“Karen’s in a show this semester, too,” Mrs. Hall said. “Westlake’s doing Guys and Dolls.” She looked at Olivia. “Karen’s our daughter. She and Ted have been friends since they were babies.”
“Where do they get the boys?” I asked, mostly to change the subject.
“Some from Harvard School, some from Beverly Hills High. Too bad you aren’t closer. You could have tried out, too. Karen would have loved it.”
Fortunately, my mother had decided on cherries jubilee for a grand finale, and the cook was a real showman. Just then, he dimmed the lights and set the dessert on fire. The flames took Mrs. Hall’s mind off Karen, and when they died down, my father started pontificating about Barry Goldwater.
The guests left around eleven. My father refilled his snifter as soon as he had closed the door behind Dr. and Mrs. McLaren. As he sank back down onto the living room sofa, my mother came in.
“Olivia, dear,” she said, “why don’t you come with me? I’ll show you the rest of the house and get you settled in one of the guest rooms.”
The two vanished down the hall before I could say a word. All I could think was: This is it. The moment had arrived. It was time for me to declare my intentions, not only about school, but also about Olivia.
“Tell me about her, son,” said my father, as though he had read my thoughts. “Who is she?”
“I told you,” I replied defensively. “Olivia de la Vega. She’s a sophomore at Haviland.”
“Where’s she from?”
“What? You mean her family? Santa Barbara.”
“You know what I mean.”
I knew exactly what he meant. Anger boiled within me as I recognized his prejudice against her Hispanic name, and my outrage grew as I realized I could never erase it. The only good thing about my father’s comment was that it made me change the subject, and my fury gave me the strength to speak my mind without apology.
“I’ve decided not to go to Yale.”
There was no reply from the couch, and my father took a hefty slug from his snifter.
“Juilliard accepted me. I’m going.”
My father didn’t say anything, which was exactly the response I’d dreaded. When Edward Spencer III took his time formulating a rejoinder, it was a sure sign it would be deadly. He was known in the business world as a venomous negotiator, the kind who coiled and bided his time before making a strike. I watched him set his snifter down and lean forward to the marble coffee table in front of him. Opening a cloisonné box, he extracted two cigarettes. Even more deliberately, he lit one using the carved alabaster table lighter next to the box. Placing it between his lips, he sat up again and drew in his breath. The end of the cigarette blazed orange, and he removed it from his mouth. He held it toward me.
“Care for a smoke, son?”
“I—I don’t smoke, Dad,” I stammered. He had never offered me a cigarette before, and I had never smoked in his presence.
“Oh,” he said, and he was quiet again. I just stood there, watching my father take another drag on the cigarette, and at last he spoke again.
“I don’t know what this is all about, Ted,” he said, “but I shall assume you’ll come to your senses after this play into which you’ve been investing so much energy is over. We’ll talk again then. Good night.” He paused, then continued, “I assume you’ve made sure that—that vehicle out there isn’t leaking oil on the driveway. In the morning, please move it out onto the street.”
I couldn’t believe it. I’d been summarily dismissed, and nothing at all was settled. Uncontrollable rage rose inside me.
“No!” I shouted. “No! I will not move the car onto the street. It can stay right where it is, and you can damn well get used to it!” I paused, barely able to see through my anger. My father remained silent.
“And I’m going to Juilliard. And I love Olivia. We’re going to get married.”
The words were out there, where a thousand horses couldn’t pull them back. My father took a slow sip of brandy before he answered. Then he picked up the cigarette from the edge of the ashtray on the table and held it toward me again.
“If you do that, son,” he said at last, “this cigarette is the last thing you’ll ever get from me.”
Chapter 12
I didn’t know whether my father was threatening me about Juilliard or Olivia, but I didn’t stick around to ask. Shocked fury engulfed me as his words rang in my ears. My own father had actually used the old “no more money” threat, and I wasn’t about to stick around and beg him to change his mind. He was an arrogant old bigot, an autocratic tyrant. Damn him!
I rushed into the foyer, and if there was a rational thought in my head, it was probably that I’d go to my room, which was at the top of the sweeping staircase in front of me. But something made me turn down the hallway to the back of the house instead, and a moment later, I was opening the French doors that led to the patio between the swimming pool and the tennis court. Chilly air struck my face as I stepped outside. The pool and surrounding garden were dark.
Impulsively, I stripped off my clothes and dropped them on a chair next to the patio table. The cold night air made me shiver as I walked to the diving board at the far end of the pool, but I was so hot with anger I hardly noticed. Even when I hit the water, I barely felt the shock. I swam the length of the pool and emerged dripping at the shallow end.
I grabbed a towel from the cabinet next to the tennis court fence and wrapped it around my waist. Gathering my clothes, I headed back inside. I was still furious, but the night air and the cold water had begun to cool me down. The fight with my father was far from over, and my mind was already working on a counterattack.
Just beyond the kitchen, another hall branched off from the main one at a right angle. It led to the game room, the wine cellar, and the guest rooms. I glanced down the hall. Light leaked out from under the door of Olivia’s room and the bathroom next to it. She was still awake.
I paused and listened. The house was quiet. My mother, I was sure, had retired to the second floor. My father—who the hell cared? Even so, I took pains to be silent as I crept down the hall.
When I reached the bathroom, I heard the sound of water running. Olivia was taking a shower. I was clad in nothing but a towel, and Olivia was naked less than ten feet away. I should get away from here, I thought. This is wrong.
Instead, my heart beating wildly, I knocked softly on the door and stepped back. I waited, breathing hard, and the sound of water stopped. The door opened inward about two inches, just enough for Olivia’s eyes to peek around the edge.
The door opened further, and Olivia, still dripping but wrapped in a large towel, drew me inside.
She was about to say something, but this wasn’t a time for words. I pulled her toward me and kissed her harder than I ever had before. I clasped her body close and felt myself harden against her through the towels. Oh God, I thought. This is wrong, but I can’t help it. I’m wrong, and I can’t help it. I kissed her, and I was glad we were both already wet. Maybe my tears wouldn’t show.
At last Olivia pulled away a little. Holding my face between her hands, she kissed my forehead, my eyes, my chin.
“It’s okay, Teddy,” she said. “I love you.” She stepped back an inch or two more, and her towel fell to the floor. I looked down and was shocked to see that my own had already fallen. We were naked.
Transfixed, I stared at her, and I can still remember how beautiful she was in the half-light. Slowly, we moved together again, and I have never forgotten the ecstasy of her skin against mine, her arms around me, and mine around her. I kissed her neck, her face, her lips. We stood there panting as we gazed into each other’s eyes. I could feel both our hearts beating.
Again the tears came, and this time I didn’t care if Olivia knew.
“I love you, Olivia,” I said when I found my voice. “I always have. I always will.”
“I love you, too, Teddy. I really believe that we are meant to be together.”
“I believe that, too,” I said, but a lifetime of proper training made me pull away. “And we will be together. I promise.”
I didn’t sleep that night. I lay in my boyhood bed awake until the sun crept in around the shades. All night I tossed as I thought about stealing back down to Olivia’s room. She was so close! Nothing prevented me from tiptoeing quietly down the stairs and creeping along the hallway. Don’t even think about it, I commanded myself. The right time will come, and this is not it. Like it or not, we must wait.
But, oh God! How long? If I’d known then how long the wait would be, I swear I would have rushed downstairs and bashed her door in. I would have ripped away anything that stood in the way of consummating our connection, and I feel certain that Olivia would have wanted to do the same. We were meant to be together. She said that. I know she meant it, and I know she was right. But here I am, sleepless once again without Olivia, and I’d do anything, even destroy this fabulous violin, if it meant that I could hold her in my arms.
In the morning, breakfast was served on the patio between the tennis court and the pool. An observer would have seen a perfect family gathering. My father smoked and read the Los Angeles Times, and my mother made small talk about the weather and her roses and Camelot. I should have smelled a rat, but I was too busy staring at Olivia.
After breakfast, my father asked Olivia if she’d like to see the gemstones he was working on, and she readily agreed. I was left sitting at the table with my mother as Olivia followed my dad into the house.
Ann Spencer cut right to the chase. “Your father and I are tremendously disappointed about your suggestion that you might not attend Yale.”
Suggestion. Might not. That wasn’t what I had said, and there didn’t seem to be any reason not to point out that fact.
“I’ve decided to go to Juilliard. I was good enough to get in, and I’m going to study violin.”
My mother rearranged the roses in the vase on the table before she answered.
“Olivia seems to be a very lovely girl.”
I held my tongue as anger began to boil up inside me.
“Where is her family from?”
It was too much. I leapt up from the table, jarring it enough to upset the vase of roses. My mother caught the vase in time to prevent it from breaking, but water splashed all over her sweater, and the roses scattered on the table. She shook herself off and blotted the water with a napkin, all the while maintaining a perfect calm.
“Her father was from Mexico, but what the hell difference does it make?”
“Oh, come on, Ted, I didn’t mean to upset you. She’s a very lovely girl. You just caught your father off guard when you said you wanted to marry her.”
“I will marry her. I love her.”
My mother was silent as she refilled the vase from the water pitcher and began rearranging the scattered roses.
“Ted, your father and I have decided that if you really want to attend Juilliard, we won’t stand in your way. It’s tremendously disappointing to us that you’ve decided against Yale, but we’re proud that you qualified for Juilliard. If you want to go there, you have our blessing.”
Had I heard right? I stared at my mother as she put the finishing touches on her flower arrangement. She said nothing more, and the happy truth began to register. I had my father’s blessing, which, roughly translated, meant he’d be paying my bills. Hot damn! I was going to New York!
Chapter 13
I told Olivia how things had gone as we drove toward the coast, but I omitted the parts that betrayed my parents’ prejudice. There was no reason for her to know about their bigotry, I reasoned, never imagining what they might have said to her when I was out of earshot. I should have wondered why Olivia was so quiet on our drive back to school. We didn’t sing, and Olivia didn’t even hum.
We arrived back at Haviland three hours earlier than we’d promised, which seemed to both please and surprise Eleanor de la Vega.
“I hope you kids had a good time,” she said when I handed her the car keys, and we both murmured an affirmative response.
“Thank you so much for letting us borrow your car,” I added. “It drove great, the whole way.”
“It leaked oil on your parents’ driveway,” Olivia said quietly. “I hope you won’t get into too much trouble for that.”
I stared at her. Had she overheard my conversation with my father? Impossible, I told myself. Olivia must have noticed the oil spots herself.
“It’s no big deal,” I said, and I was right about the oil spots. It would be a very long time before I found out how wrong I was about everything else.
We plunged back into our classes and the last three weeks of Camelot rehearsals. Even though Olivia and I were together more than ever in the final flurry of preparation, it seemed harder and harder to find moments to be alone.
Then my mother called.
“Karen’s eighteenth birthday is next week,” she said, “and the Halls have organized a little dinner dance at the country club on Saturday—”
“No, Mom,” I said. “I’m swamped, and—”
“Just listen a minute. I’ll come get you in the afternoon, and I’ll bring you back first thing Sunday morning. This is the last year you’ll be able to do things like this, and Karen’s your oldest—”
She didn’t have to finish. “Karen’s your oldest friend” was the same line she’d used to get me to go to her debutante ball.
“Okay,” I sighed, “but I’ve got to be back by ten Sunday morning. I’ve got rehearsal.”
I decided not to tell Olivia about my command performance. It seemed unnecessarily mean to tell her I was going to a dance with another girl. And anyway, Karen’s party wasn’t something I was doing for enjoyment. It was an obligation. I was only going to keep my parents happy, which in turn was supposed to make things better for Olivia and me. Only now do I see the folly of this logic. I wasn’t being noble at all. Once again, I was just avoiding confrontation.
That night, I met Olivia in the secret garden. Even though it was April, the nights were still cool. Olivia had brought her old purple afghan, and we sat wrapped in it, our backs against the stucco wall and our knees bumping together.
“I have to go home for dinner on Saturday,” I said. “My aunt’s in town just for the weekend.”
Olivia didn’t say anything, and to fill the silence, I went on.
“My mother’s sister. From Philadelphia.”
Olivia remained silent.
“You okay?” I asked. It was dark, and I couldn’t see her face.
“It’s just that I miss you,” she said. “You’re still here, and I already miss you.”
I put my arms around her and felt her warm tears on my cheek.
“Don’t cry, Olivia,” I said. “All we have to do is make it through the next two years.”
But words couldn’t dry her tears that night.
•••
Karen’s party wasn’t the only thing that ate into my ever-decreasing amount of free time. Graduation was drawing closer. I was class valedictorian, which meant I had a speech to write. In addition, there were all sorts of twelfth-grade traditions I couldn’t ignore, like “Ditch Day” and “Grad Night.” At the end of May, the senior class always took a five-day trip to San Francisco, and the day before Commencement, we were supposed to host a big picnic for the rest of the school. And somehow, amid the crush of activities, I still had to find at least four hours a day to practice my violin.
Looking back with the clearer vision of hindsight, I see now that there was something affecting my mood beyond my impending graduation. In the wake of my parents’ decision to support my choice of college, I was relieved and excited. Even though it would take me away from Olivia, I was happy with the way things were turning out, a
nd I couldn’t hide it. I was blind to the pain she must have suffered as I surfed through the last weeks of school on a tall wave of giddy anticipation. I actually believed I had succeeded in getting everything I ever wanted.
Camelot fueled my ebullience. The show was nothing less than perfect, and most of the credit went to Olivia. But it wasn’t just her flawless performance that set the production above most high school efforts. Thanks to Olivia, we all tried harder and did better than we ever would have without her. By the time the curtain fell on the third and final performance, the jealousies that had launched Camelot were forgotten, and Mr. Harper was lauded as a genius for “discovering” Olivia.
My parents were waiting for me in Goddard Hall when I emerged from the dressing room after the show. “You were wonderful, Ted,” my mother said, kissing me and fluffing my hair. “We knew we had a violinist in the family, but we had no idea we had an actor, too.”
I looked around, but Olivia was nowhere to be seen. Eleanor had been sitting in the front row only a few seats away from my parents, but she was gone, too.
“Fine work, son,” said my father, clapping me on the back. “You’ve done us proud.”
I was distracted, still scanning the thinning crowd for Olivia.
“Well,” said my mother, patting my shoulder, “we know you’ve got a cast party to go to, so we won’t keep you. We’ll be back to pick you up in the morning for brunch. Say ten o’clock?” I agreed without clarifying whether the plan included Olivia, and my parents moved away. Where was she, anyway? I began to search in earnest, but when I didn’t find her, I gave up and headed to the post-production celebration in the dining hall.
Olivia was perched on the edge of a table, clad once again in her favorite faded jeans. Bill Cross was lounging next to her, along with Russell and Katsu. They were drinking Cokes and laughing. I stood there for a moment and watched, realizing that I couldn’t remember the last time Olivia had laughed like that with me. A pang of jealousy welled up in me, but I shook it off and moved toward her.
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