The Twelve Days of Dash & Lily(44)

Despite my name for him, Mr. Zamboni isn’t really involved in the ice-skating business. But a few years ago he built a new condo building on the far west side of Manhattan, overlooking the High Line, with a communal rooftop that’s converted to an ice-skating rink during the winter. Personally, I prefer to pay a few Andrew Jacksons for a skate session at Rockefeller Center or Wollman Rink, but some people need to spend several million on a condo to get that Christmas ice-skating feeling, I guess. They like their holidays cold with exclusivity and privilege. But their obscene wealth was beneficial to me, today at least.

I gave Dash the address and then told him to meet me there at seven p.m. I needed the afternoon to myself to take care of the details. Invitations. Food. Performers. Pyrotechnics.

—

When Dash arrived at the lobby entrance to Mr. Zamboni’s building that night, the first thing he asked was, “Aren’t you cold in that?” The weather was indeed very chilly, but I wore thick tights under my Rockette Christmas outfit—a red crushed-velvet dancer’s A-line dress, falling just above my knees, tight at the waist with a sash, trimmed in faux white fur along the bottom hem and the plunging neckline.

I said no, and gave Dash a kiss. I was a little cold, admittedly, but my heart was so very warm. Would I ever get over this flush of happiness at the sight of him? Probably never.

Next, Dash asked, “Are we going to the High Line?” It was one of his favorite places in Manhattan—an elevated train track on the West Side that was turned into a beautiful garden and park area.

“Sort of,” I said.

I took his hand in mine and led him to the elevator. Before I pressed the Up button, I untied the white sash from my waist. “Blindfold?” I asked Dash. I wanted his first sight of our party to be a surprise.

“This isn’t some bondage party, is it?” Dash asked. He must have started one of those D. H. Lawrence books. Oh yes, I Googled.

“No. But thank you for thinking me capable of such a kinky idea.”

I placed the sash over Dash’s eyes and tied it at the back of his head. Then I swiped the keycard that would allow us to gain entrance to the elevator and the top floor of the building.

“This isn’t, like, a surprise party?” Dash asked, worried, as the elevator went up. “My birthday’s not in December.”

“It’s not.”

“I mean, people aren’t going to jump out from behind bushes on a rooftop garden and scare me? I’m all for a good fright. But not in a tall building.”

“Relax.”

The elevator opened, and I led Dash into the staging area, where benches and tables were set up, with a tented dome built overhead to resemble an igloo. The music was loud and the party was already in full swing. I could see Boomer and Sofia skating together, holding hands. Edgar Thibaud and his argyle coat, aggressively speed-skating like he’d just downed a case of Red Bulls. Our guests of honor, none of whom I knew personally, were also out on the rink. Some of them were good skaters, but more of them were holding on to the outer rink rail for dear life. Their many canvas bags filled with books were lined up alongside their street shoes and boots in the igloo area.

I untied the sash and told Dash, “Behold. A Christmas ice-skating. With all your favorite people!”

Dash looked at the rink, then back at me. “The only people I recognize on the rink are Boomer and Sofia. And Edgar. Ugh.”

I said, “The rest are librarians. My cousin Mark at the Strand knows about a Listserv for librarians, so he posted the invitation there for them. You are literally surrounded by book people tonight. Literally. Get it?”

Dash winced at my lame joke, but brightened at the sight of the refreshment stand at the other end of the igloo. “Is that a hot chocolate station?” Dash asked.

“Sure is! I hired Jacques Torres Chocolate to cater the party with hot chocolates and regular chocolates and chocolate chip cookies and—”

“People are going to be in a diabetic coma by the time they leave.”

“Hopefully! That’s how we know it’s a good party. Mrs. Basil E. always says, ‘The worse people feel the next day, the better the party.’?”

Dash smiled. Then frowned. “This must have cost a lot of money.”

“Only the catering. And the talent. It’s my pleasure.”

I don’t like to brag, but I’m quite wealthy. Not through my pauper academic parents, but because of my dog-walking business. My bank account has five numerals in it (barely), and that’s before the decimal point. The money is supposed to be my college fund. I’d rather spend it on Christmas.

“The talent?” Dash said.

“You’ll see,” I said. I handed him his pair of skates. “Let’s lace up.”

“True confession. I’m not a very good skater.”

“But you’re part Canadian!”

“My love for Arcade Fire is all I got from the Canada gene.”

I put my own skates on, then helped Dash with his. He stood up, wobbling, and I held on to him as we approached the rink. “You’re not going to believe the view,” I promised him.

I took his hand and led him to the rink. He really was a very bad skater. Overcautious, nervous, wobbly, until we reached the edge, and he saw the view. The Manhattan skyline to the north, co-headlined by the Empire State Building and the Chrysler Building, and to the west, the Hudson River and New Jersey (whatever). Below us, the High Line. “Incredible,” said Dash. “Even if the height kind of makes me want to throw up.”