She finished packing what was left of her clothes and went downstairs to make a cup of tea. An English girl, she’d never drunk tea until she’d come to live with the Meltsners. It was one of the many British generalizations she could never live up to. The tea soothed her…and she fell asleep, fully dressed on the chaise lounge with an empty teacup at her feet.
She woke the next morning, thankful for the noise of chirping birds. To further cut the quiet of the house, she turned on the radio and went upstairs to bathe. Afterwards she dressed in her garden clothes and put on a bit of rouge and lip gloss. She made a ruckus searching for the steel watering can under the sink. She retrieved it from the very back, then pulled the percolator from the cupboard and filled it with water. The Meltsners drank coffee from morning till night, and she had come to grow a taste for it as well as the tea. She waited for the piping of the percolator to silence and poured a cup for herself. She filled the watering can until it weighted heavy against her hand. She took a first sip of the bitter coffee. The morning light was blinding by time she reached the porch and walked out into the front yard. The air was chillier than she’d expected. She shivered and drank a bit more coffee before kneeling beside a single snowdrop flower. Her finger brushed against a tender white petal. The face of the flower angled down with the stem in a perpetual sort of bow. She tipped the base of the flower head to face her and inspected the green and gold markings on the inside of the petals. She released it, and it dipped back into a downward curtsy. A sad little flower. She’d plant crocus next year, something with a bit more life. By then she would have her own house, and her own path to plant against. That thought came and went quickly as she moved up the line of snowdrops, showering each flower with water from the can. She watched as the crystal droplets fell at an achingly slow rate to the petals and splashed everywhere.
Oh no…it was coming. That was the last clear thought she had before the bad image came. The dark cartoon image of another garden. A giant snowdrop flower bent its face and blotted out the sun. She saw the body of her younger self against the coneflowers and the Dancer in a flat-cap behind her. Why did it always come to this? She should have expected it this time. Of course it would come. She’d been so stupid, so stupid, the sing-songy voice piped-up and declared.
She dropped the steel watering can and it landed against the ground with a sluicing yawp. She left it there, walking away with the unnatural stride of a wind-up toy. She followed the border of the long pathway, counting each snowdrop flower in hushing numbers under her breath. Nine. Ten. Eleven. Twelve. The sing-songy voice became louder and louder against the counting sound of her own voice as if to drown her out. After she’d counted the snowdrops, her eyes flew up to the frightening wide-open clarity of a cloudless sky, and being outside was no longer a good thing. The long ago shriveled feeling in her limbs returned. They were no longer her own. She crumbled to the ground. Faraway she heard the crisp ringing of the telephone from inside the Meltsner’s jazz stucco home. Oh god, not that, anything but that. The clear part of her mind returned with the thought.
“Not again,” she whispered.
When the ringing stopped, a cold sweat broke out over her body. Two boys drew near on the sidewalk. She pulled herself to her feet. She rushed to the kitchen and sat her coffee cup on the counter with a clink. A rash of heat crawled across her chest. She placed her hands on either side of the sink, bracing her weight against the counter top. Her face hung low. She closed her eyes, waiting for her breath to become strong and even again. When it didn’t, her head popped up to look at the fragile porcelain cup. She glared at it for several moments, her pupils becoming tiny points of black against her dark blue eyes. Her breath came then, but in plugging strains of hot air through her nose. She put one strong hand over the cup and hurled it against the tile floor. She stood upright and watched as it burst.
Leaning against the sink, she let her mind go walking. Her face froze in a lordly expression, her well-shaped eyebrows in a perfect arch above her eyes. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d made such an arrogant face. It felt good. She’d made the face as a child, of course. Childhood was a time when natural things came out to play—but her father had bred it out of her. The same way that her natural voice was blanched at the charm school in Highbury. The imperialism, he’d said—something they couldn’t be associated with, so long as things were going well in America. So the look had been shut away, and her face became happy in ways that were more appropriate, more inviting. But her father was dead, and she stood making any face she pleased in the kitchen of the people he’d left her to. The dial of her thin gold watch showed the passing of an hour before she called her mind back.
She turned, and he was standing in front of her—as if conjured from a dream. His eyes were bright. Thank god they were bright and aware. She couldn’t bear it if they were dull or vacant. His mouth moved into a quizzical grin before he saw the shattered cup on the floor. He looked at her again, with more concern.
“Look at the mess you’ve made.” He kneeled to inspect the shattered cup.
“Yes, but I’ll clean it,” she said and walked to kitchen closet. She returned and swept the mess into a neat pile of white pieces.
“I didn’t hear you come in,” she said, sweeping the last piece into the pan.
“I knocked—a lot.”
“Well I didn’t hear you.”
“I see that.” He laughed.
“What are you doing here, Danny?” she asked, her voice curt.
“C’mon, what are you so steamed up about?”
“Nothing.”
“Oh ok, sure. Whatever you say.” He looked over her dull garden clothes, “What’ve you been doing?”
“Nothing—watering the flowers out front.”
“You and your flowers. Aren’t you supposed to lay off gardening in the winter?”
“Ha, there are no winters in California—anyway they’re winter flowers,” she said, not caring if she ever saw or spoke of the sad little flowers again. She wanted to run to the front yard and pull every one of them up by the root like the deranged girl she was. But there would be none of that as long as he was here. By the way he was looking at her, he didn’t seem to be going anywhere anytime soon.
“Where’d you come up with those?” he asked.
“Your mother gave me the bulbs last fall.”
“You two make me nervous being in cahoots the way you are.”
“No reason to be nervous. We’ve more important things to talk about than you,” she said, but it was only partly true. She watched him as he looked around the kitchen. He wore faded jeans and a short-sleeved blue sweater that made his eyes look greener than they actually were. The thick silver bevels of his watch shone around his wrist.
“You never called,” she said.
He turned back to look at her. His eyes narrowed, went angry for a flash, then calmed. He looked away, continuing his inspection of the house.
“Yeah I did, it’s not my fault you didn’t answer.” His voice grew distant as he walked into the next room.
“You know what I mean.” She followed behind.
“Flashy place, isn’t it? Like a museum; I’m afraid to touch anything…I’m sorry, I was going to—but I had some things to take care of.”
“What things?”
“Just things.”
“Danny—”
“Jesus, Katie. Why do you have to make a federal case out of everything?” He turned on her, the angry spark in his eyes returning.
She frowned, and he shoved his hands in his pockets, his mouth tightening.
“Hey now—can I steal you away from your flowers for a few hours?” he asked softly, the edge of his temper waning.
“And go where?”
“It’s a surprise.”
“That sounds a little terrifying coming from you.”
“It’s not, just something I’ve wanted to show you for a long time.” He walked toward her until they were almost touching. He lifted he
r chin up so she had to look at him. His thumb skimmed over her jaw, barely touching. She looked into his greenish eyes and saw that he was battling to remain gentle with her—that if he moved even half an inch, he would lose out against whatever he was fighting. He pulled his hand away and placed it back into his pocket.
“My car is out front. Get dressed, will you?”
Her eyebrows curved up, displaying the long elegance of her face.
“Please?” he half-begged.
“What should I be dressing for?”
“Nothing special—c’mon we’ll be late.”
The sound of the front door opening cut the privacy of their conversation.
“Hello! Hello, who is home?” a voice called out.
“It’s ok, Roberta, I’m in here.”
Danny straightened his back when the housekeeper stomped into the kitchen. Her dark hair was pulled back into a bun from which blunt bangs escaped to line her eyebrows. She held a dark canvass bag in her hands. Her face, heart-shaped and flushed, appeared startled upon seeing that Katie wasn’t alone.
“Oh, hello, Miss Katie.”
“Good morning, Roberta.”
“Are the misters here?”
“No, they’re gone for a few days. This is my old friend Daniel Gallagher, Roberta. We used to do pictures together.”
The woman muddled over the introduction, but seemed mostly confused by it.
“Well, yes—very good. You need me to stay and make the dinner after I take care of the upstairs?”
Katie looked over Danny’s amused face before looking again at the housekeeper.
“I have a strange feeling I won’t be here for dinner,” she said, looking lightly on Daniel.
“Miss?” Roberta asked.
Katie’s eyes flicked away from Daniel, remembering herself.
“Nothing, Roberta. Do you want some coffee? I’ve just made it.”
“No thank you, Miss. I’ll be doing the upstairs now.”
Katie sighed and looked over the large bag she held in her arms.
“Roberta, there are some movers coming in a few hours to take some things out of my room. Can you stay until they finish and lock up after? It shouldn’t take but an hour or so.”
“You leaving, Miss Katie?”
“Yes, I’m afraid so, Roberta. Would you care staying until they finish?”
“Well, no, Miss Katie—you don’t need me to stay for dinner?”
“No need, Roberta, we’ll be out for dinner.” Danny said and placed his arm around Katie. Roberta inspected Danny with cagey eyes, her mouth pinched.
“Don’t bother about dinner, Roberta. Are you sure you won’t have some coffee?”
“No, Miss Katie, I’ll be doing the upstairs now,” she said and looked over Danny once again before shuffling out of the room.
Danny turned and let out a deep whistling breath.
“Don’t think she likes me very much.”
“Hush now. She’s very sweet, a little strange is all.”
“You’re moving out?” he asked.
“It’s a long story.”
She walked to the kitchen table and sat down. Slumping her shoulders, she sighed and rested her head in one hand.
“Off to be a Holmby Hills girl?” he asked, crossing his arms over his chest. The question could have meant anything coming from him that way.
“I’m never leaving the Palisades, not if I can help it,” she replied stubbornly.
“We’ll see, Katie Webb.”
“Listen, if you’ve just come to argue with me you can leave right now. I’m still mad at you anyway.”
“Well, I’ll make it up to you if you let me.”
He kneeled next to her chair.
“Oh, and look,” his hand went to his pocket as though performing a magic trick, “For all of your unfinished crossword puzzles.”
She looked down and saw her tiny pencil in his hand. She took it from him and smiled.
“You didn’t lose it after all,” she said, unable to hide the simple giddiness in her voice. He shrugged; his own version of changing the subject.
“Well are you coming or aren’t you? We’ll be late.”
“Heavens, late for what Daniel?”
“It’s a surprise,” he said happily—and there was nothing more disarming than Daniel Gallagher when he was truly happy.
She paid attention as they he drove along Route 1, but by the time they turned east from the coast, it no longer seemed to matter where they were going. It turned into a warm day for December, even for a place where there were no winters. The air circled through the small cab of Daniel’s car and sent her hair streaming away from her face. The sky was cloudless. The sun shone harsh against the green and red metallic garlands adorning street lights in a weak attempt to remind them that Christmas was coming. That didn’t matter either as she rested her head against Daniel’s shoulder, watching his hand holding tightly to the steering wheel.
“C’mon, you really didn’t guess?” he asked when they parked at the marina lot. She smiled.
“No. You’re just full of tricks aren’t you?”
He pulled her from the car, slamming the door behind.
Her eyes squinted at the sun as they neared the landing. As they walked, her hand brushed against his in one shy attempt. He glanced at her and, after a short pause, took her hand in his. Her eyes adjusted just so she could read the bright red font painted alongside the boat. They boarded and watched from the deck while most of everyone else wandered inside. She felt his eyes on her as they waited to push from the harbor. He stole a string of impatient glances while her eyes remained fixed on the breakwaters that edged the shoreline. Finally, she sensed the boat shift beneath her. They began a noiseless glide from land into the bay. And suddenly, she didn’t have to be Katie Webb anymore. She could be anyone that she wanted to be—or she could simply become that exciting and fledgling part of her that had never been allowed to see the light of day. The weight on her chest dissolved. She took a deep breath and closed her eyes to soothe whatever tensions remained. When she opened her eyes, the coast was barely legible. He’d given up the charade of glancing. His eyes were set on her and his shoulders square to her body. She moved, little more than a spell. When she did, she let him pull her towards him. She breathed in the scent of him and everything that had gone wrong in New York was reconciled.
He pulled back and looked at her. He placed both hands on the side of her jaw and studied her face. She let him look as long as he wanted, and closed her eyes when he moved in to kiss her. The kiss was a tranquil thing until her body began to respond. His lips softened but moved in pressing appeals against her mouth, more urgent this time. Her material mind began to drift away and the last voice she heard told her to stop him. The pleading urge echoed through what remained of her mind…more sing-songy than ever before. But soon, even that was gone. The whole world was just them—and the sound of rushing water as it curled around the starboard side of the Santa Catalina.
When they docked, he was humming nonsense words into her ear. Over his voice she heard the bells from Avalon tower. They rang three times, as if to welcome them back to a world where time passed too quickly. They explored their fool’s paradise from every vantage point, walking the lengths of endless byways and beaches. The further they walked, the less they bothered to fill the spells of silence that fell between them. When the fine sand turned to tinny rock, she saw something inside Danny change. Even in the diffused light of the setting sun, his face grew pale. Daniel sadly pondered the rise of rock impeding their path. She said nothing. Even amongst Daniel’s rolodex of changing faces, she would have known that look anywhere. It was the look you made when you sent your mind walking. She left him to it while they stood in silence. When she sensed his dark mood shift, she touched his hand. His head snapped to the side and his shoulders flinched, just as she’d known they would. His greenish eyes held the spark of anger from before, but she wasn’t afraid of him. Sure enough, the warmness re
turned to his eyes—the cold streets of New York to the California sun. He gave her an agonized smile, and they walked back up the beach from where they’d come. When the sun set and the air grew chilly, they heard music from the casino ballroom overlooking the bay. They snuck in a service door on the bottom floor, following the music until they reached the dance floor in the seashell pavilion. They danced together, underdressed teenagers in a sea of tweed suits and eyelet evening gowns. With each step, she felt the scattered grains of sand in her shoes. When his hands ran through her hair, she clung closer to him.
Later when Daniel left her to fetch drinks from the bar, she walked to one of the massive portico windows circling the ballroom. She looked out on the black ocean, wondering if she could find the very place from which she’d looked on as a child. She was glad when she saw nothing. Daniel reappeared with two gin drinks. He stood with her against the window, looking out as she had. He placed his arm around her waist, and she felt something like hope show through her smile. He smiled back, saying nothing—but he hadn’t needed to. She heard the words inside her. Not from the man he was but from the boy he’d been. Not everything that happens is worth talking about, is it Katie Webb?
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