The Storm King(10)
It was dusk at the edge of night. Along the wet streets, the town’s lamps blushed with the cold light of small moons. He carried an umbrella, though the wind made this difficult. Stray drops as big as marbles fell as he made his way to the hotel. He’d scrolled through hurricane updates before leaving Grams’s house. A bridge in Virginia washed away. An island in the Chesapeake vanished in the storm surge. Thousands of flights canceled, and transit systems from Baltimore to Boston closed or scheduled to close.
The Lake’s shopkeepers had taped or boarded over their storefronts’ glass, and some were now assembling sandbag barriers around their entrances. Gusts from the lake whistled like blades as they cut among the trees and skimmed along gables.
The townspeople’s preparations meant Nate could walk among them unrecognized. He wielded his umbrella like a mask.
The town green was deserted. Through shuffling foliage Nate saw the Empire Hotel, its silhouette gothic against the slate sky.
Nate had done a poor job of keeping up with Tom, and he’d fallen out of touch with Johnny back during their college years. As with a lot of childhood friendships, there was no single moment when it ended. It had simply faded from the foreground to the background before disappearing from the picture altogether.
Johnny had still invited Nate to his wedding, four years ago, and Nate had sent a gift but skipped the nuptials. Through Tom, he’d heard the reception was lovely, though apparently it was the divorce that had been truly spectacular. Since then, Johnny had inherited the Empire and become one of the Lake’s most prominent citizens. His father, Mr. Vanhouten, died three years ago, having taken what the locals call the long walk off the short pier. In his case, the pier in question had been his own pool’s diving board. While its chlorinated water had drowned him, it was safe to say it’d been the fifth of gin that did him in.
Above Nate, thick clouds buckled, swirls ribbed with black. The rain was still only a patter, but the wind was full of threats.
Gaslights flared in white and blue flame on either side of the Empire’s ebony lacquer doors like spirits trapped in glass. A doorman clothed in black and gold opened the door, and two officers stood just inside the entrance.
The police presence wasn’t the only change about the place. A streak of modern design had brought the Empire into the twenty-first century. The marble floor was as glossy as Nate remembered, but where walls once dripped with impasto paintings of the lake, now antiqued mirrors and panels of embossed leather stretched for the ceiling. Sculpted curves of indigo velvet had replaced the right angles of striped satin couches. Massive wrought iron lighting fixtures flared with blue glass hung where crystal chandeliers had once sparkled. The concierge desk was manned by young people in black suits while tourists and busboys crisscrossed the shining floors.
“Dr. McHale?” A young woman with a bun of taut blond hair offered Nate her hand. “Mr. Vanhouten is in the Colonnade.”
Nate followed her through the lobby to the Empire’s restaurant. On their way, he noticed caution tape cordoning off the Greenhouse, a glass enclosure popular for weddings that segued into the hotel’s gardens. Beyond its entrance, workers tightened tarps over the ceiling and arranged plastic drop cloths around the parquet floor.
“What happened in there?” Nate asked his escort.
“Storm damage.”
“And the hurricane hasn’t even hit yet,” Nate said.
A polite smile was the only response he got.
Unlike the lobby, the Colonnade was just as Nate remembered it: a two-tiered room with most of the tables arranged in a wide space at the bottom of a short flight of stairs. Booths lined the walls of the upper level. The glow of sconces and muted chandeliers brushed the cavernous place with ghostly light.
He spotted Tom first, hunched over a table. He’d changed out of his uniform and into a blue oxford shirt. There was a crease between his eyebrows, and he shook his head emphatically at something. His face smoothed and then cracked into a smile when he noticed Nate.
“Buddy!” Johnny worked his way out of the booth and rose to embrace Nate. He gripped Nate’s upper arms for a moment as he looked him over. “You look fantastic, man. It’s kind of irritating, actually.”
“You, too.” Nate patted him on the shoulder.
Johnny had grown his hair longer to compensate for its thinning. He’d gained weight, too: The profile of his chest and belly had united into a single, avian curve. He wore a gray suit, oddly ill-fitted for someone so rich. The cutaway collar of his shirt was askew like the broken wings of a dead insect. He seemed to have a tough time getting himself back into the booth.
“Crazy how long it’s been, huh?” Nate settled in next to Tom. “The hotel looks amazing.”
Johnny waved over a waiter. A tumbler festooned with lime peels and crystallized ginger appeared. “Dark and Stormy,” Johnny said with a crooked grin. “Seemed appropriate. And let’s get a head start on the next round,” he told the server.
Johnny’s own glass was nothing but ice, but he raised it anyway. “Welcome home to our—” He glanced at Tom. “Does ‘prodigal son’ apply? ‘Wayward brother’?”
“How about, ‘to old friends’?” Tom said. Nate had obviously interrupted a tense conversation between the two of them. Behind his smile, Tom looked brittle.