The Tie

Shelby called on a morning when Clara was trying to catch three supervisors before they left for three different meetings.

The number belonged to the hotel.

Clara answered with a folder trapped beneath her chin.

"Owen? Did the printer—"

"It's me."

She nearly dropped the folder.

"Shelby. Sorry. I'm at work. Is everything all right?"

"I was going to ask you that."

A door opened at the end of the corridor.

Clara lifted a hand toward the man coming out.

"Mr. Ellis, one second. Please."

Shelby said, "Where are you living now?"

"I'll call you later."

"You never call."

"I know. I'm sorry. I have to get this signed before—"

"Clara."

"I'll call."

She hung up, ran down the corridor, and caught the supervisor with one foot already in the stairwell.

By the time she got back to her desk, the phone was ringing again.

She forgot to call Shelby.

***

Three days later, Damian stayed until morning.

Clara knew because she woke pinned beneath the weight of a man's arm.

For one second she went rigid.

Then she heard him breathing near her shoulder, slow and deep, and recognized the warmth before she let herself recognize anything else.

"Damian."

He didn't move.

"Your arm."

"What about it?"

"It's attached to a very heavy man."

His hand flexed against the blanket.

"I'll have a word with him."

She drove her elbow back.

He laughed and rolled away before it landed properly.

She sat up, hair falling over her face.

"There are approximately four hundred rooms in this hotel."

"Most of them have guests."

"You own it."

"Exactly. Terrible business to throw out paying customers."

She stared at him.

He lay on his back, one forearm beneath his head, looking much too comfortable. He had worn a T-shirt to bed. It did nothing useful to disguise the width of his chest.

"Don't look at me like that," he said.

"Like what?"

"Like you're thinking about committing a crime."

"I'm thinking about where to hide the body."

"Use the service elevator. Fewer witnesses."

She grabbed a pillow and hit him.

He caught it, caught her wrist, then released both when she made a sharp sound of protest.

For a moment they were very close.

Close enough for her to see that his eyes weren't black after all. Dark brown, almost gold where the morning light touched them.

His smile softened.

Clara pulled away first.

"I have work."

"You've got an hour."

"Some of us need time to look respectable."

"You do all right."

She refused to be pleased and went into the bathroom.

He stayed outside the door while she washed her face.

"I'm going away for a few days."

Clara looked up at the mirror.

"Where?"

"Westbridge first. Then a couple of meetings farther east."

"Business?"

"What else?"

She rinsed the soap from her hands.

"I never know with you."

He said nothing for a moment.

When he spoke again, his voice was lighter.

"I've got something to bring back."

"What?"

"You'll see."

"People who say that are very annoying."

"You'll have to put up with me."

She reached for a towel.

"Apparently."

In the mirror, he smiled.

***

Clara had arranged his clothes by color, then weight, then how often he wore them.

It had happened gradually. A shirt left on a chair. A tie on the desk. A jacket in its dry-cleaning cover.

Damian opened the cupboard and stopped.

His watches occupied one shallow tray. The ties were rolled in another.

He touched the edge of a folded handkerchief.

She had made a place for him among her things without ever agreeing that he belonged there.

For now, he would take it.

He dressed carefully: charcoal trousers, white shirt, dark jacket. The tie defeated him on the first attempt, and again on the second.

Clara emerged carrying her handbag.

"You look as though you're being strangled."

"Helpful."

He loosened the knot and let the ends hang.

"Do it for me."

She looked at the tie, then at him.

"I don't know how."

He raised an eyebrow.

"Never did Julian's?"

Her face changed.

He regretted it immediately.

She put her handbag on the desk.

"Ask somebody else."

A knock saved him from trying to repair it badly.

Owen and Vince came in, both dressed for travel. Owen carried a briefcase. Vince held a set of car keys and wore a tie so neat it looked suspicious.

Damian noticed it.

"Who did yours?"

"Owen."

Owen put down the briefcase.

"I can do it."

"Don't bother."

Damian pulled the tie from his neck.

Clara watched him fold it once, too sharply.

It was such a small thing. A man who could arrange rooms and send people across a city couldn't make six inches of silk behave.

She held out her hand.

"Give it here."

He looked at her.

"Now," she said, before she could reconsider.

He handed it over.

She stepped close and lifted his collar.

The room went noticeably quiet.

"Stop staring," she said.

Vince looked at the ceiling.

"I meant him."

Damian lowered his eyes to her hands.

Her fingers moved over the silk with practiced certainty. He tried not to think about where she had learned it.

He tried harder to remember that she was doing it for him now.

Clara drew the knot up, smoothed the narrow strip beneath it, and checked the length.

"There."

"Show me again."

She looked up.

For once, he wasn't teasing.

She undid it.

"Watch. Wide end over. Under. Through here."

He followed as best he could.

"Too fast," he said.

She smiled despite herself.

"You're hopeless."

"We've established that. Again."

She slowed down.

When she finished, she tugged the knot straight and flattened his collar with both hands.

He couldn't remember the last time he had stood still while somebody took this much care over him.

At the doorway, wheels rattled softly against the threshold.

Shelby stood behind the breakfast cart.

Her eyes rested on Clara's hands against Damian's chest.

Then she smiled.

"They were short of somebody upstairs. I offered to bring it."

Clara stepped back.

"I meant to call you."

"You were busy."

"Very."

Shelby began setting out plates.

Eggs, toast, pastries, three bowls of beef and noodles for the men. A small pot of coffee stood on a warmer beside the milk.

Clara looked at it.

"That's new."

"The machine downstairs," Damian said. "Try it."

She took a careful sip.

Fresh coffee. Properly made. Hot enough to wake her up.

She looked at him over the cup.

"It's good."

His expression eased.

"Good."

"You bought a machine because I complained about the instant stuff?"

"Other people drink coffee."

Owen looked at Vince.

Neither said anything.

Clara smiled into her cup.

They ate together around the low table. Damian slid his bowl toward her when he caught her looking at it.

"Try it."

"I only want a bite."

"Then take a bite."

She did, using the clean fork Owen passed her. Damian took the bowl back afterward and ate without comment.

Shelby stood holding the empty tray.

Clara noticed and shifted her plate.

"Sit down. Have something."

"I should get back."

"There's time," Owen said politely.

Shelby sat at the end of the sofa and took a slice of toast.

Clara wanted to talk to her properly, but the clock on the desk was moving too quickly. She still had to collect a report from the printer downstairs.

She wrapped a pastry in a napkin and put it in her bag.

Damian watched.

"Next time, ask them for a box."

"It's one pastry."

"You're getting butter on your paperwork."

She checked, offended to discover he was right.

Vince laughed into his bowl.

For a moment the room felt easy. Almost like a kitchen with people coming and going, arguing over breakfast because nobody was afraid there wouldn't be another one tomorrow.

Clara let herself enjoy it.

Then she stood.

"I really do have to go."

Damian picked up his jacket.

"Vince will take you."

"You're leaving too?"

"Right after."

She looked at the tie she had knotted.

"Don't undo it until you've got somebody who can fix it."

His mouth curved.

"I'll manage."

At the door, Shelby caught up with her.

"Audrey's back."

Clara turned so quickly her bag struck the frame.

"What? Since when?"

"A few days."

"She didn't call me."

"She's been tired."

Clara searched her cousin's face.

"Is she all right?"

"She's pregnant."

The word stopped everything else.

Shelby lowered her voice.

"Mom wants us to go over for dinner. A family thing. Make a fresh start."

Behind them, Damian asked Owen for the documents for his trip.

Clara could hear papers sliding into a case, Vince moving toward the elevator, the ordinary sounds of people preparing to leave.

She reached for her phone.

Audrey's last message was still there, sent from Chicago: Made it. Thank you. Please don't worry.

Clara called her.

It rang until voicemail answered.