A Match Is Lit!

A Preface of Sort

I'd like to preface this work as a story based on modern imagining of COBERT from their first meeting to their wedding. The twists and turns of this story builds from pre-canon COBERT that the brilliant community of writers around here has created. In a way, this work stands on the shoulders of those previous pre-canon stories.

That being said, this story is a 21st translation of and twist to an old tale that we loved so deeply. It has 15 chapters. There are a number of events mentioned in my past stories of COBERT that laid the ground for building this multi-chapter piece. Chapter 5 of Chance Encounters and The Heart Falls All Over Again in NYC, for instance, have some background COBERT events that became fully developed sub-plots here.

This multi-chapter story and the past stories that I posted on here fit into the meta-narrative that I am trying to weave.

~ Word Works

CHAPTER 1

Two Stars, Two Separate Orbits

She steps into the cold and out into 53rd Street as she tugs her cashmere scarf close to her neck and gathers her woolen trench coat tightly around her with her free hand to protect herself from the nippy New York evening.

At 6:00, with the early signs of spring, Midtown Manhattan, for a fleeting moment, is almost suspended in a liminal state: the egress of the sun crossfades with the ingress of the city's night lights like a carefully choreographed dance. And if your eyesight is sharp enough you can see the remnants of the day float into the air and sparkle like tiny dust particles backlighted by the retreating sun and the advancing of the night. This ethereal moment is one of the things that Cora used to love so much about her home, New York City.

She has vague memories of the old house in Cincinatti where she was born. Her family moved to NYC when she was little and since then the vibrant, multi-cultural, creative vibe of this City has been hers. Broadway is her front yard. She is a regular in Tribeca. She knew almost all the museums and a handful of art galleries. In fact, just an hour ago, she worked in one of the most popular museums in the world—The Museum of Modern Art—as a Museum Educator, a favorite of some of the patrons, benefactors, and frequent visitors.

On her first year, everyone she worked with recognized her for the depth of her knowledge on art theory and history and her capacity to whet the interest of every visitor, of every tourist, towards any art piece, painting or installation on display.

Some of her colleagues attributed her competence to her educational background—a top student at Yale. Others cited her extraordinary beauty—"I mean if you have that face, you could sell everything." Despite their disagreement, they all could agree that Cora is an intelligent and charismatic person.

But life could be unpredictable, it pulls the rug off from under our feet and shatters some of our imagined stability.

Two years ago, while finishing College, she fell in love and got engaged to the son of her father's business partner and everything seemed perfect. She got herself her dream job at MoMA after graduation and marriage plans were explored. They were set to marry by the time she turns 23—an early start. They wanted to get married in either Acapulco or Los Cabos and have their friends and family come over.

Her boyfriend worked for his father's hotel business climbing the rungs to become manager for operations in Chicago in just two years! Both of their family celebrated his success over dinner and champagne. Just a few months into his promotion, she started to notice how their time together dwindled into once a month dates in New York when he had the time. Then she started to notice faint dark circles gradually appearing round his eyes. She thought the pressure of his job stressed him so much and suggested he takes a rest. After all, she may not be business-minded, but she came from a business family. But he became defensive and bristled at her suggestion for which she cannot understand. That date turned out to be their first major fight. Then, gradually, the calls from Chicago became less and less frequent that one day she decided to check in on him herself. So, she made an early morning call to tell him she's coming over to visit but a young woman's voice, groggy from sleep, answered the telephone and passed it on to him. What story can you make up from that?

He sounded shaken, mumbling incoherent apologies from the other line. She was equally shaken and unable to talk. And when she felt like all apologies had been exhausted, she replaced the receiver back to its cradle and wept and curled like a fetus in her bed. Her perfect life reeling and tipping over. She was just 21, deeply heartbroken and betrayed.

She found herself unable to live in New York anymore. Every street corner bears his memory; every evening shouts his name. She was not sure if she would ever be herself again but, at the same time, she wanted to survive her present. She moved back to her parents because she was scared to be alone in her own apartment in the Upper West Side especially at night. She just couldn't trust herself with her own pain.

He came home to see her. She refused to receive him. He did not leave until Martha ushered him to her room. He was insistent to reclaim what he believes and what she imagines was once theirs. At one point, she felt herself giving in to him. But then, she knew there are some parts of herself that cannot be instantly repaired and she asked him to leave. After a while, he did without looking back. She cried even harder after he's gone that Martha feared she'd turn into a pool of mess on her bed.

That's how she started to plan to move to another place after three months of wallowing in pain. But she neither liked L.A. nor any of the big Texan cities, and the Midwest—where Chicago is, is one trap she must escape. Then, one night, lying in her old room crying over some painful love songs playing on her stereo, she hatched her final plan. If she can't move to any city in the states, she might as well take a trip around the world to rebuild herself or what remains of it. Young people her age does that. She always wanted to immerse herself in other cultures but her job and early engagement tied her to New York. Probably, her travel might bring her serendipity and she'd pick herself up from there.

To set her plans into motion, she filed a resignation from MoMA which her supervisor initially rejected. He promised her a junior curatorial position in a year to prevent her from resigning.

"Are you sure about this?" He asked, disappointment tinged his voice.

She could not waiver, she told herself. She could not bear a year more of irony—a walking, hollow person holding a job people would kill for. She was left with no other choice but to declare her resignation irrevocable.

Earlier today is her last day at work. In a week, she'll leave for Asia—divide her two months in China, Japan, few Southeast Asian countries—then head for South America for another two months.

"Cora, that's too long a vacation!" Martha objected when she laid out her plan to her parents.

"Mother, that's about the time I need to heal. That may even be too short, who knows."

She's packed and her mind and body were more than ready to go.

For one last time, she turned a lingering look at the building that once housed some of her dreams along with the various objets d'art in its galleries.

Her vision blurring.

"Must be the cold" she mutters to herself as she turned towards the street.

The heels of her black boots were pounding at the pavement and crunching at few patches of stubborn snow as she speeded away and got swallowed by the swarm of people going home or going somewhere.

Half the world away from the highest step where Cora stands to pose for a souvenir photograph in the ruins of Machu Picchu in Peru, a group of four men, Robert at the head, huddled around the table in one of the posh office spaces in London intently examining prototypes of marketing communication collaterals for a farm tourism in North Yorkshire, a subsidiary project of the Crawley Land, Inc. The materials have been developed for them by their long-time advertising partner Grey Creative Company headed by the son of Lord Merton, Dickie, with whom Robert grew up together.

Robert directed his pale blue eyes to the other three persons around the table.

"So, what do you think?"

John Bates gathered himself and cleared his throat before speaking. "I think the layout is balanced, the photographs used are well composed and in high resolution. The colors are spot-on, they evoke rural life."

"Or rather escape to the rural life," Charles Carson interjected.

"Thank you, John and Charles", Robert acknowledged Mr. Bates and Mr. Carson's ideas and turned to the youngest in the group wearing heavy eyeglasses seated opposite to Robert. "What about you, Joseph?"

Joseph Molesley faltered for a moment. "Ah, a-a-I think, R-r-robert, there might still be a w-w-way to improve the c-c-copy…"

"What do you mean?"

"A-a-a-I think that what we're selling here is the experience, not so much the place. I-I-I mean, if we are able to sell t-t-the experience, we also sell the place…"

"Good point there, Joseph. I'll talk to Dickie about it first thing tomorrow before we send back those prototypes".

As he is wont to do, Robert turned towards the direction of the woman who has been typing on the C64 behind her desk near the entrance to his private office.

"And you, Elsie? What is your impression of these print ads?" His tone carries a deep deference for the woman named Elsie who, at the mention of her name, stood from her table and approached them with sure and even strides.

Peering from the thick rim of her eyeglasses, her eyes roamed around the poster prototype, then to the brochure and finally to the leaflet. "I think it's solid. There's a slight problem with the typography though."

"What is that?" Robert asked. The three men strained their necks to look at the materials once more.

"It's not very easy on the eyes, Robert. One with serif would be much better to guide the reader through the text."

"Ah, yeah, you're right!" Robert clapped his hand in loud agreement. "Okay, thank you very much for the astute observation, Elsie." The three men seconded Robert's praise. These days, in the office, unless in formal gatherings and communications, Robert ceased to be addressed as My Lord or Your Lordship.

Robert straightened up, "It's time to call it a day, everyone. It's 7:30."

The three turned to leave. Elsie also tidied her desk and shut down the computer while Robert drew the blinds in his room gathered his things, waited out for her, and, together, they headed out of the office to the lift where Charles, John, and Joseph also stood waiting.

Once outside the building, Robert walked to the car park where Tim, his personal chauffeur and son of Mr. Drewe from Ewe Tree Farm, was waiting.

"Good evening, Mr. Robert", he greeted him with a slight tip of his head.

"Good evening, Tim."

"Where to, Mr. Robert?"

"I think we should head straight to Grantham House. I had a long day and is rather tired." With a sigh, he slid into the passenger seat, loosened his tie, leaned back and closed his eyes.

Grantham House is located at St. James Square. Until a year ago, Robert rented a flat in Camden although his parents did not see the point. They still own Grantham House and his mother stays in Yorkshire most of the time. His father who stays there during his work days spends his weekends in Yorkshire, too. At certain days of the week, Robert has the place all to himself.

However, for three years, Robert insisted on keeping his own space. He did not want to go home to a place that feels like a museum after a day of tiresome work. Also, he's a grown man. It's not proper for his parents to know of his comings and goings during weekends or on some nights. But as an aftermath of the '78-'79 Winter of Discontent, there was an economic crisis and their business, mainly real estate in London, suffered a significant setback that even Robert had to give up the flat to cut the company's subsidy cost.

Back to the present, how Robert wished his days were solely his sometimes. Just this morning, he made plans to leave the office earlier, call Eloise and invite her to dinner, and maybe even accompany her to Knightsbridge where her parents bought her a flat. But at half past five, just when he was preparing to go, Dickie sent the prototype ads for quick review so they could produce and deploy them on time for the project launch. Robert had to set aside his plans.

Four years ago, straight from College, he started working for the Crawley Land, Inc. owned by his family. His father appointed him Assistant Sales Manager which was quite a reward for years of slaving as intern in the company every summer the moment he started secondary education. His sister Rosamund had her share of summer internships too but the burden lay more heavily on Robert being the male heir to the Grantham Earldom and business ventures. Sometimes, Robert wished he were in Yorkshire balancing accounts like Murray does. At least the rest of the day is his and he could ride the horse every afternoon.

But that was not the case. Sense of duty is deeply ingrained in his being. As they braced for the impact of the economic crisis on businesses, everyone in the company put on extra weight. They streamlined the units, which left Robert managing both Sales and PR and Marketing divisions, and downsized the staff. At least, he has the most reliable team by his side—Charles Carson, John Bates, Joseph Molesley, and his highly efficient secretary, Elsie Hughes who runs his official and, at times, his personal schedules and helped bail him out of conflicts and risky situations before they could turn into minor crises.

His father kept telling him this is good preparation when the time comes for him to run the company as CEO himself. After all, the Crawley Land, Inc. has been theirs for six generations.

Robert, sleepy and deep in his thoughts at the same time was oblivious to the passing scenes as the motor speed by. After a while, they reached Grantham House. Tim got out to open the passenger door for Robert, and called softly to his young master who was already teetering between sleep and wakefulness. "Mr. Robert. Mr. Robert, we're home."

Robert straightened up. Thanked Tim and walked inside the house, his briefcase in one hand.

Tim followed his young master with his eyes.

Upon entering his room, Robert switched on the light stand by his bed, unbuttoned his shirt and opened one of the windows. A cold draft invaded his room but he did not mind. He wanted to breath in some of the cold air to calm his strained nerves. The night is starry but the bright city lights kind of washed away its beauty. After a while, he closed the window just too soon to see a comet blazing the very skies that he and that young American tourist in Peru, completely unknown to him at this time, happen to share with the rest of the world.