Part 1 (2/2)

I leaned back in the seat and tried to order my thoughts, absently patting the leather shoulder case containing my DVDs and MacBook. My story was only part of it. If Ken and Solly wanted to know what really happened, they would learn it the way I did.

From them....

The cab pulled up to the Harvard Club's neo-Georgian edifice at 374 Commonwealth Avenue at precisely six p.m. I smiled. Harlan would have appreciated my punctuality. And when I entered the club-my senses taking in all the old familiar sights and smells: the dark mahogany paneling adorned with the framed portraits of past university presidents, plush red carpet, and leather-covered chairs permeated with the smell of expensive cigars-the sense he was lurking somewhere about, in spirit at least, overwhelmed me.

I found Ken and Solly exactly where I expected to find them: in the Commonwealth Lounge seated at one of the round tables overlooking the street. Unlike last time, the table was set with linen and silverware, the gleaming bone china painted with the Harvard crest. Harlan's empty seat had a place setting too, as if they expected him to make a last-minute appearance, laughing that his death was all some cosmic joke. I knew the oversight was more the fault of the club than of my friends, but I still couldn't stop the momentary flush of anger burning in my gut.

Ken was the first to spot me, since Solly's back was turned. He flashed a weak smile and raised his gla.s.s of scotch in salute. I wondered how many drinks he'd had already.

Of the three of us, Ken Faust had aged the worst, the skin sagging on his long face, like a sad old hound dog. Most would put it down to the pressures of turning a software business based out of his garage into a juggernaut rivaling Microsoft at a time when few would have thought it still possible. I knew the truth, however: the death of his young son from leukemia, and a marriage gone sour, had eaten the heart right out of him.

Ken nodded to Solly, who stood and turned, his meaty hand outstretched. I took it, feeling his warm flesh envelop mine in a viselike grip. He clapped me on the back. ”Glad you could make it, Hughes. You clean up good, too.”

His innocent reference to the fact that I'd showered, shaved and changed my clothes came out of his mouth sounding like an insult. I ignored it, taking my seat to the left of Harlan's chair, my back to the six-foot sash windows.

One couldn't blame Solly for his faults. He'd been c.r.a.pped on in school, called all sorts of names, ”kike” being the least of them. But he showed all those snooty WASPs a thing or two by making a killing on Wall Street in the aftermath of the Great Recession. And after the SEC gave him a clean bill of health, he'd sent all his detractors ”Get Well” cards, each with a torn half of a hundred dollar bill in it. Some say he's still counting his profits.

As soon as I'd settled into my chair, a waiter appeared dressed in a red jacket festooned with bra.s.s b.u.t.tons and gold braid. ”Would you like something to drink, sir?”

I stared at him a moment then nodded to Solly. ”Since my esteemed friend is paying for tonight's repast, I think we should have something fitting.... Chateau Lafite Rothschild, 1945.”

The upward arch of the waiter's eyebrows was subtle, and he swiveled his gaze to the others, as if waiting for one of them to signal his approval or let him in on the joke.

Solly chuckled, shaking his head. ”You always were a wine sn.o.b, Hughes.” He nodded to the waiter. ”Go ahead and bring it. Why not?”

Why not, indeed? It was the rarest vintage the club owned and cost about $4,000 per bottle. I thought Harlan deserved at least that much.

We waited in awkward silence until the waiter reappeared with a bottle on his silver tray, surrounded by three gleaming crystal goblets.

He set it down on the table, pulled out a corkscrew and began the elaborate ritual of opening the sixty-seven-year-old wine. Solly scowled, pulled out one of his ever-present Churchill cigars and jammed it into his mouth, his square jaw gnas.h.i.+ng the uncut end. The club's smoke-free policy prevented him from lighting it, but the mammoth stogie, coupled with his flaming red hair and steely glare, made him resemble a young and querulous version of England's most famous prime minister.

The waiter handed me the cork, and I waved it under my nose. I nodded for him to proceed and watched him pour a small portion into one of the goblets, which he then set in front of me. I picked it up by the stem and swirled the deep crimson Bordeaux, noting its strong legs, then brought it up to my face and inhaled deeply. The wine's nose was still full-bodied, piquant and fruity, with the characteristic cinnamon snap known to all the Rothschild reds. And even more important for a wine of this vintage: there wasn't even a trace of vinegar. She was an elegant old lady past her prime, but would drink well.

”Perfect,” I said to the waiter. ”That'll be all.”

”Very good, sir,” he replied, bowing slightly. He turned and left, and I picked up the bottle, feeling the pleasant heft of it.

”Normally, I'd wait at least twenty minutes before drinking a wine of this quality,” I said. ”Under the circ.u.mstances, however, I think waiting would be an unpardonable sin.”

I poured about three ounces into each goblet and handed them out. I then raised mine and said: ”To Harlan Astor, friend and compatriot. May he finally find the peace he deserves.”

”Hear, hear,” Ken mumbled, taking a tentative sip.

Solly only nodded, swigging down the wine in a single gulp worth, by my estimation, at least eight hundred dollars.

Ken broke the uneasy silence following my impromptu toast.

”What happened out there, Trev? The media's filled with all kinds of wild rumors.”

”And you're not helpin' it any by clamming up,” Solly cut in.

”Some people are saying it's your fault, you being the only-”

”My fault?” I chuckled. ”Now that's a good one.”

I hadn't eaten all day and the wine was already making me lightheaded. I refilled my goblet and took another generous swallow, eager for the numbing euphoria it would bring.

”What about it, Hughes?” Solly said, annoyed.

I turned to him and met his gaze, then Ken's, who looked down almost immediately. ”You sure you guys can spare the time?”

Both men remained silent, their guilty expressions the only indication my barb had found its target.

I reached for my shoulder case and placed it on the table in front of me and unzipped it. I slid out my MacBook, set it on the table and flipped it open. The screen lit up, showing my non-descript Florida sunset wallpaper. The DVDs came next. I stacked the jewel boxes in chronological order next to the MAC, the club's subdued lighting making them glow.

Only one DVD was missing.

I couldn't bring myself to share Maddy with them, so I left her DVD in the shoulder case, which I placed flat on the floor at my feet.

”What's this?” Solly asked, waving his Churchill at my equipment.

”Ever since your call, Solly, I've been culling the interviews I conducted, dictating my part in all of this. I've been up for the last two days. I guess I should thank you.”

”For what? Insomnia?” A wry grin spread across his face.

”For waking me up, for making me realize the story needed to be told.... And for keeping my publisher from taking out a contract on me.”

Ken laughed, the wine finally loosening him up.

”Seriously, once you've seen this, you'll understand.”

And wished to G.o.d you didn't, I added silently.

I reached over to the pile of DVDs and lifted the one lying on top, sliding it gently into the computer's DVD port. The MacBook, sensing the weight of the disk, sucked the DVD in with a soft wheeze. A moment later, the screen dissolved to a generic menu, the PLAY b.u.t.ton blinking. It was ready. G.o.d only knew if I was.

Taking another sip of wine, I set down my goblet, pressed the MacBook's ”ENTER” b.u.t.ton, and settled back into the chair, listening as a stranger's voice-my voice-blared from the speakers: ”My mind says that nearly a year has pa.s.sed, but to me it seems more like a lifetime....”

2.

I hadn't planned on going to my twentieth reunion that Spring. I kept telling myself it was a silly anachronistic practice; that I needed to look forward, not back. I kept telling myself I didn't give a d.a.m.n.

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