That had been four years ago last month. He’d sensed its passing but hadn’t actively noted it. Elle had always loathed what she called “morbid anniversaries,” like the day Kennedy was shot, or Pearl Harbor Day, or the day you buried a loved one’s body in the ground. She thought it better to dwell on the time someone was here, not on the single day on which they left.
When he remembered her, it was the peculiarities that stood out, the bits of memory that defined her in his mind: Elle demanded all their houseplants have names; Elle cried at happily-ever-after films, giggled at horror movies; Elle loved to fish, refused to bait the hook. Elle was unique and irreplaceable, and her death had been pivotal in his life.
Afterward, there had been times of drinking, of staring at the walls, and of listening to the phone ring but not answering because he knew it was a well-wisher, and he no longer had the strength to muster another “I’m fine, thanks.”
He sometimes wondered — though not too often lest he give it real consideration — whether any woman would feel right again. This, he realized later, would have bothered Elle most of all.
But getting to that realization had taken many months. He didn’t like the person he saw in the mirror. It was the face of someone who’d stopped trying. She was gone. It was done. He could stay in limbo or choose to live. He chose the latter. Later, he realized Elle had given him something else: her ability to live each day as it came. Moments were important, each one a sliver of time you could only experience once, each one a building block of a life.
“You blame yourself,” Camille said.
“Some.”
“A lot, I think. I’m sorry, Briggs. What was her name?”
“Elle… Susan Ellise.”
They sipped their coffee in silence. Inside the Tiki Lounge, a Frank Sinatra tune was playing on the jukebox. “What is that?” Camille asked.
“‘Summer Wind’ by Frank Sinatra.”
“Aren’t you a bit young to be a Sinatra fan?”
“I grew up listening to him and Henry Mancini and old Herb Alpert stuff. Hated it back then. Now… I guess it sort of grew on me.”
The waiter approached their table. “Mr. Tanner, a message for you.”
“Thank you.”
Tanner opened the slip and read: “Meet me, Mandarin Oriental, Hong Kong. Dutch.” At the bottom there was a postscript. “Regarding your new business partner, still checking references.” Feeling mildly guilty, Tanner had forwarded the name Stephan Karotovic to Oaken.
“Bad news?” Camille asked.
“Just business. I have to go out of town for a couple days.”
“When? Not tonight, I hope.”
“In the morning.”
“Good. I’m due to leave day after tomorrow. I may not be here when you return.” She paused. “Unless, of course…”
“Yes?”
“Unless you pleaded for me to stay until you get back.”
Tanner smiled. “My pleading skills are a tad rusty.”
“Ask, then.”
“All right. Will you stay until I get back?”
“Well, since you asked…”
They strolled arm-in-arm on the beach, watching the tide curl around their ankles and talking until almost midnight. When they reached the door to her room, she leaned against the jamb as he opened it for her.
“Good night, Camille.”
She put her arms around his neck and drew him against her. She turned her mouth upward, waiting for his.
Their first kiss was unhurried as their tongues touched, withdrew, and touched again. Briggs pressed his hands into the small of her back and drew her hips against his. She gasped and arched herself. “Please, Briggs, take me to the bed.”
“Camille—”
“I want you. Please… What?” she breathed. “What is it?”
“I have to go,” Tanner said, then thought, What are you doing?
“Don’t you want me?”
“Yes, very much.”
“Then—”
He put a finger to her lips. “We have time, Camille. There’s no hurry.”
Her expression softened into a smile. “You’re sure about this?”
He chuckled. “Not entirely. I’ll find you when I get back.” He pulled away.
Slowly, reluctantly, Camille swung the door closed. Just before it clicked shut, she poked her head out. “I’ll tell you this, Briggs Tanner, if you die in a plane crash or from food poisoning or anything else, I’ll never forgive you.”
Tanner smiled. “That would make two of us.”
9
Tanner loved Hong Kong, its vitality and its mysterious blend of Old and New Worlds. While many things had changed here since China took over from Great Britain, few of them were visible to the tourist. One thing that would never change, Tanner guessed, was the taxis.
He clutched the taxi’s door handle tighter as his driver weaved from lane to lane, shouting Mandarin curses out the window and flailing his arms. To their right lay Victoria Harbor, teeming with hundreds of junks, and through the windshield he could see Victoria Peak, its upper reaches cloaked in mist.
The driver veered left off Connaught Road, then again onto Charter before screeching to a halt in front of the Mandarin Oriental Hotel. “We here,” he announced.
“And then some.”
“Eh?”
“Nothing,” Tanner replied, handing him the fare.
Tanner stepped onto the curb. The driver retrieved his bag from the trunk and deposited it on the curb, where a bellman smiled, took Tanner’s passport, then scurried into the lobby. In all, the operation had taken four seconds.
“Gotta love Hong Kong,” Tanner murmured.
“Eh?” asked the driver.
“Nothing.”
The Mandarin Oriental Hotel combines British Old World taste with Oriental opulence. Two of the city’s finest restaurants, the Pierrot and the Man Wah, share the top floor, while on the ground floor guests can choose from the Mandarin Grill, the Clipper Lounge, and the Captain’s Bar.
By the time Tanner reached the main desk, his bag was already en route to his room and the register ready for his signature. Two minutes later, the bellman was escorting him to his room.
He had a half hour before he was to meet Dutcher, so he unpacked and took a long shower, then dressed and headed downstairs to the Gunnery.
Beside the bar’s double oak doors was a brass plaque that read, Men Only. Sexism notwithstanding, this, too, was part of the Mandarin’s Old World charm, Tanner admitted. Inside, the pub was all polished walnut and teak and brass lanterns. Nautical paintings and memorabilia dominated the shelves and display cases. At the bar, patrons hefted imitation pewter tankards.
Tanner spotted Dutcher in a corner booth.
“How was your flight?” Dutcher asked, rising to shake Briggs’s hand.
“Good. And yours?”
“Uneventful.”
The waiter appeared and took their orders. After their drinks arrived, Tanner and Dutcher reminisced about Hong Kong. Their memories were from different perspectives; Dutcher’s mostly from his days there as a CIA station chief during the seventies, Tanner’s mostly from his time there with his family.
For the better part of his first twelve years, Tanner’s family followed his father from one history teaching assignment to the next. Before he was ten, Briggs had lived in a dozen cities and countries including Paris, Geneva, Kenya, Beirut, Venice, and Hong Kong. He’d never missed what others would call a normal childhood. Traveling had opened the world to him.
When it was time for Briggs to enter middle school, they returned to Maine, where the Tanner clan had lived for 160 years, and settled into a more routine life as Briggs entered the world of high school, coed dances, football games, and girlfriends. He’d always admired his parents’ wisdom: They hadn’t forgotten what it was like to be an adolescent. While youngster Briggs delighted in the travel, teenager Briggs needed home and stability. The two lifestyles had made him well-rounded and self-assured. In that respect, he was the perfect amalgam of his mother and father.