“My two favorite devastatingly gorgeous young men!” Arch exclaims. Christine, smiling big, kisses both of you on the cheek. Arch looks as well as ever, his long, silver hair tied back in a tidy bun and the ends of his mustache waxed in cheeky swirls. He’s wearing an embroidered kurta over slacks, and looks more effortlessly cool than any senior citizen ought to have the right to, even on his birthday. “Kaius, I’m so glad to see that you are doing better. Chris and I were terribly worried about you.”
“Nothing to worry about,” Kai says lightly, flashing them a brilliant grin. “Comes with the job. Happy birthday, Mister Rubin.”
“Oh, stop it,” Arch protests gruffly. “I wouldn’t have invited anyone to this party I wanted to refer to me asMister Rubin.I understand the Southern manners, Kaius, but you really must call me ‘Arch.’”
“Sorry,” Kai says, dimpling in a way that should be illegal. “Won’t happen again.”
At that moment, you hate Arch and Christine for getting Kai’s smile. For deserving his words. You’re so busy glowering that you initially miss what’s being said to you.
“So sorry,” you say quickly. “I was distracted by the gorgeous peacocks. Did you bring them in for the party, Christine?”
“No,” she says. “They live here; aren’t they amazing? And I asked what you are up to these days! Now that your tour is over, life must seem very relaxing. Are you taking some time to unwind?
Christine, God love her, is British. If she were a Yank, she’d know that the only things you’ve taken time to do since tour ended are get ragged on by the American media, attend football games, and fuck up your relationship with your boyfriend. (Maybe not that last one.)
“It’s been very fulfilling,” you lie through your teeth. “You know me, though. Always thinking of what comes next.”
“That’s why we adore you,” Arch says. “Now, fellows, you must excuse me so that I can make the rounds before dinner.”
Kai’s posturing as your sweetheart lasts as long as it takes to steer you away from the group and back towards the center fountain, the biggest one. It’s lit by white lights, all clean lines with one central spray of water. It appears to be a mid-century creation. He parks you beside it like you’re a dog he’s tying up to a post.
“I’m going to get a drink,” he announces in your general direction, if not actually to you.
Because you are Sterling Grayson, you know what to do. You grab a champagne flute from the nearest waiter and make your circuit, greeting the people that you know at the party. It turnsout there are a lot of them. Plenty of actors, only a handful of musicians. Some athletes, some politicians. A distinguished, socially progressive, civic-minded bunch. You yourself are socially progressive and civic-minded, so you guess that you fit in. It’s a good crowd. Mostly devoid of the plasticky dregs of Hollywood, which is nice. You go through three flutes of bubbly while saying hello and shaking hands, racking up the acquaintance of a prime minister, a senator, and three separate Best Actor winners along the way. In terms of networking, Arch Rubin’s birthday shindig is probably the mixer of the decade.
It’s a big party. Everyone is staying accumulated on the big lawn and not venturing into the enormous expanses of the gardens, as this seems to be the reception phase. There must be, as expected, somewhere in the ballpark of 250 or 300 people in attendance. A string quartet’s music wafts through the night air. From time to time, over the shoulder of the person you are talking to, you glimpse Kai from across the lawn. You aren’tlookingfor him, per se; it’s just that he stands out. Because he’s tall. Your eyes keep finding him, like a moth to a flame. Your staring mostly goes unnoticed, but, on two humiliating occasions, you make eye contact and have to quickly look away. It’s a huge relief when Christine rounds everyone up and announces that it’s time for dinner.
The long tables are set up in the Historic Circle, on the shore of Baldwin Lake, beneath tall, gauzy white tents that flap gently in the breeze and are open on top to the night sky. Each table sits about fifty people, and is absolutely littered with flowers and tall, flickering white tapers set in cylindrical glass cases. To your great relief, the seating chart is arranged with old-fashioned formal etiquette in mind, meaning that couples are not seated together. Kai isn’t even at the same table as you. Christine has thoughtfully sat you between two fellow musicians: thecomposer of most of Arch’s film scores and Sir Elton, who’s never not a complete joy. Between the gorgeous surroundings and the good company—okay, and maybe another glass of champagne—you feel yourself start to unclench. Just slightly. You can’t even see Kai, and you force yourself not to look too hard.
The meal is a plated dinner, with enough food to make the tables groan. Waiters pass the first course, a chilled pomegranate gazpacho and butternut squash salad, and the seasonal veggies are so bright and fresh that you also opt for the meat-free entrée, a curried roasted vegetable tart served alongside couscous with currants and pine nuts. The birthday cake is very British-by-way-of-California, a Victoria sponge with persimmon jam and a ginger-ricotta cream. Wine flows freely with the conversation. Some of Arch’s peers give toasts and speeches, and you don’t hate it. It’s a beautiful night, your belly is full, you’re halfway drunk, and time is slipping by pleasantly, right up until Christine clinks her glass at the head table and announces that all couples should pair back up, because it’s time for thescavenger hunt.
A murmur of excitement ripples through the crowd, as she patiently explains the game. Arch always likes to give more than receive. Accordingly, hundreds of party favors have been hidden in the gardens.
“Some are just trinkets,” Christine says, winking mysteriously. “But some arequitegood.”
The announcement slices through your good mood. The guests mill about, talking in pairs and even groups about their strategy, and you seriously consider heading briskly for the entrance and calling your car back. Before you can really entertain that thought, however, Kai is by your seat, a brooding, extremely well-dressed mountain of bad attitude.
“We really don’t have to do this,” you mutter, unable to meet his eyes.
“I’m getting my damn party favor,” he fires back, sounding both pissed-off and determined.
The Historic Circle divides the arboretum roughly in half, but most of the guests move clockwise towards the Meadowbrook and Tallac Knoll sections. Kai, having to be contrary, stalks in the opposite direction: back across the wide lawn, doubling back across from the entrance, and speeding past the Africa exhibit deep into the furthest section of the park, which is Australia. It’s lit up back here as well, but distinctively more eerie. Nobody is moving as fast as him, and nobody’s going this deep into the park. He’s a man on a mission.
“You’re really taking this treasure hunt seriously,” you comment, unsure what you are supposed to be looking for. Around you, the Aussie trees rise in a forest, acacia and eucalyptus and bottle. Their shadows hulk over the paths and partially swallow the light. Irrationally, you’re reminded of how wide open the park is, and the fact that, despite the ample hired security, someone could, technically, be hiding in the trees. A day guest that concealed themselves to cause trouble, or someone even more nefarious. You shiver, and it isn’t because the night is slightly chilly. Kai is walking fast, and not even bothering to stay beside you. The alcohol is catching up with you slightly.
“Can we slow down?” you ask, only to be ignored.
Kai is looking down as he stalks the path, peering at the base of shrubbery and the roots of trees. It’s a little hilarious to see his 6’4” self playing hide-and-seek with mystery prizes, but that could just be the champagne. You’re thinking that he looks hotand fantasizing about pushing him up against a tree, even as you are getting increasingly irritated by his cold shoulder.
It’s beginning to feel like you are just a tag-along for his own private mission when he abruptly kneels beside a park bench and feels gingerly around its feet.
“What makes you think that anything is that well-hidden?” you ask. “It’s a birthday party. It’s not that serious.”
Again, he doesn’t answer, which spikes your crankiness. Your dress shoes are beginning to pinch from all the fast walking, and you aren’t really dressed warmly enough for the coolness of the evening as it gets closer to midnight. You’ve got a slightly dizzy headache, and youreally don’t careabout whatever treats Arch and Christine have hidden.
“Are you going to just ignore me?” you demand, your raised voice cutting through the thick, deep silence of the garden. “This is a waste of time.”
He glances over at you. “This is peak white-peopleBridgertonbullshit,” he agrees. “And, no, I don’t have anything to say to you.”
