The Ramblers by Aidan Donnelley Rowley Page B

New York . She read carefully but quickly, and when she got to the final page, the part he’d underlined about the beleaguered willow tree . . . Life under difficulties, growth against odds, sap-rise in the midst of concrete . . . she felt tears filling her eyes.
    When she closed the book, a scrap of paper fell out and floated to the floor, a scrap of paper she’s saved. You might just be my thing. —HK.
    Goodness, he liked her. Even then. From the very beginning. Enough to call his brother. Enough to write a love note. Last night was not good, there’s no way to make it good now, but they will talk about it like they have talked about nearly everything and move on; she will make it right. Determined, Clio picks up her pace.
    At the entrance of the hotel, she pauses and peers inside. Through the glass, she beholds a new scene: a hum of activity, vitality, life, the first guests.
    She walks inside. The concierge greets her warmly. “Welcome back, Ms. Marsh. He’s in the garden,” he says.
    Nerves come as she walks past a boisterous crowd gathered at the elevator bank, toward the glass door to the courtyard. She grabs the handle and pushes her way out.
    Henry is sitting on a bench and turns toward her. A tired smile overtakes his face, but there is distance in his eyes. Things are different now.
    â€œI needed some air,” Henry says, standing. “I’ve been a disaster all day.”
    â€œMe too,” she says, nodding.
    He wears his favorite ivory cable Aran sweater, his heather-gray Irish flat cap, an old pair of Levi’s. He hesitates for a moment but then comes straight at her, eyes steady and tired, and wraps his whole body around her. He lifts her up, carries her to the bench and holds her on his lap. She stares up at the white sky.
    A fleck of cold brings her back to the moment.
    â€œSnow,” Henry says. “I have a thing for snow.”
    â€œI didn’t know that,” she says.
    â€œNow you do.”
    With the two of them, there’s been little silence. All those years, both of them alone, saving up stories. They’ve packed their time together with words. But here and now: silence. Clio wants to believe that there’s something peaceful about this snowy quiet.
    â€œCome on,” he says. “Let’s head up.”
    They ride up in the small elevator with an older couple who’s just checked in. Henry shifts into work mode, turning on the charm, welcoming them to his hotel, but Clio hangs back and takes in the rich detail of the tiny space. The wallpaper—made of recycled strips of old New York Times . The lantern that once hung in the Algonquin Hotel, where E. B. White wrote Here Is New York; the round vintage buttons with numbers in an antique font. The red light of the ceiling camera reminds her of his words last night: People will see us. The memory arouses her, fills her with warmth. All she wants is for everything to be fine, to fast-forward through the hard parts. All she wants is to kiss him, to feel his weight on top of her again.
    When Henry opens the door to his room, Clio sees something that both saddens her and makes perfect sense: the bookshelf is back in its place. The door is hidden once more, gone, as if it were all a dream. Empty room service platters rest on the bed. Newspapers are strewn everywhere. Clio drops her bag to the carpet, takes a deep breath.
    Henry unzips her jacket, peels it from her and marches it to the closet, where he hangs it.
    â€œWhat happened last night?” he says, nibbling his nail, pulling her to sit beside him on the bed. “You scared me running off like that. Tell me about these panic attacks. What do they feel like? Why do they happen?”
    His questions are fair. Straightforward. She’s answered them before.
    â€œHave you ever had one?” she asks.
    He shakes his head. This does not surprise her. He’s not wired that way.
    â€œThey’re so awful, Henry. You feel