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Cobb appreciates her saying this, though he knows that he's staying in her house only through a combination of her innate kindness, her promise to him years ago when he'd first overdosed, and possibly because of their unfinished business. But he plans to be as easy as he can for Marigold. To cause her no more trouble, and no concern. To make sure that she doesn’t ever regret bringing him back to Shipwreck Key and helping him to recover.
"Still," he says, holding onto her delicate fingers as she leaves them intertwined with his. "Thanks, Goldie. Thank you for being you."
There's the clink of a knife against a glass as the music is turned down low, and they all search the room for the source of the sound. It's Holly, the pretty young mayor, dressed in a white dress and pearl earrings, and she's standing at one of the tables holding a glass in one hand.
"Thank you to all of you for joining us here on Christmas Key as we ring in a new year," she says, raising her voice to be heard. At her table, a handsome man with thick, black hair and disarming dimples holds Stella in his lap as he watches Holly with eyes full of love, and a few people who Cobb assumes must be locals sit with them. "I know we're a merry bunch of misfits--"
"And a motley crew, at that," one of the men from The Seven Society (or whatever secret organization they truly belong to) pipes up. Everyone else in the room chuckles politely.
"But I like to believe that we all ended up here tonight for a reason, whether it’s simply to share the sense of togetherness that’s so important during the holiday season, or because we need to make important connections with one another. Either way, I’m thrilled to see you all here, and I wish you nothing but health, happiness, and prosperity in the year to come!”
“Hear, hear!” everyone shouts, lifting their glasses with Holly. At each round table, people clink their glasses together and drink, and the happy sounds of conversation pick up all around them again as dinner is served.
“So, Cobb,” says one of the secret society men. He’s seated to Cobb’s right, and is wearing a blazer with a pastel plaid pocket square over a baby pink golf shirt. His hair is thick and wavy. He has a gold signet pinky ring on one hand, and a wedding band on the other. “Tell me a bit about yourself.”
Cobb chugs his club soda thirstily. “Well, I’m a musician,” he says, trying not to assume that this man knows anything about him. “Lately I’ve been spending some time in the English countryside, and working on new music. How about you…”
“Chuck,” the man supplies for him, giving Cobb an indulgent smile. “And I really meant, tell me about your inner life. Is it strong? Are you mentally driven? I mean, a man who has achieved your station in life would have to be, but have you lost that fire, or is it still in you?” Chuck’s eyes hold Cobb’s with an intensity that Cobb isn’t used to. Making chit-chat with strangers is generally a surface affair, but Chuck seems ready to dive into the deep end, and for some reason, this feels better than talking about the weather.
“My inner life?” Cobb replies. “Well, I like to think I’ve still got a fire in me. No man wants to imagine that he doesn’t, right?”
Cobb stops talking and considers this; after his surgery, he’d woken up with lyrics and music in his head again, and it has been a number of years since he’s felt that particular drive to create. To get something inside of him out and into the world. For so long he’d focused only on getting sober, staying sober, and on really looking deeply into his heart to see who he was as a man, that he’d let his creative side flag a bit. But he’s determined not to let that happen again.
Chuck gives him a long look as he picks up his knife and fork. “Never met a man who was willing to admit that he’d thrown in the towel,” Chuck says as he slices into an asparagus stalk. “And I hear you know something about our little organization.” This feels like it might be a trick question, so Cobb waits to hear what Chuck will say next. He leans in closer to Cobb like they’re co-conspirators. “We always meet under the guise of being just a group of old geezers who were once in a fraternity together at the University of Virginia, but that’s not entirely true, as you’ve gathered.”
“Sure, I gathered as much,” Cobb says, picking up his napkin and spreading it over his lap as a server sets a plate of prime rib in front of him.
“There’s a lot to be said for spending time with a group of like-minded individuals, Mr. Hartley. We bounce ideas off one another, we encourage each other to reach our goals, and, perhaps most importantly, we work together in tandem to direct our charitable funding in the right directions. Giving of oneself and one’s resources is an important cog in the wheel of a full life.”
“Sounds like a positive endeavor,” Cobb says, nodding as he listens. And it does. He’s never really had a group of men in his life to talk to about real stuff. Over the years he’s certainly known plenty of musicians, and some he would even call great friends, but there’s a different vibe between creative people, and most of the ideas that you bounce off one another tend to be somehow related to music or art. There’s a bit of drama thrown in, and generally some drugs or alcohol, in his experience. But he’d like to believe that he might find that kind of camaraderie in his life, and that he could live with that kind of intention. “And is that why you’re gathered here on Christmas Key?” he asks, cutting off a bite of prime rib.
“It is indeed,” Chuck says, smiling beneath his perfectly groomed mustache. “We like to meet right before the new year to decide which directions our funding will flow for the next twelve months. Now,” Chuck says, leaning in even closer to Cobb and speaking so quietly that no one else at their table can hear him. “Generally speaking, no one knows when a man is a member of The Seven Society until after he dies. At that point, a 7 made of black flowers appears on his grave, and then he’s acknowledged posthumously as a member of our great club. It’s all very clandestine,” Chuck says with mirth and mischief in his eyes. He picks up his wine glass and swirls the burgundy liquid around. “I’m letting you in on our little secret and entrusting you with it because I sense that you’re a man of integrity, but also a man who is searching for his own purpose.”
Cobb considers this as he glances at Marigold, who is seated to his left. She’s turned in her seat and is deep in conversation with Sunday Bond and a man with a white ponytail and a gold hoop earring who can’t be a day under seventy-five. For a moment, Cobb envisions himself as a different kind of man, a man who’d gone to college, who’d chosen a life of the mind rather than a life trying to satiate the passions of the heart. What if he’d been a Cambridge man? Someone who toted a dog-eared Proust around in a worn-in leather satchel? A man who wore tweed blazers unironically and dedicated the last decades of his life to philanthropy and deep discussions?
“Find your purpose, Mr. Hartley,” Chuck says indignantly, tapping the tip of his forefinger against the tabletop. “Whatever it is, declare it, and then pursue it with your whole heart. It will invigorate you, give clarity to your life, and—I would even venture to say—bolster your creativity. Just don’t wait until it’s too late,” he adds, forking a bite of vegetables. “Don’t wait until some secret club finally claims you as its member when you’re already cold in the ground.”
Cobb nods thoughtfully, as if the idea of being cold in the ground doesn’t terrify him to his core, but he knows that Chuck has a good point. He does have something that he needs to aim for, and while it has nothing to do with giving away his money to worthwhile causes, it will undoubtedly give clarity and focus to his life.
Though he watches her laugh and talk to their table companions, her face animated and happy, it isn’t until after dinner is over that Cobb gets Marigold alone. He’s convinced her to stroll with him down Main Street, to wander beneath the garlands of greenery and holiday lights that are strung from one side of the street to the other. It feels good to be out in the night air after the merriment and conversation of the ballroom, and Cobb looks up at the sky as they walk, surprised once again by how clear the stars are in the middle of the Gulf of Mexico. He has to go far away from London to really see the night sky, and it’s been years since he’s felt this pleasantly removed from everyone and everything he knows.
They hit the beach next to the dock and stop at the base of a palm tree that’s wound from ground to fronds in colorful lights; it feels like standing beneath a Christmas tree.
“This is pretty magical,” Cobb says. He has his hands tucked into the pockets of his linen pants as they watch the water lapping on the shore. Cobb turns his head just slightly, admiring the profile of his gorgeous ex-wife as the water dances beneath the light of the moon. Chuck’s words have been playing through Cobb’s mind since dinner, and he knows now that he’s landed on his true purpose, and that the time to pursue it has come.
“When Ruby suggested coming here, I knew we needed to be on that boat.” Marigold turns to him with a smile. “After you’re all better and you’re back home in the U.K., I want you to have some good memories to call on. I want you to look back at Christmas and New Year’s and think of the little bright spots of joy we found together—us, and Elijah. It’s felt good to have you both here for the holidays.”
The sound of his son’s name makes Cobb smile. “I’ve loved spending time with the two of you,” he admits, looking down at the sand. “But Goldie, I don’t need for you to manufacture happy moments for me. It kind of makes me feel like I’m just starting rehab, and you want to make sure I have some positive things to think about so that I don’t relapse. And I’m nowhere near that. I get that once you’re an addict, you’re always an addict, but I’m not on the verge of slipping or giving up. Not even close.”
“Oh, Cobb.” She throws her arms around his shoulders and hugs him close. “No. I don’t think of you like that. You’ve come so far, and Elijah and I are both really proud of you.”
Cobb reaches up and puts his hands on her arms as she holds him. “Okay, good. I just don’t want to be coddled, you know? I’m sure of a lot of things in my life, Goldie, and I have a lot of confidence in myself.” He looks out at the water as she watches him. “I’m sure about making a full recovery, and I’m sure about the music that I’ve been hearing in my head lately—I really think I can turn it into something good.”
“Iknowyou can,” she says without hesitation. “I have always believed in your music wholeheartedly.”
“I believe that Elijah is a good and strong kid, and that we’ve raised him to be successful and kind and independent. I couldn’t be more proud of him.”
“I feel the same way.”
