Chapter Text
The annual New Year’s Eve black-tie charity masquerade is the event of the season, one which Zander had assiduously managed to avoid for the last two years running. It’s not his fault, he’d explained to his more-than-a-little-appalled mother and sister, that work had taken him to Shanghai one year, Barcelona the next. Certainly, the expectation had been there for him to follow in the well-trodden path of his forebears, into the ready-made occupation of real estate tycoon, third generation, and he had certainly made waves in the hallowed circles of the Ainsley-Hart connection when he’d decided, much to everyone’s horror, to enter the completely undignified and plebeian world of International Travel Blogging instead. That he was quite successful made little difference to his parents-- the outrageous occupation was not spoken of in any of their gatherings, and it was his mother’s dearest pet project to dragoon Zander into as many acceptable social functions as she possibly could whenever he was within a fifty-mile radius of their ancestral Park Avenue penthouse.
“Alexander, I have already RSVP’ed for you. Your sister has found a costume-- quite charming, really, in a beautiful shade of green which will bring out your eyes-- and there is more than enough room in the limo for you as well as a plus-one if you were to bring one. Someone reasonable, mind. This is a black-tie affair and I do not intend for some uncouth young hussy of an upstart to show up and ruin all of our reputations.” Caroline Ainsley-Hart, still resplendent at fifty-don’t-you-dare-ask, adjusts the cuffs of her butter-yellow cashmere sweater with her graceful, manicured fingers. She’d been lovely in her youth, and was still a very attractive woman, though she paid an exclusive colourist ungodly amounts of money every month to keep her sleek bob of hair the same burnished gold that it had been twenty years ago. Her eyes are the same sharp, lethal green as her son’s, and now stare at Zander as though daring him to mount a protest. “We have all missed many holidays together as a family, dear. It’s past time for you to spend some time with us, don’t you think?”
“I think I’m being voluntold to do something that’s going to bore the crap out of me, but I’ll put up with it for a few hours for you and Mina,” Zander says dryly. “I don’t know if I trust whatever get-up she selected for me, though. She definitely went through a godawful frilly phase as a teenager.”
“It’s quite tasteful, I promise you. A designer exclusive, and there are real peacock feathers on the mask. You will look quite dapper with those blues and greens and your colouring. Like a Venetian nobleman, I daresay.”
“I’ve been to Venice in the last six months, Ma, and I promise you that in the six days that I stayed there, not a single peacock feather was worn by anyone.”
His mother shoots him one long glance, then looks away, signifying the end of the conversation as far as she was concerned. “This year’s charity is certainly worth our while. You should be pleased to take part in such a good cause.”
“What, ban plastic straws to save the turtles? One million Facebook likes gives this man a new kidney?” Zander knows that he sounds cynical, but he can’t quite help himself. “Does the crowd that our family associates with even know what are some real problems out there? They’re kind of a sheltered bunch who’ve lived in a rarefied bubble for all their lives. Have any of them ever even met someone who’d lived to adulthood in a household without clean water, or access to healthcare for their kids and elders? Or visited a third world country war zone?”
“We do what we can, Alexander. And you throwing tantrums about the gala will not change the fact that you will make an appearance. Your father, Romina and I are counting on you to complete the family unit. Shall I arrange for our limo to stop by your hotel at half-past six? Dinner starts at seven.”
He’d never hear the end of it if he skipped out altogether, but he’d be damned if he had to endure a limo ride to the event during which one hundred percent of the time would be spent grilling him about whether he’d had enough of playing journalist and was ready to start a ‘real’ job in the family business. He couldn’t even count on Mina to run interference-- his baby sister had a heart of gold, but despite her somewhat sassy mouth and long list of casual A-lister boyfriends, was too generally well-behaved and uncontroversial to engage the ire of the elder Ainsley-Harts. “No, thanks. You guys head on over without me. I have to finish a post before I head over there if I want to keep my sponsorships.” At Caroline’s raised eyebrow, Zander rolls his eyes, holds out both hands. “I’ll get there by nine at the latest, I promise. You can send the NYPD, NSA, FBI, CIA, and Great-Aunt Geraldine after me if I’m not.”
**
Zander, as per his promise, arrives at five minutes past nine o’clock, well after whatever shill peddling whatever charity had already said their schpiel, and the silent auction part of the evening-- featuring such posh prizes as an all-expenses-paid spa day for two, tickets to see a Broadway show, an array of designer goods ranging from handbags to jewelry, dinner and drinks at a hot new restaurant in town, antique furniture and high-end appliances and electronics-- is under way. The ballroom is opulently decorated and all the people attending the event are lavishly dressed. Peacock feathers notwithstanding, much to his surprise, the get-up that he’d been left with is not nearly the most elaborate or outlandish in the room. He spots his mother holding court in a blood-red ball gown dripping with Svarovski crystals, looking not unlike the Red Queen from Alice in Wonderland, and assiduously gives that group of society dames a wide berth. On the opposite side of the ballroom, in the middle of the younger set, his sister Mina is resplendent in something sleek and gold and beaded, looking like she’d come straight off the set of The Great Gatsby, and deeming her the lesser of the two evils, Zander makes his way over.
“Zander, you made it.” Mina managed, somehow, to reach the age of twenty-five without letting life as the petted only daughter of real estate moguls ruin her into beastly mean-girl vacuousness, but even as such, all the telltale signs were there. She places both hands on Zander’s shoulders and air-kisses both his cheeks, enveloping him in a cloud of gardenias and clacking bugle beads. “And don’t you look handsome? It takes a certain je ne sais quoi in a man to pull off lacy wrist cuffs and peacock feathers, but you’re totally rocking it. I know Mom is a little bit on the disapproving side, but I’m sort of glad your hair is unfashionably long. Goes so well with this whole get-up, wouldn’t you say? You could be a character out of an Anne Rice vampire saga.”
“By ‘a little bit on the disapproving side’ you mean borderline apoplectic, right? And… really? An Anne Rice vampire saga? Hard pass, Mina. Very hard pass. That’s only marginally less godawful than the sparkly Edward Cullen variety. Though speaking of hair, how the hell did you manage to stuff all of yours under that… thing?” He gestures the beaded flapper-type headdress that she’s wearing, under which her voluminous blonde hair is barely visible.
“Oh, this thing fits like a swim cap. Just a lot prettier and more expensive, obviously.” Mina, much like himself, only gets called her full name of ‘Romina’ by their mother. She pats the gold-beaded cap, then winks at Zander. “We’ve been killing it on this year’s charity donations, though! All proceeds go towards helping kids with cancer get the treatment they need! Not too shabby, hmm?”
“I suppose not. And since you’re obviously dying to tell me all about it, let me grab a bite to eat.” Zander gets himself a glass of Cabernet and snags a plate, then loads up on hors d'oeuvre from the unobtrusive catering staff milling about the place. “Well, I do have to say, you’ve outdone yourself on the food this year,” he inspects an exquisite puff pastry bite topped with creamy melted brie and golden honey and green flecks of crushed pistachios. “Usually it’s limp, sad-sack looking shrimp cocktail that looks like it had come out of the frozen food section.”
“Oh, I got the executive chef from Camellia to do this thing-- her name is Marcela Casta. She is awesome and I’ve had about six of the super delicious chicken curry skewers already.” Helpfully, she snags one of the super delicious chicken curry skewers for Zander. He tastes it-- it is as tasty as advertised. “So anyway. Mom’s ideas for charity were all lame, so I started thinking, and, you know, Una’s fiance, Matthew, is head of Pediatrics at Bellevue. Super nice guy, so much better for her than some of the creeps she used to date-- but he’s bound to know someone, right? So I had Una talk to him, and he told us they’re getting a super awesome pediatric oncologist who specializes in lymphomas. She went to Stanford Medical School with him and was like nineteen at the time when she started. Insane, right? Anyway, she’s moving out east, and Matt convinced her to come work for them, and we’re sponsoring a project to help get kids who could never pay for the treatments get a new lease on life! Isn’t it awesome? We got her to come in and do the speech tonight-- she’s not moving down here until next month-- but it’s so great to sponsor something that you can see real results in, locally.”
“You just used the words ‘super’ and ‘awesome’ six or seven times in a row. Please do yourself a favour and never enter journalism in any format.” Zander shakes his head and snags a crab cake. “Sounds like an upstanding citizen, your new doctor. I’m sure you’ll manage to make them a boatload of money for the charity.” Mina could, Zander thinks both fondly and a little fearfully, talk someone into buying the Brooklyn Bridge, if only to shut her up. In true form, Mina smirks, then preens a little bit.
“Well, duh. Some of the stuff on silent auction is stuffy boring 50 year old bottles of Scotch and the like, but I made sure we had some decent stuff too. There’s a Christian Dior dress that was designed for the Oscars red carpet but that was before the wearer got knocked up with twins. It is stunning, and totally not my size, not that I can actually make bids on any of the stuff, being the event coordinator and all. Which is too bad, because there are also front row seats to the Taylor Swift concert next month including backstage passes. I would so love to go.”
Mina keeps up a steady stream of conversation as he finishes eating-- the food is, indeed, spectacular, but she leaves him to his own devices as soon as the music begins, all but dashing over to the dance floor. Within minutes, she’s in the midst of the crowd, clearly having the time of her life as she flits from one person to another, greeting and mingling and hugging and chattering. Zander stays out of the way, nursing his glass of wine, and watches as all of the city’s elite join in on the fun.
A girl-- young woman, really-- who looks a bit out of place with the resplendently colourful crowd walks over to where he’s standing, sipping from a bottle of water. In stark contrast to the shimmering sea of iridescent satin and taffeta in rainbow colours, she’s wearing a quiet, demure dress of midnight blue velvet and matching kitten heels. She’s also not wearing a mask, and her face reminds Zander of one of those old Victorian cameos-- flawless and ivory-hued, with a fine profile and delicate features, framed by a bob of smooth dark hair. Her eyes are solemn and lushly lashed, almost the same dark blue as her dress. Zander is very certain that he has never seen her before, and that in itself is a curiosity. Manhattan’s Glitterati, while formidable, is rather insular.
“Having fun?”
Those ocean-blue eyes widen, as though she’s startled. But she recovers quickly enough, affords Zander a faint smile. “I suppose. This is a very lavish party. I can see that a great deal of effort was put into the planning of it.”
“I can attest that the people planning it live for doing just that. Is this your first time here?”
“Yes. I mean, I have been to New York before. I did a seminar for Columbia’s medical school two years back. But I have never involved myself with high society, I suppose. Oh, how rude of me. I’m Amy. Dr. Amy Miller.”
“Zander. You must be the hotshot oncologist that I’ve heard so much about.” Her hand is small but strong, not nearly as smooth as he might have expected in his grasp. Up close, she’s adorable, with a hint of a blush on her smooth cheeks that has nothing to do with alcohol or cosmetics. “I don’t come to these gigs either, for the most part. But since we’re here, want to dance and tell me more about yourself and your work?”
“There’s not too much to tell. A position opened up, and there’s a good chance that I can make a difference in more people’s lives. It’s not about me, really. It’s about the kids, and what can be done for them. I’m flattered that others have taken an interest in my work, and have come out in force to support the kids. A lot of these treatments are very expensive and the patients have no way to afford them, but then again-- these children deserve to live out their lives happy and healthy. I really do hope that this event works out for all of us.”
They dance on the outskirts of the dance floor, and he lets her talk about her work, her patients and research and upcoming move. She blushes when his fingertips skim over bare skin, but her eyes shine with determination when she talks about a breakthrough result in an experimental treatment. She’s small and slim and fine-boned and should feel fragile in his arms, but there’s deep wells of hidden strength underneath the balletic figure. Zander, who normally would’ve found some way to make an early escape, finds himself fascinated listening to her talk about a topic that he knows very little about, as they sway more than dance to the music. They take a break after a while, and he offers to buy her a drink, and she declines, telling him that she’d best keep her wits about her tonight-- she’d still need to find her way back to her hotel later on, and though it was quite late now on the East Coast, the work day was not quite over yet out in California, and one of her patients was wrapping up a treatment.
So instead, he keeps her company while she grabs a bite to eat and sips on some more water, and he tells her about a few of the more interesting places that he’d been to on his travels. He’d been to Khatmandu and Guadalajara early in the year, then Dubai, and had just come in from Venice in the fall. He pulls out his phone and shows her hundreds of pictures, and she asks all sorts of questions. They dance again, a while later, and well before he knows it, the clock is striking for midnight and the countdown to the New Year begins.
“Oh! Happy New Year. I didn’t even realize the time. You’re good company.” Amy’s murmured statement echoes his own thoughts, and she looks up at him, that adorable blush on her cheeks, and then lets out a rueful laugh. “And I don’t even know what you look like. You’re wearing a mask. Everyone’s supposed to be taking them off right now, yeah?”
“You can do the honours.” Zander dips his head, and a moment later, feels her fingertips brush through his hair, looking for the ties which kept the mask in place. She unties the knot, and slips the peacock-feathered half-mask off his cheekbones, and looks up into his face and smiles even as the clock strikes twelve.
Zander thinks he might be going crazy, and he’s dimly aware that in the distance, Auld Lang Syne is playing, but all he sees are blue eyes and a sweet, bashful smile, and Hell with it, it’s tradition, anyway. He barely knows her, and has absolutely no business doing this here, at a masquerade that he didn’t quite want to attend anyway. And yet he leans in, as her fingers still linger by his just-unmasked face, brushing against skin that feels sensitized after being covered by cold porcelain. His lips brush against hers tentatively, and though she makes a noise of slight surprise against them, she doesn’t pull away. So he cups her cheek with one hand, and kisses her for real, and for the first time in his thirty years, that tradition seems to make sense-- everything falling gently, unmistakably into place as the taste of her-- cool water and minty chapstick and tart raspberry and cream fills his senses. A new year is a new beginning, and how better than to spend it kissing someone smart, and fascinating, and lovely, whom in the span of a few short hours he’d gotten to know better than half the other people in the room that he’d known for years?
He’s just catching his breath-- though how a simple, mostly-chaste kiss had stolen it, he wasn’t sure-- when he hears the unmistakable voice of his mother a little too close for comfort. “Alexander, is that you? You have managed to avoid me all evening, though I have no idea how. What have you to say for yourself? Great-Aunt Geraldine wants to talk to you before she turns in for the night.” The sound of a ringing cell phone also registers in his ears, and he’s dimly aware that Amy-- a lot quieter than his mother-- is stammering some type of explanation that it’s work, on the West Coast, her patient who was undergoing that procedure she’d mentioned earlier. He starts to say something, to tell her it’s okay, go take the call, but she’s already booking it towards the exits, in search of a quiet corner somewhere in a room which doesn’t have one. And so it is, at a minute past midnight on New Year’s Day, he’s left standing alone with his mother descending upon him, unmasked, and slightly shaken. He might never see her again-- indeed, had no reason to. And yet… He glances at the door, already shut behind her, and even as he pastes on a smile to make nice with his mother, his heart rebels against the very idea.
She was coming here to live, and while he didn’t often stay here any more, his whole family was still here. They’d meet again. They had to.
**
“So the grand total of money that we raised for charity is almost double what we made last year! Isn’t that awesome?!” Mina does a victorious little butt-wiggle as she finishes tallying things up on her phone. She had met Zander at his hotel for dinner with the intention of helping him pack-- his flight to Vancouver was set to leave in the morning. Naturally, however, she’d yet to lift a finger after they’d returned to his room, apparently content to watch him work while she fiddled with her phone. Probably all for the best, Zander thought. Mina would have shuddered to actually contemplate how light he traveled, favouring a sturdy but battered single canvas suitcase over her preferred selection of a glossy matched set of Louis Vuittons.
Mina keeps up a steady stream of conversation that Zander listens to with only half an ear as he rolls up his shirts to conserve room in the luggage, but one little tidbit has him goggling.
“... And guess who won the bid on the front row seats to Taylor Swift? KENNETH. He shelled out a fortune for those, too! It was nice of him to do so, don’t you think? I don’t know why he placed a bid since I know he’s not into pop music. I’m super jealous, though! Her shows are always so epic.”
Zander glances at her to see if she’s joking, but she’s in complete earnest, and he sets down the t-shirt he’s holding. Kenneth Knightley is the newly-elected CFO of Ainsley-Hart Holdings, LLC, and has been working for their father for a good decade. He is, indeed, the last person that Zander can possibly imagine going to a Taylor Swift concert, but the reasoning behind that act is blatantly obvious. “Seriously, Mina? You really don’t know? I know you’re blonde and all, but God DAMN! That man has had the hots for you since you were an overly mouthy college student and he was a socially awkward first-year intern at the company, and of course he’s never ever going to make the first move because, you know, you’re the boss’s daughter, and I can’t even do some pompous overprotective big brother speech because the guy’s intentions are probably so damn honourable that it’d be irrelevant. And you’re telling me that you legit never knew? If you don’t end up finding those damn tickets tucked into your horrendously overpriced handbag at some point within the week I will spend a whole weekend with Great-Aunt Geraldine, in her house, at her beck and call, and not bitch a single time.”
Mina drops her phone, which lands on the plush carpet with a muffled thump, and stares at him, a dull flush of red creeping up her cheekbones. She seems properly shocked speechless for a few seconds, then bites her bottom lip. “Are you for real? He likes me? He likes me? But he’s so proper, and ambitious, and smart, and together. He would never have any use for the likes of me and could get any woman he wants.”
“What is this, sophomore year of high school all over again? Yeah, you dingbat. So much that he’d want you to go to your silly concert with someone else if that’s what would make you enjoy it the most. To see you happy, you know.” Zander finishes packing up his clothes, and holds up a garment bag that he puts down on a chair. “Here’s that costume get-up for that masquerade. Everything but the mask. The mask got lost, sorry. I don’t know if you rented this thing or what, but I don’t need it for any other purpose, so you can do whatever you gotta do with it.” He’s fairly sure that the enchanting and elusive Dr. Amy Miller accidentally walked out with his mask, and while he could certainly look her up using his journalistic sources and message her, that would be intrusive on so many levels. Just the thought of her, coupled with the talk of Kenneth’s apparently-not-so-unrequited crush on his sister, makes him slightly wistful. Mina’s standing there, still looking a little amazed and contemplative, so he goes over, gives her a little shake and a quick hug. “You could always ask him to go with you to that concert. Go for some drinks or dinner, before. Your treat, since you’re subjecting him to Taylor Swift and her legion of screaming fans. Happy New Year, Mina. Have some fun, be happy.”
She air-kisses his cheeks, and pulls back. “Oh, I will. You should, too. Just say the word, next time you’re here and need me to run interference or pull something together. I’ll be like the fairy freaking godmother.”
“I’m sure you will, and if there was something you could do for me, you’ll be the first to know. As it stands, since you’re not at all helpful in the packing department and it’s getting a bit late, I should probably kick you out of here. Good job, by the way. With the charity masquerade. It was… surprisingly enjoyable.”
“That’s high praise coming from you, so I’ll take it. Ta-ta, Zander. Call me when you get to Vancouver in one piece, since I know you won’t call Mom, and I don’t feel like hearing her mouth any more than you would, so at least I can pass along the news.”
**
Airport security lines are a pain in the ass no matter what time one has the misfortune of needing to go through them. At the end of the holiday season, though, it always seems worse, as scores of cantankerous travelers head back home after visiting families and taking vacations. The TSA officers’ attitudes seem to reflect this general disgruntledness, too, and so it happens that that particular day, a bit of a holdup seems to form at the security checkpoint at JFK. One of the officers seems to be hassling a woman at the front of the line over something that she had in a gift bag, though it’s hard for Zander to tell, as the woman is a good half-dozen people ahead of his spot in line.
“Why would you be bringing a mask into the airport?” The TSA officer’s question catches Zander’s attention, and then a quick glance has him almost shoving the person in front of him out the way. The mask in question is a porcelain domino mask, adorned with peacock feathers, quite remarkably familiar, and the woman holding it is...
“Amy! Dr. Amy Miller!” It’s embarrassing, to say the least, to call out her name in a crowded airport like that, but in his excitement, Zander could care less. Her head whips back, and her eyes widen, then a blush slams into her cheeks even as a shy smile touches her lips. Though it’s certainly atypical behavior, the people in front of him move out the way, perhaps in curiosity or alarm, and he’s by her side in a moment, digging through his wallet as he talks.
“Hey. We were at the Ainsley-Hart Foundation’s charity masquerade. You know, at The Palace, on New Year’s Eve. Here’s my coat check ticket and invitation. And, as you can see on there, Dr. A. Miller is the guest speaker. That would be this lovely lady here. She’s not a terrorist or anything, okay?”
The TSA officers give them more than one skeptical look, but after rifling through both their belongings to their satisfaction, let them pass through the line. They reach the bank of chairs where people put their shoes back on and put plastic-bagged toiletries back into their carry-on bags, and both of them are shoeless and tired and a little out of sorts, but she’s holding onto his gala mask with careful surgeon’s hands, and in comfy jeans and a cable-knit sweater and white crew socks, she’s even more endearing and lovely, somehow. “I didn’t expect to see you again. I’m flying back to San Jose to finish up with my patients there, and pack up, get ready to move. I have a layover in Dallas. And this is actually your mask and I’m babbling. Oh, gosh!”
In her stockinged feet, the top of her head comes up only to his mouth, and he sets his bags down on a chair as his hands itch to pull her close. But instead, he takes the mask from her, lets his fingertips touch hers and hold on. “I never expected to see you again, either. But I wanted to. I’ve never missed someone I barely know, before.”
She blushes even harder, but doesn’t tug her hands out of his grasp. “Where are you headed, then?”
“Vancouver. I have a layover in Chicago. How long are you going to be down in San Jose for before heading back to New York?” Almost of their own volition, his fingers twine with hers, that silly mask dangling from his thumb by one of the ribbons. They’re standing less than a foot apart now, and he barely notices the busy airport around them as he takes in every single detail of her face, committing it to memory in case it’s a long time before he sees her again. But he knows, beyond any doubt, that he will see her again.
“Oh, about a month, perhaps a month and a half. I daresay I’ll be back in time for Valentine’s Day. What about you? Vancouver, and then…?”
“That depends on the work, and… when I come back to New York around Valentine’s Day because it’s my parents’ wedding anniversary and I can’t miss that, if I ask you out to dinner, what would you say? Because you’re the most fascinating woman I’ve ever met, and it’s a little out of order to kiss you at midnight before getting to know you, and I’d like to fix that.”
Her eyelashes flutter, but then she looks up at him, rather bravely. “I think I can forgive you for being out of order.” He can read the answer, the words unspoken, in her smile, in her eyes. And though it’s undoubtedly creating a spectacle, possibly a traffic jam in the airport, he gives into temptation, and tugs her into his arms, and kisses her, openly and joyfully, in their socks and surrounded by their bags. His flight out is going to be long and quite possibly crowded, and the weather in Vancouver isn’t expected to be great. But at that moment, it feels like the beginning of something wonderful. This would be his year, he could feel it.