by Jess Bentley
Maxwell’s door is still closed, and I wonder if I am the first one awake. Hopefully Sunny won’t mind if I just wander around, poking my head into the various rooms to get this all documented.
There are at least ten paintings by Salvador Dali here that I have never seen before. I’m not really an art expert or anything, but there have been several shows at the Art Institute of Chicago over the years of his work. I own two catalogs from those shows. I thought I was pretty familiar with him. But these are things I’ve never seen before. Mixed in with the melting clocks and the strange, foreign landscapes are tiny regiments of insects and drooping vases of flowers. It’s intriguing. I wish I could stay longer and take more pictures. I am sure someone could write a whole book.
Circling through the rooms and randomly picking passages to explore, suddenly I find myself back on the veranda. As soon as I step through an egg shaped doorway, Maxwell and Sunny turn around, clearly startled to see me. As her eyes focus, she breaks into a clever, wide smile.
“Good morning, Clarissa!” she calls out.
Her fingertips drum on the closed top of a basket with handles. Her other hand knuckles her hip as she casts her weight to one side. She’s wearing a long swirling caftan like yesterday, but this one is in a dizzying collection of violet and fuchsia shapes. Just below the hem, I see the pointed toe of a jeweled slipper poking out.
“Good morning, um, Auntie,” I answer obediently as I approach.
Matthew smooths his hair back with the palm of his hand. The tan, loose-gauge sweater he’s wearing curls over his muscles before being tucked smartly into smooth, fitted trousers. I swallow, reminding myself not to look like I’m staring. It’s just so strange to see him outside of work clothes. He looks like a Ralph Lauren ad.
Sunny pats the top of the basket again with the palm of her hand. “All right, then,” she announces, as though we have been discussing something already. “You two take this, and I’ll see you at dinner!”
My mouth pops open in surprise as she sweeps around the other side of the table and leaves the veranda without another word. As an explanation, Maxwell just sort of shrugs.
“She said it’s a picnic,” he explains, gesturing toward the basket. “We’re supposed to take it with us.”
“Well, I guess we could?” I venture, though I am sure I am least half-curious what kind of interesting things a woman like Sunny would have packed in there. “I’d love to get some shots of the house from up there… on that ridge?”
Maxwell follows my gesture to the remote, sunny spot at the trees’ edge. He suppresses a small smile and finally nods.
“Yes, that does seem nice,” he murmurs.
As we walk across the lawn, I am amazed to find that it really is as velvety and spongy as it appears. Finally, I can’t take it anymore and just slide out of my ballet flats so I can feel it between my toes. It feels amazing.
Maxwell glances at me as he climbs the hill, finally breaking into a full grin.
“That’s Portuguese moss,” he informs me, as though he perfectly understands. “Feels great, right?”
It feels so great I practically want to skip up the hill, but I somehow manage to hold back as he shakes out a blanket and positions it in the sun. Remembering why I am here, I turn back to take a few pictures of the cottage with my iPad, just to make sure I do what I need to do.
Turning the iPad on its side, I try to capture the entire house in one photo. I want the house, the tree line, and at least a sliver of beautiful Lake Geneva beyond, maybe with some sails from sailboats poking over the tops of the trees. People need to get the full picture of this estate. It’s so unique that it’s going to be so hard to try to put the glory of it into words.
“Oh, dear,” I hear Maxwell mutter.
When I turn around, I piece together what he’s reacting to. He has half the picnic basket emptied onto the blanket, and it doesn’t really seem like a working lunch at all. Small bottles of expensive port, figs, grapes, three more bottles of wine, and what looks to be oysters on the half shell, packed in ice.
“That looks very…” I search for the right word.
“Subtle?” he says, cocking one sable eyebrow sarcastically.
Hmmmm, wine and oysters? I ask myself. What is she trying to say?
Maxwell twists a bar of Belgian chocolate between his fingertips. “I should apologize,” he finally sighs. “Sunny considers herself a bit of a matchmaker. She’s not usually like this.”
I reach forward and pull a whole avocado out of the basket.
“This?” I quip. “Is this supposed to be romantic?”
“I think it’s supposed to be an aphrodisiac,” he chuckles, embarrassed. “Just give it to me. I’ll pack this all up and we can head back down the hill. We don’t have to stay. I’m sorry she made you uncomfortable.”
His eyes are cast down in the shade, but I keep watching him, waiting to see if I can make heads or tails out of what he’s really feeling.
“She didn’t make me uncomfortable,” I murmur, finally. “She’s sweet. She cares about you a lot.”
Finally he looks up, dimples deepening around his smile. He lets down his guard a little bit and leans his weight on one arm as he gazes back at the cottage.
“She really does,” he agrees softly. “She’s a helluva woman. One of a kind.”
“She definitely is.”
He looks at me suddenly. His eyes soften slightly and a small smile plays at the corners of his lips.
“You are too, you know, Clarissa,” he says softly.
I can’t take my eyes off his lips. They look so inviting. He has a full smile, with a gentle curve on his upper lip that looks so tempting and gentle, I find myself leaning toward him. Before I know it, our lips meet.
To my surprise, he is warm and pliant, but also strong. He leans back toward me and I feel his hand snaking around the back of my neck. The kiss is not aggressive, but there is more behind it, like a car idling at the starting line of a race. Just one tap on the gas and…
He pulls away. His expression changes swiftly from confusion to concern.
“I’m so sorry,” he mutters as he withdraws.
“No, I’m so sorry!” I object, pulling back to the edge of the blanket. “I don’t know why did that? I just thought… No really. I wasn’t thinking? Maxwell, I… Wow. I’m sorry!”
I continue to babble as I scramble to my feet, grabbing my iPad and rushing back down the hill. I did that? Who does that? Just kisses their boss out of the blue? He’s never even brushed my hand or anything! The closest thing we ever had to contact was when we first met and I touched his dick by mistake and…
Oh my God. I can’t think about this.
What kind of idiot am I?
Of course, Sunny is standing at the edge of the veranda when I rush past her, and she yoo-hoos at me but I can’t stop now. I yell out something about having to edit the photographs for the real estate listing and hustle back into the house, my cheeks burning with humiliation.
Seriously, have you been out of society that long? I question myself cruelly as I try to focus on work, swiping angrily through the photographs I took.
He is going to think you are insane!
You are going to get fired!
I try to focus on work, editing photos that are probably fine the way they are, tapping out little snippets of text about each room. I even go back and mentally count the rooms, giving estimates for the sizes. It is all just busy work, but it does make the afternoon go by faster.
Still, that kiss keeps popping into my head. There was something in it. Something… Waiting. It really did feel like the beginning of a race. Like if I stepped on the gas just a little bit, we would be… flying. Every time I think about it, I have to suck my lower lip between my teeth and bite, hard.
You are going to drive yourself crazy with this, I warn myself silently. Just let it go.
Yes, that is what I need to do. I need to stop thinking about it. I need to focus on work.
My mother didn’t fall apart, but she didn’t quite stay together either. Why would anyone think she would? It wasn’t that my father was such a great and wonderful man. He was stern and judgmental, maybe bordering on worse than that. But he was the bedrock of her life. Losing him suddenly from a heart attack knocked her off balance.
My first job was at a shoe store around the corner from our house. All I had to do was keep the shoes stacked and organized in the store room. I made thirty-eight dollars a week.
It was a help, though. Thirty-eight dollars could be a few days worth of groceries. It could be an emergency trip to McDonald’s when somebody needed a milkshake. (I believe milkshakes are legitimate psychological therapy.) It could also be catching up on the electricity bill, saving up for a car, or bringing my mom home a Milky Way bar just to surprise her.
I guess I always thought of having a job, having income, and taking care of things as being the key to stability.
Work is a comfort. Doing it well means I get to keep my job. People can come and go in my life, but at least I know I can always find something productive to do. And right now, what I need to do most of all is not give in to the swirling whirlpool of thoughts. I can’t get sucked to the bottom of all that. Or I could lose everything.
After a while, a knock at my door startles me, and I am surprised to see one of the maids step in. She invites me to dinner and then leaves politely.
Okay, I tell myself. I can do this.
The listing is practically done. I’ve written a nice description of this place, highlighting the artistic flourishes as well as the livability of this unique property. Combined with pictures, I have every reason to think that this place will sell for an amazing price as soon as it finds the right buyer.
Steeling myself for the inevitable humiliation, I force myself to walk with dignity back to the large dining room. Sunny looks up at me first. She smiles warmly. Maxwell only hesitates for a moment, but when he looks up his expression is courteous, calm. I force myself not to search his eyes for a sense of connection.
It’s fine. There doesn’t need to be one. There shouldn’t be one.
It’s all fine.
We have a beautiful dinner of roasted pheasant with tiny blue and purple potatoes and multicolored carrots in some kind of ruby-hued sauce. I don’t know what it is, but it’s delicious.
After dinner, Sunny challenges Maxwell to a game of chess. When he agrees and shifts his chair slightly away from me, I have to admit I feel a sense of relief. I feel like I have been let off the hook, and I excuse myself to retreat to my room.
I know I’m a coward, but what would I say? What if he looked at me for more than half a second? I feel like if I start to talk, the dam will burst. Who knows what would come out?
Chapter 9
Maxwell
Dinner is awkward, though it is delicious. Sunny keeps shooting me angry looks as Clarissa keeps her head down and focuses on her meal. Eventually, it’s too much. Sunny sits tall in her chair and balances her elbows on the linen tablecloth.
“Fancy a game of chess?” she asks me.
As soon as I say yes, I hear Clarissa’s chair scraping against the hand-scraped hickory floorboards. She excuses herself and leaves the room.
“All right, Maxwell,” Sunny practically snarls at me, “what on earth did you do to that girl?”
“Me?” I object automatically as I set up my onyx chess pieces on the pearl inlaid board that the maid produces between us. “I didn’t do anything to her. What a ridiculous question.”
“You did something! I can feel it!”
The opening moves are automatic and abrupt. It’s only after the first ten moves that we settle in and begin to strategize.
“Confess!”
I force my tongue to speak. There’s no point in trying to resist her.
“We had the picnic, she took pictures, we drank the wine…”
“And?” she breathes expectantly as she zigzags her knight to the middle of the board.
“And… nothing. She kissed me.”
“I knew it! Check!”
Scowling, I nudge my queen to forestall defeat.
“What happened next?” she continues doggedly.
“Well… I don’t know.”
Sunny’s hand hovers over the board.
“Maxwell?”
It’s hard to put together. What did I do? I pulled away. And it’s ridiculous, because I had just been thinking about kissing her. The sunlight was bathing her hair in a halo-like glow. Her bare feet curled under her wide hips seemed ridiculously charming. Everything about her was perfect. Being together on the hill with the warm summer winds swirling gently over us seemed completely perfect.
And her lips were delicious. The kiss was everything a first kiss should be: sudden, warm, and sparkling with potential.
But I pulled away. I did.
“Maxwell!”
I move my rook, figuring it is a safe bet, only realizing that I have fallen into one of her traps. Sunny rolls her eyes disgustedly and slides her bishop across the board.
“Checkmate.”
“You always beat me,” I shrug.
“Yes, but tonight you are particularly terrible,” she observes.
“I suppose you’re right,” I admit. “Thank you for the lesson, Auntie. Good night.”
She squeezes my hand as I stand and lean over her to kiss her forehead politely before returning to my room.
My thoughts swirl. Clarissa kissed me, just as I had wanted to kiss her. Is that the key? Was I just being… stubborn? Was I annoyed at myself for not making a move sooner? Or did I simply feel a reflexive urge to run away from pressure?
I can’t stand that in myself. That stubbornness. If I am honest, that has to be a large part of the reason Zella and I were even engaged. We dated for years without talk of marriage, even as her mother hovered over our relationship like a bird of prey. I was resistant. And then one day it seemed like perhaps I was being too stubborn. I was keeping us in a perpetually pointless relationship by refusing to move forward.
I guess I thought asking her to marry me would be triumphing over my stubbornness. Was it? Was that also a form of stubbornness?
Looking around, I suddenly realize that I have been pacing around the Windsor Castle bed. Literally, I have been going in circles. Could anything be more obvious?
She’s just across the hall, I remind myself. Go and talk to her.
With a knot in my stomach, I resolve to fix this. I can get it sorted. I twist the handle to open the door and it gives with just a little bit of resistance. As I pull it open, Clarissa is standing there, her eyes wide with surprise.
“Clarissa? I was just about to… Are you all right?”
She shakes her head tightly. “No? We have to… It’s my sister.”
She brushes a strand of hair behind her ear, her lips pressed tightly together. I see her chin quiver with emotion as she holds herself together.
“Hey, it’s all right. It’s okay,” I reassure her automatically. “Would you like to go?”
She nods, stiff with barely-restrained tears. “She’s in the hospital,” she explains in a hoarse whisper.
Suddenly nothing else matters. I know what we need to do. It only takes a moment for me to pack my things and we are back in the Mustang, headed back toward Chicago.
During the trip, Clarissa is silent. She stays in the passenger seat with her knees drawn up slightly, her hands knotted together in her lap. I can feel her turbulent thoughts, and it kills me that I can’t do anything to help. All I can do is drive and get her there as fast as possible.
When we reach the hospital,
Clarissa rushes to the front desk to inquire. I don’t know what else to do so I follow her, and no one tells me not to. When they take her back behind the swinging doors, I follow the blue arrow on the floor to a small, strangely formal waiting room.
The TV in the corner offers recorded information about diabetes in English, then in Spanish. It repeats every few minutes. The watercolor painting on the wall is stripes of tulips in bloom, all different colors.
I feel like I’m in a sort of intermission. I can’t leave. I can’t advance.
After a while my phone buzzes and I swipe the face to see a text message from Sunny asking if everything is all right. After a few minutes, I finally compose a response:
I’m not sure. I’ll let you know as soon as possible.
Chapter 10
Clarissa
I’m relieved to see that Landry is sitting up in bed when the nurse escorts me to the room. I rush through the door, stopping up short when I see her face. Landry takes a timid bite of Jell-O and keeps her eyes down.
“Okay, you have to tell me what happened,” I say quickly through clenched teeth.
“I don’t know…” She shrugs. “I’m sure it looks worse than it is.”
In the back of my mind, there’s a small voice that tells me I can’t push her. Landry cannot be pushed to talk when she doesn’t want to talk. That’s not how she is.
But this time, I don’t feel like I can wait.
I sit on the edge of the bed, checking her over. She lets me look her up and down, though I am sure she is recoiling at the invasion of her space. A piece of white cotton gauze is taped over one eyebrow, and I can see the purple of the bruise seeping down below. Her left eye is swollen completely shut, and her upper lip is lopsided and raw on one side.
“Don’t tell me that you fell,” I begin. “Tell me the truth.”
She takes another bite of the Jell-O, wincing as her cracked lip tries to curl over the plastic spoon. It takes every bit of patience that I have to wait for her to start speaking again.
