by Alexa Land
Zan: Chapter One
“Hypothetically speaking, if I thought you were going bat shit crazy, would you want me to tell you?”
I grinned at my boyfriend from the top of the stepladder. “No need, love. I already know it.”
Gianni handed me a clear glass bauble and said, “Well, that’s good at least.”
After carefully positioning the ornament, I climbed off the ladder and stepped back to assess my decorating job. Our tree was a grand, ten-foot fir of some sort or another, which I’d had shipped in when I couldn’t find anything I liked at the Christmas tree lots on Catalina Island. I crossed my arms over my chest and frowned a bit. “I think I made a bad call with this white and crystal color scheme. It looked gorgeous in that magazine. Real elegant and classy, yeah? But now that I’m seeing it in person, it just seems a bit…”
“Sterile?”
I turned to Gianni and asked, “You think it looks sterile?”
“I don’t think that at all. It’s a beautiful tree. But I thought maybe that was the word you were looking for.”
“It is. This color scheme, or lack thereof, is shite.” I’d left the UK decades ago, but even I heard my accent intensifying as I got upset. “The worst part is, the stuff I bought to decorate the rest of the house all coordinates with the tree. It’s going to look soulless, like we’re living in a damn shopping mall when I’m through with it. We might as well set up a food court in the hallway and convert the library into a Hot Topic.”
“I’m surprised you know what that is.”
“I saw it on television. I forget what I was watching, but they had something called an Orange Julio, too. I’m not clear on what that involves, but I want one.”
“Julius.”
“Come again?”
“Never mind.” Gianni stepped around the boxes of ornaments and rested his hands on my shoulders. An amused sparkle lingered in his eyes. “Why do the holiday decorations matter so much to you?”
“Well, because it’s the first Christmas in our new house, and the first time we’ve been able to do anything like this since we’ve been a couple, after living on our sailboat for the last three years. Plus, my son’s going to be here. As you know, I wasn’t around for the holidays or anything else when Christian was growing up, so I want to make this one count.”
Gianni’s expression grew sympathetic. “I wish you wouldn’t put so much pressure on yourself, Zan. Christian and his husband are coming to see us, not some perfectly decorated holiday extravaganza.”
“I know. I just thought it would be nice for once to have a Christmas like the ones on TV. But this,” I waved my hand at the towering pine, “isn’t what I wanted. It’s already the twenty-third of December though, so I don’t have time to order different decorations. In fact, these barely got here in time from Italy.”
My boyfriend tucked a wayward strand of my long, salt-and-pepper hair behind my ear and pointed out, “It’s not like you need to order fancy, imported ornaments. Why don’t you visit that Christmas shop in town and see what they have? Maybe you could keep the white and clear glass ornaments and just add a pop of color, like red.”
“It’s a good idea to add some color, but I don’t think I can face going into town. Avalon must be overrun with tourists right now, what with Christmas vacation and all.”
A million years ago, I’d had a successful career as a singer. Then I’d completely disappeared from the public eye for more than a decade, which had the unfortunate side effect of making me more famous than ever once I rejoined society. Most people had assumed I was dead, so my reappearance must have seemed like a miracle. It obviously wasn’t, but try telling that to the public and the paparazzi. I’d accepted the fact long ago that being mobbed by fans and smiling for photos was part of my life, but some days (most of them, if I was being honest) I just couldn’t quite psych myself up for it.
Gianni trailed a fingertip over my short beard as he said, “I’m meeting my writer’s group at the café in about twenty minutes. If you want me to, I can drop by the Christmas store afterwards and report back about what they have.”
“Thanks love, but you don’t have to do that. I know you’re eager to see your family, and since many of them are arriving this afternoon, I’ll get this sorted on my own.”
“Okay, but if you change your mind, text me. It really wouldn’t take long.”
I told him I would and kissed him, then paused for a moment just to take him in. Gianni Dombruso was one of the most extraordinarily beautiful people I’d ever seen, with his thick, raven black hair, perfect skin, full, lush lips, and a heart-stopping smile. But he was a hell of a lot more than just a pretty face. Gianni was kind, funny, intelligent, caring, and a million other wonderful things, and he was far too good for me. Of that I had no doubt.
I turned my back on the stark, white tree and followed Gianni upstairs. Along the way, we had to side-step a trio of paint cans, a stack of tiles, and a sink. For the last seven months, we’d been having work done to our home. It started as a simple remodeling job to drag it out of the 1980s, but the crew kept uncovering one problem after another, including faulty wiring, wonky plumbing, and a host of other issues.
The work had been so disruptive that we’d spent most of that time living at a nearby resort called Seahorse Ranch, which was co-owned by Gianni’s oldest brother Dante. The ranch was what had brought us to Catalina in the first place, and staying there had been no hardship. But the whole point of moving off our boat was to put down roots after several years of almost constant travel, and I was more than ready to make this house our home.
A handful of rooms were completely finished, including the master suite on the second floor. Our bedroom was, in a word, enormous. It was a bit absurd, really. All it had to hold was a bed, for fuck’s sake. We weren’t going to invite fifty people over for a massive slumber party, but we could have pulled it off in there. It was pretty though with its tranquil white and blue color scheme, which was repeated throughout the rest of the house. The bedroom also opened to a lovely balcony with sweeping views of Avalon and the Pacific off in the distance, so I knew I shouldn’t complain.
Gianni cut through the bedroom and stepped into the cavernous closet. Now that was an excellent use of space. I’d collected a lot of clothes through the years, and I’d had them shipped to Catalina after we bought the house. If my boyfriend thought it was absurd that I took up the majority of that gigantic closet (and overflowed into one of the guest bedrooms), he kept it to himself. But then, of all my eccentricities, the fact that I was a clothes hoarder was probably the least of his concerns.
I sat on the leather-covered bench in the center of the closet and watched him as he got ready to go out. Gianni was effortlessly graceful and made even the simple act of getting dressed seem like a dance.
He put on a pair of ankle boots, then selected a royal blue V-neck sweater from one of the shelves. As he pulled it on over his black T-shirt, he asked, “What do you have planned this afternoon?”
“After I finish with the Christmas ornaments, I’m going to spend time in the studio. The new songs are really coming together.”
“I’m looking forward to hearing them.”
I wondered how long it would be before he called me out on that lie. I’d been promising new songs for the better part of a year and claimed to be working on them diligently while he wrote his first novel. He knew it took me days, not months, to produce a new song, but he chose to let me keep up the ruse that I was a productive member of society when he was gone.
I made sure to sound upbeat and not needy when I asked him, “What time will you be back?”
“I’m not sure. We’re swapping sample chapters and doing an informal critique, so if I had to guess I’d say three hours instead of the usual two? I’ll message you when I’m about to head home.” He exhaled audibly and added, “I’m so nervous. You know how hard it is for me to let people read my writing. What if they hate it?”
I got up and gave him a h
ug. “They won’t, because I’m sure it’s brilliant.”
“You don’t know that, because I haven’t let you read this one, either.”
“Everything you do is brilliant, love.”
He kissed me and said, “Thanks for the vote of confidence. I’d better get going, but I’ll see you soon.”
After he left the room, I drifted onto the balcony and waited. Two minutes later, Gianni and his shiny, black Vespa zoomed out of the garage and down the hill. He’d put on a leather jacket and his helmet, and a messenger bag was slung across his body, which he used to carry his laptop. I’d given him the scooter as an early Christmas present. We’d bought a golf cart too, which was what most of the island’s residents used to get around. But the Vespa was much more his style.
Instead of standing there like a lost puppy, I made myself get busy. At least I had the mall-worthy Christmas tree and the rest of the equally bland decorations to distract me. I’d ordered what seemed like miles of pine garlands and had spent the last two days draping them over everything that didn’t move. I worked my way down the staircase with a box of the boring Italian baubles and added them to the fragrant boughs, then went through and dolled up each of the fireplace mantels. There were six fireplaces in the house. Six. Who thought that was a good idea?
I had a fair amount of contempt for the rich, showy bastard who’d built the house back in the 1980s. He’d been a tacky fucker with a raging inferiority complex, judging by the fact that everything had to be huge, ostentatious, and more often than not, gold. Then again, I was the rich, showy bastard who’d bought the place, so I was one to talk. At least I’d had the sense to eliminate all manner of gilded gaudiness, though.
The house was way too quiet without Gianni, so I pulled my phone from the pocket of my faded Levis and tried to use an app to activate the recently installed central computer thingamajig, which I called Hal. It had a real name, but I didn’t remember what the hell it was called, nor did I particularly care. The program did all sorts of fancy things, like turning on the heat, the lights, and locking the doors. Allegedly, it also could turn on the built-in sound system.
I jabbed at my screen a few times. There were a lot of unintelligible icons, including one that was a circle, and another that was just a line. I hadn’t a clue as to what I was supposed to make of those, which was my own damn fault. I’d claimed to already know everything when the twenty-something meathead who’d installed the system tried to give me a lesson.
Being frustrated with technology was such an old person thing, and I was fifty-two for fuck’s sake, not eighty. Since the love of my life was nineteen years younger than me, I generally went out of my way to act like I was not, in fact, a dinosaur. But technology was not and never would be my thing.
Eventually I gave up and accessed the music on my phone. At least I was capable of that much. As some great, vintage Bowie began to play through the tinny speaker, I slipped the phone into the pocket of my floral button-down shirt and returned to the task of decorating my home to look like a posh shopping mall.
Once I ran out of ornaments, I returned to the living room, gathered all the empty boxes, and unceremoniously chucked them into a coat closet. Then I decided to see if the tree was more dazzling when it was lit and flipped a switch near the fireplace. And another, and another. There were a total of six switches on the panel, and apparently none of them worked the plug in the center of the room, the one I’d used for all the lights on the tree.
I began to question whether I’d actually plugged that final strand of lights into the socket, so I decided to have a look. Thank Christ Gianni wasn’t home to see me gracelessly slither under the tree on my belly, like a clumsy, geriatric snake. There wasn’t a lot of clearance, and I was pulled up short when my long hair got tangled on a branch. I threw out every curse word I could think of and made up some primo new ones as I tried to free myself from that branch. Then I froze when ten feet of fir jingled and swayed above me. “Don’t you even think about falling over, you piney fucker,” I growled. “So help me God I’ll go out, buy a wood chipper, and turn you into confetti! Then I’ll get myself one of those no-nonsense fake trees. That’ll show you!”
I flailed blindly as my hair fell into my face, and then I grabbed the branch that was trapping me and tried to break it off. “Oh, fuckin’ great,” I muttered, as I came away with a sticky hand. “Those plastic trees are looking better and better. At least they’re not full of pitch! I know you smell a lot nicer, but a can of pine-scented bathroom freshener would give you a run for your money!”
After a few moments, I gave up and splayed out on the slick, marble floor. This was just fantastic. Gianni was going to come home three hours from now and find me under the tree, like one of those seniors on the television who were forever whining about falling and not being able to get back up. Had they really made the effort? Did they even try shimmying over to the kitchen counter and giving it the old heave ho? Probably not, and why should they? All they had to do was sit on their arse, push a button, and wait for a hunky fireman or paramedic to come along and haul them off the floor.
Although that didn’t sound half-bad, now that I thought about it.
I remained immobile for an extra minute, opening and closing my sap-covered hand and finding the stick and unstick oddly satisfying. Then I stretched out as far as my hair tether would let me and felt around for the plug, which of course was on the other side of the massive tree stand. Once I determined that the lights were, in fact, plugged into the socket, I shimmied back out the way I’d come.
My hair was still stuck though, so I reached up with my other hand and tried my damnedest to free it. All that got me was a second handful of pitch. Then I went to work bending the branch back and forth, over and over again. It took a solid minute, but eventually it broke off (and produced a lot more sap).
The branch was still stuck to my head when I climbed out from under the tree, but that problem was temporarily overshadowed by the fact that the huge fir was now listing dangerously to the right. I grabbed my stepladder and jammed it under the tree to shore it up. The fact that I broke a few ornaments in the process was the least of my worries.
I stepped back and held my breath. It seemed as though the tree was going to remain more or less upright, at least for the time being, so I headed to the nearest of the ten bathrooms. Ten. Because that made sense.
I washed my hands with soap and water, and that did absolutely nothing. In fact, the pitch seemed even stickier after I gave it a bath. Next, I tried looking in all the drawers and cabinets, but since we didn’t actually use that particular bathroom for much of anything, there was nothing to be found. Not that I even knew what I was looking for.
I scowled at my reflection in the mirror. The ridiculous bough that decorated the top of my head was maybe eighteen inches long and curved upwards at both ends. Included with it were lots of smaller, green branches, which bobbed festively when I moved. It was tempting to slap some ornaments on it and pretend it was intentional.
Instead, I spent several minutes trying to free my pitch-covered hair from the branch. That just made it much worse, and I got even more hair tangled onto it. I almost got my hands stuck, too. When I wrestled them free, several strands came with them, so my palms were now both sticky and hairy. My next idea was to search the internet for information on how to remove sap, but it was impossible to type without sticking to my phone.
Finally, I admitted to myself that I needed help. I awkwardly removed the phone from my pocket with just two fingertips and pulled up my list of contacts with my knuckle. But who to call? Not Gianni, obviously. I not only didn’t want to interrupt him during his writers’ group, I also really didn’t want him to see me like this.
After some thought, I ended up phoning Beck Medina. He almost singlehandedly ran Seahorse Ranch for his Uncle Ren, the man who’d built it, and he was a very resourceful guy. Beck answered on the second ring with, “Hey, Zan! How’s it going?”
“Been better,
mate. I’m in a bit of a predicament. Do you happen to know of a hair stylist who makes house calls?”
“You have a hair styling emergency?”
“I got pitch in my hair and figured they’d know what to do to remove it. If not, then they’d be able to cut it out.”
“You can’t cut your hair,” he said. “It’s your trademark.”
“I’ve been wanting to cut it anyway. It’s been annoying the hell out of me lately.”
“I actually spent a few months in a barber training program when I was nineteen,” he told me. “I’m pretty good at it, so I could cut your hair if you really want me to. But there must be ways of removing pitch that are far less drastic, so I’ll do a quick internet search and head over there. Are you at your house?”
“Yeah.”
“I’ll be there in fifteen minutes. Don’t cut anything between now and then!”
“Thanks, Beck. It’s probably best if you let yourself in, so I don’t stick to the doorknobs.” I gave him the code to the gate at the bottom of the driveway and the one to the front door, and after we disconnected, I sat on the toilet lid and rested my forehead against the edge of the vanity. I figured the only way to avoid getting into any more trouble was to remain totally immobile.
Zan: Chapter Two
Beck was a man of his word, and fifteen minutes later, I heard him call my name from the entryway. I shouted, “In here!” He followed the sound of my voice and appeared in the doorway holding a gallon jug of some sort of yellowish liquid and a canvas shopping bag. He was a good-looking brunet in his mid-twenties with an odd habit of always wearing hats, and today he was sporting a pointy green number that made me think of Peter Pan. Or maybe it was an elf thing, since he was also wearing a green shirt and shorts with red-and-white-striped tights and red cowboy boots.
When he bit his lower lip, I said, “Go ahead and laugh. I know I look ridiculous.”
