Bells of Avalon

by Libbet Bradstreet

  She slowly drove the winding, shrub-lined, road until she found Max sitting on the curb in front of the swirling wrought iron gate. He wore perfectly-pressed pants and a polo shirt, the sun shining off his glossy blonde hair. Things were better since they’d shrugged off the bad luck of New York. She realized now, the city had always been part of the problem. Here in Los Angeles, Max could be the Prince Valiant studio player he was born to be. He was pleased as punch to take whatever crumbs that fell from Mark Damon and Robert Wagner’s plates for as long as he could. He told her it was all he’d ever wanted to begin with. She parked the car along the curve, smiling. She pulled the papers from the glove box and looked over the short form deed in the sunlight. This time the names Maximilian and Cloda Kitterage were typed at the top in blocky black font.

  “You want the good news or the bad?” he asked when she joined him at the curb.

  “The good, I guess.”

  “Well, I guess there isn’t any good news. The gate is locked and the man never came by with the keys. But hey, I bet we could scale the gate and jump in the pool if you’re up for an adventure.”

  “How long have you been waiting?” she asked.

  “Long enough to scare the neighbors. What do you say we get a hotel and grab some lunch? We’ll try again in the morning.”

  “Not so fast,” she said and pulled a ring of keys from her purse.

  “Hey, how’d you get those?”

  “Oh, I have my means. Tad and I go way back,” she smiled.

  “Is that so? I don’t know if I like it: the blonde starlet and the dashing realtor.”

  “Better than the out-of-work leading man, I suppose.”

  “Oh, baby, that hurt.” he put a hand across his chest. “But no longer accurate, I’m afraid.”

  “You got it?”

  “Of course.”

  “Well congratulations, sir. How does it feel to be back in the blackboard jungle?”

  “I don’t know yet, ask me in a few years and I’ll tell you.”

  “Fair enough,” she said and gave him the keys.

  They bought take-out and Mexican beer in lieu of sit-down service. They ate amongst the boxes, barely enough to fill the smallest part of the main living area. The New York-bred compulsion to use as little space as possible had yet to wear off. She didn’t know how they would ever collect enough furniture to fill such a massive area. Later, she started unpacking their upstairs bedroom. The curtain treatments alone would cost a fortune, she noted as she counted the arched windows circling the canopy-style bed. She went to the largest one and looked out at the bucolic view of stone pathways, palm leaves and wood ferns. The small swimming pool was surrounded by Spanish clover, and she watched the sunlight dance along the tiny crests of blue water. She felt her husband behind her. He placed both hands on her shoulders, and she rested the back of her head against his chest.

  “How does it feel to be a Holmby Hills girl?”

  Max’s easy words didn’t register right away. She watched the water for a few more seconds before her body tensed and she turned sharply toward him.

  “What did you say?”

  “Nothing, it’s just aces is all—Holmby Hills, did you ever think?” he smiled.

  She laughed under her breath, and looked sadly back to the water.

  “Never.”

  Since she’d moved back to their apartment in New York, Max had become more attentive, more sensing of when her moods shifted. It was one of the things that had made her fall slowly and easily back in love with him. But this time, she wished he weren’t so observant. He sighed, ever the peacemaker.

  “Hey look—Christmas in April,” he declared. She turned. In his hand was a small box wrapped in shiny paper with baby candy-canes. A powdering of dust filled the creases of the paper. A tattered red ribbon clung barely to the box.

  “What’s this?” she asked, taking it from his hand.

  “I’m not sure. Probably from one of the boxes the movers packed up from your hotel last year,” he said. They heard the phone ring from downstairs.

  “That’ll be the dashing Tad-- I’ll take it,” he said.

  Katie rolled her eyes and smiled as her husband clomped down the stairs. She heard him answer the phone in his golden, publicity voice and blandly unwrapped the box. Underneath the candy-cane wrapping was a blue velvet box. She opened it with a small creak and pulled the necklace from inside. Her eyes widened and she felt the rush of blood to her ears. The same net of grapevine brambles leading down to the most unusual stone she’d seen then and since. She swayed the chain and watched the California sun tease out the flaked bursts of blue and green from the black depths of the opal. Her husband’s voice seemed a million miles away as she stared at the pendant swinging back and forth, back and forth. She felt a giddy, amazed smile cross her lips. There were no words. Mom, I wish you’d stop wearing that thing; it stuns people dumb, makes them ask stupid questions. She looked inside the box, but found nothing else. The inside of the wrapping paper was blank and void as well. She looked again at the stone and smiled. If it had been a movie, he would have left a note. But Daniel had had his fill of movie endings, and she knew that better than anyone else could. She was the last.

  The End