So I sign my name yet again (and again and again), noticing Randolph’s eyes upon me as I do. He’s proud of me, I want to think, he sees something of himself in me, and so do I.
A successful part.
And maybe, I have to admit, he sees more in me than that; even more than just a professional or friendly relationship. And maybe I see the same in him. He’s such an interesting person, I can‘t deny, he has so much yet seems to be so lacking. He has a love of life, a joi de vivre, but he longs for love in his life, for the love of his life.
He has everything that tragedy couldn’t take away, I come to understand. He has an abundance of the things he only realizes now are what matter least in life. And those things that matter most are what elude him despite his greatest efforts.
Until now? I wonder.Is this God’s will, that we find each other? Surely, each can provide what the other lacks! He has experiences to share with me, wisdom, and I’m in need of those things. I can offer him new opportunities you can’t get on the dotted line, a freshness in his life that he’s longing for but is unable to buy.
Let’s not get carried away. I have to remind myself that love doesn’t work the way a business deal does. Just because it makes sense on paper doesn’t make it a good deal.
That’s when I realize that Randolph is right; that a balance between a personal life and a business life is not only important, but crucial. Because the rules are not the same. In fact, they’re different games all together; play them the same and you can easily lose both. It seems so clear, I don’t understand why knowing it and living it are such drastically different things.
But they sure are.
Ultimately, with the last paper signed, Randolph turns to me with a wink. “Congratulations, you now owe almost a million dollars. Welcome to the American Dream!”
The next day we’re back on the hunt for real estate, but this time it’s for an apartment for me. I almost feel a little silly going with Randolph; surely, I reason, this is waste of his time. But he’s interested and involved, and I think he feels a certain protectiveness where I’m concerned.
And he’s so filled with valuable information, I know that it’s all part of the experience, all part of my education. This time, I’m seeing it from the renter’s point of view. It almost amazes me, but this is the first apartment I’ll be renting under my own name. I lived at home (like a livein maid) until I graduated, then wound up as Emily’s roommate. This is a whole different ballgame.
But I am in a pretty strong position; good job (in real estate, no less), property owner, my boss ready to cosign if necessary (and I pray that it won’t be). And there are a few to choose from; shabby singles in fiftyunit postmodern complexes that weren’t leveled in the quake of ’93, newly renovated one-bedrooms in Los Feliz, not far from my new buildingor from Randolph’s house in nearby Silverlake.
“Renters want three things,” Randolph says, “privacy, pets and practicality. You don’t have any pets, that’s a plus. You don’t rent to pet owners at your own building?”
“No, actually, I don’t. Though the place has been filled since I bought it.”
“Keep it that way. Pets are like kids and property taxes, they’re for homeowners.” We share a chuckle, and he adds, “You’ll be in a safe area, close to shops, freeway convenient. Unless ... ” An odd silence wriggles between us. I look at him, turning my head to hear what I think he’s about to suggest.
But he doesn’t. And instead of asking, I look around the Spanish villa design of the pre- 1930s onebedroom on Rowena. “Shall we make an offer?”
A few hours later, we celebrate back at Randolph’s place. We sit in front of his house for a while, the inky night stretched out above us, the sparkle of the city basin at our feet, that fire wall licking up from the stone grill. It’s warm and wonderful and exotic, and the sound of the trickling water from the nearby fountain is a delicate counterpoint to the crackling flames.
Fire and water, hot and cold; the best of both worlds.
I say, “It really is beautiful, I wish ... ”
He looks at me with an expectant smile. “Yes? Tell me what you wish for ... ”
I’m sorry to have to disappoint him, but I have to finish my thought honestly: “I wish my mom were alive, that she could see how well things are going for me.”
“Who’s to say that she can’t see you, that she doesn’t know?” Randolph gazes up at the stars, so few compared to the skies over Boulder, even fewer than the skies over the rural areas outside of town. There, the night’s sky is positively alive with starts, the little white dots practically splashed across the heavens.
Really romantic! Right?
But sitting in front of this hilltop house, looking over the city as if it’s a kingdom and I am its princess; it’s more than Colorado ever offered me, that’s for sure.
Randolph says, “I often think, hope really, that ... ” He takes a moment and swallows hard, lifting his brandy for another whiff. “I hope there is a life after this one, where we’re reunited with those we knew, those we loved. I ... I wrestle with it, sometimes, the not knowing. It’s hard.”
“Yeah,” I say with a sympathetic nod, “it’s not easy, Randolph. But after all, you aren’t really supposed to know, are you?” He looks at me for a moment, both hopeful and confused. “That’s why it’s called faith, Randolph. You’re not supposed to know, you’re supposed to believe.”
He looks at me gravely, his eyes locking in on mine. “What if everything I know, everything I rely on, tells me one thing; but everything I believe, everything I want with all my heart to have faith in, tells me something else?”
I feel the tension thickening around us, drawing us closer, pulling us together.
I say, “You have to follow your heart, in business or in your personal life.”
“Is that so?” he asks with a slightly exaggerated tone. “How do you figure that?”
“People just want three things.” My voice gets lower, almost whisper-quiet as our heads get nearer to one another, our gazes entwined, our lips pursed and ready. “Privacy ... ”
After a sexy little second, Randolph asks, “Yes?” his voice as quiet and breathy as mine.
“Um, passion ... ”
“Passion? Is that right?”
I nod with an affected sternness. “Oh, absolutely yes.”
We’re closer now, almost close enough to kiss. My heart is beating fast, blood rushing in my veins, my mouth suddenly dry. Letting our faces hover so near to each other, he says, “And ... the third thing?”
I can’t help but smile. And I don’t want to help it. Finally, I say, “Um, actually, I ... I don’t remember ...”
We chuckle a bit, the moment is so free and so fragile, such fondness and nearness and warmth. And he’s so handsome and gracious and kind and giving and graceful.
Finally, our words abandon us, and we’re well rid of them. Our kiss is delicate, his lips barely touching mine at first. Then he presses a bit harder, and I press back. Our lips part and our tongues meet, intersecting at last in a long-awaited dance, a song without words or melody but not without rhythm.
Our breath collects around us, warming our faces; our noses rubbing, chins passing each other in a sweet caress. His hand drifts up and touches my cheek, fingers strong against my smooth skin. I feel small and vulnerable with him, and he seems so powerful and almost heroic; he could protect and take care of me, instead of me having to slave to take care of someone else.
I feel that I could be loved, instead of merely loving and getting nothing in return. This wonderful and lonely man offers me so much; his time, his attention, his kindness, his secrets. He is trusting me in so many ways. Even this kiss is a leap of faith for him, a foray into potentially dangerous territory.
No, I hear my own voice protest, not this time, not with me; this tender, beautiful man will not suffer at my hands. I’m going to be the one who loves him! I’m going to be the one whom he loves, whom he can continue to love. No tragedy
or turn of fate will get in our way, not if I have anything to say about it.
And even if I don’t!
So we keep kissing, our tongues becoming more aggressive and more welcoming; our hands becoming more restless, more willing to explore. The warm summer night pulls us even closer together; closer than either of us could have thought we’d be, closer almost than it’s physically possible to be. Then even closer.
I look up at that dark night, only a few stars looking down on us, flickering and blinking in excited curiosity. The wall of fire breathes warm waves over us, water trickling in the background to punctuate our deepening gasps and rising sighs.
♡
I don’t have very much to move out of Emily’s place, so I don’t bother Randolph with dragging him along. He’s already done so much, including buying furniture for the apartment. I’m beginning to feel a little conspicuous about it.
“Sounds like things are going great,” Emily says with a chirpy, cheerful grin. “Why aren’t you moving right into hisplace?”
“Well, that would be a little too fast. I mean, they’re going great, that’s true; I’d like to keep them going that way.”
Quinton turns from gazing out the window. “That is one heck of a nice car, Addie.”
“It’s just a company car. It is nice though, isn’t it?”
“Company car,” Emily says. “Sure, ‘cause he likes your company.”
“And I like his, maybe a bit more than I should. I’m a little nervous about it, I don’t mind telling you.”
“Maybe that’s love,” Emily says with an excited squeak.
I say, “Maybe. He’s certainly letting his guard down for me -”
“And you’re doing the same for him,” Quinton says. “Don’t undervalue yourself.”
I have to smile. “Sounds like something Randolph would say.”
Quinton smiles too. “I like him already.”
We all share alittle chuckle, and I go on to say, “I’m just worried about becoming too reliant on him. That’s not why I came out here, to become some rich man’s kept woman.”
“Kept woman?” Emily scrunches up her pert little smile into a disapproving frown, even shakingher head a bit to illustrate her position. “Emily, you’re not in a Charlotte Rae novel!”
After a quizzical moment, I ask, “You mean Charlotte Brontë?”
Emily shrugs and waves me off. “Same thing.”
I notice Quinton shooting her a look, one of disappointed neardisbelief. He’s a powerful young man, intelligent and compassionate, embarking on a career as a legal champion; and he’s about to marry a woman who doesn’t know the difference between the nineteenth century author of Jane Eyre, and the actress who played Mrs. Garrett on TV sitcomsDiff’rent Strokes and The Facts of Life.
Then Quinton looks back at me, and there’s a spark that I cannot deny and which I only hope Emily doesn’t detect. I wonder in that split-second if Quinton and I aren’t both with the wrong people. But I can’t entertain the thought for long, because things for us are moving quickly and taking us in separate directions. It would take something drastic to change that, and neither one of us wants anything too drastic so early on in our lives.
“Anyway, I’m worried that I’m putting all my eggs in one basket, as they say.”
Quinton smiles. “Well, you remember what Mark Twain said: ‘Put your eggs into one basket, and then watch that basket!’” Another little chuckle flutters among us, but it doesn’t do much to settle my nerves. I’m still worried about Randolph, and thinking about Quinton. And as well as everything that’s going on, I’m still plagued by this nagging feeling that something is about to go terribly wrong.
Something drastic.
CHAPTER FIVE
Weeks roll on, with Randolph taking periodic days off to be with his mother, whom he still won’t introduce me to. I don’t press it, of course. It’s his private business, his family, his own mother! And I’m his personal assistant, his fortunate pupil, (I hope) a good friend and I don’t want to violate the confidence of those relationships.
But truth be told, I can hear my own voice echoing in the back of my brain like some crazed rehearsal of lines that I just don’t dare deliver, things I cannot bring myself to say:
Don’t you think it’s time I met her? Now that we’re ... together?
But sooner or later it does come up; the fact that he’s given me no number there in case of emergencies, that he visits and never speaks of it or of her or of their past. It reminds me of my own mom; the fading memories of her pretty face receding with every year, every month, every day.
“It’s hard when you lose parents,” I say to him over a grilled salmon and butter bean relish. “I wish I could see my mom again, just once, tell her how much I love her.”
Randolph smiles his usual casual smile. “My mother and I are ... familiar with the way the other feels.”
After one or two other mentions of her, I’m almost surprised when Randolph finally invites me for an afternoon with the legendary Margaret MacLeish. She greets us at the door of her apartment in Santa Monica, her waddling frame slow but still oddly spry. Margaret can’t move quickly, but she ties harder and more than makes up for what time has sapped away.
Her place is dark, drapes shielding the musty rooms from the flood of sunlight, even this late in the year when the beach areas are mostly foggy.
I try to say as little as possible; there’s too much to look at and listen to and learn from; for me to try to contribute anything would be pointless.
She’s a short woman, about five feet; and broad, but it’s hard to tell under her shawl. And she speaks in a kind of Celtic brogue so thick that it’s hard to follow; a steady stream of guttural sounds, compressed vowels,slurred S’s and rolled R’s. I have to interpret her meaning by Randolph’s reactions and by my own intuition.
“No, Mother, she’s my personal assistant ... yes, and a colleague, but not ... that’s none of your business, Mother ... and will you show some couth, for heaven’s sake?”
She’s cantankerous and brassy and smells a bit like midday liquor, and I’m almost thinking about setting her up with my father when I realize that I can’t decide who’d be the worse off or why.
Margaret spends a lot of time turning and coughing, waving us away and hiding her face. At one point, I lean over and ask, “Are you okay, Margaret? Need some water?” She nods and I get her some, her fingers taking the glass with quivering uncertainty. We spend an hour or so with her, then move on to the Santa Monica Pier, to watch the Ferris wheel and have a few margaritas, the waves churning restlessly in the distance.
“Your mother is a real hoot! Do you really understand everything she says? It’s like another language.”
Randolph says, “It is another language! And no, I never really understand half of what she’s saying.” After a little pause and a look over the inky sea around us, he adds, “But I understand what she means.”
After a sad little pause, I have to ask, “Is she okay? That cough ... ”
Randolph looks at me, suddenly quite, his smile melting away. “No. She’s not okay.”
Nice one, dummy, I hear that voice reprimand me from deep inside my skull. You sure know how to kill a vibe!
Well, we all get older, I hear myself respond,it’s not like either of us thinks anybody is going to live forever.
Ultimately, Randolph says, “She sure is a hoot though, you’re right about that.”
I let the subject go, and he doesn’t make another mention of her. Instead of getting all wrapped up in that Freudian nightmare, I follow Randolph’s lead and look ahead, to the future.
Because it’s coming fast, whether I’m looking or not. And the past, however hard I may try to leave it behind, keeps clinging to me; holding onto my heels like a nipping wolf with a taste for my blood.
Later that night, I pull out some paper and a pen, deciding to give those wolves more than merely an email. But I don’t even know if my father and brothers stil
l share the same house, much less if they still get the internet.
All the more reason to write them a letter, I decide. So my hand trembles a bit as I write, but I force the issue and the tissue and begin with the familiar greeting. Everything else after that is up for grabs.
Dearest Family:
I am doing well in Los Angeles, and wanted to take a moment to let you know not to worry about me. I think about you often, and always with a warm heart. I hope you think of me the same way, and that you are finding all the happiness in the world which is allotted to you by the grace of our Lord.
When I think of you, I think of Mom; how she must be looking down on us, so happy that we are finding our destinies, even though they may not be found under the same roof for us all.
I should take this opportunity to apologize for leaving so abruptly and without a proper goodbye. It was just too much emotion for me to face, to say goodbye to even more of my family, the rest of it, and for who knows how long? I hope you have found the strength to forgive me.
Yours in Christ, Addison.
Okay, I can’t say that it’s entirely genuine, thought it is for the most part. Of course I could include, You worked me like a servant and ignored me to the point of heartbreak. I would have left sooner if I could have, and I won’t ever come back!
But the truth is not reason enough to say something, and there is no reason for me to express these things to my father now. It’s long past the point of making any difference.
It just doesn’t matter.
But I don’t want that stuff following me into the future. I want to go clean into that bright and brilliant horizon, and this is the best way to do it. And I really do wish them all well, and I do regret just leaving without so much as a kiss on the cheek. But I send the letter and let my sadness go with it, casting it to the wind and placing it upon the alter of the Lord.
Two weeks later, Randolph and I take an American Airlines flight to Ft. Lauderdale, Florida, to have a look at some property he may buy for a new cartel of investors. I’m more excited than I ever thoughtI’d be to be visiting Florida, but I know it’s not the gators or the swamps or anybody’s grandma I’m going to see. I’m learning so much as the weeks go by, every new deal is a lesson and an adventure.
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