The Ramblers (24 page)

Smith walks ahead on the path and Tate trails her, takes a few photographs of her from behind. She doesn't seem to notice. The bench comes into view and she bends down and squints. When he is in earshot, she begins to read.

“‘The brain may take advice, but not the heart, and love, having no geography, knows no boundaries.' Oh my, I love that,” she says. “Maybe I should rustle up some Capote. I read
In Cold Blood
and it haunted the hell out of me.”

“It's one of my favorite books of all time,” Tate says. “The original true crime. The idea of life being one way, leading this life of a
farmer with your family, and then enter these devils and everything changes. What about this, from Dunphy? This is good too . . . ‘I was grieving the way the earth seems to grieve for spring in the dead of winter, but I wasn't afraid, because nothing, I told myself, can take our halcyon days away.' I read somewhere that
halcyon
is the Latin name for belted kingfishers. Legend has it that on that day, as Capote's ashes were being scattered, this belted kingfisher came flying around from the end of the pond.”

“Pretty incredible,” Smith says, looking around.

Tate stands, lifts his camera to his eye, starts snapping the pond, the sky, the bench, the plaque. He trains his lens on her and waits for permission. It comes, and swiftly too, in the form of a shy smile. She's incredibly photogenic, but this doesn't surprise him.

“Fuck, it feels good to be out here, doesn't it? I've been slaving away on these precious MFA applications, writing up these quaint little statements of interest, explaining myself, justifying my absence from the academic world, but I'm standing here and feel suddenly convinced the idea of school is all wrong. I need to be out here,
doing
it, you know? Just wear these babies around the world and figure it out myself,” he says, fingering the straps of his two cameras, a Leica M3 and a Leica M9, both of which he bought the afternoon the acquisition money came in. The purchases cost a fortune and made him feel sick to his stomach, but he's been putting them to good use.

“You going to wear your cameras for Thanksgiving dinner? You'll be poised to capture the robust dysfunction,” Smith says.

He laughs. Feels thankful for her timely humor, for the fact that she didn't challenge his statement about not going to school. Olivia would have brandished her prosecutorial skills and argued for the practicality of obtaining a degree. Maybe it's not fair comparing them; he's just met Smith. But he can't help himself.

“So, what did you tell your folks about me?” he asks.

“Not a ton,” she says, smiling. “I've kind of learned my lesson to keep it simple until there's a reason to provide details. They're so
wrapped up in the wedding hoopla anyway. They barely have time for me.”

“Anything else I should know before I meet them?” Tate says. “How about a quick and dirty crash course.”

She chews her gum and looks at him. “Okay, you will very likely love my mom. Everyone adores Bitsy. Ditto Sally. She's sweet and harmless and fun. But Thatch? He's a wild card at best and a raging asshole at worst. I tell myself he's a good man deep down, a real teddy bear, but I don't know. It depends on how you catch him. He can be kind and lovely and full of great stories, or he can be an acerbic and unapologetic thug. It will probably depend on the cocktail quotient, but just steel yourself because it might not be pretty.”

“I consider myself warned,” Tate says.

“Then again, he might be on his very best Bitsy-mandated behavior around Briggs's family. They're churchgoing folk from Fort Worth, Texas. Mark my words. Bitsy will insist upon grace before we eat—which we never do—and you guys will be relegated to the guesthouse even though there are plenty of bedrooms in the main house. Just for the appearance of propriety. I'll bet I'm right. Speaking of which, we should get going,” Smith says, checking her watch. “Bitsy will have my head if we're even a minute late for cocktails. I bailed on dinner last week when I was out with you and you don't even know the drama it caused.”

They begin to retrace their steps to head back to the car, but Smith stops and turns to him. She flashes a winning smile, looks around, up at the blue sky, but then settles her gaze on him.

“What?” he says.

“Thank you,” she says.

“For what?”

“I don't know. For bringing me here. For going to the game. For getting me drunk enough to puke noodles and
wake up
. For this week. I've been in a pretty shitty, cynical place, Tate, but I think I'm finally beginning to climb out.”

“Well, you're welcome,” he says, taking her hand. They keep walking. “I could say similar words, but you said it better than I ever could.”

She links her arm in his.

“Where is this Meadow Lane anyway?” Tate says.

Smith turns to him. Smiles. “I never said anything about Meadow Lane. A little fruit of your illicit searches?”

“Guilty as charged,” he says, feeling embarrassed. It's one thing to spend a night researching the family of a girl you've just met and it's another thing entirely to cop to doing this. When he ended up bleary eyed in the early morning hours reading a half-baked piece-of-crap article called “Ten Proven Ways to Ace Meeting Her Parents,” he knew it was time to cut himself off and go to bed.

“Tonight will be fine,” Smith says, clearly sensing his building nerves. “And if it's not, we will drink copiously and just push on through. Deal?”

“Deal.”

“You've got some balls”

W
hen they reach the grounds, Smith rolls down her window, snakes her arm through it and taps a security code. An ornate metal gate swings opens slowly and she drives through. It's getting dark, but the property is generously lit and glows against the horizon. Tate carries their bags along the stone path that leads to the house. With each step, his nerves grow. Why he is so anxious? What's the worst that can happen?

The pictures he found on the Internet don't do it justice; the estate is a fucking joke. Enormous and in-your-face grand. There's an artificial quality to it, like it's part of a Woody Allen movie set.

“Welcome to our humble abode,” Smith says through a smile as they reach the front door. “There used to be this charming, understated old
house here, but it wasn't flashy enough for Thatch. He knocked it down and created this beast. Eleven thousand square feet. Five-plus acres. Four-thousand-square-foot guesthouse—where I bet they'll park you. Eleven bedrooms. Fourteen bathrooms. Nine fireplaces. Infinity pool, Jacuzzi, twin tennis courts, a helipad, a thousand-square-foot wine cellar, a gym, a screening room, a koi pond, a bakery. Wait until you see it in the daylight.”

She opens the front door and they walk through. The front hall is austere and quiet, lit with crystal sconces and a handful of votive candles. A uniformed maid scurries in to greet them. Her name is Esmeralda and Smith captures her in a hug. A man appears, too, Samson, and whisks away their luggage. “Mrs. Anderson has Mr. Pennington with Mr. McGee in the guest quarters.”

“Told you,” Smith whispers through a laugh.

Muted laughter and classical music float from a distant room and Smith leads him toward its source. They walk through room after room full of formal furniture and art that seems important and they end up in a sprawling living room with several seating areas. Everyone is gathered around a roaring fire, dressed for dinner, clutching sparkling cocktails.

A woman, tall and regal with a short haircut, and a squat red-faced man peel off from the others and come to greet Smith and Tate. Smith hugs them both and then makes introductions.

“Tate, meet my mother and father, Bitsy and Thatcher. Mom and Dad, this is Tate Pennington.”

“Nice to meet you both,” Tate says, extending his hand. “Thank you for having me.”

“Welcome,” Bitsy says. “Come have a cocktail. We'll be sitting for dinner soon. I hope you brought your appetite.”

Thatcher surrenders the faintest of smiles, but that's all.

Sally pushes through the group and captures Smith in an enormous hug. “I'm so happy you're here,” she says, a frank giddiness in her
voice, and then turns to Tate, hesitates only briefly before hugging him too.

The others gather around and Tate meets them too. Sally and Briggs. Briggs's parents. Briggs's older brother and his wife. He can't stop staring at Sally. It surprises him how much she looks like Smith. Her hair is a caramel blond and she wears more makeup than Smith, but none of these details distract from the deep, almost uncanny resemblance.

Time passes in an innocuous blur of small talk and smiles. Appetizers are passed on silver trays. Classical music pumps through the space. Tate stays by Smith's side and feels far quieter than usual. He looks around, zeroing in on details, silently berating himself for worrying so much. At best, he is peripheral to this night, an extra body to feed. There is endless talk of the wedding, of the conundrum of the seating chart, of last-minute details that must be ironed out. Smith is quiet too. She sips her drink and plays nice, chiming in when asked a question but not offering much else.

They sit for dinner in the oval-shaped dining room. The walls are blanketed in a mural, maybe even a famous scene by a famous artist he should know. The settings are formal—good china, shimmering silver, several crystal wineglasses lined up at each seat. Thatcher settles at the head of the table and Bitsy sits opposite him. The rest of them fill in the sides. There are little name cards at each seat. Tate is seated between Sally and Briggs's mother.

Bitsy straightens in her chair and smiles. “Shall we begin with grace?”

Tate steals a glance at Smith.

“Told you,” she mouths.

“Come, Lord Jesus,” Bitsy says, eyes closed, hands laced on her lap. “Be our guest. Let thy gifts to us be blessed. Amen.”

A chorus of amens.

Uniformed staff breeze in and out wielding silver trays of rich-smelling food. Traditional Thanksgiving fare taken up a conspicuous
notch. Thatcher asks whether everyone can taste the white truffles in the potatoes. Everyone says yes, including Tate, even though they just taste like potatoes.

Smith sits between Briggs and his father and gracefully alternates between talking to each. She takes small bites of her food and big gulps of her wine. She catches Tate's eye over the table again and again and smiles.

Tate turns to Sally. “Are you excited about the wedding?” he asks.

It's a lame softball of a question, but he asks it anyway and she seems happy to answer it.

“I
am
excited,” she says, authentic joy plain in her voice. “I was that stereotypical little girl who loved princesses and fairy tales and I've long dreamed of my wedding. Maybe that's silly, but it's true.”

“It's not silly at all,” Tate says, thinking back to that week before his own wedding, the adrenaline and anticipation he felt in spades. It was such a good, busy week. He ran all over doing last-minute things, but he remembers vividly how excited he was, how purely excited, to make it official.

“I'm glad you'll be there,” Sally says, lowering her voice. “My sister can be so serious about everything. She deserves to have a little fun.”

“I'll do my best to make sure she does,” Tate says, heaping more stuffing onto his plate. He takes seconds of everything even though he's full. He looks around the table. The scene could not be more different from his modest Thanksgivings in Missouri with his parents or in San Francisco with Olivia's. Tonight is all politeness and pleasantries and even the light is surreal, almost antique and sepia in tone.

By the time pie comes around, he's stuffed, but he takes a slice of each kind anyway—pumpkin, pecan, apple. Bitsy announces that she hand-whipped the cream and that everyone must sample it. And so he does. It's not very sweet at all, actually rather tasteless, but he eats it too.

Thatcher stands, and as he does, he rings a small silver bell indicating the meal is over.

Everyone stands, leaves cloth napkins by empty plates. Staff slip through a door and begin to clear.

“Join us in the library, Tate?” Thatcher says. It's more command than question.

“Sure,” Tate says, nodding, suddenly feeling impossibly insecure and unsophisticated. He smiles at Smith as he leaves the room and follows the other men. He can't shake the feeling that he's about to be grilled.

“Tell me, Trey. Do you remember that charming old bar at the Essex House? The one that was there before those big renovations?” Thatcher asks, lighting a cigar. He offers one to Tate, but he declines.

“No,” Tate says. “I can't say that I do.”

Trey.
What the hell?

“Well, I loved that place. I used to go there with the fellas after work and we'd blaze through a bottle of good bourbon and sit by the fire during the winter. Anyway, that was one of my very favorite rooms in Manhattan and inspired this little library.”

It's not a little library. It's a grand, wood-paneled space with thick navy drapes and endless shelves of what seem to be rare books. Tate squints to try to read the spines. Several oil paintings hang on the walls. Another fire blazes in a hearth framed in a rich mahogany marble. A silver tray of cocktails rests on a brown leather ottoman between them. Thatcher hands one to each man. All but Tate smoke a cigar and he finds himself regretting his choice to abstain. One cigar wouldn't hurt.

“You like it?” Thatcher says, pointing to Tate's glass.

“I do,” Tate lies. It's too sweet, too strong. “What is it?”

“A Manhattan. Rye whiskey, sweet vermouth and bitters. Pretty tasty, no?”

Tate nods. Briggs and his father stand by, puffing and sipping.

“So,” Thatcher says, squinting, appraising Tate. “Twenty million pretax. Not a bad start.”

Tate startles at the sudden proclamation, looks over to Briggs & Co. They wear matching bemused smiles and appear genuinely unfazed.

“Thanks, sir.”

So, they looked each other up. Fitting.

“I hear something about you being married?”

“Yes,” he says. “A few loose ends I'm dealing with. Settlement details. Should all be tied up soon.”

Thatcher inches closer to him and his voice dips into a scratchy whisper. “Whatever you do, hang on to the money, son. I know that might sound ruthless, but you've got to be ruthless in this world. It takes a pretty penny to get by and don't go throwing away your hard-earned cash to a starter wife.”

Tate is taken aback by his energy, his insistence. Also, by the fact that the two other men in the room, Briggs and his dad, remain totally silent. They've been around longer and perhaps they've learned an important lesson.

“Look. It seems I've gained a reputation for being a shark. You might not know this, Trey, but during the crash in 2008, I made a fucking fortune by shorting the derivatives of risky companies. I literally watched the world around me crumble, and I
profited
. I'd seen the crash coming and I made money off it, so much cash that I bought this land and built this place. And you know what? Smith sat me down, Trey, and you know what she said?
I don't like who you've become, Dad.
Smith can be rather high-minded, I'm sure you've noticed as much, but you know something? I've worked my tail off to provide for my family. I grew up with very little and I'm proud of this house. I'm proud of the fact that I can throw my baby girl the wedding of her dreams.”

“Cheers to that,” Briggs's father says, raising his glass. “I think I'm going to call it a night. The flight and all that decadent food have left me fried.”

“I'll head out with you,” Briggs says, standing. He and his father make for the door and mutter good night. Tate is tempted to follow suit, but something compels him to stay.

Now it's just the two of them. A sinister quiet falls over the darkened room. The fire spits and roars. They sip their drinks.

Thatcher looks over at Tate, scrutinizes him. “So, now what? Smith said something about photography? Thank you for the book, by the way. Will make a winning doorstop. I kid.” He chuckles. “Actually, I don't. Not a big book guy. Don't have the attention span. Sue me.”

“Yes, photography,” Tate says. “I've always loved it. Now I can afford to do it.”

“But how will you
make a living
by taking pictures? What with all the new technology, that ridiculous Instaframe thing Smith's all taken by? Isn't everyone a photographer these days anyhow?”

Tate hesitates before answering. “I'm not sure I will make a living doing it. I'm doing it because I love it, and for the moment, I'm not interested in making any more money. I'm trying to focus on being happy.”

Thatcher looks as if he's been struck but then smiles. “This all sounds very familiar. What is it with your generation, all hell-bent on happiness? I suppose Sally will rub a few pennies together as a doctor, but Smith, with her organization business? She's spent hours trying to explain the importance of her work, but I continue to struggle with the fact that I paid for a Yale education and my exceedingly intelligent daughter has opted to be a glorified maid for the privileged Manhattan set. And on top of that, she's taking whatever paltry money she's earning and giving it away. My bleeding-heart progeny. Cheerio.”

Tate feels his body stiffening, bites his lip. Breathes. He takes a giant swig of his fancy drink and sits back in his chair. Tells himself that this man is not an evil soul but a father. A father who cares about his kids and wants to see them thrive. He feels an odd kinship with this fellow whose belly hangs over his belt and threatens to bust open his custom shirt. This could have been Tate. He too went from college straight to Wall Street. He too had dollar signs in his young eyes. He too grew up hearing whispered conversations and arguments about there not being enough money for this, for that. The message, intentional or accidental, was that money would fix things, solve problems. At twenty-two, Tate genuinely believed this. When he walked onto that trading floor
for the first time and saw the glowing flat-screen TVs, the high-tech computer monitors and phone turrets with enough knobs, buttons and dials to approximate the cockpit of a fighter plane, he felt that insidious electric charge. It felt as if they were all playing an elaborate video game.

If Olivia hadn't insisted on their move west, Tate would never have quit his job. He would have stayed. He would have worked hard—he's always worked very hard—and he would have been sucked into the life he sees so many of his friends leading. Lives fueled by an addiction to affluence. One of Jeff's buddies got a $2.3 million bonus last year and he was pissed because it wasn't fat enough. And what's to say that wouldn't have been him? He was on his way. Still a kid, he could get a table at any restaurant in Manhattan—Per Se, Le Bernardin, Daniel—and use one of his unlimited expense accounts. He could get good seats at whatever sporting event he chose. It wasn't just about money. It was about power.

Thatcher sips his drink and fiddles with the dark laces of his dress shoe. In this one man, Tate's able to see the limitations of unlimited wealth. Is this man happier because he has all of this? It doesn't seem so. And yet he is not a bad guy.

“By the way, my name is not Trey. It's Tate.”