Blackberry Cove

by Roxanne Snopek

  They were sitting on the porch, overlooking the yard as they often did on clear evenings. Sunset streamed through the willow tree that drooped graceful limbs down toward the creek, and cast a golden glow over the tidy flower beds.

  Abby had built up the berm next to the fence, to close off the space where Chaos used to escape as a pup. She’d cut soft curves into the front side and planted a variety of foliage in different heights and textures, giving a restful effect best viewed from exactly where he and Roman were sitting.

  She’d known before he had, Jon remembered. The twist of betrayal had long ago disappeared. Jon’s distance, both physical and emotional, had caused Roman to seek out someone else. Abby had been what Roman needed at the time.

  She still was.

  Roman loved him, Jon knew that. But one person isn’t always enough, and with her calm acceptance, Abby gave Roman something Jon could not.

  “Dad?” Jon said. The backs of his eyes felt hot. “You know I love you, right?”

  Roman sighed. “My boy. I’ve never doubted it. Not for a second. It’s me who should be asking you that.”

  “I wasted so much time trying to get justice for you, trying to make a name for myself in the process. I failed you.”

  “Pfft. I never needed justice.”

  Jon smiled. It might be true now, but getting there had been a journey.

  “They say living well is the best revenge,” Roman added. “So I’m good.”

  He spoke as if the lonely, painful years had never happened. As if he’d forgiven the people who’d turned against him, the industry that had thrown him to the wolves and forgotten him, and gone on to venerate men who were true predators and villains.

  “Is that how it works? When you come to the end, you choose what to remember and what to let go of?”

  Roman shrugged. “If you’re smart, you’ll do it long before the end. I’ve had a good summer. A good year, in fact. A few good years. This is a good place, Jon.”

  Jon nodded. Sunset Bay had been a true refuge and he was grateful his father had found it when he did. He only wished he’d been there more to share it with him.

  “Knock that shit off now.” Roman smiled and nudged him gently. “I know what you’re doing. No regrets, hmm?”

  Jon sighed. “That’s a tough order but I’ll try.”

  As the light faded, bats came out to hunt insects, darting here and there in their random, jerky flight paths. Now and then, they felt the little rush of air as one flew past, barely but always, missing them.

  “How do they do it again?” Roman asked. “Radar? Sonar?”

  He sounded tired.

  “Echolocation,” Jon replied. “Do you want to go inside?”

  “No. I like watching them.” His voice was faint, his words meandering in the dark, as if he was recalling a dream. “I like knowing that there’s another way of traveling through the night. That the way we see isn’t the only way. I like thinking about worlds beyond this one, time that isn’t linear, language we don’t know we understand, until we find ourselves speaking it.”

  Jon couldn’t respond. Instead, he reached out and took Roman’s thin hand in his and held it.

  They stayed that way, connected, watching bats and pondering the universe until Abby came out a half hour later.

  “It’s late,” she said softly, reaching for the handles of Roman’s chair. “We should get you to bed.”

  Roman grunted. “No. Sit with us, Abby.”

  She glanced at Jon and he nodded. She pulled a seat up to Roman’s other side. He reached for her hand and tugged it into his lap, next to Jon’s.

  “You two,” he said, with a sigh.

  Chaos shifted on the blanket at Roman’s feet and thumped his tail.

  In the time they’d been sitting there, it had grown chilly, yet Roman didn’t seem to feel it. Warmth and strength radiated off him, despite his frail, slumped body.

  “Dad?” Jon said.

  “Look after each other.” Roman squeezed their hands, pressing them together between his. The tremor that had bothered him was gone. “Promise me.”

  Jon looked across at Abby. Her eyes were wide, cautious, but she nodded. “Of course, Roman.”

  “Jon?”

  “Sure, Dad.”

  He exhaled and seemed to fold in on himself, like a spent bloom, shriveling on the stem.

  “Good,” he murmured. “That’s good.”

  After a long moment, he added. “And look after the mutt, will you? He’s a good boy.”

  Chaos, hearing the coveted words, got to his feet and wiggled his head under Roman’s arm.

  Roman released his grip on their hands and reached down to stroke his beloved dog’s ears.

  Then he sighed, long and slow. His hand dropped away from the silken fur, his head slipped forward, and he was gone.

  From Abby’s notebook:

  Stake tall-growing flowering plants such as delphinium, hollyhocks, and lupine before they bloom. It’s at the height of beauty that they are the heaviest and need help to stay upright.

  Roman’s memorial was held in the Sunset Bay funeral home. It was a small affair, announced to a select list prepared by Roman himself before his death. Jon had said a few words, as had Olivia and Jamie. Haylee, who’d lost Jewel the previous week, clung to Aiden and little Mattie, barely able to speak.

  Abby read a poem and provided the fresh flowers. Roman hadn’t wanted anything from the hothouse. Only things that could be planted in his garden after.

  Daphne baked all his favorites for the refreshment table. Abby baked the cake she’d created for him, made with his favorite Jonagold apples. He’d managed a tiny taste of it in the week before his death, enough to pronounce it better than any apple pie, certainly better than the one he and Jon had made under her guidance.

  She called it Roman’s Apple Cake. It was her favorite recipe so far.

  Photographs were displayed on poster boards of Roman in his heyday. He and Jon had picked them out weeks ago. Abby was happy to see that Roman had, at the end, been able to remember his career achievements with pleasure and pride.

  He’d had more friends than he realized. At least he’d reconnected with most of them while he still had time.

  Time. It’s all there really is, she thought.

  To Abby’s surprise, Lydia, their quiet repeat guest, had traveled out to pay her respects. She was even more surprised by the woman’s firm, warm hug.

  “I’m so sorry for your loss,” Lydia said. “I know he was your friend.”

  “Thank you,” Abby said. “Roman had many friends here.”

  “He was a good man. And where is his son?”

  Abby gestured discreetly to where Jon was standing in a receiving line. He’d remained for the memorial but she knew he was heading to Los Angeles shortly. He insisted he was coming back and she let him think she believed him.

  “Shouldn’t you be with him?”

  “Oh,” Abby said. “I’m not family.”

  Lydia gave her a sharp look. “Abby. What happened?”

  This wasn’t the sort of conversation she expected to have at a funeral. Certainly not with a ranch guest she barely knew.

  “Jon and I are friends.” How often had she said that?

  “Surely you were more than that.”

  Abby crossed one arm over her stomach. The Arondi story was breaking wide open and she had no doubt that his career drought was over. Some things just didn’t work out. There were too many strikes against you, the timing was wrong, obligations didn’t allow for emotional involvement.

  Excuses, all of them.

  “It’s been a difficult time,” she said.

  “I was married, you know.” Lydia looped her arm through Abby’s and walked with her to the tea-and-coffee station set out in the hall.

  “Oh.” Lydia was clearly here for a purpose but Abby couldn’t divine what it was.

  “Next month is our anniversary. It would have been, I should say. Thirty-five years.”
r />   “Oh my. Congratulations. I mean . . . oh dear.” Abby floundered. Would have been implied something had happened.

  “Don’t worry about it,” Lydia replied. “You couldn’t know. I’ve taken pains not to talk about it. That’s why I keep coming back, you see. Sanctuary Ranch is a place where I’m not . . . the person I am at home.”

  “And . . . who’s that?”

  Lydia was quiet for a beat. “The widow. The woman who lost her husband.” She gave a little laugh. “It’s a funny term, isn’t it? Lost. Like I misplaced him or something. Like I might come across him again if I look in the back of the closet or maybe the garage.”

  Abby understood. She kept expecting Roman to be in the next room, or on the porch or with Jon.

  Whenever she saw Chaos, going from room to room searching for his missing master, she had to look away.

  Abby touched the woman’s arm. “I’m so sorry, Lydia.”

  “I know. Everyone’s sorry. But the fact is, it doesn’t matter. Henry is gone. He’s not lost. I know exactly where he is. He’s buried beneath a purple buddleia bush.”

  “Thirty-five years is a long time.”

  “Yes. It is.”

  “You must have loved him very much.”

  “I did.” Another little laugh. “Of course, I hated him at times, too. At the funeral, I gave a short eulogy. I hadn’t had a lot of time to prepare. His death was unexpected. A massive heart attack on the golf course. I think he’d be quite horrified at going in such a clichéd manner, but we don’t get to choose, do we?”

  “No, I guess we don’t.” Lydia obviously had much to say, now that she’d begun, and Abby didn’t want to distract her.

  “I said all the right things, things that made people feel good. We were soul mates. He was a good man, lived life to the fullest, we shared dreams, were very blessed with our children, our home, our travel plans. People said it was a lovely service. At the memorial, people got up to share memories of Henry. Everyone loved him. He was everyone’s best friend. It’s amazing at funerals how suddenly a person has a million best friends.”

  Her face clouded over. “But the truth is, that’s not really what love is about.”

  Abby looked at her, unsure of how to respond.

  Lydia turned then and skewered her with a look of such intensity that Abby actually pulled away.

  “You think that love is like the way I spoke of Henry at the funeral. How his friends and acquaintances remembered him at the open mic. And that’s part of it. But there’s another part, that we don’t like to talk about but I think we should.”

  She took a deep breath but the only thing that indicated the level of emotional intensity was a quiver in her voice.

  “I loved Henry. But like I said, I hated him too sometimes. We hurt each other, never intentionally, but there were times . . . well.” She shook her head. “Being together for that long, we went through a lot of change, together and separately. It’s hard. After a certain point, you realize that you’re not married to the same person anymore. And that he isn’t either. The kicker is, can you live with the change? That’s what the vows are about, after all. Better, worse. Richer, poorer. Sickness, health, all that. You don’t think, when you’re standing at the altar, with stars in your eyes and roses in your sweaty hands, that you’ll ever feel differently, but of course you will.”

  “I’ve never been married,” Abby said. “I don’t think I have what it takes.” She thought of Jon and how he’d looked at her, how he’d tried to convince her that they could be good together, that he would never hurt her, that he loved her no matter what. She’d hurt him, badly, with her response. Or lack of response.

  “No one has what it takes, Abby,” Lydia said, looking at her tenderly. “That’s my point. We all think it should be roses and wine and sunsets but in fact, it’s trusting someone with the real you. I was petty and selfish and forgetful and Henry ignored my needs sometimes and lost his temper and never did learn how to load the dishwasher properly, which drove me nuts, I tell you.”

  Abby’s laugh caught in her throat.

  “Henry also brought me coffee in bed every single Sunday. That’s more than sixteen hundred Sundays, give or take. With a kiss and a smile, regardless of if we were at odds with each other or not. It didn’t matter, you see. I thanked him every time, but I wonder, if I’d have known that they were ticking down, this is the last twenty, the last ten, the second last, the very last, would I have appreciated it more?”

  Yes, Abby thought. When time is all there is, every second mattered.

  “You’re in love with that nice young man, Jonathan. Aren’t you?”

  Abby opened her mouth to deny it, but the words didn’t come. She lifted her hands and shrugged helplessly.

  “Well, whatever you feel, he’s definitely in love with you. He’s scared and I don’t blame him. He’s opened himself up to a world of hurt, and right now, you’re letting him swing in the wind. Is that what you intended?”

  “No, of course not.” Abby’s chest was shuddering, like she couldn’t coordinate her breathing anymore. Her vision blurred and her throat was tight. “Why are you doing this? This is Roman’s memorial. It’s not about me and Jon.”

  “But you see,” Lydia said, “it is. Roman asked me to come. He asked me to talk to you. He saw how the two of you were struggling. He believes in you.”

  “He . . . he does? He did?”

  “He loved you, Abby. He wanted nothing more than for you to be his daughter. He knew it wouldn’t happen while he was alive, but he died hoping that you and Jon would make it.”

  HOLLYWOOD POWERHOUSE ARRESTED ON MULTIPLE COUNTS OF SEXUAL MISCONDUCT. MEDIA GIANT FALLS SOON AFTER

  by: Jonathan Byers,

  special to the Los Angeles Times

  More than two dozen women have come forward so far to accuse Richard Arondi, of Arondi Productions, of assault and harassment dating back more than a decade. Charges are pending as the investigation goes on and more victims tell their stories.

  The exposure of Hollywood’s most open of open secrets has led Arondi’s accusers—as well as their loved ones, journalists, and those working in the industry—to ask why, exactly, media giant Whitey Irving of Diversion magazine preferred to champion Arondi instead of investigating him.

  Former Diversion staffers describe a classic you-scratch-my-back-I’ll-scratch-yours situation, with editorial slanted to put the best light on Arondi and his activities, in exchange for Arondi maintaining a massive advertising budget with Diversion.

  “You were neutered as a reporter,” said one former Diversion writer. “Any pieces that didn’t paint Arondi in a good light got tweaked before going to press. I quit to go freelance.”

  Irving even let Arondi and other favorite sources vet stories that mentioned them, letting them make adjustments.

  If a reporter or an editor at a major daily newspaper flouted the basic rules of journalism the way Whitey Irving did, they’d have been sanctioned, or have their press passes revoked.

  Meanwhile, Arondi treated the female actors that came to him with callous disregard. Women report interviews in which he invited them to join him in the hot tub, auditions in which they were ordered to remove items of clothing, meetings that were unexpectedly changed from public to private locations, unwelcome physical advances, inappropriate conversations, and several instances of unwanted intimate contact. Women who complained did not receive roles and were never hired by Arondi Productions. Women who acquiesced found a modicum of success, but at a price too high.

  The tide finally turned against Richard Arondi when a previously protected witness came forward to corroborate the accusations of one of Arondi’s victims. This brave person has given courage to many other women who’ve until now felt powerless against a monster.

  Defamation suits are also being brought against Arondi, who was found to have waged numerous smear campaigns against competing production companies, including the late Roman Byers, whom Arondi claimed was neglige
nt in the Vasquez Rocks accident that killed one young actor and injured several others.

  Numerous settlements of undisclosed amounts have been awarded. Whether Arondi receives a prison sentence for his crimes remains to be seen, but what’s clear is this: the king of Hollywood has been dethroned.

  Lawyers for Arondi declined to comment.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  From Abby’s notebook:

  Cover fruiting berry bushes with netting to keep birds from eating all the crop. You’ve done the work. You deserve to enjoy the result.

  Jon walked up the steps of the main house porch and made his way to the kitchen. He’d already looked for Abby in the garden, the stables, the kennels, the little cove of blackberry bushes by the beach, where she went to think. If she was here, she’d most likely be helping Daphne.

  If not, Daphne might know where to find her.

  “Jon.” The moment the cook saw him, she ran to him, wiping her hands on a towel. He hadn’t realized how much he needed the touch of a friend until he felt her firm, warm embrace.

  “Daphne,” he said, with a tear-thickened voice, “where’s Abby?”

  She cleared her throat, stepped back, and motioned for him to take a seat at the island. “Out. She’ll be back. Sit down. I’ve been worried about you, my boy. You shouldn’t have left the way you did. This is when you need your friends around you, people who care about you. People who remember your father and have an idea what you’re going through.”

  “I know,” he said. “I had some things to take care of.”

  She reached into the cupboard and came out with a plate of cookies, which she plunked onto the countertop in front of him.

  “Oatmeal-raisin, peanut-butter, chocolate-chip, and coconut-pecan. Pick your poison.”

  Then she poured two tall glasses of milk and sat down opposite him.

  “Tell Daffy what’s on your mind, honey. Don’t pretend it’s nothing because I can see it’s something. And don’t make me guess because I already know.”