by Dianne Dixon
Olivia has put the soundtrack of a Broadway show onto the record player’s turntable. She waits for the music to begin. Then lowers herself out of sight. Into the sliver of space between her bed and the wall. There is no lock on her door: this is the only place she can find privacy. She has brought along a pencil and the book in the white dust jacket—and she’s opening the book to its first page. On that page, written in the perfect cursive taught to her by her father, is the book’s title:
“The Book of Someday”
The pages beneath the title page have been filled with what is essentially an evolving map of Olivia’s heart. Every sentence a dream being born, a vow waiting to be kept. Among them are notations such as:
Someday I will have a birthday party with people and singing.
Someday I will go to ballet lessons and wear pink ballet shoes. I will have a friend and we’ll hold hands and she’ll think I’m nice.
Someday after the century changes, when it’s in the 2000s and I’m all grown up, I won’t stay in the hills out by Santa Ynez, California any more. I’ll go to a place that is somewhere else. I will live in a house with a red door and roses.
Someday I will be pretty and not have long, heavy hair that aches my head.
Someday when I’m a mommy I’ll never run away because I’m selfish and bad. I’ll stay and I’ll say I love you. I’ll say it all the time, and give hugs. And I won’t hit, especially not with a wooden hairbrush because of the hurt not ever stopping, even after the bruises go.
Someday I will attend a real school.
Someday I will be brave and tell Mrs. Granger how much I love her. Maybe she will let me come and live with her and she will smile at me and let me have a dog. One that’s little, and is white with a curly tail.
Olivia is abruptly looking up from her book. The song coming from the record player is describing a concept she has never thought of before. A “someday” that needs to be added to her list.
Someday I’ll go to town in a golden gown and have my fortune told.
Olivia’s pencil is flying across the page—spelling out this new promise. And there is unbridled bliss.
***
When the day has faded, and night has come, there is unbridled terror.
Olivia is waking from a horrific dream. Screaming and at the same time burying her face in her pillow. Trying to stop the sound so he won’t hear. But her father is already on the other side of her doorway. In the darkness. She can feel him there with the look in his eyes that is soft, like sadness, and then harsh, like the sharp edge of a stone.
Her father knows about her nightmare. Olivia has told him exactly what she sees when she dreams it and that it has been with her for as long as she can remember. She doesn’t understand why, but she senses the knowledge of these details is what brings that strange look to her father’s eyes. That look of sorrow, and of stone.
Once her father is gone from the doorway, Olivia crawls into the frigid space between her bed and the wall. Desperate to stay awake. To keep the nightmare at bay.
The dream is ghastly in its silence and its simplicity. A void. And a woman. Floating in an eerie kind of sleep. Draped in a shimmering garment that flows from her shoulders to her knees like a column of starlight. Wearing pale-colored, high-heeled shoes fastened with a strap at the instep, each strap anchored by a single pearl button. Her arms outstretched. A silver band encircling her head. In the band, a plumed white feather. Her hair is short. Chestnut brown. Her face is in shadow. Only her lips are visible. Fiery red and slowly parting. Making way for a noise. A shrieking howl. Which, when it comes, will be the sound of unadulterated horror.
Olivia’s fear of her nightmare is colossal. Her only defense is to gaze toward the window—waiting anxiously for the protection that morning will bring.
This will become a habit with Olivia—her passion for morning. As an adult, she will greet each new dawn by walking briskly toward the rising sun. And on one of these walks, almost twenty years from now, Olivia will again encounter the fiery-lipped woman in the pearl-button shoes. But she will no longer be an apparition haunting the night. She will be a reality. Existing in the cold, clear light of day.
Livvi
Los Angeles, California ~ 2012
“Honey-colored curls.” He’s leaning toward her, ruffling her hair. “Very pretty. But awfully short. Do you ever think about letting it grow?”
Livvi’s answer is emphatic. “No. I can’t stand long hair.”
He gives her a surprised look.
She realizes how overly adamant she must have sounded. And she’s embarrassed, ducking her head, softly saying: “It’s ancient history.”
“Okay, no more hair questions.” He’s grinning at her now, with a charming, easygoing humor.
The two of them are in a butler’s pantry, sitting at the end of a marble-topped counter, in a mansion. In the hills above Los Angeles.
And he’s telling her: “Remember that thing I was talking about when we came in here? I was serious. I really do want to know everything about you. From the time you were a little kid right up to the minute we met.” He’s saying this while slipping a spoonful of caviar into Livvi’s mouth.
For a split second, she’s in a state of shock.
She’s never had caviar before. The taste of it, the feel of it on her tongue, the sensuality of the salt and the satin, is indescribable.
He’s leaning back in his chair. Relaxed. Smiling.
This is the most beguiling man Livvi has ever seen, and he’s making it clear that he finds her attractive. She is breathless. Amazed.
He’s absolutely compelling. Stunningly handsome. In his early forties. Beautifully muscled. Several inches over six feet tall. With hair so dark it’s almost black. And eyes that are steel gray. His body language has an effortless, predatory elegance. He moves the way a tiger moves, completely at ease with what, and who, he is.
Livvi knows he’s flirting with her. It’s something she’s not accustomed to—it’s making her slightly self-conscious.
“Why aren’t you saying anything?” he’s asking.
Livvi blushes. “I don’t go out a lot. I’m not good at flirting.”
He’s chuckling as if she’s told him a joke.
Her smile is hesitant. “Why are you laughing?”
“Because you’re a gorgeous woman who shows up unescorted at a black-tie fundraiser, and—”
“Oh, but I’m not unescorted. I came with a friend—he’s my literary agent. I’m a writer.”
“You’re a writer wearing stilettos and a little gold dress that fits you like a very attractive second skin.”
“It’s new. I bought it in kind of a hurry.”
Livvi is scooting back in her chair, hoping to move her hemline lower on her thigh. She would never have chosen a dress this short or heels this tall, but the sales clerk was so sophisticated, so self-assured: Livvi hadn’t felt qualified to contradict her.
“And in light of your killer outfit,” he’s saying, “tell me again how you don’t know anything about flirting?”
Livvi responds with a wry smile, a quick shrug. “I think it’s one of those things you have to learn early on. I never learned. I’m twenty-six and it’s too late.”
He narrows his eyes, shoots her a questioning look.
She’s worried she’s said the wrong thing and he’s changed his opinion of her, and now he thinks she’s silly.
Livvi is shy around people she doesn’t know. A little tentative. Because she never learned “playground rules” and sometimes has trouble figuring out what everyone else’s normal is.
She suspects he’s probably waiting for her to say something—yet she’s keeping her gaze fixed on the floor. On the gleaming, intricately laid black-and-white tiles. She’s thinking that maybe she shouldn’t have come in here with him. She should’ve pulled back when he suddenly appeared at her side with a sly grin, slipping his arm through hers and whispering: “Follow me. I know where they keep the good caviar.”
But he hadn’t given her the chance to pull back. He’d literally, physically, swept her off her feet. Swept her through the crowd and away from the party. The sparkle in his eyes making it seem safe and innocently adolescent.
Spontaneity is new to Livvi. And in its presence she’d been caught completely off guard, overtaken by an eager, childlike excitement. But now. Now that she’s alone with a man she doesn’t know. In this empty, tucked-away room. She’s feeling insecure and slightly embarrassed.
“Should I bother to tell you how beautiful your eyes are? How they’re the color of French coffee and Belgian chocolate?” he’s asking. “Or would I lose points for too many food references?”
His question has been delivered with a delightful lightness. It’s making Livvi laugh and momentarily forget how nervous she is.
He’s laughing with her—holding his hands out in a gesture of comic pleading. “I’m giving you some of my best stuff here and I’m getting nothing back. Come on. Cut me some slack. Give me something.” His expression is open, full of fun.
Livvi’s smiling. Liking him. As she asks: “What kind of something?”
He thinks for a minute, then says: “Your favorite guilty pleasure. In summertime.”
She glances away, suddenly feeling shy again. “Peach ice cream,” she tells him. “Where I live has a little courtyard garden, and I like being there in the evening, watching the sun set and eating peach ice cream—right out of the carton.”
After a lingering pause, he says: “And in the winter?”
There’s something in his voice, something about the way he asked the question, that’s making it easy for Livvi to get past her usual reticence. “In the winter, the very first time it rains, I like to stay home, by myself. I light a fire in the fireplace. And then I get this incredibly soft white woolen throw that I keep on my bed, and I take it into the living room and cuddle up in it—in a chair near the fireplace. And I read a book—one that I’ve been dying to read, but have been saving for winter—for that first rainy day.”
“I like that,” he says. He pauses for a beat, gives her a slow smile. “But I’m still waiting to hear your life story. Come on, keep talking to me. I want to know you.” He’s looking at her with an expression of rapt attention.
Livvi is captivated. For a heartbeat. Then she realizes that what he’s actually saying is: “Tell me where you grew up. Where you went to school. What life was like when you were a little girl.” The thought of it is tying her stomach in knots.
She rarely talks about her childhood. She’s wondering if it would be all right to tell him a white lie about having grown up beside a vineyard. In a rose-covered house.
But he’s already letting her off the hook, saying: “Never mind about giving me your personal history. I’ll do it for you.”
He has moved his chair so close to hers that she can feel the heat from his body and smell his scent, cool and clean like a night breeze. He’s opening her hand, tracing the lines on her palm, his fingertips firm and steady on her skin.
His touch is sending a tingle through Livvi.
“Just for the record,” he’s telling her, “I’m not a pro at this, I own a public relations agency. The palm reading I learned from my gypsy godmother. And by the way I can’t start until I know your name.”
“Livvi.” The tingle he has caused is making her voice the slightest bit unsteady.
“Livvi?”
“It used to be Olivia. I like Livvi better.”
“And I like Olivia.” He brings her hand close to his lips. “I’m Andrew.” His breath is moving softly across Livvi’s fingers as he’s murmuring: “I want you to say it.”
“What?”
“My name.”
“Andrew.” Livvi’s eyes dart away from his; she knows she’s blushing again.
When she looks back at him she sees amusement and playful indulgence.
“It’s all here in your hand,” Andrew is saying. “The story of who you are.” He pauses, studying Livvi’s palm. “You’re the youngest of three. Your parents were poets, who worshipped you. After graduating from a big-name college—where you were on a full scholarship and still managed to be the hottest thing on campus—you had a brief, sex-fuelled marriage to a good-looking parolee you met while buying a used car and then you went on to become who you are today, the designer of an award-winning line of can openers.”
He lets go of her hand—with a mischievous smile. “So. How close did I come?”
There’s wistfulness in Livvi’s voice as she says: “Not very close.”
“You were only right about one thing,” she tells him. “I did go to college on a scholarship. But I was home-schooled right up until the first day of my freshman year, and I wasn’t the coolest thing on campus—I was more like an Amish hermit dropped into the middle of a rave. Most of the time I was hiding out in the library.”
Andrew looks at Livvi for a long beat, then says: “I was wrong about the adoring parents too. Wasn’t I?”
Livvi nods.
“How about the brothers and sisters?”
Andrew’s inquiries are probing at vulnerable places in Livvi. Her throat is tight, crowded with old, unexplored sorrow while she’s explaining: “I almost had a half brother once…but he was stillborn.”
For a short while, both Andrew and Livvi are silent. The only sound is the steady dripping of a faucet, into a limestone sink, near the door.
The mood of playfulness has disappeared.
Livvi is certain she has made a fool of herself.
“I should go,” she’s whispering.
“Wrong. That’s exactly what you shouldn’t do.”
Andrew is looking directly into Livvi’s eyes. His gaze is so assured, so seductively commanding, it’s setting off a visceral reaction in Livvi. A sensuous desire to belong to him. The craving to be, most willingly, owned by him.
Which is why Livvi is offering no resistance as Andrew, with tender care, is sliding her out of her chair. Bringing her to her feet. And pulling her close. Leaving not a millimeter of space between them.
Andrew is tilting her face upward, preparing to kiss her. And Livvi’s hands are coming to rest on the smooth coolness of his shirtfront.
She is closing her eyes. While Andrew’s lips are settling against hers in a way that is possessive. And deliberate. And full of desire.
It’s a kiss so complete. So deep. It is haunting. Mesmerizing.
Under its spell Livvi’s breathing is beginning to slow and take on the steady rhythm of the water dripping into the stone sink. It’s the same hushed, deliberate rhythm in which her heart has begun to beat.
And in that broken place—the place where Livvi is starving to be wanted and to be loved—there is an exquisite moment of soaring, perfect peace.
And then.
Out of nowhere.
Livvi’s heart is banging. Skipping, pounding, like a runaway jackhammer.
Andrew has left her.
Abruptly. Unceremoniously. The way a man might leave a cup of airport coffee after he’s heard his flight being called.
Andrew is already halfway across the room, his concentration riveted on the phone he’s pulling from his pocket. He’s opening the door and saying something, but the noise from the party on the other side is drowning it out.
The door is swinging shut—and the only sound in the room is the splash of water falling into the stone sink.
Livvi is mute. Stunned. With hurt. And humiliation.
For several minutes she’s motionless.
While her mind is whirling.
She’s trying to sort out what has just happened. Trying to make sense of it. But the noise of the dripping water—its steady, relentless echo—is making it impossible.
It’s when Livvi goes to the other side of the room, to shut the faucet off, that she sees the windowsill above the sink. The sill is coated in a fine layer of dust. And for the first time since Andrew’s departure, a sound comes out of Livvi. A sharp, startled laugh: a gut-sick
realization. Tonight’s humiliation isn’t new. She has experienced it before…
…In a dusty basement room. Where she is about to lose her virginity. To one of her college professors. A man who has said “Trust me. I’ll be gentle.” An old man. With hair that smells like cigarettes and hands as cold as ice. The minute their clothes come off, he’s grabbing them and leaving Livvi—without saying a word—leaving her alone. On the floor. Naked and humiliated. She’s watching him hurry to his desk and turn his back on her, taking the time to fold their clothes into two separate stacks arranged in ascending order of smallness. Jeans on the bottom. Socks on the top. The bones of his spine poking up like a string of burrs under his skin. His butt-cheeks, sallow and creased. Hanging. Swaying a little. Like a pair of empty pockets.
And Livvi, standing alone in this gleaming butler’s pantry, is remembering that that peculiar man was able to have her, there, on the dusty floor of his basement office, simply because he’d asked. And no one else had. And she assumed no one would.
The memory of this has Livvi frozen in place. Astounded. Wondering where to go from here.
***
“After all the years of aimless needing and hoping she knew exactly what she was going to do. She would never again wait to be chosen. From this point forward she’d be the one doing the choosing, and she’d settle for nothing less than precisely what she wanted.” Livvi pauses. And closes the book from which she has been reading aloud.
The applause is instantaneous.
She’s thrilled, and a little overwhelmed. This is one of the most important stops on the book tour promoting her debut novel—the moment feels surreal.
Livvi is in upstate New York, thousands of miles away from California, and the city of Pasadena, and the little guest cottage she rents there. She’s behind a microphone on the second floor of a truly gorgeous bookstore. A place with high ceilings, wood-paneled walls, and silk-shaded lamps.
She is in a cathedral of books, suspended in a strange sort of splintered reality. The forty people seated in front of her are seeing Livvi Gray, a new critically acclaimed voice in literary fiction, a self-confident woman in an ivory silk shirt and well-tailored black pants. And the person looking back at those forty people is the same bewildered individual who, two months ago, in a yellow-gold dress, was seduced and discarded. In a butler’s pantry.
