by Jess Bentley
And here she is, sixty years later? Seventy? No, that can’t be right. The woman in front of me is as ageless as a painting. Her silver hair drips over her shoulders in glistening waves, curling through the heavy hoop earrings that drop from her ears. When she raises her arms to me to demand an embrace, countless metal bangles chime against her wrists as the turquoise silk sleeves slide back to her slender shoulders.
“And who is this creature?” Sunny purrs at me, her voice a musical sonata. “Call me Auntie.”
“This is Clarissa, Auntie,” Maxwell tells her, the amusement clear in his voice as I stumble forward helplessly into her embrace.
She smells amazing, with perfume that is practically as intoxicating as opium. Soft flesh that curls around me like a mythological embrace. Like I’m being seduced by a mermaid.
Swallowing, I return the hug and then step backward, trying to regain my composure. Sunny just beams calmly, apparently completely aware of the effect she has on people.
I’ve never met anyone like her. I think she may be a sorceress.
“So wonderful to meet you,” I stammer gracelessly, trying to remember some kind of manners. “Your home is… magnificent.”
She shrugs and looks around, as though she’s not sure it’s all that great.
“I don’t think Salvador ever really finished it,” she sniffs. “But what can you do? Then he went and died. Let’s go inside!”
With a flourish, she spins around and disappears through the darkened entryway, leaving me stumbling in her wake. I glance at Maxwell to catch his eye and mouth the word Salvador? He grins and nods.
Yes. Apparently this “cottage” was designed by Salvador Dali.
Wow.
As though drawn forward on an unseen current of water, I can’t help but follow Sunny as she disappears into the interior, threading her way through oddly shaped rooms and corridors. As she swiftly walks, she calls questions out over her silk-shrouded shoulder.
“Clarissa what?”
“Clarissa Goring,” I answer in a raised voice, narrowly dodging an elephant-footed settee.
“Goring… Goring… Are you related to Ferdinand Goring? The mystic and harpsichord savant?”
“I doubt it,” I shrug, ducking under a knot of mint-green lace that hangs mysteriously from the middle of an arched hallway.
“Married?”
“No,” I answer, temporarily blinded by the strobing pink light of a disco ball.
“Children?”
“None.”
“Want any?”
She disappears through a practically invisible, lightning-shaped crevice in one plaster wall that I don’t even see until I’m standing right in front of it. Turning sideways, I squeeze through and find myself in a regular-sized hallway, with regular-shaped doors on both sides and a plush woven rug underfoot that is dotted with golden peacocks.
Sunny stops and turns to face me, her eyebrows arched and expectant.
“Do you want children?” she asks again.
I hate this question, and yet I am compelled to answer it. “I don’t think so,” I reply honestly with a small, helpless shrug.
“Why not?”
I cast about my brain for a decent answer that would take more than fifteen polite seconds.
“I guess… I’m the oldest?”
Sunny takes a deep breath, her fine nostrils flaring thoughtfully as she purses her lilac-tinted lips.
“I see… I see,” she answers. “You have siblings… You were charged with their care… Perhaps a death in the family? Oh, my darling, I’m so sorry.”
She reaches a hand out to cuff my arm sympathetically and to my utter bewilderment, I’m grateful. I’m not annoyed at this prying like I usually would be. Somehow her incredible nosiness seems completely in character.
“Thank you,” I choke, my voice thick with emotion.
She breaks away suddenly and flings open the nearest door.
“Maxwell doesn’t want children either!” she declares, sweeping her hand in the air to indicate the interior of the room. “I hope you like it. All the furniture used to be in Windsor Castle!”
My breath catches in my throat. I shake my head tightly and she seems to slump, very nearly rolling her eyes.
“Darling, you don’t have to be bashful with me!”
“No,” I object, tripping over the word. “I mean, thank you, but no. We don’t… We aren’t...”
“All right, fine. Maxwell, you will sleep here!” she sniffs, cutting me off and whirling to command him. “Clarissa, follow me across the hall.”
I don’t know what to say. At this point, I don’t feel in control of this conversation at all. Everything she says, I immediately obey. When she sweeps past me, I stumble behind her like a zombie into the room across the hall. She clucks her tongue judgmentally.
“Well, this is not Windsor Castle, but it’s still a nice room, don’t you think?”
My eyes trace the perimeter of this new space. It looks like a starlet’s boudoir from a 1950s movie. Nearly every surface is silver or black, and a chandelier in the center of the ceiling drips long icicles of glittering crystals.
“It’s gorgeous. Thank you, um, Auntie,” I mumble as graciously as I can. “If I haven’t already said so, thank you so much for hosting us. Your home is just… I can’t even think of the words.”
She shrugs one shoulder, curling her hand over her hip. If I hadn’t seen film evidence of her age, I would assume this is a woman in her forties. My own mother is more frail, constantly complaining about aches and pains and worrying about what happens next. If only she had this kind of vigor, although at least some of Sunny’s vigor likely comes from the privilege of her lifestyle.
“Well, I hate to see it go, but it’s practically a full-time job and I am supposed to be retired. Plus, you know how the market is,” she muses, running her hand along the velvet curtains that drape the four-poster bed. “You have to strike while the market is hot! You can’t hesitate and lose the offer of a century, after all. What kind of lunatic would do that?”
She pauses, staring at me meaningfully. I force my mouth into a polite, stiff smile and wonder if we’re still talking about real estate?
Then suddenly, she snaps her fingers and sweeps from the room, leaving me alone. “I’ll see you at dinner! Seven o’clock!” she calls out over her shoulder, then closes the door behind her.
Chapter 7
Maxwell
I can tell that Clarissa is anxious about seeming professional, but helpless to get out of Sunny’s neutron star-like gravitational pull. I have to admit, I can’t help but find it amusing. Stronger women than Clarissa have tried and failed to resist Sunny’s charms.
The veranda is absolutely magical, with torches burning around the egg-shaped perimeter of the sculpted concrete patio. Sunny still has at least a dozen servants working here, and they arrive at choreographed intervals to deliver a dizzying array of wines, cheeses, and impressive entrées.
I have seen this all before, of course. Sunny and my mother have been friends for a long time. When I was young, I was intrigued by the insinuations that perhaps my mother was not as drab and predictable as I thought. Perhaps her pearl-button blouses had not been buttoned up all the way up to the bottom of her chin for her entire life. As I got older, I realized that people are more complicated than that and assumed that there is probably a lot about my parents’ lives that I don’t know… and don’t want to know.
I’ve been here dozens of times. Maybe hundreds of times. I’ve been in every room. I know that two of the bathroom sinks were used as urinals by Jackson Pollock. I know that John Wayne passed out inside of the grand piano after James Dean borrowed his Cadillac and did not come back for a week.
I know that the bedroom furniture that Sunny claims was from Windsor Castle really is from Windsor Castle. There was an article in the National Enquirer some fifteen years ago that claimed it was all reproduction. Sunny sued them for two million dollars. And won.
&nbs
p; But everything here is new to Clarissa. I love watching it through her eyes. Clarissa is completely enchanted by every word Sunny says, which of course means that Sunny has to dial everything up to eleven. Every story gets more outrageous. Funny thing is, they are still all completely true. She just usually tones it down a bit for the mere mortals to process.
I admit that I had a momentary concern that perhaps Clarissa wouldn’t fit in here. But looking at her under the flickering torch lights, her golden hair swept high over her ears in a feminine, tousled bun, her shoulders shaking inside that flirty, midnight-blue dress, I can see how perfectly she fits. She seems just slightly rigid, as though she is constantly checking herself to make sure she is still in line. But when she gets swept away by a story or the intriguing delight of some painting or piece of furniture, she seems to be a natural fit.
When the maid brings her a glass of Moroccan Aït Soula, I’m relieved to see that she drinks it. She could use a little relaxation.
“Oh, wonderful,” Sunny exclaims suddenly, “I hope you like beef Wellington.”
Clarissa smiles. “Sounds wonderful.”
Sunny leans toward her, brushing the back of Clarissa’s wrist with her fingertips yet again. She keeps petting her, like Clarissa is a recently acquired kitten who’s gradually coming around.
“Beef Wellington was my second husband’s favorite meal,” Sunny begins, launching into a new story. “He would only eat three things: beef Wellington, poutine, and purple asparagus.”
Clarissa cuts a dainty triangle from the corner of her Wellington and places it delicately between her lips. I realize I’m staring when she glances at me inquisitively.
“Purple asparagus?” she repeats, as though that is the reason I am staring.
“It’s more common than you think,” Sunny continues, undeterred. “I tried absolutely everything to get him to vary his diet. We traveled the entire globe looking for more things that could satisfy his palate. To no avail. Finally, I just had to divorce him!”
Clarissa swallows and raises her eyebrows. “You divorced… over that?”
Sunny carves herself an impressive bite of the beef Wellington and stares at it almost ruefully for a moment before shrugging.
“I did my best with him, dear,” she explains patiently. “I am only human.”
The Wellington truly is delicious, and so is the lemon ice that someone brings me immediately after. Sunny uncorks an expensive-looking bottle of tequila and pours out several shots into gnarled blobs of glass on a tray that must be some kind of artistic, handmade shot glasses.
“But I have to admit,” she begins again, sucking her cheeks in theatrically, “my third husband made me understand just how good I had it with my second husband. At least Mortimer was generally in good spirits. Tommy was a beast! An absolute beast!”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Clarissa hiccups adorably, covering her mouth with the back of her hand in alarm as she tries to sip the tequila.
“There are many things that make a successful relationship. Temperament… Appetites… The ability of a person to anticipate and intrigue another person…”
She raises her eyes to me, blinking slowly.
Oh boy. Here we go.
I try to shake my head subtly, begging her not to do what I think she is about to do. Of course, I have absolutely no control over her.
“Sunny,” I start hopefully, “why don’t you tell Clarissa about your time in Italy working with Brian De Palma?”
Sunny turns toward Clarissa. “Oh, Brian is a darling! A genius! He really understood me, you know what I mean?”
Clarissa hiccups again, then reddens. “Were you and Brian de Palma…”
“Oh, of course not!” Sunny objects. “But he did appreciate me and what I could do. You see, as a woman in Hollywood, I always had to work twice as hard to gain the respect that any man would have been automatically given. A woman always has to work twice as hard. Surely you have also experienced that?”
“I… don’t know…”
“Clarissa is exceptional at her job,” I interrupt. “She’s amazing. You’ll see—”
Sunny turns to me slowly, a glint in her eyes. “Is she?” she says in a low, triumphant voice. “I know how you appreciate a woman of talent, Maxwell.”
Oh damn. I totally fell into this trap.
“Definitely an improvement from Zella,” Sunny purrs imperiously.
“Who’s Zella?” Clarissa asks innocently, leaning back in her chair and letting one arm drape over the side. It appears the wine and tequila have finally taken hold.
“Suddenly I am quite tired,” I announce. “Mind if I turn in?”
“Oh, you go on ahead,” Sunny replies brightly. “I’ll just stay here and tell Clarissa all about her.”
Realizing she has me completely beat, I settle back into my chair. I should have realized I couldn’t outwit her. I’m not sure anybody ever has. But I should stay, in order to make sure that I can minimize whatever damage she wants to do.
“Zella Hews was Maxwell’s fiancée, at least until recently,” Sunny explains.
Clarissa’s lips circle into a pretty oval of disbelief. Her eyes glitter, clearly tantalized by this obvious display of gossip-mongering.
“It didn’t work out,” Sunny sniffs. “And a good thing, too. Zella isn’t a good fit. It wasn’t going to work out for anyone.”
“Now, Auntie,” I interject, suddenly feeling defensive, “it’s not fair to talk about Zella when she’s not here to defend herself. It didn’t work out. That’s all we need to say.”
“I’d like to hear more,” Clarissa smiles, suddenly cheery again. She seems to be enjoying this.
“The woman has no backbone!” Sunny declares. “She’s like a marionette, completely limp unless someone is pulling her strings. No self-direction at all. Talking to her is like trying to roll Jell-O up a hill.”
Clarissa’s eyes widen. “I have never heard that one before!”
“That’s not nice,” I mumble, but nobody hears me.
“She’s a perfectly decent person, don’t get me wrong,” Sunny shrugs dramatically. “But not a match for Maxwell. Maxwell needs a person with spine. A person with a mission, even. A person who knows her own mind.”
“Oh, is that so?” Clarissa asks, leaning forward to balance her elbow on the edge of the table. She narrowly misses, and it slides off, but she catches herself immediately.
“I’d love to know more,” she smiles apologetically, charmingly sheepish. “Perhaps in the morning? I think I’d like to turn in.”
I can’t even express how relieved I am that Sunny allows her to leave. Though I am intrigued by Clarissa’s tipsiness, and I would like to follow her to find out what kind of person she is when she lets her hair down, at least metaphorically... it’s probably best that I just let her go.
I’m just about to lay into Sunny—as much as one can lay into someone like Sunny—when she leans forward and taps the tabletop with her fingernail.
“Now that is a woman,” she informs me emphatically. “I am just thrilled to see how much your taste has improved.”
“Wh-What are you talking about? She barely got a word in edgewise. You don’t even know her!”
She stretches her neck regally and looks around. “There are more things on heaven and earth, Maxwell…”
“You got a psychic vision about her?” I ask sarcastically.
I shouldn’t be a jerk, I remind myself. But I can’t help but be a tiny bit annoyed. I spent three years with Zella. If Sunny is right, it was a complete waste of time.
“It is plain as the nose on your face,” she sings theatrically. “Open your eyes and see…”
“It’s just a work relationship,” I object.
“Follow your heart,” she continues singing.
I push myself up from the chair, almost certain that she is quite tipsy, perhaps verging on drunk.
“Just work, Auntie!” I insist.
“Work, work, work, makes Max a
dull boy…” she continues, letting her eyes close as she leans back, smiling to herself.
When I’m certain that she is drifting off, I dare to leave the veranda in search of sleep. The servants will retrieve her and get her off to bed safely. I know she will be fine.
But as I lie in a bed fit for Windsor Castle, I can’t get my mind to settle down. Of course those years I spent with Zella were not a complete waste of time. I was very fond of her.
But there is at least some truth in what Sunny says. Being around Clarissa is simply different. It’s… invigorating. It’s a challenge. It makes me want to try harder. It’s as thrilling as a game of chess against a hidden opponent. I wonder what her next move will be.
Chapter 8
Clarissa
The Hollywood-themed bedroom is remarkably comfortable, and I sleep so well that waking up is a disappointment. I wouldn’t mind lying on the satin sheets for another hour, but as my eyes open, images from last night start to filter back.
Sunny is such a wonderful hostess, but I think she might have gotten me a little bit drunk. I remember being slightly overeager to hear details about Maxwell’s personal life. He didn’t seem to enjoy it, but I didn’t do anything to stop it. As soon as she started talking, I wanted to know more. Stories about her life are fascinating, but stories about Maxwell really drew me in.
I’m sure he noticed. I’m sure he’s annoyed with my unprofessional curiosity.
All right, I tell myself, today will be different. I will be 100 percent professional. All business. Pictures and text.
The green sweater and jeans are a good fit. I am really glad that I picked out this outfit. After a brief shower in the attached bathroom, a dizzying chamber of mirrored surfaces reflecting off of each other into infinity, I dress and pull the iPad from my briefcase. Now I am ready to take pictures and write notes. What could be more professional than that?