Rosethorn (8 page)

Sera started when she realized she had been staring at him and broke the silence.

“This is good. Thank you. The reason why I'm here," she began briskly, as if he had asked, "is because...I think the house would make a great subject for an article. Its history, the fact that it’s one of the few Victorians in this area, the sea captain, Ms. Haviland, the new owner, everything. I think that the back stories alone are pretty riveting and...I suppose the new owner plans to do extensive restoration?"

He nodded, and she continued, wondering where she found the words that were spilling out of her.

"I can imagine that once restored it should be---" and here she faltered as she caught the look in his eyes. "I could detail the eccentricities of the house. Readers like that sort of thing, houses having stories. 'Tragic Victorian Restored to Glory.'"  She gestured in the air with open hands. "I could pitch it as a high-end remodel with lots of glossy photos." She stopped, realizing how fast she had been talking and that she had no idea what she just said.

"That's why you came here? To write an article?"

"Um-hm,” she murmured as she downed her lemonade.

"Do you have a card? For the owner."

"A card," she repeated, patting her dress, as if by my magic the business cards in the satchel at her grandmother's house would have appeared in its nonexistent pockets. "I guess I'm fresh out. I'll have to come back. Is he--she not here?"

"He. One of the nouveau riche," He mocked as he smiled that half-smile and took off his hat to wipe his forehead with his sleeve. His head was closely shorn.

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?”