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Cobb quickly showers and changes, then takes the stairs down to the ground floor and follows the sounds of holiday music and laughter.
The ballroom isn't large, but then the B&B isn't either. He steps through the open doors and into a room with a tall, decorated tree in one corner. Christmas jazz is playing in the background, and more people than he expected are milling about with drinks in hand. Heads turn in his direction, and while Cobb is more than used to being stared at, and more than aware of the fact that his face is nearly as well-known as his music, there's a strange, underwater feeling that comes after a nap that stretches through the afternoon and into the evening, and it’s left him feeling somewhat discombobulated.
"Cobb Hartley," a tall, distinguished-looking man with a gray mustache and a full head of silvery hair holds out a hand to shake. "I'm a fan of your work, and a lover of music in general. Robert Lupone."
"Pleasure to meet you, Robert," Cobb says, shaking his hand. There are men sprinkled all around the ballroom who give off the same self-assured air as Robert, and as Cobb's eyes glance over them, most of the men turn to him and give a smile and a nod, as if they also know exactly who he is and are waiting for their turn to have a chat. Again, this is not a new sensation for Cobb; pretty much every party or awards show he’s ever attended is essentially a room full of people with whom he’ll be required to stop and talk to, exchange pleasantries, accept compliments, or make small talk about people they might know in common.
"Hi," Marigold says breathlessly, appearing at Cobb's elbow. She looks stunning with her hair twisted up and off her face, and she’s wearing a black dress with pinpoints of white polkadots sprinkled all over it, and a pair of black sandals with a small heel. "Sorry I didn't wake you, but I thought the nap was important.”
"Marigold," Cobb says, placing a hand over hers as she loops it through his elbow. "This is Robert Lupone. Robert, Marigold Pim."
“Ah, the one who got away," Robert says with a fatherly wink. He's got to be close to seventy, which doesn't actually make him old enough to be Cobb's father, but there's something about him thatfeelsthat way. Robert’s eyes are wise and intelligent, and for once Cobb doesn’t have the urge to wrap up a conversation and move on.
"So you know that we were married," Cobb says, not sure if he feels flattered that a stranger knows this much about him, or worried that he's just shaken hands with a man who thinks he's an idiot for letting a woman like Marigold get away. (Although he is well aware that heisan idiot for letting a woman like Marigold get away.)
"Certainly, sir. I'm a great follower of popular culture, as well as music, art, and all things scientific," Robert says, shaking his glass of bourbon and making the ice cubes rattle. "A man needs to have a variety of interests to make life worth living, you know."
Cobb nods and looks around. The other men who look like Robert are standing in small groups. Some are chatting with the women from Shipwreck Key. Heather is standing particularly close to a tall man with a shock of white hair and a deep tan, her hand resting on his arm as he talks. Banks is posted at the side of the room, and he sticks out like a sore thumb, given that he’s alone and not holding a drink or anything. After taking in the rest of the Shipwreck Key crew, Cobb’s lips quirk in a smile and he looks back at Robert.
"I'm sorry, what is it that you do?" Cobb asks, though not rudely.
Robert clears his throat. "My colleagues and I are all members of an organization that likes to gather occasionally to distribute funds to worthy causes. We're philanthropists, if you will."
Holly's words on Main Street earlier that day come back to Cobb. "Are you all members of The Seven Society?” Cobb isn’t even sure what that is, though he's already intrigued by the idea of a secret society. What man worth his weight in goldwouldn’twant to belong to some sort of secret group of other men? One that perhaps has a top secret handshake, a motto, or maybe a jacket that one only gets after joining? It’s like every teenage boy’s dream come true, being a part of an exclusive clubhouse or gang.
Robert laughs harder than he needs to. "Oh, what a vivid imagination, Mr. Hartley. That must be what fuels your creative fire."
"No," Cobb says, skimming the room for Holly so that he can point her out. "Someone told us earlier that--"
Marigold squeezes his arm. "My husband just woke up from a long nap. He hasn't been feeling like himself lately, so please excuse us. So nice to meet you." Marigold steers Cobb away and towards the bar. "Let's get you a club soda," she says in a low, soothing voice. "I found out that this society is top secret, so none of us are supposed to know."
“Well, they're not doing a great job of keeping it under wraps if we all know about it," Cobb is grumpy and for the first time in a long time he wishes that he could order a real drink. He’s not seriously tempted to break his long sobriety, but there is something manly about ordering a bourbon and joining the other guys for a drink, and he misses that. ”How was I supposed to know?"
"It's fine," Marigold reassures him, stepping up to the bar. "I'll take a glass of champagne, please," she says. "And a club soda."
The man behind the bar looks up at Cobb and starts to pour the drinks, but then does a double-take. "Cobb Hartley! I'll be damned!" He steps out from behind the bar and offers Cobb a hearty handshake. "I'm honored. Truly. Name is Joe Sacamano, and we played together once at the Hollywood Bowl."
"We did?" Cobb suddenly feels like he’s on the set of an improv play, and the one thing he doesn’t like is feeling caught off-guard. He should have stayed upstairs in his room and skipped dinner altogether. Nearly everything that's happened so far since he came down to the ballroom has felt jarring and lopsided.
"I was playing guitar with The Eagles for a few shows,” Joe Sacamano says, “and you were there performing after you did that album with all the guest stars."
“Oh." Recognition dawns on Cobb. "Idoremember that. Mid-nineties?"
"Would have been mid-nineties for sure,” Joe says, nodding and wiping his hands on the black apron he's wearing over his black shorts. "I think I was on wife number two and kid number five. Sounds about right." He smiles, and a pair of eyes so light and blue twinkle from beneath a pair of white eyebrows that Cobb feels like he’s looking into the Aegean Sea. Joe Sacamano is incredibly handsome for a man in his seventies, and his silvered hair and deep tan make him look like he's lived on an island bathed in sunlight for his entire life. "I retired down here not long after that, and now I run a bar on the beach--you should drop by while you're here on Christmas Key. I take out my guitar every so often and give unsolicited concerts to the locals, whether they like it or not. I’d love to jam with you, if you're up for it."
“Yeah." Cobb nods as he slowly warms to the idea of being at a beach bar, strumming his guitar alongside a fellow musician. It sounds chill. Relaxing. "I could do that."
"Right on. Let me get you the champagne and club soda, friends," Joe says, stepping back behind the bar and making their orders in seconds. "Hope to see you again." Joe offers Cobb another handshake, and then Marigold leads him to a table that's covered by an ivory cloth with candles and little bits of glitter and confetti sprinkled all over it.
"Happy New Year.” Marigold holds her champagne up to clink against Cobb's club soda as they sit down. "Thanks for letting me drag you out on a boat to spend the night on an island that looks like Santa's tropical paradise." She smiles at him and he can see by the light from the candles that her cheeks are flushed and pink with happiness. Cobb hopes desperately that he’s the source of at leastsomeof that happiness.
"There's nowhere else I'd rather be," Cobb says, clinking his glass against hers. "Though, if you would have asked me two months ago, I never would have dreamed that I'd be spending New Year's Eve on an island with you." He laughs. "But it is beautiful here—at least what I've seen of it."
Much to his surprise, Marigold's eyes fill with tears and she reaches over and laces her fingers through his. “I’m really happy to be the one to look after you while you get back on your feet," she says softly, leaning into him so that he can hear her over the jazzy Christmas music. All around them, people are taking their seats at the tables.
"Well," Cobb laughs. "My sister didn't want me, so I'm afraid you kind of won by default, sweetheart.”
"I could have said no." Marigold looks at him over the rim of her champagne glass. "No one forced me."
