The Ramblers by Aidan Donnelley Rowley Read Free Book Online Page B

Columbia and one of Clio’s former students.
    She scans the cast of characters, and though distracted, she smiles. Never does she lose perspective about how wonderful this is, coming here and doing this, spending time with this cluster of eccentric binocular-wielding New Yorkers who arrive here each Sunday. The details of these folks are not lost on her—the tattered too-short khakisand orthotic walking shoes, the little dog-eared copies of Sibley’s bird guide clutched in gloved hands, the misshapen baseball caps emblazoned with company names, the plain faces—no makeup, no masks.
    Everyone is on the same page: eager to see birds and have a peaceful morning outdoors. Even today, she appreciates this. Or tries to. As she waits for a few late stragglers to join the group, her mind wanders. She imagines what Henry might be doing now. It is the hotel’s first day and he’s no doubt down in the lobby greeting guests. But surely he’s hungover after last night, and this brings her some solace, it does, the idea that he’s suffering too.
    Jackson asks if she’s heard the rumblings about the five Long-eared Owls spotted nearby, and she has and answers robotically in the affirmative, wondering if Henry is thinking about her. It’s entirely possible that last night is troubling him as much as it is plaguing her. But it is just as possible that he has already moved on, written her off as unstable. The male brain is highly specialized, wired to compartmentalize these things, a neurological trait she once admired but now resents. Clio shakes her head to make these jumbled thoughts disappear.
    â€œOkay, gang, let’s get going,” she says. “I’m so happy to be back. It’s certainly chilly, but that shouldn’t stop us.”
    Clio leads the group toward the Ramble, her very favorite thirty-six acres in the world. It’s a magical oasis, with its rocky outcrops, wooded hills, serpentine paths, peaceful coves around the lake, a pond, and a stream called the Gill. Over two hundred species of birds have been identified here, particularly during spring and fall migrations. Standing in the middle of the Ramble, she can even forget she is in Manhattan.
    She didn’t even know the Ramble existed until she came to New York, and it wasn’t until she discovered it and started visiting regularly that the city truly felt like a place that could one day be her permanent home. Like so many New Yorkers she’s met, Henry didn’t even know about the Ramble either until she gave him a tour through it last May during the peak of spring migration. It was the best kind ofday, having rained in the morning, the wind blowing from the south, and Clio pointed out bird after bird—a Cerulean Warbler and then a Golden-winged Warbler too, both relative rarities, and then the Gray-cheeked Thrush and an American Redstart. It was clear on his face that Henry was quickly becoming enamored with this spot in the park. Predictably, he found a way to tie it all back to E. B. White, digging up a piece the author had written about the city’s attempts to “unscramble the Ramble.” He did his own research on the sly, coming up with odd trivia about the Ramble and its designer, American landscape architect Frederick Law Olmsted. Did you know that he was supposed to go to Yale, but then he abandoned his college plans when sumac poisoning hurt his eyes? No, she did not.
    She quickly checks her phone again. Again, nothing. When she looks up, she sees someone striding toward them, a tall, broad-shouldered man wearing a familiar knit newsboy cap. Her heart lifts—Henry. But as he approaches, Clio sees it is Patrick. Henry’s brother.
    In the daylight, he looks different. Tired. His eyes, warm last night, hold worry. Clio knows that he’s not here to see birds.
    â€œSo! This is the famous Ramble.” He flashes an unconvincing smile. “Sorry I’m late for the tour.