. It was almost like a little miracle, the way it all unfolded.”
“Well, I can’t think of anyone more deserving of a miracle than you.”
“You say beautiful things, Sylvia,” he singsongs, with a wink. “Maybe those sparkling particles were behind it.”
I am stirred by how natural it feels to be here with him, as if it were only the day after we last skated this rink, rather than an eleven-year interim.
“You did good, Evan. Everyone in your family is well settled, happy and thriving,” I say, with heartfelt sincerity. “It was all worth it.”
“Was it?” he says, sounding unconvinced.
“Yes,” I whisper, my voice failing me.
He nods, his gaze fastened somewhere in the blue shadowy distance of St. Patrick’s Cathedral. “I have a daughter. She’s nine years old. Her name is Allegra.”
"Pretty name," I say.
He purses his lips in agreement. Careen used to say that he had the lips of a young Marlon Brando.
“Dylan has done well for himself.”
“Yes, we watched him blossom from rocker to Renaissance man. He has two little girls.”
“My daughter is showing promise in ballet. She has great feet, a good arch, and natural turnout and grace. I was thinking I might try to get her an audition with SAB.”
“School of American Ballet? Your old alma mater.” Then something occurs to me; I feel as if I’ve been waylaid by some unseen force.
“Is that why you came back to New York? Is that the reason?”
“I came back for you, Haley. That’s the only reason.” We skate past Prometheus, reclining in his gargantuan gold glory. Evan leads me off the rink.
“I don’t know what I’m going to do for work here in the city, and you know what, I don’t care. I’ve got enough money from the sale of the ranch to keep me afloat for some time. I’ve got a small apartment for now in Brooklyn. It’s a nice up-and-coming area, a good neighborhood for Allegra. The building is a renovated old factory; it’s got a strange cylindrical shape, like a big can. I feel like I’m living in a big soup can, but I don’t mind that. Rumor has it that it was once an old bean factory.”
When he tells me the location, I have the sensation that grips me sometimes in my sleep, where I cease breathing and awaken suddenly to gulp air. “Beans? An old bean factory?”
“I think so. That’s what I heard. You know the area?”
“I grew up around there,” I say, vacantly, like a sleepwalker.
He takes my hand, covered in a mitten which is sticky from holding little Claire’s candy, and I realize that we are standing in the same place as the day The Joseph appeared out of the snowy ethers to rock Sinclair’s sedate little world.
“It’s still there, isn’t it? What was once between us? Because I can feel it. Time hasn’t faded it, at least not for me,” he says. He still has those devastating bedroom eyes, like a warm saltwater sea of green that I could float effortlessly in for eternity.
“It was there even before we met,” I whisper.
“You say beautiful things, Sylvia.”
We kiss beneath the rolling shadows of the international flags, furling and unfurling in a riot of color above us.
~22~
The Night They Invented Champagne
Joseph arrives a month in advance of the wedding, looking every inch the Baron of the Manor in a debonair tartan coat and Balmoral bonnet, and with a month’s supply of Brodies tea and a well-coiffed terrier in tow. He is chock full of ideas for the wedding and eager to take the reins. “Is there anyone this guy doesn’t know?” Evan asks amused, as, in the ensuing weeks, Joseph squires Mom about in his rented Bentley, calling in favors to all his past clientele to secure an A-list team of florists, caterers, and dressmakers and tailors.
The wedding is to be held at Blue Rose Vineyards on Valentine’s Day. Joseph eschews the obvious red and white color scheme, and instead designs centerpieces of tea roses dyed a dreamy pale blue, and garlands of sunflowers draped along the warm wooden beams. He insists upon the medieval Scottish tradition of a ceremony performed in Latin, and when I protest he makes a passionate case for the Gaelic. We compromise with Gaelic hymns and bagpipers. Joseph has impeccable taste, and arranges for the finest food and the best champagne (all the wine, of course, courtesy of Blue Rose Vineyards), and a small orchestra to perform the Big Band Era favorites of Dad’s that Dylan and I grew up on.
Joseph looks as if someone stomped on his last bag of Brodies when I inform him that Colleen is creating the wedding cake: a confection of tiered pink cupcakes adorned with blue sugar roses. It is comical to watch Isabel and Allegra plead their case to Joseph for the cupcake-cake. Joseph resigns himself to compromise, and the wedding soon takes shape as a whimsical hodgepodge of preferences: part formal ball, part Highland Fling, part Mad Hatter Tea Party.
Joseph surprises me one afternoon with a golden box tied with a pink velvet bow. Inside is the white silk Gigi gown with the black marabou feather trim.
Joseph watches me over his extended pinky finger as he sips his finely brewed Brodies tea.
I unfold the dress from its box, delighted to see that the snow stains on the hem are gone.
“How did he remove these?” I ask in wonderment.
“Ah, that is another secret for another time.”
“Sinclair had a wonderful life,” I reflect, partly to comfort Joseph, but mostly to comfort myself. “He found his true love in you; he saw his design career flourish during that last year he spent in New York. He had the time of his life restoring Aubergine Castle. And he lived to believe that his mother at last accepted him. Did you ever tell him the truth?”
“I did not, and I do not regret it.” With an authoritative snap of his fingers, Joseph orders his terrier to back away from the train of the gown. “You know, Sinclair never gave up hope for you and Evan. He said to me, ‘one day they will marry, and my dear Vivie will wear this.’”
“Did he really say that? Or is that another beautiful lie?” I tease, though my throat swells with emotion.
“No, he truly said that,” Joseph assures with a perfect poker face. “And he was confident that you would remain a size four.” He gives the dress a rather dramatic flouncing, and holds it up against me to confirm its perfect fit.
Joseph shares a photo from one of his many
wedding folders, an archway of ivy, roses, and stephanotis. “It’s tradition—and always in good taste-- to have a welcoming floral display at the entranceway to welcome the guests.”
“I know my wedding will be the epitome of taste thanks to you,” I say, and, though I mean it, I know that flattery always works its magic on Joseph.
I’m not buying his story about Sinclair, but I find it endearing that Joseph would go to such great lengths to fill in for Sinclair’s absence. Later, alone in my bedroom, I remember that the blue silk rose for the bustle is missing from the dress. Did I lose it that night, at the gala, all those years ago? I vaguely remember Evan retrieving it from the courtyard pavement and pressing it into my palm before his heart-wrenching departure. Rummaging through the golden box I find it wrapped in the acid free paper Sinclair always used to preserve his silk creations. Pinned to the rose is this Alice quote: “She was part of my dream, of course—but then I was part of her dream too.”
~~~~~
“I’m giving you and Evan the vineyard as a wedding present.”
“Giving me the vineyard? But you love that vineyard.”
Dylan and I are seated outside on a bench beneath Joseph’s overflowing archway of roses--the requisite exterior floral greeting for the guests. Joseph went for simple elegance, choosing one type of rose color, a French rose pink, and allowing them to spill naturally and abundantly over the wire trellis, giving a rambling, and fragrant, cottage garden effect. The sun is setting over the vineyard, throwing coral-colored shadows across the fields and illuminating the wire tunnels of bare grape vines. I’m wearing a white cape shrug across my shoulders, bought at a north shore boutique—velvet-- in honor of Sinclair. Dylan is handsome as ever in his tuxedo. It’s a balmy twilight, as if Providence bestowed its own nuptial gift upon us: an unseasonably warm February evening. Dylan asked me to step outside, after the ceremonial cutting of the cake—or, in this case, cupcakes-- to give me the news.
“I’ve been losing interest in it for years, but you know I could never sell it because it reminds me of Dad; and now you and Mom have made it your home. It’s too much a part of our family to sell it, too many good memories. I’d like to keep it going, but I just don’t have the motivation anymore.”
“What? Did I hear correctly? The indefatigable Dylan Barrett is lacking in motivation? That can’t be!” I shake my head playfully, as if to clear my ears of any obstructions, as a waiter in waistcoat comes outside to offer us a tray of champagne and cupcakes so we don’t miss out. Everyone else is warm and cozy and celebrating inside the high-ceilinged barn.
“I’ve got a few new projects I’m excited about. You know me, that’s how I get my kicks, my jollies, starting businesses from scratch, building them, and then selling them.”
“That’s a very generous gift. Have you told Evan?”
“I told him. He wanted to pay me for it, but I told him he’d basically be doing me a favor by taking it off my hands. Colleen would jump at the chance to live in the city again. She’s been wanting to start that cupcake café, an idea she’s been kicking around for years, and the girls are gung-ho about it, too.”
“Colleen makes a mean cupcake,” I commend.
As if remembering to eat, Dylan and I both peel back the paper on our frilly cupcakes and conversation stalls as we indulge. Music and laughter spill outward from the barn. The Joseph is giving a rousing rendition of The Night They Invented Champagne. Dylan’s daughters and Evan’s sisters along with Allegra, are singing and dancing up a storm. I even hear Careen harassing Mr. Palmer to get up and dance.
“How do they all know these lyrics?” Dylan asks, his face twisting in amusement.
“Joseph rehearsed them,” I smile. “It’s meant to look spontaneous.”
“That guy is too much.” He chuckles.
“He and Brandon have been pretty cozy,” I venture.
“Brandon is not gay.” Dylan wearily strings out these words, like wet socks spaced on a clothesline. “He’s a confirmed bachelor, that’s all.”
“Okay.” I throw my hands up in playful surrender, dabbing crumbs from my mouth. I check my teeth in the tiny mirror that Joseph supplied to me, so as to assure that I am camera-ready at all moments.
“Getting back to business,” Dylan says with a smirk. “I just don’t have the interest anymore in the vineyard, but I want it to remain in the family because it’s a connection to Dad. I think Evan will do a great job; he’ll reinvigorate it. He can’t go back to working for someone else, not after being his own boss all these years.”
“Yes,” I agree. “He told me once, long ago, that he liked being his own man when he ran the ranch, and not having to answer to anyone, no more agents or producers like in the old days.”
“The old days? We’re not that old,” he protests, sucking in his stomach as if in reflex. “I think he’ll throw himself into it, the way he did the horse ranch. He’s already got ideas about bringing out a line of champagne for Blue Rose Vineyards. He did a really impressive job with that little farm. I mean he built that all by himself from scratch when he was what, twenty-two years old? Geez, he was just a kid, and with no help from anybody, no-six figure royalties to kick start it like I had when I started my businesses. No father to cheer him on, like I had with Dad. Evan built something solid; I was really impressed with what I saw.”
I study Dylan’s face, the chiseled features, the striking blue eyes, and the silky black hair that is as thick as ever, though shorter now. A tremor of panic flits across his strong features, as he realizes he has revealed something he should not have.
“When did you see Evan’s ranch?” I crumple my cupcake paper and toss it onto the tray.
Dylan looks at me and then away, his lips moving as if to form his defense, but then he seems to think better of it, and simply shrugs, clasping and unclasping his hands.
“You bought the ranch. It was you! Wasn’t it? You were the anonymous buyer! Of course, the British lawyer was Dawes!” I slap my forehead, as if in reprimand for not having seen this sooner. The image of Dylan’s eccentric but brilliant lawyer in his starched bowtie and stately bowler hat seems superimposed across the sunset. It all becomes suddenly vivid, a panoramic view after a mist clears.
“Don’t tell Evan.”
“But how did you know? How did you know he would come back here for me? It was quite a risk, wasn’t it?”
“Hey, I’m a risk taker, it’s what I do.” Dylan reaches for his glass of champagne and swigs it in one gulp. “But of all my risky ventures, this, I was certain, was a sure thing,” he says, raising his glass to me. “I was there back in 1989, remember? I saw how the two of you were when you were in the same room together. I’ve met millions of people since then, from every walk of life, and I’ve rarely, if ever, seen between two people what I saw between the two of you.”
I smile to myself at Dylan’s image of himself as having met millions. What must it be like to be Dylan, I wonder, and so sure of oneself?
“At the time I didn’t recognize it for what it was.”
“What was it?” I probe.
“Unique. You know me; I’m not great with words. That’s the best I can describe it. What was between the two of you is not common.”
“You told me it was just lust back then. That he had a woody for me the size of the Chrysler Building.”
Dylan laughs. “Did I actually say that? Well, let’s hope he’s got one the size of the Chrysler Building tonight!”
“Back then you said—“
Dylan holds up his hand, commanding me to stop. “Please, don’t remind me of the 1989 Me,” and then, “Those were fun times back then, huh?”
“For you, maybe,” I sass. “You paid way more than what that ranch was worth. It’s not like you to overpay for anything,” I marvel.
“It was worth every penny. Yeah, and I don’t know what the fuck I’m going to do with barns full of midget horses.”
“Miniature,” I correct.
“Whatever.�
� He rolls his eyes. “I’ll probably flip the ranch, at a loss. Or maybe I should ship Brandon out there to run it. He’s been a millstone around my neck at the Comet. The man has no head for business.”
“Ah, but no one can quote Shelley quite like Brandon,” I say, dreamily, for Brandon called upon the words of his favorite poet for the best man’s toast.
“Don’t tell Evan that it was me. Evan has his pride, the same as any man. Besides I owed him, big time. I did everything to keep you two apart back then; I did everything to make it hard for you two, so it was only right that I do something to make it easy this time. I’m sure he would have found his way back here to you, whether or not I made that offer to buy the ranch. But I thought it wouldn’t hurt to pave the way with a few fish,” he says. Dad and Dylan always referred playfully to money as “fish.”
“You know, back then, I just wanted you to have financial security, and someone who would take good care of you.”
I smile. “That someone turned out to be you.”
“I’m a bossy pain in the ass, I know,” he says. “I hope I didn’t ruin your life, Haley. We never talked about it but I have everything I have, because you let me go on that tour. We both know it. You’ve never thrown it in my face, not once. I don’t think I could have been so generous, if the tables had been turned.”
“We did what was best for the family. Dad’s last years were some of the happiest of his life. He got to see you hit it big in the music business. He got to read about his son in the newspaper and magazines. He loved when the two of you started the vineyard.”
“I’m sorry for what I did to you. For what I made you give up all those years ago.”
“You didn’t make me do anything.”
“I was always on your case when we were younger, always riding you about the bad decisions that you made, and then you made the worst decision of all, when you gave up Evan, and I stood by silently and never said a word, because that decision served me; it allowed me to do the thing I wanted to do so badly.”
“We made that decision together, Dylan, you and I. We may not have ever discussed it, but we both knew it was the right decision. If you hadn’t gone on that tour with the band, we wouldn’t have everything we have now. We have this amazing life, all of us. You’ve given Mom the kind of life that she used to read about only in books.”
Blue Rose In Chelsea Page 25
