by Ava Zavora
Sera laughed. "Well, he has excellent taste. If I had a million or two lying around, I'd have pounced on it. I always loved this house." She bit her lip, having said too much.
"I know." She put her hand to her neck out of habit, which caught his eye. She started to become dismayed, but then remembered that she was wearing the gold necklace Chase had given her in Morocco. She patted it now, pleased, as he stared at it for a long minute.
"It's not what you usually write about, is it?"
"What? No, right,” she replied, unsettled. Remembering that several of her articles were online, she supposed he could have googled her. She did not feel flattered, rather at a disadvantage. She preferred being the mysterious one.
"I, uh, I'm a freelance writer,” she said without the usual satisfaction. "Well, part-time, anyway,” she confessed, wondering how she suddenly developed an incontinent mouth. "If you've ever flown American in the past three years, you might have caught some of my finest work in the airline magazines no one ever reads."
He looked at her, unblinking, then threw back his head and laughed his great big booming laugh that showed all of his teeth. “No more vampires and demon destroyers?”
"Oh, I gave those up a long time ago," she replied, disconcerted with this brief glimpse of the boy she knew in the stranger across from her. She decided not to mention her bread and butter - editing manuals, a decidedly unglamorous occupation.
"God, how long has it been?" she asked casually, as if she didn't know to the day since last they spoke, perhaps two hundred feet from that very spot.
She felt herself in peril here, where every corner evoked a memory and each look, each word tasted bitterly of the past. She forced herself to adopt the neutral tone of a stranger.
“I imagine there’s a lot of work that needs to be done."
“Yeah,” he said somewhat wearily. “The roof’s the most important thing right now. There’s some water damage in there. I hope that I won’t have to replace the floor. We’ll see. The plumbing’s pretty sound, surprisingly. I need to put in another bathroom. A house this size, there needs to be more than two. The landscaping's out of control and the kitchen, well you remember the kitchen."
She nodded, wondering what she was doing here, really.
“When do you think you’ll be done?”
He laughed at this. “I’m doing this on the side. I have other jobs I do during the week. Plus everything has to be inspected by the city first. So who knows?"
“And you’re the only one?”
Andrew nodded. “Just me.”
"What’s he going to do with the house you think, after he fixes it up?”
“I have no idea." Andrew looked down, squishing his cup. “He’s an idiot, actually," he said, his voice harsh with contempt.
“Why?”
“’Cause he's put everything he has into this." Andrew made a sweeping motion with his hand against the wall. Sera made the reluctant observation that there was no ring on his finger.
“Obsessed." He shook his head. “I don’t know what it is about this house.”
“That's good to hear. I'm glad that this went to someone who loves it. This work suits you." Sera gave a nod to the house. “I’d always pictured you doing something with your hands."
And after a moment, “You seem driven,” she thought out loud.
Andrew had his arms folded and his long legs crossed in front of him. He seemed bemused by something.
“It’s hard work, but I like it." He gave her a sideways glance. “I got into a little trouble and did some time in San Quentin. My parole officer suggested I fix and build things to help manage my anger."
Sera tried swallowing her shock with the lemonade and wondered how she could extricate herself from this conversation without offending Andrew. She looked up to meet his mischievous eyes. It was her turn to laugh out loud.
“Good one."
“Just playing. It’s probably not too far from what you expected, right?" He was still smiling but there was a sharp edge to his cavalier tone. Sera’s laughter died as the brief spurt of light-heartedness between them vanished. She didn’t bother to protest, for she sensed that he wouldn’t believe her anyway.
“I got my contractor’s license and worked for a kitchen and bath remodeling company downtown for two years.” He continued. “Then my brothers and I decided to pool our money together. We flipped houses for a couple years, buying fixers, turning it around and selling it for a profit. We did all the work ourselves.”
Sera watched him as he talked, becoming slightly less of a stranger when he mentioned his family, more like the boy she had known. His face was momentarily unguarded.
“The LaSalle family moguls.”
“For awhile, yeah." Andrew smiled. “We all had full time jobs, so sometimes we would have to hustle. It was really intense for those two years.”
“And now?”
“Well, when the market busted, we decided to concentrate on long term real estate investments, rentals. Michael and Joseph are still cops, Christian has his own landscaping company and I," waving towards the house, "Do this." He lapsed into silence. "It's been a long time, Sera. Too long."
And how does he do that, she wondered, suddenly turn everything upside down with just a look, an intonation on a word as ordinary as her name?
She knew that she could pretend a familiarity allowed between childhood friends, speak of old times with fondness while avoiding what had driven them apart, then part amicably, perhaps even make light promises of keeping in touch. He would most likely respond the same way and he might not even have to pretend, as she would have to.
She wanted to say more but didn’t know how to bridge the vast distance between them, longer than the years since last they spoke and deeper than the hurt they had inflicted upon one another.
She should never have come.
Chapter 7
A heavyset lady wearing long gloves and an extravagant hat plumed with feathers was holding court in Ms. Haviland’s large living room. “So, he arranged private party for two, complete with clichés - flowers, caviar. Domestic,” she said, aghast, “and Chet Baker. He did his homework. And at the end of his little performance, I said, ‘Arturo, I would support you if you just weren’t so hungry!’” Everyone in her circle laughed.
Sera concentrated on carrying her tray of crystal flutes filled with champagne and trying to hand each of them out without spilling any. Miss Haviland's nephew, Stanley, had given precise instructions, warning Sera and Andrew that he knew exactly how many bottles he had and if one of them were to go missing. He did not finish his threat, finding it sufficient to give them what he seemed to believe was an intimidating look, but which Andrew had likened to a constipated monkey.
She had not thought much of Stanley, but had to admit that Miss Haviland’s house looked spectacular for her birthday party. She and Andrew had suffered his constant scrutiny and relentless direction all afternoon, from how far apart the paper lanterns should be strung around the verandah, to the angle of the water goblets in relation to the silverware. He even picked out all the flowers himself, Sera following behind him with shears and a large basket, dismissing any that had even a touch of brown at the edges.
There were large vases of showy roses and gracefully drooping lilacs all around the large gathering room, and on the dining table were rows of votive candles and white gardenias delicately floating in crystal bowls.
When dusk fell and the candles and red paper lanterns were lit, Ms. Haviland’s house was transformed to a softly glittering stage. Then the guests started arriving, handing Sera and Andrew their coats and shawls, and the stage came to life, with players in a play she did not understand, saying words in a language only they seem to know.
All the guests were older, some as old as Miss Haviland, and although she knew all of them, greeted them by name, and they paid her deference, Sera sensed that Miss Haviland was wary of most of them, showing only true warmth and joy with a few.
; Miss Haviland herself, like her house, had been transformed for that evening. When she walked down the stairs to start greeting her guests, Sera did not recognize her. Usually clad in a cardigan sweater, jeans, and Keds, Miss Haviland had walked down in her stately grace wearing a sparkling gown sewn with hundreds of beads of jet black. Her white hair was pulled back in a soft bun, a diamond spray clipped on the back to hold it in place. She was resplendent.
Sera looked closely at Miss Haviland for the first time and saw beyond her age the beauty that she had once been. Miss Haviland seemed excited for the party and was genuinely happy to see her friends, with whom she spent most of the night quietly talking in her own smaller circle by the fireplace, while everybody else, who seemed to be more of Stanley’s acquaintances, gathered around the piano.
Sera felt like she had inadvertently stumbled into a place she did not belong. Andrew looked as bewildered as she felt, and from the stiff way that he moved, she could tell that he was just hoping he wouldn’t break anything. He had looked horrified when Stanley instructed them to start handing out the champagne glasses.
She listened to snatches of conversation that did not make sense and wondered if this was what grown-ups did - ate canapés and drank bellinis and spoke as if they did not mean what they said. From what she could gather, everyone was either a writer or an artist or, like the lady with the feathered hat, a patron of the arts. Stanley, it seemed, owned an important gallery in the city.
This world fascinated her. She wanted to know their language, to be able to unravel the hidden meaning in their cryptic conversations. She wanted to be like the lady in a red satin dress, who sat enticingly in the chaise lounge, making witty remarks that fascinated the men hovering over her.
She wondered where Miss Haviland fit into all this, unable to see her as being friends with such strange and colorful people.
When all the guests had a glass of champagne, Stanley held up his drink:
“I want to thank everyone for coming this evening. As you all know, this party’s in honor of my Aunt Miranda." Stanley held the glass towards Miss Haviland. “If Mohamet cannot come to the mountain, then the mountain must come to Mohamet." Everyone laughed.
“I know that we’ve had our differences, Aunt, but I hope that you know I am grateful to you for your guidance and love throughout the years. You’ve been a second mother to me. I wouldn’t be where I am today if it weren’t for your help. To Aunt Miranda!" Stanley raised his glass.
“To Miranda!” chorused the guests.
Miss Haviland seemed touched and was unable to speak for a few minutes.
In the middle of dinner, Sera had burst into the kitchen after she had just set out more of the polenta, and confronted Andrew, who was eating some of the lamb. “What are you doing? He’ll kill us!”
“I don’t care,” he said between mouthfuls. “I’m starving. We haven’t had a break. Here, taste it, it’s delicious."
Looking over by the kitchen door, which led to the dining room, Sera furtively took a slice and stuffed it into her mouth.
“Doesn’t Miss Haviland seem different? I just thought of her as an old lady in a big house with a big garden, but she has this whole other life and secrets.”
“What are you talking about?"
“I think she has...a past,” Sera declared dramatically.
Andrew laughed. “She’s, like, 75 years old. Of course she has a past.”
“A tragic past."
Andrew wiped his mouth and leaned back against the sink. “You wish you were one of them, don’t you?”
“No.”
“You think all this,” Andrew waved his hand around contemptuously, “is exciting.”
“I think it’s different, that’s all. It’s interesting how they talk and what they talk about.”
“I can’t understand anything they’re saying.”
Sera did not want to admit that she didn’t understand either. “Don’t you wonder what you’ll be like 10, 20 years from now? What you’ll be doing and where you’ll be? I don’t want to be cleaning houses 10 years from now, and I know you don’t want to be mowing lawns. Shoot me if I’m still living in this god-awful town.”
“I know what I want for myself." Andrew’s voice was tinged with something sharp and feral and reminded her of the night on top the hill. “But is that,” he pointed to the dining room, “What you really want? Besides, what’s wrong with living here?"
“Not exactly that. But they talk about books I’ve never heard of and they’ve been to places I’ve only read about."
Sera had overheard a couple talking about their villa in Montelpulciano and how they made wine with grapes harvested from their vineyard. She did not know that anybody could live a life that seemed right out of a book. The most exciting place she had ever been to was San Francisco.
“I think they’re all posers."
The door swung open and Stanley popped his head in. “We’re done. Can you two start clearing the table and washing the dishes?"
The guests had moved back on to the piano room. The table, which had been gleaming and immaculate a few hours ago, was littered with remnants of the feast, wrinkled silk napkins, and a bloody wine stain bloomed on the crisp white tablecloth. Sera started piling the dishes and taking them back to Andrew, who was scraping the food off them and placing them in the sink.
She noticed that one of the wine glasses was nearly full with wine. She held up the glass to the light, turned the rim to find a clean spot, and drank from it. Tasting bitterness, Sara spit it out. She heard laughter behind her and whipped around.
“Is the pinot noir not to your liking?" One of the guests, a man, was leaning against the doorway to the hall. He held a glass of wine in his hand and was looking at her, amused.
Sera turned red, her mouth open in surprise. “I was just cleaning, someone left it there—“
“Don’t worry. It’ll be a secret between the two of us." He began to advance towards her.
She reddened even more when she saw that he was the same man who earlier had said rather loudly, when she was serving hors d’oeuvres, “Who is that girl with the magnificent hair?"
Sera had looked behind her, trying to see the girl and became embarrassed when he laughed as he looked straight at her. She had stumbled and spilled some of the phyllo wraps and quickly tried to pick them up before Stanley noticed.
The man, who seemed to be the youngest of the guests, with shiny black hair and sharp teeth, had picked them up off the floor and ate them with a flash of sharp, white teeth. He gave her a conspiratorial wink as he swallowed.
And later, when she had set out more rosemary polenta at the dinner table, he had leaned over to her and whispered, “You’ll pose for me."
Sera had looked around. Everyone was busy talking and eating. No one had heard this strange command. She had shaken her head and backed away. There was something predatory about the way his eyes followed her in a room full of people.
He walked towards her now, sipping his glass as did so, and Sera could feel his intense scrutiny of her as she hurriedly tried to clear away the last of the dishes. “Why don’t you want to pose for me?"
Sera concentrated on stacking the dishes.
“Do you know who I am?"
Sera looked at him mutely and shook her head. He was now standing next to her. She could smell something exotic wafting from his clothes, could see the glitter of his dark eyes even when she was turned away.
No one had ever examined her as this man was now doing. She felt as if a bright, bright light was shining on her and he was searching for something in her features.
From the corner of her eyes, she saw him set his wine glass down and pluck a gardenia from a nearby bowl. He placed it in her hair.
“I’ve been watching you. You’re a natural.”
Sera felt like giggling. No one really talked like this did they?
He placed a hand on her chin and turned it so that she was looking straight at his dark eyes. “Amazing. R
ight at the cusp. You’ll be breathtaking someday, but you don’t know it, do you? No one’s noticed yet except for me."
She was mesmerized, unable to turn away. He spoke as if he knew about her, knew her future. She had never been called breathtaking.
“But it’s all there, in your eyes, your lips-the woman you’ll become." He turned her face slightly, again examining her. She wanted to pull away. “I can capture you right at this moment before it’s gone.”
He drew in his breath. “You’ve never even been kissed have you?"
Sera’s mouth opened, alarmed that he could tell so much from her face. Was she so easily read?
Sera could smell the wine on his breath. She felt repulsed but couldn’t move. Her body had betrayed her.
“Imagine that...” he murmured as he leaned closer.
“Sera."
They both turned towards the door to the kitchen where Andrew stood, a peculiar look on his face. “The dishes."
His voice sounded as if it had been wrung from him.
The man let go of her and grinned at Andrew, who was staring straight at him. Sera picked up the last stack of plates and walked them over to the door. Andrew did not look at her, his jaw tight, his face red. Sera pushed herself against him, trying to get him in the kitchen, but he was immoveable.
She heard the man laugh behind her and Andrew quickly move. She hurriedly set the dishes on the counter then forcefully took Andrew by the arm and dragged him away from the door with all her strength.
Inside the kitchen, Andrew glared at her. He was breathing hard, as if he had just run a mile. Sera couldn’t look at him. She started washing the dishes.
“Fucking dirty old man!" She heard him kick the door.
“Andrew." Sera reached out with a hand but he flung it away as if her touch was repulsive to him.
“And you just stood there. I kept waiting for you to stop him, slap him, anything, but you just stood there." Andrew was pacing back and forth, his fury white hot. “Tell me what would have happened if I wasn't there, Sera?”
