Patchwork

“Chicken, shrimp, and veggies? And sides? Clark, you’re spoiling me,” Cleo says in faux warning, face askew in a grin. She steps past him into the house, the kiss to her cheek still faintly warm against her skin. At the mention of homemade sangria, one brow quirks up her forehead. “Here I was, making a concerted effort not to get day-tipsy.” Smile edges sly. “I’ll try your sangria. Look who’s the bad influence now.” In reality, after the spectacular disaster of her last few weeks, Cleo would welcome a buzz in nearly any form. A few glasses of sangria flushing her cheeks, the smell of skewers and charcoal, an afternoon with nowhere to be - this is what she needs. She wants to shed her own skin, light and airy, just be a guest in Clark’s home for a bit. It is a role reversal, certainly, since once upon a time it had been Clark who needed the distraction, and Cleo who provided it. “Ugh, Ina,” she says with real feeling. “I wish she’d adopt me. Imagine how wholesome I’d be if I were Ina and Jeffrey’s daughter. Cleo Garten from Suffolk County. She wears cashmere, and the hardest drug she’s ever done is weed at a party once.” She laughs at the absurdity of it, this person she’s created. “You should’ve told me it’s a Barefoot Contessa party. She’s got an amazing tomato feta salad recipe I could’ve brought. Guess I’ll just have to invite you over for dinner next. Then we’ll be even.”

"I mean I hear it's very mature to sip on wine in the summer time. Doesn't hurt if you get a little buzz in the sun. Just because I don't black out anymore doesn't mean I'm not fun." As he listened to her, he went to the kitchen to grab them glasses, pouring them both a nice glass of sangria. "Cleo Garten definitely smoked weed more than once. In fact I'm sure she makes great edibles. But like the highly nutritious kind. Locally sourced ingredients. I can see it. Yeah well let's add it to the list. If we're lucky it won't be another six years before we see each other again." As he says it his smile falters. It's not like any one person was to blame but he had taken many actions to make sure they didn't run into each other over the years. "You know I hear in friendship there's no such thing about even. Just friendship. Something like that." He was blushing now but it was his way of telling her that he hoped at the very least they could stay friends for longer than the summer. It had hit him while he was lying in her hotel room in the Hamptons. As lovely as he had slept, there was no denying how much he had kept waiting to see her walk through the door throughout the night.

"Not at all, it's my name. I only think of myself as Ms. Hope in very formal situations anyway." Gwen was not as high-strung in that regard to think that she could only be addressed formally. When Clark explained himself, she nodded in understanding. What she wore was not for function but for fashion. So, she couldn't quite relate, but at least understand. It was logical and it sounded like he didn't think the cost outweighed of the worth of purchasing clothes to assimilate into the scene. Gwen found herself picturing him in what he called jock clothes and then shifted to picturing him in similar to other party guests like the linen pants and boating loafers he listed. She looked at his boots with a small smile. "First of all, your older age? I am sure we are the same age. When you say jock attire? Are you talking about T-shirts and basketball shorts? I do think they are very nice boots." Gwen admits thinking they were well made, though she was not sure there would be any occasion she would have to wear cowboy boots. "Well, I think you would have looked nice in those too, but it is good to be more authentic to yourself than to what you feel like would fit in. It's an admirable trait." Gwen wasn't sure if she wore what she wore because it was truly who she was or who she was told to be. She nods in affirmation to his question. "I have two brothers. One older and one younger. What about your sisters?"

"Are we? I would've though you were easily 26," he told her with a soft laugh because he was trying to be charming. And yeah, tshirts, sweats, hoodies and jerseys or just yanno washed jeans and beat up sneakers. Or really new and nice sneakers. Man I used to love a varsity jacket. Very Varsity Blues, you know?" He could actually smile about all of it now. Sort of. "And thank you," he told her, clicking his heels together for effect. "I have three sisters," he said without hesitation. "Two older and one younger." He preferred not to talk about Angela in the past tense and it wasn't like he needed to go into the whole dead sister speak with Gwen Hope of all people. "So I'm king of just right in the middle there. And now my oldest sister has two daughters, so I'm really just surrounded by women bullying me all of the time," he joked, "And teaching me how not to be a dick, I guess. Don't know how well I've done on that one but I've tried."

Location: His place For: @clark-sanders

When Clark had invited Cleo over, he wasn't sure she'd even take him up on it. But there he was, doing one more sweep of his place to make sure he had cleaned to his liking. He had spent the weekend doing laundry, finally fixing the broken step on his front porch and the broken chair in his little backyard. He had deep cleaned the bathrooms and the kitchen and spent several hours looking at recipes and cooking tik toks. After a morning grocery run, he was pretty sure he was ready for lunch, and Dolores had eagerly agreed to host them for coffee afterward. He had just set everything up for the grill when he heard a knock on the door. He stopped in the hallway to check himself over. He had opted for a pair of jean shorts, his least beat up pair of running shoes, a jimi hendrix band t-shirt and he had almost worn a hat but decided to give his head a break and show her that he wasn't actually at risk of balding. Not that he was worried about it.

Gwen had a raging headache at this point at was pretty sure that the fireworks were happening already and the waves coming from off the beach whooshed in her ears loudly. If she wasn't mistaken she couldn't remember the last time she had exhaled. Hearing her name she let out the breath she'd unintentionally been holding, giving a polite smile as she looked towards the man approaching her in a cowboy hat. "Hi, Clark. You can just call me Gwen." Though it was a very polite gesture she definitely didn't find it all that necessary for the moment. Focusing on regulating her nervous system was of higher focus. "I appreciate that. I mean the small talk part. I don't mind if you sit there. I'd rather it you than someone else." Who the someone else was unfortunately growing into a laundry list of familiar faces for her. She looked down at the boots and then back up at him. "What made you decide to go with a cowboy hat and boots for a Hamptons white party, if you don't mind me asking? And I promise this isn't my attempt of small talk I am just curious." She gave him a subtly softer smile than her initial one. "I'm not waiting for anyone. You're not messing anything up. I've been told I am both as well. Intimidating by quite a few people, irritating just by my siblings."

"Gwen, right. Didn't know if that was too informal." Clark nodded in understanding, glad that he wasn't being a bother. He took off his hat, dusting off the front brim with a smile. "It's what I'm most comfortable in, I guess. Most of what I own. I mostly do manual labor and security so everything I wear is kind of functional, you know? Guess cowboy style has just kind of been the style I like in my older age. Believe or not I used to be mostly in like..jock attire. It's because you love my boots, right?" He showed her his boots and laughed. "Felt more like me then some boating loafers and linen pants, you know? And yeah, siblings tend to be irritated by most things. I have sisters and I think you have brothers, right? So it's probably the same but different for us."

“If you start a podcast, I’ll put you down like a sick dog,” Cleo says, half-joke, half promise. It’s delivered with such matter-of-fact conviction that it could easily be either. “Though, and it pains me to admit it, yours might actually be tolerable.” Her gaze narrows even as she paints on a smirk, the corners of her lips tugging upwards. “Don’t let that go to your head.” Nicotine cravings hum softly at the back of her brain. Her fingers twitch once against the stem of her wine glass. Clark looks away before answering her question. Only briefly, but Cleo notices. She notices most things - the way his gaze snags on the middle distance for a fraction of a second too long, the slight, almost imperceptible tightening at the corner of his mouth before he answers. She fixes him with a curious look, though she doesn’t pry. “It’s ironic,” she says instead. “You stop partying with me and then go work at clubs.” She can picture him stationed somewhere dark and loud, arms folded, watching people become increasingly stupid as the night wears on. “Yeah? You’re inviting me over?” She asks, flicker of amusement briefly reducing her face into something unguarded. “I can handle Dolores. I’m like an old-people whisperer, trust me.” Cleo has learned the art of dealing with the older generation, taught to her as a child placed in adult rooms while her feet still dangled from the chairs. “Plus I’m an incurable gossip.”

"I mean you could be on the podcast with me. We can talk about horses and new york trends and you can give fashion advice and i'll give..fishing advice," he joked. "We can call it C squared. C&C. I don't know we'll workshop it." He let out a laugh and shrugged. "Different when you're not the one getting thrown out. I mostly make sure the idiots get water and stay away from destroying any furniture." Flashes of his past weekend, his hand connecting with someone's face flashed through his head and he took a sip of his drink to swallow back the memory. But at her question he looked back at her, giving her a genuine smile as he nodded. "Yeah, I am. And that's what I'm worried about. You'll get Dolores all involved in your gossip she won't want you to leave. I'll text you my address. You can come over for lunch sometime. Depending on the day I might even cook for you but we'll see. I know you're used to five-star dining, I might not have the skills for your palate."

She answers his bow with a languid wave, wrist turning with the practiced elegance of a queen acknowledging subjects. The hat slips lower over one eye as she does it, and she nudges the brim back into place with two fingers, laughs. The ease of their banter feels like shrugging into a favorite jacket after finding it hidden away in a dusty corner of the attic, previously thinking it to be lost. “Oh, absolutely,” she confirms with a nod when he asks about Nixie. “We were a good team.” Instead of dwelling in nostalgia, she quirks her mouth at his collection of masculine animal companions. “Horses are incredibly manly. Men used to ride them into battle. Of course, that was back when men went off to fight gallantly. Now they just start podcasts.” The mention of a dog shifts something in her expression, amusement softening into interest. She rests an elbow against the table and tips her chin into her palm. “What are you so busy with that you can’t handle a dog?” Cleo knows almost nothing about the shape of his life now. She only knows what he’s not up to, like entering hot dog eating contests at her urging. It is such a simple image: morning coffee, an open porch. Lips masked in a contemplative smile, she switches her eyes over so they fix on his, only the arrival of a waiter breaking her focus. She orders another glass of red. “How rustic of you,” she says finally, sincerity requiring a thin protective coating. “The city makes me miss having a porch sometimes. And an actual view that doesn’t involve piles of trash and rats fucking each other on a piece of pizza.”

"This is true. Personally, if you ever hear that I'm starting a podcast, I fully expect you to run me over with a horse. But you're right, they are pretty manly. I guess I would just spoil my horses too much. I'd want them to fight in battle and they'd be more inclined to lay out in the sun. A very soft life, you know?" Her question makes him look away for a second as he tries to figure out how he wants to answer. Usually his go to lie would roll off his tongue with ease but he was finding with her that it was harder to lie. There was a part of him that wanted to be honest. Wanted her to see him with the clarity he had let her see him back then. But it occurred to him that it would probably just put her in more danger. And he wouldn't be able to handle it if something happened to her because of his carelessness. "My job requires me to be out of my house a lot of these days." He pauses and thinks a moment longer. "I work security for a few different clubs. Lot's of late nights, random shifts. Sometimes I'm in Queens or Brooklyn or even Harlem so it's just unpredictable, you know? Hard to have a set schedule." He knew she was too curious to just leave it at that but he hoped it was enough to settle her interest for a short while. "Well I do have a very small porch at my place in Queens. You'll need to come over some time. Just know my neighbor Dolores will be all up in your shit though. She's a gossip." He thought for a moment to offer to bring her up to his cabin, but that felt a bit too personal, and for all he knew, he and Cleo would go another six years without talking. Not that it felt possible. He was pretty sure he was incapable of going back to not talking to her.

Cleo’s response comes quickly after his, a smile spreading across her face at horsegirl. “You know, you are talking to the Hudson Valley Show Jumping Fall Classic winner of 2008 and 2010,” she teases, lifting her chin proudly. “I had a horse; gorgeous thoroughbred mare. Nixie, was her name.” Her face softens into something faintly tender. “They’re marvelous. Did you know humans and horses can experience physiological synchronization? Your heartbeats sync up.” Cleo has to resist allowing too much dorky mania to spill out, fill the air. “How many horses would this proposed ranch have? Oh, and would there be a porch I could sit on while wistfully staring out at the mountains? Preferably in a rocking chair.” Her answer to his question is, of course. Of course she would visit him. The certainty of it catches her off guard. “I think they’re known for bass? Don’t quote me.”

"2008 and 2010, shit I am really among royalty right now. Pardon me," he said and pushed his chair so he could stand up and give her a dramatic bow, laughing as he sat down. "I have heard that, yeah. Did you experience that with Nixie? I always figured I'd have some kind of animal companion like...a hawk or a wolf or something super manly," he teased. "Like a wild rabbit. I wanted to get a dog but I just don't think my life allows for that right now." He would love a little furry companion to go up to the cabin with but he felt like with the demands of his job he wouldn't quite get to spend as much time with them as he'd like. And then he'd have to find someone to look after them whenever he had to leave suddenly. Her follow up questions made him smile if only because it meant she was thinking about it. "I would say as many horses as we could have. Most definitely a porch, where else am I gonna have my morning coffee and watch the sunrise? I'll make you a rocking chair from scratch, how about that? I'm pretty handy when it comes to building stuff and not just things that come out of a box from like Ikea or something." He takes a moment to think about it, the two of them in rocking chairs on a porch. The image feels so intimate it makes him blush and there's a certain sense of longing, yearning even that settles in his chest. He's grateful when a waiter comes by and he can order a drink, hoping it'll help him swallow down these feelings.

“And I think you missed yours buying up prime real estate in Wyoming or Nebraska. You walk into a saloon in that fit? You’d have all the girls hanging off you by sundown.” He knows her particular brand of chaos better than most. When he places the hat, Cleo can’t help but let out a short laugh - a full-bodied sound, fingers rising to the brim, adjusting it with theatrical seriousness. The courtyard restaurant has briefly become the Wild West. “How would you rate the menu tonight?” she asks, a study in practiced nonchalance, chin cradled in her palm. At his pronunciation of hors d’oeuvres, her smile deepens. “Horse divers,” she repeats, savoring it. “No, you’re right. A grown man cannot be expected to survive on decorative bites.” Cleo reasons, smile slipping when he broaches beautiful. Beauty is the religion she was raised in. You can get away with almost anything, as long as you are beautiful, as long as you do it beautifully. She is used to being looked at. But there is a difference between appraisal and this, and for once she does not sharpen it into a joke. “Thank you,” comes out, simply enough. Her fingers brush the brim of his hat again. “Dominic Caravelli,” she answers. “Though not a date in the traditional sense. We went to Columbia together.” Cleo looks back at Clark from beneath the brim, one brow lifting. “And you?”

"And if I live out on a ranch in Wyoming or Nebraska, would you come visit? I can see it now. Cleo Calhoun-Dietrich, horsegirl." He laughed as he said it but he did wonder if she would visit. He didn't know why he cared what she thought but since they had reunited that night, he was realizing that he had missed her. Chaos and all. "Might have to get you your own hat now. Let's see," he took a moment to look through the menu, trying not to notice the prices and how much everything cost just to cost that much. "I think I could probably get a better meal on Arthur Avenue but I gotta say this salmon dish sounds pretty delicious. And it's summer, time for fresh fish, though I don't know if the Hamptons are exactly known for fresh salmon. I've already said salmon too many times, anyway."

There was a natural charm to the enforcer, something that few expected of him or so Lottie believed. He fit into The Reserve better than Lottie had expected, somehow. Some people, really, weren't supposed to even fit in to begin with. That was part of it - his job was to do his own thing. And he excelled at it. "Appreciate you showing up," although she had almost told him that he couldn't miss it. See, she needed observant people tonight, not because she thought something could happen, but because with everything she had recently found out about Pantheon. "Although your wish may become a reality at some point tonight, so keep your phone close just in case." She admitted, for she was using tonight as a way to gauge who to get information from.

"Of course." Even if he had been told it was optional he would have come anyway. As much as he felt discomfort, he had taken on this job for a reason. He wanted to be reliable. Useful and he wanted them to know he always would be. And the fishing trips would always be there. Hopefully. "Like I said, you just tell me what you need. Kind of feels inevitable for something to happen. All these people here so, anything feels off, just look over your shoulder." At any point, he was likely to have her and anyone else in the Reserve within his periphery in some way. "In less serious business though, you need something to eat? Or drink? Those little sliders they were giving out were actually pretty damn good but I figure I shouldn't chase the guy down for them."

Earthy eyes glanced up at Clark with the inquiry about his look. Truthfully, she found nothing wrong with it. Except that he was approximately three shades brighter than she had ever seen him appear in her life. Cowboy enforcer in all white wasn't on her bingo card for 2026 or whatever the saying was. Either way, there was a crack of a smile that embedded itself into her features. "You look great. Don't overthink it." Better than half of the others in here, she'd argue. There was something to be said for a person who simply showed up as themselves regardless of the occasion. "Oh my god, I said that too." The cult vibe, she meant. Her eyes made a brief, sweeping pass across the courtyard. "It's so giving Manson family." Voice lowered to a conspirator register as she leaned into Clark a touch. "Do you think there's a human sacrifice at the end of this thing? While the fireworks are going off - as a distraction?"

He nodded, deciding to believe her and put the worry to rest in his mind. "Okay good, I was worried for a second I might not win best dressed this year." He nodded, soft laugh falling out of him as she spoke. "You know, I wouldn't be surprised. If they're sacrificing virgins though, I'm marked safe at least. Unless they want to sacrifice people in cowboy hats then I'm pretty fucked. I think they're gonna start chanting at some point. Or maybe this is all one big pyramid scheme. They're gonna sell us skincare or tupperware at the end or something. I could use a new set, honestly." He let out a louder laugh and shook his head at his own words. "You want to go down to the beach with me? Gotta make sure there are no creeps out there, could use you as backup. Just you know remember to hit them not me if something happens," he teased, hoping she knew he would never actually put her in any danger.

Cleo’s eyes spark with delight upon seeing the cowboy hat, the bolo tie. Her lips break out in an immediate grin. “1960s Clint Eastwood, is that you?” She pretends to rub her eyes, looking theatrically across the table. “Ah wait, it’s just you Clark. I like look. No, really, I do. It’s got more heart than all the uninspired linen and boat shoes.” She is drunkenly heartfelt. In true Clint Eastwood fashion, Cleo squints, pulls out two finger guns, fires them across the table, pew pew, as if they are in a classic spaghetti western duel. Motifs of cowboys can be found in her recent Google searches. She’s, admittedly, done her wild west homework since their last encounter, in anticipation that she may see him again. “Listen, I have a date around here somewhere. But this is the problem when two extroverts attend an event together. We spend the night causing separate chaos.” Dom is around here somewhere, doing what Dom does. And Cleo has been off doing shrooms with one of her closest friends’ Burton-esque fiancée. “Have you eaten anything tonight that rivals what you can get from a 1 AM diner post-strip club?”

"I think you missed your calling as a comedian." He's laughing, though, and despite expecting her comments, he has to admit to himself that it's actually kind of nice. He knew when he was getting dressed this morning, he might see her, and maybe the new cowboy hat had been brought with her in mind. But those are things he'd barely admit to himself, let alone to her. "I have a hard time believing anyone can cause more chaos than you." Clark slid off his hat and instead placed it on top of her head gently before taking his seat. "I don't know. Diner fries are kind of at the top of the food pyramid for me but I guess the chances of me staying at this place on my own are pretty slim so might as well check it out while I can. I actually love to eat everything so I'm open. Anything but the finger foods. I'm a grown man I can't get by on horse divers," he added, saying the end in a bit of an accent, the way his uncle used to as a joke. He took a moment and set the menu down so he could look at her. "If it's okay for me to say, you look really beautiful tonight. I mean the whole white dress code thing is a bit bizarre but I'm sure that dress costs a lot of more money than my hat, so," he shrugged, his eyes lingering on her for a moment before going back to the menu. "Who uh, who's your date tonight?"