again. He shakes the phone, to no avail, to no surprise.
Taylor glances around, looking for altitude. He sets off away from the river, trudging through the low scrub and small trees, scrambling over dusty rocks. He looks at his screen, a solid single bar, a second bar flitting in and out, a flirty little tease.
He tries the call again, waits fifteen seconds for the ringing to commence, a multicarrier call to a different country.
Finally: “Yes?”
“It’s Panther,” he says. “I’m blown.”
NEW YORK CITY
Will holds up his racquet, applauds into the strings, game-set-match to Malcolm, again. Will heads for the net, his water bottle.
“Good match,” Malcolm says untruthfully, holding out his hand for the customary shake. Both men grab their phones, scroll through emails, searching screens for things they hope not to find: problems, urgency.
“So France was good?” Malcolm puts down his device, picks up his water, watches an errant ball bouncing away from another court. Malcolm follows the ball’s path to the woman chasing it. Today is that first spring day when every woman in New York seems to be wearing something short.
“I
love
tennis skirts,” Malcolm says, picking up the eternal thread. Malcolm’s lust is equal-opportunity, everywhere, all the time, there are women he wants, and he tells Will about it. Will usually indulges the train of thought, but not today.
“France was terrific,” Will says. “The wine-bar piece will be good. But I don’t think there’s anything to say about the château dinner. It didn’t feel special.” This is not true, not remotely, but the dinner’s specialness isn’t something Will can write about.
“Okay. Did you forward your notes to the Paris bureau?”
“Yes sir.”
“You talk to anyone particularly interesting?”
Malcolm’s new mandate is to try to make every single story personality-driven. Whether those personalities are international celebrities or local nobodies, people are supposed to be the hook of every story, a face in every photo, a quote in every column.
“Not really, no.”
“Anything else?”
“Such as?”
“Don’t give me that bullshit. You know such as what. I’m sure there was someone. There always is.”
Will shakes his head.
“Come
on
.” Malcolm punches him in the arm, not all that lightly. “Do you know when the last time I was on a date was?”
“These aren’t
dating
trips, Mal. I’m not going on dates.”
“Eleven years ago. Eleven goddamned years, you lucky bastard.” Malcolm pulls his sweat-wet tee over his head, and Will can see the thick ugly scars across his shoulder, the wartime injury that changed his life. There’s also the leg scar from a previous life-changing injury, a quarter-century ago. Malcolm is a constellation of scars.
“And you’re gallivanting around the world in your cuff links, with women heaving themselves at you in five-star hotels. Let a guy live vicariously, will you? I’m dying here.”
“Really? It looks to me like you have the perfect everything. What is it you’re complaining about, exactly?”
“It’s all just different shades of green, Rhodes.” He pulls on a fresh shirt. “So are you telling me you didn’t stumble across one single interesting attractive woman?”
There’s a certain amount of confessing—or would it be bragging?—that Will would like to do; discussing it would make it more real. But does he want that? Or would it be better if he forgot about it, turned it into a fantasy instead of a memory? Maybe if he doesn’t mention the kiss, if he keeps the truth of his small indiscretion—and it
was
small, he keeps telling himself—a secret, then maybe it doesn’t really matter, maybe he didn’t do anything terribly wrong. Just one kiss with an irresistible woman who threw herself at him.
And he resisted.
He should get a goddamned medal, is what should happen. Or a citation, calligraphy, parchment, a wax seal. Albeit presented at a very low-key,
Taylor glances around, looking for altitude. He sets off away from the river, trudging through the low scrub and small trees, scrambling over dusty rocks. He looks at his screen, a solid single bar, a second bar flitting in and out, a flirty little tease.
He tries the call again, waits fifteen seconds for the ringing to commence, a multicarrier call to a different country.
Finally: “Yes?”
“It’s Panther,” he says. “I’m blown.”
NEW YORK CITY
Will holds up his racquet, applauds into the strings, game-set-match to Malcolm, again. Will heads for the net, his water bottle.
“Good match,” Malcolm says untruthfully, holding out his hand for the customary shake. Both men grab their phones, scroll through emails, searching screens for things they hope not to find: problems, urgency.
“So France was good?” Malcolm puts down his device, picks up his water, watches an errant ball bouncing away from another court. Malcolm follows the ball’s path to the woman chasing it. Today is that first spring day when every woman in New York seems to be wearing something short.
“I
love
tennis skirts,” Malcolm says, picking up the eternal thread. Malcolm’s lust is equal-opportunity, everywhere, all the time, there are women he wants, and he tells Will about it. Will usually indulges the train of thought, but not today.
“France was terrific,” Will says. “The wine-bar piece will be good. But I don’t think there’s anything to say about the château dinner. It didn’t feel special.” This is not true, not remotely, but the dinner’s specialness isn’t something Will can write about.
“Okay. Did you forward your notes to the Paris bureau?”
“Yes sir.”
“You talk to anyone particularly interesting?”
Malcolm’s new mandate is to try to make every single story personality-driven. Whether those personalities are international celebrities or local nobodies, people are supposed to be the hook of every story, a face in every photo, a quote in every column.
“Not really, no.”
“Anything else?”
“Such as?”
“Don’t give me that bullshit. You know such as what. I’m sure there was someone. There always is.”
Will shakes his head.
“Come
on
.” Malcolm punches him in the arm, not all that lightly. “Do you know when the last time I was on a date was?”
“These aren’t
dating
trips, Mal. I’m not going on dates.”
“Eleven years ago. Eleven goddamned years, you lucky bastard.” Malcolm pulls his sweat-wet tee over his head, and Will can see the thick ugly scars across his shoulder, the wartime injury that changed his life. There’s also the leg scar from a previous life-changing injury, a quarter-century ago. Malcolm is a constellation of scars.
“And you’re gallivanting around the world in your cuff links, with women heaving themselves at you in five-star hotels. Let a guy live vicariously, will you? I’m dying here.”
“Really? It looks to me like you have the perfect everything. What is it you’re complaining about, exactly?”
“It’s all just different shades of green, Rhodes.” He pulls on a fresh shirt. “So are you telling me you didn’t stumble across one single interesting attractive woman?”
There’s a certain amount of confessing—or would it be bragging?—that Will would like to do; discussing it would make it more real. But does he want that? Or would it be better if he forgot about it, turned it into a fantasy instead of a memory? Maybe if he doesn’t mention the kiss, if he keeps the truth of his small indiscretion—and it
was
small, he keeps telling himself—a secret, then maybe it doesn’t really matter, maybe he didn’t do anything terribly wrong. Just one kiss with an irresistible woman who threw herself at him.
And he resisted.
He should get a goddamned medal, is what should happen. Or a citation, calligraphy, parchment, a wax seal. Albeit presented at a very low-key,
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