The Lonely Old Man: Part VII

         
“For old times’ sake,” I grinned.

Chet grasped my shoulder and nodded fervently. “Exactly, my friend. Exactly!” He paused and leaned in close and said, “You know, I almost regretted sending my note with Deborah. She’s so cluttered and all, you may’ve never gotten the slip.”

I couldn't help but laugh as he ducked his head shamefully and wrapped an arm around my shoulder. “Come on, pal,” he said. “Laura Henley is here. You remember Laura, dontcha?”

“Of course.”

I looked over my shoulder and caught a glimpse of Alice lighting a cigarette by the window.

The kitchen was full and very loud. A patchwork of platters lay atop the island counter in the center, with an array of appetizers that’d put the president to shame. I scanned the endless plates of olives, crackers, cheese, and mushrooms and wasn't hungry. A window connected the kitchen and dining room, and a tall man was passing dishes of food to waiting hands on the other side. I recognized him from another event, but I didn't care enough to ask for his name.  

Laura Henley remembered me with an exaggerated hug and nearly spilled her drink. She was hardly drunk, but the loud atmosphere had her excited and foolish. Nodding politely, I left her to hang on Chet and found my way through the opposite walkway.

The bar was rectangular, and would have been identical to the sitting room if not for a severe lack of furniture. Cabinets had been installed against the narrow wall to my left, and a counter stood in front. While certainly not vacant, the room held a more relaxed air, and the people in it were talking in calm tones.

“Whiskey and soda, please,” I said.

Chet’s good friend Connor was making the drinks that night. He was proud of his alcoholic knowledge and innate ability to mix anything perfectly. Any of us were wealthy enough to hire a bartender, but he insisted on manning the station all night. As he chose a glass, I leaned against the oak counter and looked to my left. The dining room activity rivaled that of the kitchen. A chandelier shone brightly above the table, and many young people sat around it, eating, drinking, and laughing.

“I heard you might be here,” said a voice behind me.

I thanked Connor for the drink before turning around.

She was wearing a crimson sweater over a blue dress. And not a light, childish blue, but a deep, navy color that looked like an empty night sky. Her chestnut hair was rich in the bar’s dim light, and her eyes smiled.

“Hullo, Rosie,” I said.

“Hello,” she replied.

She was standing quite close.

Despite my best expression of boredom and reserve, I could tell she knew I was surprised. On account of my schooling in New York, it had been two years since Rosie and I had last spoken. Honestly, I never expected her to come east at all, let alone attend a party in the city.

“I was sorry to hear of your mother’s passing,” she said.

“So was I.”

“You never came home.”

“My mother was rarely sober after Sand died. You probably know that better than I do. When she died, it just wasn't worth going back and remembering it all, you know?”

I was sorry for telling the truth. It was obvious that Rosie, having offered simple condolences, was very uncomfortable by this point. I retreated to my drink and studied her over the rim.

“I’m here with Laura,” she explained at length. “My aunt lives in Maine, and Mother decided that I should spend the spring with someone cultured.”

Voicing my initial surprise, I replied, “Wouldn't have expected you to stop by New York.”

“Laura convinced me to stay a few days before Maine.”

“Your mother approves of Laura?”

Rosie laughed. She had a bright laugh, but it was surprisingly soft and pleasant to hear. “Oh no,” she said, looking at her hands and then back up to me. “Mother has no idea I’m in New York. My aunt is the adventurous type. She’ll write my mother and say I arrived a week before I did.”

“So I suppose you’re officially in Maine tonight.”

She smiled and wrinkled her nose. “Officially.”

“Wanna drink?”

“No.”

I felt bad for drinking, but I took another sip anyway.

She broke the silence again, saying, “It’s good to see you.”

I nodded and said, “You look very nice,” and meant it.

“Thank you,” Rosie said. She paused for a moment, and then asked, “Is there a place we can get coffee? Is anyone still open?”

“It’s New York, everything’s open.”

“And the coffee?”

I shrugged. “There’s a cafe on this block, but it’s old. Are you sure you don’t want a drink? Connor can make anything in the world.”

“Is there a place you like?”

“I like it here just fine.”

A burst of feminine laughter entered the bar and Alice waltzed in with Deborah at her heels. Alice moved with a graceful sort of confidence; a walk that drew one’s sight first to her hips and then to her piercing grey eyes. I gazed over Rosie’s shoulder, completely missing her soft reply.

Something potent, Connor dear," Alice sighed, throwing herself against the bar.

I caught Rosie's eye and she moved slightly, allowing the girls to join in conversation.