Chapter Sixteen
The limo returned Livia and her bachelorettes to the hotel’s main entrance just before eleven; her lone bachelor wearily climbed out of the car, his head pounding, an early-onset hangover from both the sparkling wine and having been so unfairly maligned. The women, Maisie included, gabbed and giggled as they made their way up the stairs to the hotel’s lobby. Patrick couldn’t make out a thing they were saying as he trudged a dozen steps behind them like a pack mule shouldering their enormous—and heavy, he might add—shopping bags. Turns out fashion, true couture, weighed a ton. About two dozen more steps and he could drop the bags and excuse himself for the night and finally shut the world out. Never had a pillow been so insistently calling his name.
As soon as they entered the lobby, Grant leaped out from behind the circular banquette and Patrick screamed in a pitch he was not proud of and dropped two of the bags he was holding.
Greg, too, emerged from the far side of the banquette; they had been perfectly obscured by the opulent flowers positioned on top—an entirely different arrangement than the one that had greeted them when they checked in. He kissed Livia and Maisie hello.
In perfect Grant fashion, he peered through the bags one by one like he was trying to get his best peek on Christmas morning, the sound of rustling tissue like a predator making its way through tall grass.
“Which one of these is for me?” he asked before Maisie shooed him away.
“None of them,” she scolded, and then pulled the bags with her items aside to guard them.
“NONE?!” Grant shouted, but his protest went unaddressed.
“Did you have fun?” Greg asked. “I can’t wait to see what you bought.”
Patrick almost wanted to stick around and watch Cruella de Vil don her Muppet-skin coat just to see his brother’s reaction (I’m about to marry someone who wears that?), but all he could think about was sleep.
“I hope bringing Patrick wasn’t a mistake.”
Clara and Palmina looked at each other and in unison said, “Big mistake. Big. Huge.” Patrick face-palmed as Greg looked wryly bemused.
“What is he still doing up?” Patrick asked, indicating Grant as he ran tight circles around the lobby like a puppy with late-night zoomies.
“I got jealous of the girls stealing you away. I thought you could join us for our bachelor’s evening.”
Patrick took out his phone to look at the time. Even by European standards, evening had long given way to night. “It’s eleven o’clock.”
“A bachelor’s nightcap, then,” Greg pleaded, and Patrick’s heart sank. He looked up the stairs in the direction of his bed. This day was never going to end. “In the hotel bar. Just us boys.” Greg’s eyebrows were raised so high in concern they practically blended into his hairline; clearly something was on his mind.
“Fine. Just give me ten minutes to recharge. Ladies, it’s been...” There was no real way to finish that sentence, so he turned and started to walk up the steps to his room.
The last thing he heard was Greg asking Maisie, “Is your hair lighter than it was this morning?”
They met inside the hotel’s main lounge, an ornate room with a fireplace and elegant mahogany bar. Greg and Grant were already seated at a small table near the terrace in masculine club chairs upholstered in distressed leather; the room had an interesting palette given the walls, which were somewhere between gold and mustard. Grant’s eyes were half closed like he was focused on something happening clear across the room. It wasn’t until Patrick was closer that he could see it was because he was struggling to keep them open. I know the feeling, kid.
“Wake up, Grantelope.”
“You can’t call me that.”
“You’re asleep, I can call you whatever I want.”
“I’m not asleep,” he protested. “I’m not even tired.” But then his eyes closed even further in betrayal.
“The strippers are here!” Patrick feigned excitement to see if he could startle the boy awake.
Instead Grant mumbled, “I don’t believe you,” then turned his neck so his face was nuzzled away from them into the chair.
“Just us?” Patrick asked. “No Cousin Geppetto?”
“It’s a real name, but you’re going to make a routine out of it, aren’t you?”
“What do you call an old man who’s into puppets?”
Greg stared at him blankly.
“A Geppettophile. Get it? I’ll save that for my wedding toast.”
“I’m begging you. Stop.”
Patrick excused himself to the bar, where he glanced at the cocktail menu. “Buonasera, signore,” the bartender said. Patrick, still longing for bed, forced a weak smile. The bartender was one of those old-school professionals who wore a waistcoat and tie and kept his arms folded behind his back until he could be of service. He seemed like he kept many secrets. “Is tonight a special occasion?”
Patrick glanced over his shoulder at their table. Greg looked out the window at the lake and Grant’s jaw was now completely slack. “Just us bachelors,” Patrick replied. “We’re kind of a dying breed.”
“Very well, sir. Perhaps I could get you bachelors a drink.” He steered Patrick toward a cocktail made of mezcal, mango liqueur, lime juice, and a chili infusion. Greg, five years sober, needed an option that was nonalcoholic, so Patrick asked the bartender to improvise something off menu. Across the bar, a table burst into spontaneous laughter, drawing Patrick’s eye. That’s how his night should have gone; even though it was Livia’s party, he had imagined himself the center of attention. Or at the very least, the evening’s entertainment. He wasn’t about to jump out of anyone’s cake, but he could usually hold the attention of women without much effort. Alas, tonight was but one more night in a year that was not going his way. When he turned back to the bartender, he saw him mix seltzer and lemon juice, with something that may have been distilled fig, topping off the drink with frothed egg whites—a rare ingredient, Patrick imagined, as far as stag party concoctions go. But even bachelors not of the confirmed kind could enjoy a drink that was nice and frothy.
“Grazie,” Patrick said once the bartender had added his final touches, and Patrick made sure to tip well for his considered efforts. He returned to their table, careful not to spill so much as a drop of the booze he would need to fortify his resolve. “Cheers,” he said as he and Greg raised their glasses, and together they knocked back a few sips. Greg carefully wiped egg whites from his stubble with the back of his hand.
“Oh my god, this is good.”
“It should be,” Patrick observed. “It has an omelet floating on top.” He turned to Grant, who had repositioned himself yet again. “They were out of chocolate milk.” But Grant, apparently down for the count, merely replied with an unintelligible mumble and a small trickle of drool.
Greg ran his fingers through his hair until it was a complete mess and exhaled something between a whisper and a groan.
“What’s up?” Patrick asked. If he had any hopes of making it to his room before midnight, he had better cut right to the chase.
Greg downed half of his mocktail in a way that reminded Patrick of Grant and his Parisian hot chocolate. That’s for sipping, not gulping! Greg then looked up at his brother with pleading eyes and asked, “Am I doing the right thing?”
Maisie had been with Patrick all evening, so it’s not like she had time to say anything to her father about Livia. Would Grant have taken the lead in sowing the seeds of doubt? Patrick couldn’t imagine it—the boy still had to be convinced that birthmarks didn’t hurt.
If Patrick was indeed losing Maisie’s favor to Palmina, was this the opening he needed to speak up and win her back? “Did the kids say something to you?”
Greg looked at his brother, confused. “Did they say something to you?”
Patrick feigned innocence. “So, cold feet, then.” He then illuminated his phone to see the date. “The night before the rehearsal dinner. Not to borrow from Mussolini, but the trains are running right on time.”
“Clever as you think you are, you can leave the fascists out of it. It’s not cold feet,” Greg insisted. “At least not in the way you’re thinking.”
Patrick motioned for Greg to fix his hair by running his hands through his own. He couldn’t have a serious conversation with his brother when he resembled Cameron Diaz in There’s Something about Mary. But his brother’s hair wasn’t really the problem. Greg looked... defeated. His mouth open, but his teeth tightly clenched. His arms crossed in a defensive pose, the opposite of the bartender’s, to close himself off instead of willingly engage. Even his posture was stooped, like the very ground beneath his chair had a different gravitational pull.
“Are the kids having a hard time with this? With my getting remarried?”
Patrick scratched his head. Here it comes. “Have you tried asking them? There’s one right here we can rouse.”
Greg pinched the bridge of his nose. “Grant is picking at himself more than ever and Maisie smells like lemon Pledge for some reason and she’s being downright rude to Livia.” Patrick wondered if he should interject with how well Maisie did this evening, that she and Livia seemed to have a genuine moment, even if one evening did not a relationship make. “I ask what’s going on, I do, but they don’t give me straight answers.”
“Do they give you gay ones?”
“Patrick, I’m serious. You have a way with this stuff. All this insight. The kids are always saying how you’re so wise. Come on. How about you share some of it with me.”
Patrick was stunned into momentary silence. “The kids think I’m wise?” He always thought he was, but he didn’t know this virtue was recognized by others.
Greg rubbed his eyes, disappointed. That was not the takeaway from this conversation.
“I don’t really tell them anything, other than give them permission to feel what they’re already feeling. A courtesy I extend to you, by the way.”
“I don’t have time to feel what I’m feeling, I’m getting married in forty-eight hours.”
Less than, Patrick thought as he reached for his drink. There was a slight breeze coming from the open doors, but the chili infusion warmed his insides, melting his demeanor just enough. “Look,” he began. “You, Maisie, and Grant, you’re the last survivors of a lost civilization that was your nuclear family. You had your own traditions, your own language, your own shared memories, your own, I don’t know... You tell me. Inside jokes. You three are the keepers of your family history, your family culture. All of it.” Patrick looked intently at his brother, hoping this was sinking in. “I don’t want to speak for them,” he continued as he glanced over at Grant to make sure he was still unconscious, “but I think, if you could get them to give you an honest answer, they would tell you that they’re afraid of their civilization crumbling further under the weight of advancement. They’re both furious little archaeologists trying to unearth it with those teeny brushes as fast as the present is busy burying it under more sand.”
Greg didn’t really know what to say, so the easiest thing was to deny it. “But I don’t want to bury it. And neither does Livia. And I’m certainly not going anywhere.”
“Yes you are!” Patrick lowered his voice so as not to wake Grant. “Yes you are. You’re assimilating into a new civilization. One with new traditions and cultures and quite literally a whole new language.”
As if to prove his point, the rowdy table erupted in cheers of “Salute!” and a woman in a wrap dress and heels sauntered past their table, met their eyes, and said, “Ciao.”
As soon as the woman had safely exited the bar, Patrick gesticulated wildly. “Italy, Greg? Lake Como? Look at this place. What is this? Who is this for? What are you doing?”
Greg’s eyes grew wet; Patrick could tell his brother didn’t know what he was doing, not really, not deep down, there was no master plan guiding his every move; he was reacting more than acting. And in that moment he felt sorry for Greg. They sat in their chairs quietly, Patrick swirling a single oversized ice cube around with the last of the liquor in his glass. As much as his bed was calling, he already knew they needed another round. Eventually Greg spoke. “We did a good job with them, didn’t we?”
Patrick tried not to laugh as he set his glass on the table. “Oh, now it’s we?”
“Come on. We’ve been there for them, we’ve been understanding, we’ve been patient, we listen. We don’t beat them.”
Patrick looked at Grant sleeping so peacefully. “It’s not too late to start.” Grant was growing so big, and yet still had the ability to tuck in his limbs and look small. The two brothers looked at him with the urge to scoop him up.
“I love Livia,” Greg confessed.
Patrick nodded. “That’s good, I’m glad you do. You deserve that.”
“No, really. I get a sense that you don’t think I do. It’s understandable. You introduced me to Sara. My first marriage owes itself to you.”
Patrick held up his hands defensively; he didn’t deserve that much credit.
“I’ve only been in love twice in my life. This isn’t something I’m taking lightly. But what do the kids deserve? That’s what I keep asking myself.”
Patrick looked out the window as he wasn’t really sure how to answer. They deserved their mother back. But that particular pie in the sky was of no help. They deserved a father who was happy; in that sense what Greg was undertaking was good and would ultimately benefit them all. And the kids deserved to be happy themselves. But Patrick wasn’t convinced they knew what could best make them happy. Having Livia around, once they gave her more time and a bit of grace, might do just that. He even saw a glimpse of it tonight.
His thoughts were interrupted by Greg. “Can I ask you something?”
Patrick snapped back to attention. Hadn’t he done nothing but ask him things since they sat down?
“What happened with you and Emory? I ask because you lost Joe. Emory seems really special. Like Livia is to me. And I’m doing everything to hold on to her and you seemed to just let Emory go.”
It was the million-dollar question. “I’m going to be fifty.” Patrick said it like Meg Ryan in When Harry Met Sally, but it wasn’t followed with a plaintive someday.
“How old is Emory?”
“Thirty-four,” Patrick said, as if Emory had chosen his age specifically to inconvenience him.
“And so what’s the problem? Fifty’s not as old as it used to be.”
Patrick couldn’t believe Greg didn’t see it. “When he’s my age, I’ll be sixty-six. I don’t want to date someone who is sixty-six. Emory will not want to date someone who is sixty-six.”
“Has he said that?”
Patrick picked at a loose thread on his shirt and pretended not to hear.
“Patrick.”
Grant mumbled something in his sleep, but it had no relevance to their conversation. Yet it forced Patrick to answer. “I extrapolated.”
“I see. You wouldn’t want to, so no one would want to.”
“Exactly.”
“You’re a ridiculous person, you know that?” Greg leaned in, careful not to let Grant hear. “I hate to say that because you are my big brother and I have long looked up to you, but you are a ridiculous person. You dole out life advice and your little rules for living like candy and you don’t follow any of them.”
“That’s not true,” Patrick protested. “I always wear pants to get bottomless mimosas.”
“They apply to thee and not to me, is that right?”
Patrick slumped back in shock. How was this happening again? Two events in one evening and he had somehow been cast as the villain in both? That seemed completely unfair. And yet, he never really cared what others thought of him, so why was he so rattled? He had been misunderstood at Livia’s Prada party, but was the issue here in fact the opposite? Was he plainly understood? Of course he should have asked Emory his feelings about the future of their relationship, he knew that; he was just absolutely convinced he wouldn’t like the answer. Of course he and Emory were survivors of their own little civilization, too. There was so much good that had been needlessly tossed aside. Tables at restaurants that were theirs that now sat strangers without anything approximating their chemistry or charm. Inside jokes that had no place to land, so the punch lines fizzled like fireworks whose fuses never quite fully lit. And suddenly in that moment, in a foreign bar late at night, sitting across from his brother with Grant softly snoring beside them, Patrick felt profoundly alone. He stammered, not knowing how to answer that charge; fortunately, Greg—a bundle of raw nerves—had already forgotten the question. This was observation more than accusation, but Patrick didn’t exactly feel off the hook.
“What would you want in a mother?” Greg asked before motioning for the bartender. “Could we get some water?”
Patrick blinked twice. “We have a mother. You want like a list for areas of improvement?” He pushed up his sleeves as if ready to really throw down.
“I mean, if you were them. Maisie and Grant. What virtues or qualities would you want?”
“What is this, the Proust Questionnaire?”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I!”
“I’ll give you that Livia is not a natural in the mother department. But she has good qualities.”
She’s rich.
“She’s kind.”
She’s rich.
“She’s caring.”
She’s rich.
“And she’s willing! She doesn’t get enough credit for that. A lot of women don’t want to step into a marriage like this, as it’s kind of a lose-lose situation, if you know what I mean.”
“Rarely do I know what you mean.”
The bartender brought three glasses of water to their table. Patrick reached for his instinctually and sipped, then struggled hard to swallow. “This has no taste or redeeming value whatsoever.”
“It’s water,” Greg said.
Patrick held up their now-empty glasses to the bartender and stated, “Another round, per favore.” When they were alone again Patrick said, “I don’t think the point of marriage is to enter into it with just any woman who says yes.”
“You say that, but any woman I meet will never live up to memories of Sara. Not in the kids’ minds at least. They’ve practically deified her, no thanks to you.”
“What did I do?” Patrick asked, employing the most innocent tone he could muster. Had he filled the kids’ heads with stories that lionized their mom? Sure. But never before this moment was he accused of doing them—or Greg—a disservice. Had some of these stories taken on a life of their own? It was hard to say what space they occupied in their little minds, but in his own he had to confess that maybe they did. That was the thing about grief; each memory had a way of amplifying in importance, lest they, too, be lost forever.
“Most women would be happy to come in second. But we’re not talking a reasonable second, getting touched out at the finish after a valiant effort. We’re talking a distant second, which in this case, since there are no other entrants, also happens to be last.” Greg reached for his second drink, snatching it directly from the waiter’s tray, forcing him to expertly shift his balance to rescue Patrick’s cocktail from spilling. He then took a sip too quickly and choked, coughing egg white foam across Patrick’s lap. “WHAT IS WRONG WITH THIS DRINK?!”
Patrick reached for a napkin and dabbed his pants, taking back his earlier thought. Straight men were not ready for frothy drinks. “What is wrong with you?”
Greg snapped his fingers like Patrick had not been paying attention.
“What?! I’m not following.”
“Exactly,” Greg said, scooping some of the egg white away with his finger like he was giving his mocktail a close shave. “Just like any woman wouldn’t be able to follow Sara. But Livia... Livia doesn’t feel in competition with—well, anyone—let alone Sara. Do you know how rare that is to find?”
Patrick didn’t exactly, but decided to agree. “Rare.”
“Extremely rare.” Patrick handed Greg his napkin so he could wipe the foam from his finger. “I know what I’m doing, Patrick. You may not think so, Clara may not think so, the kids may not think so. But I would like a little credit here, a little support. From you.” And then, as if he felt guilty for demanding anything, Greg reached over and tied Grant’s shoe as he slept quietly in the chair. Patrick watched his face soften in the knowledge that at least in the moment his son felt at peace with everything happening. “Sara would be proud of us, right?”
Patrick took in their surroundings. “We brought a kid to a bar.”
It was obvious that to Greg it did not matter. If he had become adept at anything in the last five years it was learning not to sweat the trivial.
Patrick thought of Emory, very much aware now that he had torpedoed their relationship for a reason that perhaps didn’t exist. How Sara had orchestrated that summer Patrick had with the kids in Palm Springs and how she imagined it would be a season of healing for him, too. He’d had a second stab at happiness and blew it. Would he get a third?
“Well?” Greg asked again, very aware that his question was still floating in the air unanswered.
Patrick pushed the last of his second cocktail away from him, ready to end the night. He then looked at his brother and said honestly, “She would be proud of you.”