The Black Butterfly

by Shirley Reva Vernick

  “You should get some rest. I’ll deal with Starla.” He stood up and gave me one last lingering look. As I watched him slip out the door, I wondered how Starla was going to make me pay for seeing him again. Then I got up and locked the door.

  Chapter 8

  Cooking is like love. It should be entered into with abandon or not at all.

  —Harriet Van Horne

  I curled up in a corner of the brown sectional couch in the lobby, watching George get the fire going. It was late, but I was wide awake. Once Blue left my room this afternoon, I’d fallen sound asleep and stayed that way until George made me come down and try to eat some supper. After that, we sat at the lobby desk and looked at his family photos and the CIA web page on the computer. Now we were the only ones still up, so we decided to move to the sofa. It was actually starting to feel like a normal evening, and the massive gnarl in my belly was thinking about unwinding. Maybe Blue had actually injected some sense into Starla. Maybe things would be all right.

  “How’d the branch-cutting go, by the way?” I asked.

  “A breeze—Smitty sent me down after five minutes. Guess my manual skills are better suited to a spatula than a power saw.”

  “I think your manual skills are exquisite.”

  He laughed, and I wondered: was he thinking of the same things I was? Of how tightly he held me the first time we kissed by the Christmas tree? Of my bubble bath, when he traced my body with the softest of touches? Of the way he stroked my cheek when he put me to bed under the electric blanket?

  He nudged the poker between the logs until a single, thin flame rose, like a skinny red cat stretching after a nap. Eventually, a few more puny flames woke up to join the party. George didn’t have Vincent’s or Blue’s knack with the fireplace, but it didn’t matter. There was no shortage of heat when we were in the same room.

  “Come on, sit with me already,” I said.

  “I have to get something in the other room first. Be right there.”

  I lay my head back and watched the fire’s reflection in the skylight, the flames seeming to lick the frost on the glass. In my mind, I saw the smiling face of Tommy Klingler, whose own light didn’t get to shine for nearly long enough, his roof-fall death so unfair, so purposeless. He never got to grow up, do crazy things, do great things, do anything. I blinked hard. Tommy’s smile faded from the skylight, leaving only the flames. Now I saw the Legacy on fire. Blue was falling into the raging flames, holding a dead baby.

  No, Penny, I chastised myself. Block it out. This is your night to be with George. Don’t go there. I closed my eyes and let the warmth of the room embrace me. You can do this. For once, you can be right here in the moment. When I opened my eyes, George was back, carrying a platter.

  “Ready for a midnight snack?” he asked.

  He’d made fondue! George had cooked for me, just like he promised. He’d used those magnificent hands with all their nerve endings to indulge me, maybe even romance me. I was speechless, delighted, and very much in the moment.

  George set the tray on the floor in front of the hearth and got to work. First, he set up a Sterno can, then put the pot of thick, sweet-smelling fondue on a stand over the heat. The aroma was utterly decadent.

  “Is it chocolate?” I marveled.

  “The only thing in the world that’s better: praline. Come on, sit down here.”

  Near the fondue pot he placed a plate loaded with purple grapes, red and green apple wedges, pecans and cashews, orange segments, and Oreos. Next to that, he set an ice bucket with two bottles of bubbly water. I joined him on the floor, and he handed me a cashew. “Watch your fingers—it’s pretty hot,” he said.

  I dipped the nut into the pot. It was ambrosial, the creamy, butterscotchy fondue against the salty, crunchy nut. I still couldn’t believe George was doing this all for me, for me.

  At first, we were so busy talking—school, music, even astrology—we hardly ate. When George wanted to know what my favorite planet was, I was tempted to answer Venus but opted for the more demure Saturn. Later, remembering my first conversation with Rita, I asked George who he’d invite to a fantasy dinner party. He liked this question and conjured up a long list of icons, including Mick Jagger, Julia Child and Lucille Ball.

  “Lucille Ball?”

  “She was the funniest. You’ve got to laugh at a dinner party, or the food doesn’t taste any good.”

  At one point, he sank an Oreo halfway into the praline and brought it to my lips. Then, right when I opened my mouth to receive it, he stole it back.

  “Hey,” I protested.

  He put the plain half in his mouth and leaned toward me. I knew what he wanted me to do. I took the dipped half between my lips. It was a chocolate and praline kiss, ending only when the Oreo disintegrated on our tongues.

  After that, we fed each other fondue cookies and fruit, not saying a word—not out loud, anyway. It was luscious and sticky and superbly messy. Most of all, it was enticing, George with his blue-green eyes and his praline lips, his gooey fingers and his beautiful smile. He ignited all my senses, until I was dizzy with the commotion inside me.

  “Did you like it?” he asked when we ate the last Oreo. He brushed a stray crumb from my mouth, then licked it unhurriedly off his finger.

  “Mmmm.” We kissed again, until our mouths were almost glued together with praline. God, it felt good. “Maybe the couch would be more…”

  “Good idea.” He was kissing my ear now.

  It was hard to pull away, but I forced myself to stand up, and he followed me to the couch. Sitting back, our arms and legs entwined, the moment felt perfect. There was no need to talk or move. It was enough, more than enough, to stretch out and watch the fire. The flames shimmied and swayed, making delicate shadow dances around us, their fluid moves reminding me of something, though I didn’t know what. I lay my head on George’s shoulder.

  “Where are you?” George asked after a while.

  “Hmm? Oh, I was just remembering the dream I had last night. About you.”

  “Did it involve whipped cream?”

  “No, we were dancing. I was all dressed up and you were barely dressed—just swim trunks and sunglasses. They were playing ‘Heat Wave.’ Think it means something?”

  “Uh huh—that you think about me even in your sleep.” He tightened his legs around mine. “I had a dream about you too. Only, I was awake.”

  My insides swam, then stormed. “Tell me.”

  “I’d rather show you,” he said, lacing his fingers with mine. His eyes were ocean tones, his skin glowing in stripes of shadow and light. Everything about him was heat, color and spice. I thought of deserts and tigers and chili peppers—and his sweet, sweet lips.

  We slid down until we were lying on the couch. I was on my back, George’s hands cradling my head, his pelvis resting lightly on mine. When he pressed his hips down, all the electricity in the universe leapt out of the skies into my body. I’d never felt like this, never imagined it possible, not for me. George sent me into such overdrive, I thought I might never sleep again. Like Dr. Seuss said, you know you’re in love when you can’t fall asleep because reality is finally better than your dreams.

  Oh God, I was in love! One week may be an awfully short time to truly fall in love, but I had, completely. Whether George was in love or just in lust, I still had no clue, but there was still time to find out…wasn’t there?

  If only time could have paused just then. If only we could have tunneled through some cosmic wormhole where we could spend eons together—and then pop back out onto the couch without having lost a moment of real time. Suddenly two weeks at the Black Butterfly wasn’t nearly long enough. I held him tighter. He lifted his lips to my ear and whispered, “Let’s go to my room.”

  George’s room was in the attic, at the end of a narrow corridor and kitty-corner to Bubbles’ room. The small bedroom appeared flash frozen sometime circa George’s seventh-grade year: the bed with the plaid comforter, the Coldplay poster taped to the wa
ll, the student’s desk piled with CDs and Sports Illustrated. We were barely inside when a loud clapping noise made me jump, but it turned out just to be his desk clock clicking from 11:59 to midnight and from December 23 to 24.

  “Relax,” he said, taking my hand.

  “Sorry, it’s just…wow, it’s Christmas Eve already.”

  “Guess so. By the way, we don’t do Christmas around here the way most families do.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Well, for starters, we don’t do gifts, not like normal people anyway. We pick names, and we give something we already own. Or that we make. But even then we’re supposed to use stuff we have lying around. It’s Ma’s answer to the commercialization of Christmas, something like that.”

  That was a cool concept, I thought, especially since it got me off the gift hook. Presents were the last thing on my mind lately. “Whose name did you get?” I asked.

  “Vincent. He likes gadgets, so I’m giving him my magnifying glass.” He nodded toward the desk, where an antique-looking magnifying glass sat on one of the magazine stacks. It was a circle of thick glass set in a heavy silver frame, with a carved wooden handle. Very sturdy looking.

  “I bet he’ll love it.”

  George was about to say something when there was a rap at the door followed by Bubbles calling, “Georgie, do you have your financial aid papers handy?”

  Jarred, I quickly retreated a few steps.

  “C’mon in, Ma,” he called back, although Bubbles already had the door halfway opened.

  Clearly flustered to see that George wasn’t alone, Bubbles looked at me while talking to him. “I’m sorry to interrupt.” She looked kind of sad, and I somehow felt sorry for her. Her little boy had a girl in his room. “I—it can wait.”

  “No, no, we’re totally interruptible,” I said. “George was just showing me his…” My eye caught the stack of CDs on his desk. “…his music. We both like Bob Dylan.”

  “Well, I’m glad to see you kids have something in common.” Unless it was my imagination, she emphasized the kids part.

  “What are you doing up so late, Ma?” George asked.

  “Couldn’t sleep. Figured as long as I’m awake, I might as well do something productive. Besides, there’s nothing on TV.”

  George dug some papers out of his backpack, which lay at the foot of the bed. “Here you go. I already filled in the work-study section.”

  “Thanks, sweetie.” Her eyes drifted from him to me and back to him, crestfallen. “I guess I’ll be going then. Georgie, remember, you’re taking me to the mainland bright and early tomorrow. I’ve got to replace those crumbling wreaths before it’s too late. We need more holly for the mantels too.”

  Must be nice when your biggest problems are the kind that can be solved by Martha Stewart. “Yeah, I’d better be going too,” I said. What else could I do with Bubbles standing there, looking like we’d just sent her off on an ice floe to die? I desperately wanted to stay with George—for all kinds of reasons—but if I did, all I’d see would be her pitiful expression.

  “All right then,” Bubbles effervesced. “I’ll walk you to your room, how’s that?”

  I smiled a reluctant smile at George, who shrugged and smiled back, and then Bubbles and I hit the stairs. She deposited me at my door and told me to get myself some P&Q. P&Q—around here? Like that was ever going to happen.

  Chapter 9

  December 24

  I want to get away,

  I want to fly away.

  —Lenny Kravitz, “Fly Away”

  I got up absurdly late the next morning, but I was still exhausted. And wired. It was a dark-circles-under-the-eyes kind of day if there ever was one. Taking a long hot shower didn’t fix me either, although it did help a little. I dried off, layered on my warmest clothes, and realized I had no desire to venture out of the room. Locked inside here, I felt safe from Starla.

  God, I was pathetic. And hungry. My mind might be telling me to stay inside my lilac cocoon, but my stomach was sending me downstairs. I listened to my belly.

  I picked a good afternoon to hang out with Rita in the kitchen: besides her usual baking ingredients—sugar, eggs, whipping cream—she had out a mess of chocolate blocks, as well as bottles of dark rum, brandy and Kahlua, plus all kinds of spices and extracts. She was making tiramisu eggnog trifle for tonight’s dessert and was now standing at the island, doing something with a paintbrush.

  Taking a stool, I helped myself to a square of chocolate. This was exactly what I was in the mood for: comfort food. I polished off my square and started a second one as I watched Rita brush melted chocolate on the veined undersides of real lemon leaves. “What exactly are you doing?” I finally asked.

  “Making chocolate leaves for garnish. We will chill these for a while, and then we can peel off the green-leaf backing. In Montreal, we brushed the chocolate leaves with real gold dust, but here I have none.” She reached for a goblet sitting behind the sugar jar and swirled it before taking a sip.

  “Brandy?” I asked.

  “A little of everything.”

  I popped the last bit of chocolate into my mouth and licked my fingers, the way I usually only do when I’m by myself.

  “My mother had a way to break that habit,” Rita said, setting down her glass.

  “What habit?”

  “Using your tongue to wash your hands. If Maman caught you, you would have to wear mittens to your meals for the rest of the day.”

  I dropped my hands and wiped them on my jeans.

  “Now, now,” Rita said. “I did not say Maman was right. She had far too many rules for my liking. Go ahead, eat it however you like. Just save me enough chocolate to finish the leaves.”

  “Maybe I should help you,” I suggested, although the job looked pretty involved.

  Rita waved her painting brush in the air. “Not at all. I am just happy for the company. Besides, I am finished.”

  As I looked around for a napkin, the kitchen door swung open and George walked in wearing a heavy jacket and rosy cheeks. “There you are,” he smiled. “Rita, you’ve been hiding her.”

  “Guilty as charged.” She carried the tray of cooling chocolate leaves to the fridge, making room between the cheeses and pickles. “Now, you will excuse me, yes? Penny, I am counting on you,” she said from the doorway. “Do not let him touch that tray.”

  As soon as we were alone, he walked over and kissed me. “Mmm, I taste chocolate,” he said.

  “Gluttony is my sin. That and lust.”

  “My kind of girl,” he said, pulling me into his pillows of down. “Hey, Vincent’s going to drop me off at the barber’s on his way to do some errands. You feel like getting out of the house for a while? You might have fun doing the rounds with Vincent.”

  Out of the house. Out of Starla’s lair. A few minutes of respite. “Sounds great,” I said.

  Ten minutes after we piled into the van, George was getting his haircut at Shears, and Vincent and I were pulling into Darleen’s Delectables—the lean-to off of old-timer Darleen Crocker’s bungalow, next to the school building. The shop was both kitchen and store in one room, which made it cramped but also made it smell like I’d died and gone to brown sugar and butter heaven. Darleen herself was a compact, white-haired woman in overalls and reading glasses. When we walked in, she was piping pink frosting onto a cupcake while a large grey cat sat on the counter, watching curiously.

  “Well, if it isn’t Vincent Aylesworth,” she said, coming around the counter to hug him.

  “Hey, Darleen,” he said. “You look lovely as ever.”

  “Right back atcha. Thank goodness Rita gets Christmas Day off, or we might never see each other, eh?”

  “You kidding? I’d always come to see you.”

  “Good man. Say, who’s your girlfriend?”

  “This young lady is Penny, our special guest. Penny, this is Darleen, Islemorow’s baker extraordinaire.”

  “Watch out, Penny—he’ll twist you right around his p
inky with that sweet-talk, mark my words. Now hold on, I’ve got your goodies all set.” She returned to the counter—either unaware or unfazed that her cat was licking the cupcake she’d been frosting—and gathered up three large boxes labeled Henion. “Here we go.”

  “Got any Christmas Day muffins in here?” Vincent asked as he took the boxes from her.

  “All the usual suspects. And plenty of them.”

  “Good woman.”

  It went on like that for a while—the chitchatting, the ringing up, the paying. Then we said our goodbyes, and Vincent and I were on our way. As we pulled back onto the road, I wondered if there was something mildly flirty to the banter I’d just witnessed. Darleen sure seemed happy to see Vincent, and he clearly wasn’t in any rush to leave her shop. Maybe they had history together, or maybe they wanted to make history together. Then again, maybe they were just friendly island old-timers. Hell, for all I knew, there was a Mr. Delectable inside that bungalow. I would probably never find out.

  After a few minutes, Vincent turned onto a narrow, barren street—a street, I couldn’t avoid noticing, that teetered between two supremely deep ravines. “Next stop, old man Bigelow’s,” he said.

  “Who?” I asked, looking out my window and down, down, down to the ground below. The road was barely as wide as the van.

  “Jimmy Bigelow. Best woodworker on the island. He just refinished an old rocking chair for me. Won’t take but a jiffy to pick her up.”

  My eyes were glued to the zigzag path and the steep drops on either side of us. “You sure this is safe, Vincent?”

  “Sure what’s safe?”

  “This road.”

  “Course. Why, you afraid of heights?”

  “Not usually…”

  “I used to be. The trick is to keep looking straight forward, not down.”

  I pulled my eyes off the rocky crags and focused on the road ahead. He was right—it did help, a little. It also helped when Vincent started belting out “Winter Wonderland” in a key that only a tone deaf baritone could achieve. He misunderstood the lyrics too, singing, “Later on, we’ll count spiders, as we drink by the fire, to face, I’m afraid, the plans that we made, walking in a winter wonderland.” Or maybe he was doing it all on purpose.