This Is Not How It Ends(27)

“Sorry I’m late,” Ben began. “Jimmy . . . he had a bad morning with his allergies.”

Philip leaned over to explain to me what I already knew. “Jimmy’s quite the young lad, Charley. How old is he now, Goose?” Eleven, I said to myself at the same time Ben replied, and Philip added, “Goose, Charley adores kids. She’s fantastic with them. She’s a teacher, but now she’s gotten herself a job with the local quack. Maybe you should take Jimmy over there. Dr. Scott can perform her witchery. It worked for Charley.”

Ben listened while I glared at Philip. I didn’t want to appear rude, but Goose/Ben was interfering with my mood. Hong Kong was festering between us, another lengthy separation we didn’t need. Had I revealed too much when I told Ben my fiancé traveled all the time?

Ben took the empty seat beside us while I forced Sunny into a sit. His hand came down on the dog’s head and scratched the soft patch between his ears, calming him down. I closed my eyes and imagined my mother’s hand smoothing out my hair. When I opened them again, both men were staring.

“You all right, Charley?” Philip asked.

“I’m fine,” I replied, though he knew I wasn’t. Diving into conversation with Ben gave Philip an out, a convenient excuse to avoid talking about our problems.

“I hope everything’s been to your liking while I’ve been away,” Ben said. “The staff had strict instructions to look after you.”

“We’re happy as can be. Right, Charley?”

I nodded, my toes digging deeper into the sand.

When the waiter arrived with menus, Ben motioned they weren’t necessary, taking the liberty of ordering for the table. I felt him studying me, peeling away a denial I’d tried to hide. Their conversation shifted from the menu to various flavors Ben had been toying with, his recent additions to the wine cellar, and his other restaurants. “Goose Hearst is legendary,” Philip raved.

I cleared my throat and took a sip of water. “Goose Hearst.”

“Well, I’m the only one who calls him Goose. His real name is Benjamin.”

He’d cleaned up since this morning. He wore the palest of pink linen shirts with white casual shorts, as though he belonged here, beside us, relishing the breeze. I was trying to piece together what I’d missed. Had Philip ever referred to Goose as Ben? Had I forgotten the conversation about his wife and child? And why was he acting as though we’d never met?

Philip plucked me from my daydream. “Goose’s asking you a question, Charley.”

“I’m sorry,” I said, taking a deep swallow. “I’m being rude.”

He asked, apparently for the second time, “How do you like the island?”

I wished my voice were trained to dispel emotions. “It’s lovely.” When his eyes let go of mine, I returned to Philip. He jiggled the ice in his glass and addressed Ben. “What was it, Goose, thirteen years ago we met?”

Over lobster salad and conch fritters, I listened to the two men reminisce about meeting in a Manhattan bar. “He was a charming young lad,” said Philip.

“I was twenty,” Ben laughed.

“Always reminding me of the decade between us,” Philip said. “The women . . . they just loved this chap. I’ll tell you, buddy, if you weren’t so handsome, your restaurants would be utter shit.” That bar was Ben’s first foray into the culinary world, and as soon as he was old enough, it became one of the most prominent restaurants in the City. I watched them closely, noting the differences in their speech, their gestures, their happiness. Ben held back. The sadness I’d witnessed this morning was still there. I could see it in his eyes, could tell by the way he was slow-moving, guarded. Philip didn’t seem to notice, but I picked up on it at once.

“Where’d the name Goose come from?” I finally asked.

Ben was about to answer when Philip took over. “Goose had a fake ID. Augusto Ruiz. We called him Augusto, emphasis on Goose.” The two men laughed. “The name stuck.”

“My friends call me Ben. And my really good friends still find ways to embarrass me with Goose.”

“It’s good to have you back, Goose.” Philip patted him on the shoulder while the waiter picked up our plates. “I’ll feel much better knowing Charley has you around while I travel. At least I’ll know she’s eating.”

“I’m happy to send meals over to the house. Or you and your dog here can come in if you’d like.” He gave Philip a friendly nudge. “Don’t worry, Philip. I’ll see to it that she’s well fed.”

I regretted telling this stranger about my loneliness and believing it was something that bound us. “That really won’t be necessary.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Philip chimed back in this tone I’d heard him use to finesse finicky clients. “Of course you’ll let Goose cook for you. He’s one of the best chefs in the world. Besides, we haven’t used our kitchen much since we moved in.”

As humiliating as it was to have this failing of mine leaked to a culinary aficionado, being offered up to his friend—as though a meal would make up for Philip’s distance—hurt worse. I understood Philip was trying to help, to be kind, as he often was, but it wouldn’t have mattered if Ben were one of the famous chefs we watched on TV. I could fend for myself and I would.