The Book of Fate

13

Hunched forward in a big wicker armchair, I stir my coffee with a silver spoon and watch my reflection swirl into oblivion.

“Is it really that bad?” a voice teases behind me.

I turn just in time to see Dreidel enter the hotel’s open-air restaurant. His black hair is gelled and parted. The boyish bangs are long gone. Combined with his monogrammed white shirt and antique wire-rim glasses, it’s clear he’s mastered the art of sending a message without saying a word. Right now he’s selling confidence. Too bad I’m not buying.

Ignoring the foamy waves of the Atlantic Ocean on our left, he puts a hand on my shoulder and crosses around to the oversize wicker seat next to me. As he moves, his hand runs from my shoulder to the back of my neck, always holding tight enough to reassure.

“Don’t use his moves on me,” I warn.

“What’re you—?”

“His moves,” I repeat, pulling away so his hand’s no longer on my neck.

“You think I’m—? You think I’d pull a Manning on you?”

Dreidel was with him for almost four years. I’m going on nine. I don’t even bother to argue. I just stare back down at my overpriced, still-swirling coffee and let the silence sink in. This is why the in crowd turns on him.

“Wes, what you saw up there—”

“Listen, before you say it, can we just spare ourselves the awkwardness and move on? My bad… my fault… clearly none of my business.”

He studies me carefully, picking apart every syllable and trying to figure out if I mean it. When you shadow a President, you become fluent in reading between the lines. I’m good. Dreidel’s better.

“Just say it already, Wes.”

I stare out across the open terrace and watch the waves kamikaze into the beach.

“I know you’re thinking it,” he adds.

Like I said, Dreidel’s better. “Does Ellen know?” I finally ask, referring to his wife.

“She should. She’s not stupid.” His voice creaks like a renegade floorboard. “And when Ali was born… marriage is hard, Wes.”

“So that girl up there…”

“Just someone I met at the bar. I flashed my room key. She thinks I’m rich because I can afford to stay here.” He forces a grin and tosses his room key on the table. “I didn’t realize you had so many money addicts in Palm Beach.”

This time, I’m the one who’s silent. A waiter approaches and fills Dreidel’s cup with coffee.

“You guys talked about divorce?” I ask.

“Can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Why do you think?” he challenges.

I look over at the file folder that’s lying between us on the table. The handwritten tab says Fundraising.

“I thought you said you were down here on business.”

“And that’s not business?” he asks.

A few months back, Dreidel called the President to tell him he was running for State Senate in the 19th District in his home state of Illinois. But when it comes to impending elections, “happily married father” polls far better than “recently divorced dad.”

“See, and you thought you were the only one with problems,” Dreidel adds. “Now assuming that was Boyle, you want to hear how he cheated death, or not?”