Chapter One – The Middle of Things
Dorian had to admit matronly was gaining in appeal, but as far as she was concerned that was just one more reason to hate Nora. This was all her fault, she thought, and she would find a way to make her pay—she paused to dig a tissue out of her purse and blow her nose. It wasn't easy hatching plots in this cold, she thought bitterly. People didn't appreciate. It took concentration and stamina and other things she didn't have at the moment. Like sleeves. Earlier in the evening, from the relative warmth of her boudoir, strapless had seemed like such a good idea—the daring choice, the don't-care-that-you-stole-my-boyfriend choice. As it turned out, not so much. Blair had been right. She should have gone with mother-of-the-bride. Where was her coat anyway? Downstairs? Did she even bring it with her? She tried to remember, but it was no use. It could have been anywhere—the ambulance, the waiting room—between Addie and Viki everything had turned into such a free-for-all, the truth was she had no idea.
Nora Hanen Gannon Buchanan...Buchanan.
Yes, this was all Nora's fault. If she hadn't stolen Clint away in the first place—before dumping him for his brother like the shameless hussy that she was—then Dorian would not have felt the need to rub that fact in Clint's face by looking especially fabulous tonight. Then she could have worn something weather appropriate. Then she wouldn't be freezing her backside off right now. She shivered. Revenge may be a dish qui se mange froid, she thought dryly, but tonight it was just too damn cold to expend energy on anything other than keeping warm. She would think about Nora later. Right now she was grateful for the roof, the little oasis of calm it offered, the time it gave her to clear her head.
Dark, still, marked only by the faint hum of hospital generators, it gave no indication of the unholy mess unfolding below. Downstairs was chaos, full of people and their suffering, their needs. Up here was just sky—room to breath and to think. She hummed a few bars of a song, in lieu of retreat. Shiny sequined something something… She couldn't remember the words now, something about lost love and swimming in the ocean. Langston and Starr had given it to her as a present last Mother's Day—right after they had hidden all her Il Divo CDs. What had they called it? She couldn't remember that, either. A senior moment, as Blair would say. Perish the thought.
At least she had remembered her purse—she thanked God for small favors. Things could be worse. If life had taught Dorian anything, it was that things could always be worse. Later she would go home, take a hot bath, call David from bed—it was still early in California. David would know what to do. He excelled at aggravating his stepmother. Every time he called Nora mom an angel got its wings Dorian was convinced—truly, it never got old. Better yet, he was in L.A. where it never got cold. And she needed to tell him about Addie. And Viki.
A mix. That was it.
She cleared her throat. Was it her imagination or was her voice sounding huskier than usual? Please don't be a cold, she thought. She would hate to give Blair the satisfaction. Still, she wasn't ready to admit defeat. Certainly not by doing anything as cowardly as going inside. Stubbornness could be a virtue, too, she thought, stamping her feet. She tried to think warm thoughts. Lo bueno se compra con sangre, as Manuel would say. Nothing worth having comes easy in this life. She should have that blazoned on a bumper sticker.
She repeated her little dance, rubbing her hands at her upper arms fruitlessly, willing herself to suffer the cold in exchange for the peace—an easy bargain in the scheme of things, she thought. Besides which Dorian had always liked the roof. It had been a favorite spot once upon a time, frequented in those days when she had worked at the hospital herself. Before Victor. Before Victor's money. A lifetime ago. No, she thought, quickly pushing all thoughts of him from her mind; she had more than enough to deal with tonight without digging up bones. What's passed is past. No regrets. She tried to make her mind a blank, concentrating instead on the quiet night, the slow in and out of her own breathing. Under different circumstances—circumstances involving a coat, for example—it would have been a perfect night for stargazing. Those, she noticed, were unusually bright and clear despite the full moon.
She was succeeding modestly, pushing the cares of the day a little further away with each exhale, when she felt something sweep across her back. A warm cloud of soft fabric and residual body heat that sent an unexpected jolt of electricity down her spine. She jumped and looked up to find Joe standing behind her in his shirtsleeves; his jacket now hanging about her shoulders.
"Joe," she said. It was equal parts exclamation and question.
"I'm sorry," he said, "I didn't mean to startle you."
"You didn't. I mean, you did…I…" she stopped, flustered. She tried again, "Thank you."
"You're welcome."
She felt lightheaded, consciousness of just how cold she had been moments before hitting her like a wave, unexpected in its ferocity. She closed her eyes and leaned against the railing for support as the blood rushed to the surface of her skin with a relief that was almost painful. The beginnings of frostbite, she thought. Blair would get a kick out of that. Serves you right, she could hear her say. She pulled the jacket more snugly around her shoulders. It smelled of him, she noticed.
"Are you okay?"
"Fine," she said, opening her eyes, "Just a little cold."
"Small wonder," he said, "You're going to catch your death out here," but then he moved to stand beside her, looking out where she did. The river now nothing but a dark void haloed by distant city lights.
"Vanity, thy name is woman," she smiled, offering it without excuse. She couldn't very well share the real reason—the other real reason. His father. His father's ex-wife. Her demons.
"Frailty," he said.
"What?"
"Nothing," he studied the tops of his shoes, "Am I interrupting?"
"No, of course not…"
"Good."
"…I was just getting some air."
They spoke simultaneously then fell into an awkward silence. Out of the corner of her eye, she watched him try not to fidget in the cold and had to repress a smile. Welcome to the club, she thought.
"Some night, eh?" he said.
"You could say that."
More silence. Two barred owls halloed across the darkness from a row of trees at the edge of the parking lot, papercut silhouettes looming against the horizon. She wasn't doing a very good job holding up her end of the conversation—she resolved to do better. Tonight wasn't his fault after all. That honor belonged to Nora.
"How's Addie?" he asked finally.
And there it was, she thought, the other shoe, the elephant in the room. The other elephant in the room. She had a sudden flash—of Addie singing, Addie spewing champagne in the air, Addie shouting Look at me! I'm a fountain! at the top of her lungs—and cringed inwardly. How's Addie? What kind of question was that? How did he think? She was a mess, a disaster, a train wreck waiting to happen… Dorian took a deep breath. Not his fault, she thought. It was becoming a mantra.
"She's fine," she said. She turned to meet his gaze, chin up, but he just stood there, waiting for her to go on. "Physically, she's fine. They're holding her overnight for observation. They will probably take her back to St. Ann's in the morning." It was a relief to say the words out loud.
"I'm sorry."
"Thank you."
"And Blair?"
"Blair," she sighed, "She was so certain Addie was better this time."
He nodded, waiting again.
"It's not easy to watch someone you love fall apart over and over again and be completely helpless to do anything about it."
"I know."
"Oh, Joe. I'm sorry. I didn't mean…"
"I know."
"How is Viki?" she asked.
Now it was his turn to sigh. "Still in intensive care. Still unconscious. They've got her sedated because of the…um," he touched his neck gingerly, just above the top button of his shirt, "…the tube in her throat."
"That's normal. It's for her own comfort. Do they know yet what caused her to lose consciousness?"
"According to the doctors, sepsis brought on by pneumococcal pneumonia," he grimaced and then smiled, "Try saying that three times quickly."
"Oh, Joe, that's good news." she put her hand on his arm without thinking. "Assuming she responds to the antibiotics, it shouldn't affect her heart."
"That is almost exactly what the doctor said," he said, looking down where her hand now rested on his shirtsleeve. He picked it up and turned it over in his own.
"Your hands are warm," she said, in order to say something. It was true though, a welcome relief under the circumstances.
"Yours aren't," he said, kneading gently at the web between her thumb and index finger. It was a familiar caress—flea-picking, David had called it once—something he had used to do for her whenever she had had a headache. When they were together that was. Another lifetime ago... That was a sobering thought. How many lifetimes had there been? How many did one get? She stole a quick glance at his face, but he was looking out at the river again; she couldn't tell if he even noticed that he was doing it. She started to feel self-conscious, took her hand away, pretended to adjust something on her gown.
"Give me your hand," he said.
"Joe."
"Give me your hand."
She gave it back with a sigh. This was not a good idea—of that much she was certain—but she was too tired to fight about it. He started the massage again and she felt the tension begin to melt from her jaw, her neck, her shoulders; tension she hadn't even been conscious of holding in until it started to ebb away in slow circles, his thumb against her palm. She closed her eyes.
Had her heels always been this high? It would be embarrassing if she toppled over into his arms, wouldn't it? If she just fell asleep? Fainted dead away? Or would Joe just pick her up and carry her home, completely unfazed? She had an idea that he might. It was a tempting thought. God, she was tired. It had been a long day and upright was becoming a struggle. More than anything, she just wanted to sit down, lie down...surrender...forget... Instead she pressed her back against the cold metal of the railing, willing herself to stay awake. It felt good—icy and sharp beneath her shoulder blades. She took a deep breath and then another, but she couldn't get the air all the way to the bottom of her lungs. Her throat ached with the effort. Her head felt too heavy for her neck, her legs unsteady, his breath warm and regular against the place where her throat was still exposed to the night air. She tried not to think of what it felt like when he kissed her there, his hair twisted between her fingers, his weight on top of her…
Her eyes snapped open.
"Better?" he asked.
She made a small noise in the affirmative and was rewarded with a quick, sudden smile—of what, she wondered? Triumph? Was he playing her? That wasn't possible, was it? She didn't think Joe wasn't capable of playing anyone, yet she couldn't shake the suspicion that he could read her thoughts tonight. Once that had been her prerogative—to know what he would do or say before he knew himself. Now it was as if the poles had been reversed, upending the natural order of things. She didn't like it. She tried to think about baseball to throw him off, took her hand from his, forced herself to meet his gaze. He was still smiling, although now that she was looking at him directly, it seemed more sheepish than triumphant. His eyes crinkled around the corners now, she noticed. When had that happened? She felt a little tug somewhere in the region of her solar plexus in response. He was a handsome man. Standing there, toughing it out, squinting into the wind like some sort of modern-day Steve McQueen…
Enough, she thought. Ex-lovers appeared unexpectedly at one's parties sometimes. These things happened to sophisticated women of the world. It was no biggie. So what if you could have knocked her over with a feather when he had shown up on Viki's arm tonight. Uninvited. Out of the blue. She had recovered quickly—shook his hand, wished him well, moved on to the next guest. No one had noticed, least of all him. Later, when he had asked her to dance, she had taken the opportunity to inquire into particulars. How long are you home for? Is this visit business or pleasure? Wasn't that only natural? His replies had been cagey, but then they had been interrupted before she had had the chance to press him for specifics. Maybe there were none. Maybe she had imagined it. Maybe she was imagining this.
Someone's phone beeped.
Saved by the bell, Dorian thought. "Is that me?" she asked.
He nodded, "Must be. Mine's off."
She fished hers out, smiling instinctively at the familiar number.
where ru?
"It's Langston," she said, turning away to answer. No easy feat in the dark with half-frozen fingers and no reading glasses—another minor oversight. Steve McQueen never had these problems, she thought. Of course, Steve McQueen was dead. That simplified matters.
ob ny way xxop
She pressed send and then almost dropped her phone over the railing as she tried to deposit it back in her purse. Smooth, she thought. She was lucky she hadn't, the way things were going. Why was she feeling so self-conscious? It was a perfectly normal thing to be a klutz in weather like this, wasn't it? To be cold? To need reading glasses at her age? It wasn't as if Joe hadn't seen her wearing them a hundred times before.
"Sorry about that," she said.
"Don't be. Everything alright?"
"Oh, yes. They're all giving blood."
"Ah."
"I should probably join them," she said, but she didn't move.
"Of course." He took a step back, "You know," he said, "we never got to finish our dance."
"Perhaps that was for the best."
"That's a matter of opinion." He took her hand again, drew her away from the railing.
"You mean here?" she laughed. The are you crazy was implied.
"Why not?"
"Um…it's the middle of the night? It's fourteen degrees out? You don't have a coat…" she counted off the reasons.
"Details, " he said. He placed her hand on his shoulder and the jacket slipped off. He caught it against her back just in time, before it hit the ground, but the cold air still came as a shock.
"Oh!" she yelped.
"Put your arms in the sleeves," he ordered as he shook it out and held it open behind her.
"Yes, sir," she was joking—there wasn't actually room to turn around, pinioned as she was—but he made no response. Concentrating, she supposed, on the mechanics of gallantry. She did as she was told, her hands finding the armholes with only slightly less grace than was usual.
"Joe, it doesn't fit." She held her arms out to him, hands covered to the fingertips by too-long sleeves, laughed, a throaty, husky, catarrhal business—maybe she was catching cold after all?
"That's easily fixed," he said. He carefully rolled each cuff until both her hands were clear of extra material, placing one on his shoulder. He held the other close to his chest.
"Joe, there's no music," she continued to argue halfheartedly, "And this is very bad form."
"What can I say?" he teased, "I had a lousy teacher."
"Oh!" She smacked his arm.
He laughed and stepped back, aligning their arms in the formal, basic hold—her left hand on his arm, his right hand at her scapula, an ocean of cold air between them. "Better?"
"Much," she said, but he didn't move. She realized he was waiting, giving her the opportunity to pull away. What the hell, she thought. As if she didn't know how to flirt harmlessly with a man. As if Joe hadn't always been putty in her hands. She moved her hand from his arm to his shirt collar. "Better?" she asked.
"Much," he said, "I was just kidding, you know. I had a wonderful teacher."
"I know."
They began to dance. For a few minutes no one said anything, each lost in private reveries.
"This is nice," Joe volunteered at last.
"It is nice," Dorian agreed, "You're blocking my wind."
"Ouch," he said, but he wasn't offended.
They laughed.
"You're better at this than I remembered," she said, "You must get a lot of practice in London."
"My dance card is full every night."
"Is it?"
"No."
She smiled, touched his face without looking up. "It should be."
A simple problem, the problem of Joe, Dorian thought. Yes, no, stay, go. Not like Addie. Or Blair. Dorian wasn't sure Blair would survive this latest episode—no, that wasn't true. Blair would survive; Blair always survived. Whatever life threw at Blair, Blair handled. She was like Dorian that way. But disappointments about her mother were different—they cut deeper. Addie was a problem with no solution...
Joe's hand slid from her shoulder blade to the small of her back, but it didn't occur to Dorian to object. She put her head on his shoulder instead, chalked it up to tiredness, laid her entire weight against him with a sigh before she even realized she had done it. She could have pretended she had lost her balance, she supposed—it wasn't so far from the truth—but when his arms tightened around her all she could think was how good it felt to lean on someone else for a change. How good it felt to lean on him, on Joe—so solid and dependable. And warm. What was wrong with those London women that they couldn't see what a catch he was? How true and noble and everything that was most admirable about men?
Dorian had heard through the grapevine—the grapevine being Kelly—that there had been a girlfriend at one point, although no one seemed to know if she was still in the picture or not. The mysterious Jill, Kelly had called her. Dorian hoped the mysterious Jill was worthy of him. He had been born for a more chivalrous age, she thought—one where damsels had the good sense to be grateful once rescued, one with happy endings. She wondered if he still believed in happy endings? She hoped so.
"Penny for your thoughts."
"Oh," she said, "I was just thinking about Ryan Howard." She felt a faint rumble in his chest that didn't quite make it to a laugh.
"The baseball player?"
"The baseball superstar," she corrected. She tilted her head back to look up at him, "Why? What were you thinking about?"
"Oddly enough, I was also thinking about Ryan Howard. Quite a coincidence."
"Yes, isn't it?"
He swallowed.
"What were you really thinking about?"
"Blair," she said simply.
"Oh," he said, "I'm sorry."
"Don't be," she said, "It's not your fault."
"No." He looked down at their hands, still clasped between them, then dropped his arms to his sides. They were no longer dancing.
Dorian could feel the weight of their history bearing down on them, trying to swallow the present, drown it in the dark, sacred waters of the past. She didn't want that. She wanted them to be friends, lighthearted, happy. She wanted him to be happy. Her mind flailed for a safer topic of conversation.
"You certainly came to Langston's rescue tonight," she said finally.
"Yeah?"
"I meant to thank you earlier."
"It was nothing. She seems like a nice kid."
"She is a nice kid," Dorian said. She couldn't keep the note of pride from her voice. "And Cassie and Adriana adore her, of course. And Blair. And Kelly." She tried to make that last sound as casual as possible.
"Of course. Who wouldn't want a little sister like Langston?"
"Exactly! She's so beautiful and smart. The perfect Cramer woman."
He laughed, tickled by her enthusiasm, "If you say so."
"I do say so! She's perfect."
"Sì, perfetta."
"Esattamente! È perfetta e bella e…"
She stopped, interrupted by a loud crack like a car backfiring. Or a gunshot. They turned simultaneously and looked out toward the river, searching the darkness for the source of the noise. "What was that?" she asked. Her hand was seeking out Joe's sleeve again when a blaze of unexpected color ignited the darkness. A single falling star in brilliant blue followed by an irregular salvo of bursts and pops. Suddenly a riot of fireworks erupted into life, shells and skyrockets exploding in a terrific crescendo of lights and noise. They looked at each other, awestruck.
"This is great!" Joe shouted between the booms of the mortars.
"What?"
"I said this is great! I feel just like Cary Grant!"
She nodded. He was right. It was like something out of a movie—the only thing missing was the soundtrack. "You look like Cary Grant in that tuxedo," she said during the next lull.
"You think?" he asked, pleased, "It is a good look for me, isn't it? Of course, it's an even better look for you." He indicated the jacket.
"Hardly," she scoffed.
He winked at her, teasing.
She couldn't help laughing, "You are better at this than I remembered."
"It's the tuxedo."
Or the man in it, she thought.
"I have a sudden urge to do a backflip," he said, looking around, "I wonder if there's room to do a backflip up here?"
"Joe! Don't you dare!"
"What? You don't think I can?"
"I think we've made enough trips to the emergency room for one night, don't you?"
"Yeah, I suppose so," he said. He took up his perch at the rail as the fireworks started up again. They watched the rest of the display in companionable silence. "You know," he said as it finally drew to a close, "there was a time when I might have wondered if you had planned all this."
"I did plan all this," she said, "It's from the party at the Palace."
"That's not what I meant."
"I know."
He was looking at her—with that quality of quiet, focused intensity that always made her feel like she was the only person in the room. "Happy New Year, Dorian," he said. He bent forward...
Yes, no, stay, go, she thought. "Don't," she said, turning her face away, "You'll mess up my lipstick."
He didn't miss a beat, kissed her cheek instead—the place where her cheek met her ear—but she could feel his eyes search her face for a moment as he pulled away. She kept hers on his shirt buttons.
They were still standing there awkwardly when the door to the roof flew open and Natalie came hurrying through it. "Found him!" she called over her shoulder, "Joey, what are you doing up here?" She stopped short when she saw Dorian. "Hi," she said. She looked from one to the other, saucer-eyed, too polite to ask the question so obviously on the tip of her tongue.
"Hello, Natalie," Dorian said.
Joe didn't say anything.
"Well," Dorian excused herself, "I should really go find Langston." She started to remove Joe's jacket, hardly noticing the cold this time.
"Keep it," he said, "You'll need it to get home."
"Thank you," she said. She didn't look at him as she made her escape, "Happy New Year, Natalie."
"Happy New Year, Dorian," the girl answered dutifully.
Dorian hurried toward the door, head down, nearly bumping into Clint as he came up the stairs.
"Dorian, what are you...?" he took in the tableau in a glance.
"Clint," she acknowledged, trying to walk past him, "Happy New Year."
"And to you," he said, recovering quickly, "Please, allow me."
He grabbed the door and held it open with exaggerated politeness as she passed through to the hot, bright hallway beyond. It banged shut behind her; almost immediately her nose began to run. Great, she thought, as she made her way down the stairs, wanting nothing more than to retreat to the ladies' room to repair the damage. Better yet, she thought—home and bed. But as she emerged from the stairwell, a young man in a white coat accosted her.
"Doctor Lord," he said, "I'm glad I found you."
Damn, she thought. Would this night never end? She rummaged around in her purse for another tissue. She didn't want to think about what she must look like. "Yes?" she inquired politely.
He took her by the arm and shepherded her through the nearest doorway. It was Viki's intensive-care unit, empty now save for the lone figure on the bed entangled in its maze of tubes and machines.
"I need to talk to you about your daughter."