Everything's Not Lost
- Guinevere -
Disclaimer: I don't own anyone or anything except where I do own someone or something.
A/N: Everything happened as we know it in Gilmoreland. I've set this story up, but don't expect a lot of Trory goodness, 'cause I'm not indulging, although there will be some of that. Get ready for a twist, 'cause it's coming. So we'll call this one a Trory with a twist. And without further adieu…
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Ch One: Getting To Know You
Tristan DuGrey was on the C train and his stop, 72nd Street was next. He stood, grabbed the bar above his head and loosened the tie around his neck. Five more minutes and this day from hell would be over.
It all started with a call from his sister, who at nearly twenty years his senior, acted more like a mother than the stuck up older sister she embodied. She told him that their "beloved," or so she sarcastically called their father, was throwing a party this upcoming weekend in honor of the new baby on the way. And of course, he was inclined to ask, "Beth, are you pregnant again?"
This would be her fifth, but her response shocked him more than he was expecting. "No," she replied with a sneer, "Bridget is." Tristan's jaw nearly dropped to the floor, for Bridget was his father's fourth, and hopefully final trophy wife. For a man who just qualified for Social Security on his last birthday, he sure loved to crank out those kids. This newest addition would be the third DuGrey child in as many years, and would bring the total to six.
"Well Beth, we all know what's been on his mind since our mother left him, now don't we?" That was all he could counter with, so soon then after he ended the call. What followed would put this news on the burner farthest from the front.
He was sitting in the weekly office meeting when in walked the senior partner, fresh from a vacation in the south of France, with the news that not only was his Deputy Senior Partner retiring from the profession, but he was not going to just hand the job directly over to his nephew, Tristan himself. No, Tristan and the nine other partners in the firm would have to show their skills and work for the position.
Now his uncle Patrick was not one to step outside the family - the retiree was his own son who had earned quite enough money to live a life of luxury without employment and had dealt with enough crap from his father - so this was a first. Tristan had always known he was somewhat resented by Patrick, mostly because Patrick was the youngest of four brothers, Tristan's father being the oldest and by default, the most worshipped. But to do battle with nine of New York's finest lawyers just for the glorified gopher's position seemed hardly worth it. Nonetheless, he would have to, especially if he wanted to maintain his credibility both in the court and in the family.
Issue two hurdled over, Tristan was about to settle down behind his desk stacked with briefings when he noticed the first of a pile of phone calls to be returned. It seemed that his current girlfriend, of nearly three weeks, had called to say quote 'I hate you Tristan, goodbye' end quote. And below that read that his mother had called. Seven times. And just to the left of this pile was the two weeks notice from his secretary that claimed she did more work than her employer and therefore was going back to school so she could shove her work on someone else's desk.
Now surely, Tristan thought, this must be the end of the downward spiral that always, though not so thoroughly, consumed his Mondays. And things went pretty smoothly from then on, so much so that he conjured a smile from himself at the sight of a hard days work. But no, just to drive the nail in a tad further, his father called at precisely 4:50, just as Tristan was readying to go home for the night.
"Hi, Dad, congrats on the new baby," Tristan half-groaned he pleasantry.
"Why thank you son. Now Tristan, I trust Bethany informed you of the affair we are hosting this Friday?" Quincy DuGrey spoke to even his own son as though he were a business associate.
"Of course she did."
"Ah, lovely. I also wanted to ask that you bring a date and dress formally as we are going to combine the event with your cousin's retirement party. And Patrick has requested that you say a few words as you will be Crane's replacement."
"Actually, uncle Patrick has decided to give all the partners a chance at the job, instead of promoting me directly."
"Well then, I think I'll just have to have a chat with that brother of mine, now won't I?"
Tristan wanted to tell him 'Thanks but no thanks,' but his father would never listen to that. He would have been better off not saying anything at all. "I suppose. Now when should I arrive Saturday evening?"
"Now sooner than 5:30, no later than 6:15."
"Well, that may be a little difficult, Dad, seeing as New York traffic on the weekends is pretty horrendous."
"I trust that after living in that godforsaken city for over nine years that you have acquired at least some proficiency at driving in the city. I'll see you Saturday evening Tristan."
"See you then Dad."
Tristan had hung up the phone and even now, thinking of the conversation made him tired. A cold shower, some of Rosalie's famous three meat pizza and a good night's sleep should do the trick, he thought to himself. The train eased to a stop and he lumbered out and up the stairs to the street where a refreshing breeze was coming from Central Park. He was tempted to drop his laptop and briefcase and go for a run, but thought better of it, preferring sleep to athletic exertion after the trying day he had just suffered through.
Two blocks North and Tristan was at the entry to his cluster of upscale apartments overlooking the Park. He nodded to Bill, the doorman, stepped into the elevator and pressed the number eleven. As he stepped into his landing, he noticed his neighbor's door was open and a fragrant aroma of something flowery mixed with coffee and the distinct smell of chocolate chip cookies was filling the tiny hall. Tristan considered knocking, but then remembered that Mrs. Gramaric had moved out three days ago and his new floor mate might not be so friendly.
He turned the knob and entered his apartment only to be slapped in the face by the same smell, only the coffee aspect was much stronger. Hard to believe he paid over three-thousand a month on his mortgage for a 4,000 square foot flat and was stuck with paper-thin walls. While pondering this he shrugged off his jacket and threw himself on his couch. He had just begun to doze when he heard a knock on the door. Tie now fully gone, shirt untucked and half-unbuttoned, Tristan made his way to the door. He looked through the peephole and only saw brown hair, so he opened.
"Hi," began the girl, no, woman who occupied is door frame. She was about his age, probably 5'9" with medium length brown hair held back by small black glasses and piercing blue eyes. She wore a navy hooded sweatshirt the read "Berkeley" and navy sweatpants and was holding a plate of, surprise surprise, cookies. Nevermind the fact that the residents of the Carolina Apartments rarely spoke to each other, let alone baked for each other, Tristan couldn't shake that this girl looked strikingly familiar.
She extended a hand toward Tristan and introduced herself simply as "You're new neighbor."
"I figured as much, seeing as I haven't laid eyes on you before now," Tristan replied, not overly forthcoming. He decided he sounded slightly rude, so he attempted again, "I'm Tristan, and you are?" He wasn't sure if he would like her answer, especially if she was one of his high school or college girlfriends.
"I'm L.L., but everyone calls me Rory." Now he pinpointed exactly who she was, and the exact date and time of their last meeting. This was the girl he had compared all other girls to for years, the ungettable "get" at Chilton. This was the Rory, or Mary as he had affectionately called her, that he fell in love with at first sight and never fully got over the rejection. And if she recognized or even had any idea of who he was, she was not letting on, so he decided, for now, he'd play her game.
"L.L.? Is that something like L.L.Bean? Or do the letters stand for something?"
"Actually, the L.L. in L.L.Bean stands for Leon Leonwood, and mine stands for Lorelai Leigh. It's my pen name."
"Are you a writer?" He instantly felt like an idiot at the question.
But she just smiled at his mistake. "Yeah, I freelance for a few women's magazines and I also write for the Washington Posts' New York division."
"Oh, wow. Well, I better get going, I've got a few phone calls to return," he wasn't sure where to take the conversation next, a rarity for him, so he provided an exit for himself.
"Oh, I'm sorry to keep you. I just wanted to introduce myself, give you these and invite you over to dinner, if you don't have anything else planned. I'm making some very gourmet Kraft Macaroni and Cheese, if you'd care to join me."
"Not much of a cook, are you? Don't worry, I'm not either," he had to admire her honesty, but he didn't think he should take her generosity for granted without her knowing his identity.
"No, my roomie's the chef, but he's away on assignment, so I've been left to my own devices. So, how about it?"
"Actually, it sounds great, but I think I should first ask you if you remember who I am."
"Should I? I don't think I remember meeting a Christian before, but it could have been at one of those horrible Yale society functions, so I might remember you with a memory jog or two."
"That's the problem there," he said as she mentioned that she heard him say 'Christian,' not 'Tristan'. "When I knew you, you were not as friendly and outgoing as you seem to be now, but that's kind of what college will do to you. Anyway, its 'Tristan,' not 'Christian,' as in Tristan DuGrey."
Rory covered her mouth as her eyes widened to take in his appearance. Whatever she said, he decided, would not affect this newfound friendship they had begun, and he wouldn't bring up any of those long buried feelings. "Wow, it really is you. I mean, You look different, but I guess the same. Wow. How are you?"
"I'm good, good. Military school will change a person; it gets rid of arrogance pretty quickly. Now how about that Mac and Cheese?"
"Sure, I mean, okay, come right in."
And thus, the beginning of a beautiful friendship.
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T. B. C. Please R & R