“Hello?”
There was a hesitation. “Is this Mr. Fletcher?”
“Is this Mr. Fletcher, too?” Fletch answered.
There was another pause. “My name’s Carr. I’m a friend of your father’s. Are you all up there?”
“All who?” Fletch asked. “Up where?”
“Is your father with you? With you and your wife, in your room?”
“I haven’t seen him,” Fletch said. “Ever.”
“Oh. He told me we’d all meet here, on Lord Delamere’s Terrace. For a drink. Rather think the old boy wanted me along for moral support, don’t you know. I understand the situation. Father and son meeting for the first time.”
Barbara was in the shower.
“More than I do, I expect.”
Fletch had opened the knapsacks, gotten his shaving kit out.
“Well, I’ve got a table on the terrace. He’ll turn up.”
Slanted along the wall, propped against the windows, were the two pairs of snow skis. Outside the window, brilliant flowers were everywhere.
“I’ll come down,” Fletch said. “How will I know you?”
“Well, we’ll be two proper-looking gentlemen, I trust, with drinks in front of our faces, all eyes on the front door of the hotel.”
Fletch chuckled. “Okay. But I’ll be a few minutes. We’ve spent the last several months on airplanes and you won’t want to recognize me if I don’t shave and shower.”
“Right,” Carr said. “We’ll look for someone clean.”
“Did I hear the phone?” Barbara came out of the bathroom. Her head and torso were wrapped in towels.
“Yes.” Shirt off, Fletch was going into the bathroom with his shaving kit.
“Was it your father?”
“No.”
“Was it the police?”
“Why would it be? A friend of my father’s, someone I guess my father wants present at the meeting for moral support. They’ll be waiting for us downstairs on that veranda.”
“Why didn’t your father make the call?”
“He’s not here yet. Barbara!”
“Yes, darling?”
“If we’re to be married—”
“We were married. We are married.”
“— either I’ll have to grow a beard or be able to see in the mirror so I can shave.”
“You told me I had first dibs on the shower.”
“Why steam up the room? Why shower with the door closed?” There was a phone extension in the bathroom. “What century do you belong to, anyway? Why ever shower with the door closed?”
“The air’s very dry here. See?” She reached her hand into the bathroom, closed her fingers, and threw the steam out. “All gone.”
“I look lousy,” he said, shaving.
“Yes,” she said solemnly. “I was trying to spare you that view of yourself.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
“How do you feel?”
“I’m no more jet-lagged than you are. Well live through the day.”
“I can go down and say you’re sick. You can meet these … your father, tomorrow.”
“Why do that?”
“One shock to your system at a time. Isn’t that what Aristotle said?”
“Aristotle said, The roast lamb is very good today.”
“You’re so contemporary.”
When he came out of the shower, Barbara was still in her towels but there were clothes all over the room. Ski clothes. Sweaters. Ski boots. Ski goggles. Gloves. A kit of ski wax.
Barbara looked perplexed.
“Where are my clothes?” Fletch asked.
“In the laundry.”
“What laundry?”
“A man came to the door and said he wanted clothes for the laundry so I gave him yours.”
“Very generous of you.”
“Mine, too. Everything we were wearing on the plane.”
“Do I have any other clothes? I mean, to wear?”
“No,” she said. “Neither do I. Apparently not.” She waved her hand around the room. “Ski clothes.”
“Not even jeans?”
“I told Alston I wasn’t going to see you in jeans on our honeymoon. Or sneakers. Just ski clothes.”
He sat on the edge of the bed. Feet still on the floor, he lowered his back onto the bed. He was completely surrounded by ski clothes.
“You are still wet,” she said.
“I won’t catch cold.”
She took off her torso towel. She wiped him down lightly, just once, from his shoulders to his ankles.
“You missed the soles of my feet.”
“Raise your legs,” she said. “Seeing everything else is up.”
She knelt. He put his knees over her shoulders.
“Maypole,” she said. “Flagpole. Tower of London.” She was waving it back and forth. “There’s nothing quite like it. Rigid, yet flexible.”
“Millions of things just like it, so I hear.”
“This is the one I’ve got ahold of.”
“Right. That’s the one.”
“What will I do with it?” she asked.
“As you will. I can always grow another.”
“Mmmmmm.”
“My father …”
“My sneakers?” he asked.
“I gave them to the laundry man. I doubt you’ll get them back.”
Fletch stood in the middle of the room, dripping from a second shower.
“They’ll be crocked by now.” She was lying on some ski clothes on the floor, still looking at the ceiling.
“Who?”
“Your father and his friend. They’ll be relaxed. You’re relaxed.”
“I figured he could wait.”
Barbara rolled on her side and put her head on the palm of her hand. She bent one knee. “You look much better now. Your color has come back.”
“Barbara, I have to meet my father, for first the time, dressed in ski clothes, in equatorial Africa. Powder blue or rich yellow?”
“Wear your blue. It’s sort of a formal occasion.”
“Ski boots!”
“Am I coming downstairs with you?”
“What do you think?”
“I think I could try to call my mother. She must be worried silly. I was supposed call her—how many days ago?—from Colorado!”
“Maybe I should meet him first myself. No distractions.”
“No moral support?”
“My morals don’t need support.” He was pulling on nylon, formfitting, powder-blue ski pants.
“She’s probably been bothering the airlines, the police, hospitals, the ski lodge. She must be frantic.”
“I’m sorry. I should have asked Alston to call her.”
“What sense would he have made? ‘Hello, Mrs. Ralton. Fletch took your daughter to Africa. Said something about the white slave trade.’” She rolled onto her back. “Oh, God. What am going to say? ‘Hi, Mom. The snow here is not all that great for skiing. We’re in Africa.’”
“Is one of these sweaters at least lightweight?”
“Wear the red one.”
“It looks hot.”
“Roll up the sleeves. ‘We missed doing what we said we were going to do by two whole continents and one huge ocean!’”
“Just tell her you’re all right.”
Keeping her legs straight, she raised them off the floor and held them, tightening her stomach muscles. “You’re not going to talk to the police?”
He was stomping into his ski boots. “One thing at a time. As you just said.”
“‘Hey, Mom! You know those aquamarine shorts of mine? Could you send them to Nairobi?’ How’s that for starters?”
“Sounds good.” He clicked his boots shut and knelt on the floor. He leaned over and kissed Barbara.
She ran her hand along the inside of his leg. “Ummm. You feel good, even with pants on.”
“The customs official thought they felt good, too.”
“Strange customs.”
At the door, he said, “You’ll come down in a while?”
She rolled onto her stomach. “Sure. What did I say?”
“‘Don’t be disappointed’?”
She winked at him. “You got it, babe.”