Hello, few and faithful readers. I am back. I have been so busy I haven't had much time to work on anything, but here's to hoping I get the next few chapters out a little more quickly. I realize it's almost Christmas, so hopefully you'll think of this chapter as a gift instead of just me catching you at a really bad time. Merry Christmas and Happy New Year, everyone! If you read and enjoy, please let me know. I love reading your comments.
Dinner was a line of deconstructed courses—seared meat medallions and hand-foraged mushrooms over nests of charcoal-steamed greens, seasonal, symmetrical, the kind of geometry better appreciated by someone with an appetite. Robin took another nervous swallow of his drink. His stomach was in knots, which really wasn't necessary, seeing as he'd been to a few of these events this year, though nothing as shiny, and he had a general feel for the order of the evening. He'd been seated between two elderly gentlemen—golf enthusiasts, naturally—men who really only felt comfortable discussing politics with a five-iron in hand.
Technically, Robin knew there was a way to get around small talk. Stake out a few points of interest, mention a concrete detail, something to make him seem invested. 'Cypress Point?' he could remark to nods of approval, and suddenly he'd conjured up the image of the jaunty young businessman who had time to play a few leisurely rounds of golf with his buddies on the weekends and cool off back at the club in the turn-of-the-century lounge with a post-game Arnold Palmer, the kind of whimsical tip-of-the-hat to one of the greats present company might enjoy.
Except Robin had never been to Cypress Point. The closest thing he'd gotten to teeing off this year was browsing that old copy of Golf Digest in the office café, and if he'd known the subject was going to come up today, he would have started prepping at a reasonable hour—say, in the gilded days of his youth, when that participation trophy at the San Pedro Juniors Mini-Golf Tournament had been easier to come by.
Robin sighed, fiddling with his glass. He thought he'd been good at this. Now he wondered if that hadn't just been a byproduct of being an idiot, the sweet bliss of ignorance. There had been a moment in the beginning of the conversation when he could have excused himself, a brief lull when he could have feigned a relation across the room, offered up some droll witticism about beating them all in racquetball next Saturday—but he didn't know if the old-timers would welcome the riposte, him being half their age and still enjoying the comfort of good knees. But the moment had passed by then, and there wasn't actually anyone on the other side of the room he could pretend to know anyway. Not even an obscure, half-remembered friend of a friend who might take pity on him and talk about something other than a good downswing and a three-point handicap. And the thought of making his way into a new group of people seemed impossibly worse somehow, another endless list of introductions where he'd have to think of some clever way of making himself seem interesting.
He wished Duncan was here. And not in the periphery sort of way he usually was, keeping any eye on things from a loftier perch—but here, out on the floor, in the trenches, because who wouldn't want to be part of Passchendaele in reprise? But it 'wasn't his place', Duncan had reiterated before leaving him at the ballroom doors, a statement Robin had long since understood to mean 'Do Better' or a variation on the theme. Try harder, Robin. It'll be over soon enough. Duncan's attempts at being cheerful were a bit stiff. Smile. Nod. Make some friends.
Duncan was pretending, of course, a mutual sort of make-believe between them—the notion that they both wanted to be here and had everything in hand. So Robin had nodded and smiled and given Duncan's shoulder a squeeze, even though the man preferred a professional distance, and assured him everything was fine and I'm looking forward to this opportunity to kick some corporate ass and yeah, I can totally do that. The, uh, making friends bit. Sounds just like me.
Fingers crossed Duncan didn't dwell on the past in general. Or the last two weeks in particular. Robin had considered telling him he'd seen John earlier—a brief exchange which could be, to a certain extent, generously interpreted as friendly. But that would be admitting to going behind Duncan's back when Robin had expressly promised to stay away from the Tracys. Even if said Tracy had seemed oddly optimistic about Robin's chances at redemption. That image was odd: John Tracy sitting in the diner booth—mild-mannered lab assistant of the Tracy Empire by day; vigilante card-shark by night. It had all seemed so sincere. The explanation, the apology. The idea that Robin hadn't completely ruined his chances for a do-over.
Dad's been space sick, John had said.
Oh, sure. Because making use of the complimentary sick bag in low-earth orbit was totally comparable to Robin tossing his cookies in front of people who still remembered the golden age of Locke Labs.
Uncle Lee threw up in a press conference once.
Uncle Lee.
Lee Taylor. Jeff Tracy's wingman to the stars. That Lee Taylor. The one with the books down at Barnes Noble. Eye-catching covers of the loosely biographical sort. A Hardy-Boys-in-Space kind of vibe. Captain Lee Taylor and the Mars Mission Mystery. Jeff Tracy and the Secret of Mars Mesa. Tracy and Taylor. TNT. The Dynamite Duo motoring around the badlands of bloody Ares.
"Ladies and gentleman—"
The voice interrupted his thoughts. The waiters had arrived with the last course, gliding across the lavish expanse of room like white sails through the sea of tables. The plates arrived with introductions, the flourish of a showman:
"This is L'Enfance, a creation of our pâtissier Augustine Moreau, a reflection on his childhood," a open-handed gesture at the dish, "a barred nougatine over coco rouge gateau, served with quince jelly glaçage in a sea of lapsang crème anglaise," another waiter had materialized at the table with a bottle of wine, seamlessly taking over the introduction, "with which we recommend the Oloroso. A personal favorite of the chef."
The table was delighted, on the whole.
"Then, of course," said someone.
"But again, sir," the first waiter counter-offered, "feel free to—"
"Oh no, no, that's quite all right. Never dismiss the chef's pairing."
The glasses were filled.
"I haven't had sherry in a while."
The first sip, the bouquet. "Oh, I didn't expect it to be so dry."
"The rim has a sort of…I don't know what to call it—"
"Orange?"
"Yes! Orange. That's it."
"What year would you say this is?"
"2035, sir."
A hum of agreement from the table. Yes. Of course. What we all suspected.
The man across from Robin was thoughtfully rolling the wine around his glass. "Spanish, isn't it?"
"Very astute, sir," the waiter nodded, politely unimpressed. "Jerez, specifically."
"Oh! Andalusia." That was from the woman on the other side of the table. "We haven't been there in years, darling."
"A good year?"
"We really should go again."
"Very good, I would say, sir."
Robin smiled tightly, raising his glass with the others when they toasted, his gaze wandering over to the balcony doors, open to the evening air. It was probably an easy leap over the balustrade, just a short drop into the gardens below. The idea warmed in his stomach with the Oloroso, the room fuzzing around the edges a bit. This wasn't much different from how things used to be, after all. The glittering fog of parties at Harwick, the endless string of socials and reciprocating invitations from the Gisbournes, the Bancrofts. The balls at Gist House, the benefits at Creighton-Ward Manor, its lord and lady on the manor steps—a long gravel road and the slow current of people circling the entrance in ever-tightening spirals, too enamoured with the lights to notice a boy slip out past the line of lanterns and follow the path down to where the air was cool and quiet and earthy so close to Sherwood. There was a glassy pond where Robin could skip rocks until the evening had run its course or Uncle Edwin had soured on his fill of genuflections; or the crotchety old gardener arrived to give Robin an earful about ungrateful little hellions who disrupted the fragile internal balance of the carefully selected lake trout, annually planted into the gardens to amuse his lordship when it so pleased him, and didn't he know Lord Creighton-Ward is most particular about his pond?
Robin snorted. The memory struck him as funnier than it ought to be. 'Pond' was probably misremembering things. It had been more of a lake, really, edges rimmed with weeping willows and boat houses and enough Victorian follies to have even Uncle Edwin salivating at the splendor. The status, Robin. The cost of running a manor. The slight tremor of jealousy in his voice. No National Trust sniffing about for its pound of flesh. But I wouldn't expect you to understand, at your age.
No, probably not.
But Duncan would have appreciated the ancient protocols that kept the House up and running, the heart of Harwick beating to a rhythm predetermined by the last four hundred years of tradition, with nothing left to chance. Every day's appointments fixed and unchanging in the steady march to a greater purpose. It seemed fitting somehow: Duncan superimposed over the empty hallways, a lone, tweedy figure in the conservatory. Or seated behind the armored citadel of Uncle Edwin's oak desk, overseeing the serious, grim, dull machine of progress grind steadily on. It was what Duncan deserved—a job worthy of his talents. One that didn't require following his half-wit boss around with a clipboard and a backup plan.
"About this week's seminars—" the words pulled him back to the table, the dinner, the people, "—any favorites?"
"I'm partial to Schüler."
"Me too."
"Jeff Tracy's up on Wednesday."
"Oh, is he?"
Ah, Jeff Tracy. Bright star on the NASA firmament, a man not so much born as begotten from the amber waves of grain. This was probably where Robin should get involved, elbow his way into the conversation with something akin to charm. The smoothest of segues into the PR mantra he'd rehearsed. Did you say Jeff Tracy? My first choice as well.
It wasn't, but at least he'd have their attention, a belated regard for the young upstart in their midst. They'd all look at him. You interested in space travel, son?
Robin would smile, a bottomless repository of magnetic appeal. Oh, sure. I'm a real sucker for theoretical analysis of performance degradation in low temp fuel cells. He'd lean back in his chair, just a Transatlantic accent short of the matinee idol. And I know the Tracys.
You do?
This would be it, the chance to right the rumors. Yes. I do. Not personally, of course. We've crossed paths, professionally speaking. Bonded over our mutual delight in non-platinum catalysts and corrosion resistant electrodes. So I really should be there on Wednesday—professionally speaking—to pay my respects to the man. Professionally.
They'd hang on his every word. Do go on.
Ol' Jeff's one of those bonafide rags-to-riches, pull-yourself-up-by-your bootstraps kind of guys. The poor son of a dirt farmer, working his way up from shining shoes on the mean streets of Lawrence to the golden marvel of today—prophet, dreamer, owner of Tracy Tech. Not to mention the finely-tuned public relations team working on the brand. Man of tomorrow.
It might earn him a chuckle.
That's quite the introduction, young man. What did you say your name was?
Robin. He'd offer his hand. Robin Locke.
And no one would remember anything they might've read in the papers, not now when the Prosecco made everything better, and there was only dinner and dances and the debonair young blood in a suit, a pristine presentation, a blank slate to write the bright future of his company.
Of course, of course. Robin Locke. Locke Labs, you see? I knew you looked familiar. Locke Labs, everyone. Handshakes, a clap on the back in recognition. Your work on the Tomei was impressive.
It was, wasn't it?
They'd laugh together, because Robin was bright, incandescent, a bubble fizzing in the rosy shimmer of evening. The static crackled at the back of his head, a thin whine.
"I've heard Jeff's a very good speaker," said someone.
"He is. I've never been disappointed."
"Didn't know you had an interest in the sciences, dear."
"God, no. But he isn't hard to look at."
"Agnes."
Robin knocked back the rest of his drink and stood up, excusing himself to people who weren't listening, and it was Harwick again, and he was thirteen, timid at the first event of the season, and nothing had changed. Smile, Robin. Nod. Make some friends. Have another drink to get through the hour.
If you enjoyed this chapter, please let me know in the comments. I don't have many readers, so I always cherish your thoughts. Happy holidays!