BONES
The concierge greeted Booth and me as soon as we stepped off the elevator onto the exclusive floor of the Boardwalk Plaza Hotel. All the floors below catered to families and vacationers. To enjoy the amenities of this floor you first had to be child free and then a certain type of clientele, the type of clientele who enjoyed quiet, privacy and perks: The businesswoman, the surgeon, the finance banker, and, on occasion, the best-selling novelist.
"Anthony, head concierge. Dr. Brennan, it's truly a pleasure."
"Yes, I imagine it is. My…" I stumble for a split second on Booth's introduction "…my… partner, Seeley Booth." Booth lifts and drops a hand in some form of a hello.
"Douglas will show you to your suite. Should you need anything, even what may seem the most trivial of items, simply press seven on the phone in your room. I will be on until six, then Charles will take my place until tomorrow morning. The books, as instructed by your publisher, are on the coffee table. Any time before you leave will be sufficient."
"Thank you," I acknowledge, then turn and follow the bellman.
"Books?" Booth asks in an undertone.
"To autograph," I explain. "My publisher has been pressing me for years to set aside my work for a several weeks span at a time in order to publicize my books through book signing tours. I find the idea not only a poor use of my time and waste of my considerable talents but also completely unnecessary. My books become best sellers by virtue of their content, unlike authors such as Tess Brown who require those book signings, readings and interviews to increase sales. So when I choose to take advantage of my publisher's… considerable… contacts in the travel industry, or otherwise, I agree to sign a couple cases of books."
"A little quid pro quo," Booth notes.
"Exactly," I smile in answer.
"So this is—"
"Complimentary, yes."
"Concert tickets, hotel rooms… What else does your publisher have their complimentary fingers into?" I shrug my shoulders as we stop in front of door and wait for the bellman to open it.
"Any number of things, I suppose. For example, I was told to let my agent know if I want tickets and accommodations in London for the Olympics next year."
"Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa. The Olympics. The Olympics. As in torches, gold medals and the Star Spangled Banner playing over the loudspeaker as the crowd cheers, Olympics?"
"Yes." I emphasize the word, unsure why he seems to find that unbelievable, "Although the national anthem of many different countries are played, I would imagine." He's still shaking his head for some reason as we step into the room. "What?" I finally ask.
"I thought we agreed you'd ask your partner before passing on tickets from your publisher."
"Your sitting room," the bellman announces, with a wave an arm as he turns right in the large space and swings open another door. "The guest room…"
"I considered asking you, but you don't care for London," I remind.
"I love London," he disagrees, my eyes following the hotel employee as he crosses the room to a pair of doors. "The bobby Scotland Yard gave me is on my desk and I still won't let anyone else touch him!"
"The main bedroom." Stepping forward, I glance into the room. Like the living area, the bedroom furnishings are too heavy, too intricate, the linens and upholsteries too floral. The décor is decidedly unappealing for man, woman… or beach… but they'll do for a night.
"You have a very selective memory," I inform him, "Before you were given that doll—"
"It's not a doll, it's a collectible." He sounds remarkably like Parker did when I called his boy Barbies dolls.
"You hated everything about London. In fact, you shouted those feelings quite loudly and," I remind with a tilt of my head, "quite publicly."
"I hate London! I hate England! I'm glad we had a revolution! Bollocks!... And the weather here! It's cloudy! And coffee! What's so hard about making a cup of black coffee!?"
"Well, I'd love it now," he changes course. "It's the Olympics, Bones."
We both look towards the suddenly bright light flowing into the room.
"The terrace, with views of the Boardwalk and ocean," the bellhop describes. Booth drops his duffel on the floor, without ceremony, and disappears outside.
"I suppose I could ask—"
"Oh, man, Bones you gotta see this." I drop my bag and knapsack onto a chair and join him. "Look at this!"
"It is quite nice."
"Nice? Bones, the ocean is right there," he indicates with his arm. "I can feel the spray coming off the water." Reaching back, he catches my arm, drawing me forward. "And Fun Land!," he continues excitedly, "Look at that! We're so close, I can practically taste the churros!" He shifts sightly and points. "And look! We can actually see the Ferris wheel."
"I've never been on a Ferris Wheel," I admit. Booth does a double take.
"Wait! What? You've never been on a Ferris Wheel? How is that even possible? It's practically a rite of passage." I shrug.
"Dad felt they cost too much and returned too little." I'm confused when he frowns.
"Max! Why do I ask?"
"I didn't mind. Really. I've never seen the point in riding around-and-around in circles. It doesn't look like much fun." I find myself suddenly being guided back indoors.
"I guess I'll have to show you then." He claps his hands together. "Let's get dressed and head to the beach. What do you say?"
"What about lunch?" I ask a I swing my bags back over my shoulder and walk towards the main bedroom.
"We'll grab something on the Boardwalk," he pronounces, following me into the bedroom, "Then tonight we'll have a big healthy dinner, anywhere you want." My eyes narrow.
"Why is it I suspect whatever we'll be eating shortly won't be all that healthy?" My remark earns a big smile.
"All part of vacation, Bones." I look at him skeptically. Granted, my idea of a vacation is identifying bodies in New Orleans after Hurricane Katrina or digging up mass graves in Central America. Still, from what Booth has said so far, it sounds like one will spend quite a long time recovering from what most consider vacation. The bellhop is waiting patiently when we step back inside. Once he sees us, he hands me a key.
"For the elevator. If you turn it to the right and press "R" it will take you to your private rooftop terrace." I back track to where I've left my bag and digging through my wallet pull out a twenty.
"Thank you," I say as I hand him the bill. He discretely looks at the bill then pockets it and departs, closing the door behind him.
"Private rooftop terrace?" Booth asks.
"That's what he said," I confirm, retrieving my bags and walking towards the master bedroom. He hasn't moved from where he's standing.
"We're not going to check it out?" Sometimes he's a baffling man. Wasn't he just encouraging me to get dressed for the beach?
"It will still be there when we get back," I point out, logically. He follows behind me with his bag.
"But… that's what we do. We check things out," he pursues.
"It's not a crime scene, Booth. It's a terrace." I sit down on the bed and take off my heels, then reach behind myself and unzip my skirt. When he doesn't pursue the argument, I look over my shoulder. I can't read the expression on his face. "Booth?" His face clears and he changes his stance.
"You're right. Let's get ready and go to the beach."
It's unlike him to give up so easily, in fact, so contrary to the way he normally acts it occurs to me to be curious – but not so much as to confront him. He'll tell me what was on his mind when he's ready and, until then, I set the matter aside.
As promised, we'd eaten at one of the little stands along the boardwalk, where, thankfully, I'd found a vegan option: A BLT minus the bacon, plus onions and peppers and a small French Fry. Booth had found his bliss in a fully loaded footlong hot dog, large order of fries and a shake, humming his appreciation with nearly every bite. You'd think his appetite would have been well sated given the quantity of meat byproducts, nitrates, fat and cholesterol he'd imbibed in at lunch, but, no, as we'd walked around Fun Land he'd stopped at nearly every stand: Churros here, fried snickers bars there, add a side of popcorn and a large coke, encouraging me with each stop to join him.
"C'mon, Bones. It's vacation. Eating junk food is all a part of it…" And when that hadn't worked… "We'll work it off tonight," he'd suggested with a look that made butterflies dance in my stomach. I had no doubt that we would. I'd sampled each of the selections, but unlike Booth, I don't have much of a sweet tooth, so one taste was enough.
I glance at him as we stand in line for the Ferris wheel that he insists is an experience that can't be missed. Dressed in swim trunks, a loose T-shirt and a pair of flip flops, I'm struck by how he slips so easily into any role: The button-down FBI agent; the fatigue wearing soldier; the tuxedo wearing escort; and, the beach going man. Whatever role he is currently engaging in, he always adds his own unique twist, in this case a goofy looking straw fedora. I smile when I realize I am at least partially to blame for his wardrobe oddities.
"… anthropologically speaking, para-militaristic organizations tend to constrain individuality."
"That's for sure."
"But in any group, no matter how restrictive, the freethinkers, the mavericks, the rebels with leadership quality find ways to declare their distinctiveness."
Shortly after that conversation, he'd begun wearing his goofy socks and had proudly displayed his tie, on which the image of a pinup girl was screen printed upon the back.
As we come closer to the start of the line, I decide to share some facts I'd discovered about Ferris wheels through a quick Bing check as we ate.
"February 14th is not only Valentine's Day—"
"Saint Valentine's Massacre Day," he cuts in, talking around the straw in his drink.
"Saint Valentine's Massacre Day," I correct with a smile, "but is also Ferris Wheel Day, in celebration of the birthday of its inventor, George Washington Ferris, Jr. He designed the wheel for the 1893 World's Columbian Exposition in Chicago and it was meant to rival the Eiffel Tower which had been built as the entrance arch to the World Fair in Paris held four years previously. Shortly after the fair closed, the wheel was dismantled and moved to the Lincoln Park area of Chicago where it was operated until 1903 when it was sold to St. Louis for the 1904 World's Fair."
"You've been doing your research, I see," he comments.
"Of course. The importance of the Ferris Wheel is that it was built for the Exposition honoring the 200th anniversary of Columbus discovering America… Which, of course, is a mis—"
"Turn off your mind, Bones," he tells me as the ride operator waves us forward and into a car. Booth yanks the protective bar closed and once latched, the wheel begins to move. "And enjoy the ride."
I'm not impressed at first, the ride thus far a series of starts and stops as riders got off and on, but once the wheel begins to turn steadily, I have to admit I find it quite enjoyable. The breeze coming off the Atlantic tousles my hair, drawing Booth's eyes and when a slight gust tries to take his hat, we share an easy laugh. I can't deny the view is spectacular, yet while I find the ride quite pleasant, I wouldn't exactly call it a rite of passage and say as much when he asks my opinion of the ride.
"It's not the ride that's the rite of passage, Bones," he smiles the way he does when he understands something I don't. "It's the first kiss you share with someone you love while sitting on top of the world." I have no doubt he timed his question to perfection and no matter my response, would have had the perfect return, because when he presses a pair of kisses to my lips our car is just approaching the top of the wheel.
As irrational and illogical as it sounds, I feel like he's given me a gift. Much like I'd never been asked to a prom or homecoming, I'd never been invited to a carnival or fair. While my dad had presented me a valid argument when I was younger, I'd secretly yearned for that bit of normalcy my peers enjoyed, but I, of course, was the 'weird one,' the creepy girl. No invitations were forthcoming, so it was much easier to convince myself it never mattered. It's only since Booth began opening my eyes to the world around me that I've begun admitting to myself just how much I've missed out on.
Today, now, there's one less thing on that list.
"Something on your mind, Bones?"
The question takes me by surprise. I hadn't realized how silent I'd grown on our walk from the Ferris Wheel towards the bumper cars.
"I never understood why Russ worked at the carnival," I admit.
"Well, it's not easy to get a job with a record," he offers.
"I assumed that as well," I admit, "And it's true to some extent, but not completely. When I saw Russ a few months ago—"
"Russ was in D.C?"
"No. He hasn't been in D.C. since Dad's trial. He told—"
"Then when did you see Russ?"
"In December. He—"
"You were in the Malapoopoo Islands in December."
"Maluku," I correct. "No. That was my intentions but when Hayley called and asked that I be there to read her a story after she woke from her lung transplant—"
"Wait. Wait," he insists, grabbing my arm and stepping in front of me so we're face-to-face. "Hayley had a lung transplant?! And you didn't say anything to me?" Sometimes he is a very confusing man.
"You'd made it clear you wished for us to have a purely professional relationship. Hayley's surgery was a personal matter."
"But—" He stops himself, then blows out a breath and steps out of my way. "Never mind. Let's just go ride the bumper cars, huh? What did Russ say to you?" he inquires as we get in line for the bumper cars, which is surprisingly less lengthy than that of the Ferris wheel.
"There were times he missed working at the carnival. It didn't pay much, but he liked making people happy."
"Well, yeah," Booth says in agreement with Russ's statement. "The carnival, the fair…" He flips his hand indicating where we are right now, "…the Boardwalk, when people come here they leave their worries behind for just a little while. I remember when I was eight, my old man was on one of his big benders and we'd been waiting for days for the explosion to come. Each week my Mom would stash away a couple bucks from what little money he'd give her for groceries. Her 'rainy day' fund, she called it. Jared and I had been hiding out in our bedroom, steering clear of our father when we weren't in school. One day, Mom came in the room and walked directly to the window to look out. 'Looks like a rainy day,' she announced. It made no sense to either of us because it was a sunny, fall afternoon. She hustled us out the front door and into the car. When we pulled into the parking lot and saw she'd brought us to the County Fair, neither of us could believe it. We spent the entire day at that Fair and didn't think about our old man a single time. We rode rides, played in the arcade and ate our way through the place." He smiles in a way that is somehow more sad than happy. "It's one of the best memories I have of my Mom."
To anyone listening in, it would appear Booth was casually relating a memory. I know better. Even his best memories are painful, qualified by phrases such as 'my old man was on a bender' or markers of time: 'After I went to live with Pops' and 'When I lived with my father.' It is something we have in common, my own life divided by before-and-after my family abandoned me and I can empathize with how difficult it is for him to speak about. It's hard for me, too. And, like me - haunted by his mother seeming to disappear from the face of the earth – he keeps his memories of his mom most closely guarded of all.
I link my arm through his and clasping my hands, rest my head against his shoulder. It's one of the few gestures of commiseration that he'll accept, especially in such a public arena and the only reason he'll allow this much is because he knows I don't feel sorry for him, but can understand in a way other people couldn't.
"Is that why you used to take Parker to the carousel on your weekends? That memory?" He pauses for a second to think before answering.
"Yeah, I guess it is. I just want him to be able to look back on his childhood and remember I always did my best to make it a happy one."
"Parker is very fortunate to have you as his father." He gives me a smile that I've come to understand is both appreciative and uncomfortable. We move forward to the front of the line.
"Care to make a little wager?" he inquires, signaling an end to the conversation. I'm hesitant. Booth has a gambling addiction and when he makes such suggestion, I always have to weigh my answer carefully. I conclude this wager should be harmless, as it is unlikely he'd be making future wagers on bumper cars.
"What do you have in mind?"
"An easy one. Whoever bumps the other the most, wins. Loser buys dinner." I hold out my hand and we shake.
"You two, you're up!" the man running the ride calls to us.
Releasing our joined hands, we go in search of our cars…