Page 20 of Only Lovers in the Building

At The Icon, it all went down in the lobby. Sierra met her dates, Kylie routinely got into shouting matches over the phone

with her sister, Noah had broken up with at least two men, and this evening, Lily bumped into Ben on his way out for a night

on the town. She didn’t immediately recognize him: he was a new man in his dark tailored suit, white shirt, and oxfords. When

he called out to her, she startled.

“Lily! I’ve been looking for you.”

“I’m sorry,” she said. “Who are you, and what have you done to my neighbor?”

“A little cologne and I’m a new man,” he said.

His cologne had hints of tobacco and leather. Very warm and cozy. Very Ben. Lily smelled like the dusty back room of a thrift

shop on Drexel Avenue. She and Noah had gone shopping. He’d left her, midafternoon, to meet the lawyer for coffee. “A fucking

coffee date!” he complained. “I hate those!”

“And yet you’re going,” Lily pointed out.

“If nothing comes of this, I’m blocking him.”

“Harsh!” she said. “He’s trying. The least you can do is meet him halfway.”

Noah tousled her hair and took off, leaving her elbows deep in a pile of vintage leather bags. Lily spent the afternoon digging for vintage treasures, and as a result, she was a sweaty mess. She had no regrets. She’d walked away with two Pucci dresses and a thirty-dollar pair of Manolo mules.

Ben relieved her of her shopping bags. “I’ve got a thing tonight.”

“Right.” The thing that Roxanna had brought up yesterday, yet he’d been tight-lipped about.

“How about you? What are your plans?”

“The usual.”

She was on her way up to order dinner, try on her new purchases, and make a cup of tea before scrolling herself to sleep.

“Listen, I know it’s last minute,” he said. “If you don’t mind too much, I was wondering if maybe...”

“Maybe what?” she asked.

“You’d like to come out with me.”

“Tonight?”

“Yes, tonight.”

“To the... thing ?”

“Yes.”

It wasn’t only last minute; it was borderline inconsiderate. Why hadn’t he asked her last night on their video call after

he’d wrapped up Spring Fever or last Sunday when she’d slept over? There’d been ample opportunity to ask her out.

“Am I filling in for a date?” she asked.

It was possible that someone had canceled, and like Kylie, he needed a seat-filler.

“I wouldn’t subject a date to this,” he said.

“Oh?” Lily blinked. How presumptuous of her.

“That came out wrong,” he said. “It’s not a fun event, okay? If anyone would be gracious about it, it would be you.”

“Oh.” She blinked again. What was she to make of that?

“I’ve put you on the spot,” he said. “Forget it.”

“What is this thing ?” she asked. “You never said.”

“A dinner at a museum.”

“Dinners at museums are typically galas.”

“I guess,” he said. “It’s for charity.”

“A charity gala?”

An uneasy look passed over his beautiful face. “Unfortunately, yes. I told you I wouldn’t subject just anyone to this.”

“Where I come from, Ben, we take charity galas quite seriously. We go all out. Hair, makeup, gowns, the works. Is that what

we’re looking at?”

“Maybe.” He inspected her shopping bags. “What do you have in here? Would any of it work?”

“No!” she snapped. Nothing would work, not even the pair of Manolos, which were a vibrant shade of green. “Don’t worry,” she

relented. “All I need is a black dress and red lipstick.”

She had a half hour to get ready. It took Lily no time to shower, slick back her hair, swipe on red lipstick, spritz perfume,

and slip on the black formal dress she’d retired for the summer. She might not have the right outfits for happy hour, but

a black-tie event was no problem at all.

Ben was waiting at his place. He assured her they wouldn’t be late because nothing in Miami ever started on time. With a tap

on his door, she let him know that she was ready. Stunned by her transformation, he let out a low whistle. Flattering, sure,

but for her, this attire was business as usual.

“This is the real me,” she admitted.

He disagreed. “The real Lily wears heels and pajamas to run out for coffee.”

She laughed. “That might be true.”

“Let’s hope so.”

Ben drove a midnight-blue BMW convertible, a vintage model from the eighties.

It suited him. Everything about his life suited him.

His profession, hobbies, apartment, car, and clothes—it all suited him.

This was the way to be. Figure out who you are and build your world accordingly. Nothing added or subtracted.

“Which museum is it?” she asked.

“Freedom Tower.”

“Never heard of it.”

Miami had a respectable art scene, and she’d hoped to visit a few of the modern museums over the summer. That was about it.

“It’s a landmark. You’ll see.”

What she saw when they arrived some twenty minutes later was an old-world cathedral, cupola piercing the night sky. It was

dropped in the middle of downtown Miami, neighboring modern high-rises, not unlike St. Patrick’s on Fifth Avenue.

“Is it a church?” she asked.

“No. It just looks like one,” he replied. “It’s our Ellis Island. Back in the fifties, Cubans who’d arrived on Freedom Flights

were taken here to be processed, hence the name.”

They left the car with the valet and climbed the steps to the lobby. They were talking and laughing and might have missed

the easel to the side of the entrance with a message from the Day Foundation welcoming the guests, championing the cause (art

education), and announcing the keynote speaker, Benedicto Romero.

Lily stopped in her tracks. Pointing to the board, she cried, “Ben! Have you seen this?”

He gave her a weary look. “I’ve seen it.”

It all made sense. This was a function, not a fun night out. If he was nervous, she could help him loosen up.

“I’m so honored to be here,” she teased, “I could cry.”

“That’s enough, Lily.”

He steered her toward the elevators, but the supply far exceeded the demand, and the line was out the door. Their choices were to wait forever or take the stairs to the event room. To her mind, there was but one choice. The keynote speaker could not arrive late, not on her watch.

“Stairs?” she suggested.

He pointed to her stilettos. “In those shoes?”

She took his hand and led him to the stairwell. There, she twisted into a pretzel to loosen the tiny buckles of the ankle

straps. It would’ve been easier to sit on the steps, but her fitted dress had no give and wouldn’t allow it.

“Let me help you.”

Ben kneeled before her, as if proposing marriage or guiding her foot into a glass slipper. The dim stairwell created an intimate

setting. She grabbed onto the handrail for support and watched him work. Was it her imagination, or had his fingers lingered

at her ankles as he loosened the stubborn straps? The thrill that ran through her was not imagined. The glow in his eyes when

he looked up at her wasn’t imagined, either.

“You look beautiful tonight,” he said.

Lily’s grip tightened on the rail. “Thank you.”

Ben straightened up and shoved her shoes into the pockets of his jacket. He glanced at the steep steps. “Are you sure you’re

up for this?”

“I used to live on the fifth floor of a walkup,” she said. “I can handle this.”

“Show me.”

Lily charged the stairs with Ben, laughing close behind. When they made it to the top, panting, he returned her shoes and

helped slip them on. Then he helped straighten her dress, smoothing the fabric at her hips. She dabbed at the shine at his

temples and made sure he looked all right. He was the man of the hour, after all.

“Thanks,” he said.

“No problem.”

“I mean for coming tonight. It’s going to be a circus.”

She took his arm. “In that case, you’re in good hands.”

They entered the ballroom. The hostess checked their names off a list: Benedicto Romero and Guest . She pinned a Keynote label to his lapel. They were offered champagne and escorted to the main table. It was all going great, until they took their

seats. From then on, after some brief introductions, Ben fielded questions from all sides. Most concerned his father. How

was he coping with the loss? Had he read the exposé in The New Yorker about the famous poet? Did he know that PBS had greenlit a documentary about Caribbean writers which would feature his father?

And what of the grant he’d won—wouldn’t his father be proud? What was the plan?

“Lily and I are reading romance novels all summer,” he said smoothly. “That’s the only plan.”

All eyes darted to her. As a thank-you, Lily kicked him under the table.

“Who did you say you are?” someone asked.

There was no distinguishing one from the other. Men and women in suits, sequin gowns, jewels, watches, cuff links, and Guerlain’s Shalimar , her mother’s preferred perfume.

“Lily Lyon, Ben’s neighbor for the summer.”

“Are you a critic? Or a writer?”

Unlike Ben, who was so many things—bartender, lecturer, writer, speaker—she was one thing. “An attorney.”

“Oh.”

“The grant money,” a cranky old man repeated. “What do you plan to do with it?”

“For the love of God,” a woman moaned. “Whatever you do, please don’t start a podcast. The last thing the world needs is another

damn podcast. I can hardly stand it.”

“A podcast about romance novels!” a man exclaimed. “Ha!”

It was clearly a joke, and the table laughed.

“Oh, leave them alone!” Finally, someone spoke up in their defense.

She was a woman in her fifties with silver hair and gray eyes.

“They’re young. If they want to read romance all summer long, let them.

If they want to podcast about it, I think it’s a fantastic idea.

The world is a dumpster fire, and we could all use a little romance. ”

The table raised a toast to love and romance. The conversation turned to local politics, and Ben was left alone.

“Who is she?” Lily whispered to Ben.

“Allison Leigh. She’s in media.”

“I like her.”

He agreed. “She’s cool.”

The others were decidedly not cool. Their disapproval of Ben still hung in the air. They were the reason he’d put off inviting

her. Anyone would be intimidated by all this. Lily, though, could hold her own. This was her kind of circus, not much different

than a room full of lawyers, judges, politicians, or corporate drones. She wasn’t afraid of these clowns.

Just when Ben leaned close to whisper something in her ear, he was called away. It was time for the keynote address.

Ben took the stage and, without hesitation or nervousness, delivered a simple and effective speech. “In my work,” he began

hesitantly, “I consider myself something of a ferryman or gondolier.” He paused and gazed out at the audience. “Every etymologist

worth his salt knows the root word of translate , from the Latin translatio for a transfer or a handing over . That’s my job, you see, to bring languages together, to row one across a foggy lagoon to another without losing the author’s

voice or intent. It’s a challenge. Language is slippery as a seal. It hides as much as it reveals.” Now his eyes rested on

Lily. “If you surrender yourself to the rhythm of the words, however, to the emotions those words evoke, you’ll make it to

the other side without running aground.”

Lily checked the time on her vintage Cartier watch. She fell in love with Ben Romero at exactly 8:04 p.m. Eastern time.