by Jenn Bennett
I straightened and locked gazes with her. “I can make a good guess as to why you feel that way, but don’t make the mistake of confusing me with your daughter.”
She flinched in surprise before staring me down like she could will me to burst into flames. The room was uncomfortably quiet for several beats.
“Now, if you’ll please excuse me,” I finally said, “I need to wash up.”
I turned to head upstairs. Lon tried to follow, but I put a firm hand on his arm to tell him no. And as I climbed the first few stairs, I heard Rose say behind me, as if nothing had just happened, “Who wants oatmeal blackberry bars?”
• • •
The evening got better. An unexpected introduction to Mr. Piggy helped liven things up. Who could resist a pygmy hedgehog that could climb up the Christmas tree and leap onto your shoulder when you least expected, like some kind of little psychotic, quilled monkey?
I avoided speaking to Rose directly, except to say “thank you” and “excuse me” and “sorry my pet hedgehog jumped on your shoulder.” And she avoided speaking to me as well, but wasn’t antagonistic. After the hedgehog incident, Lon put on music, a Stax Records compilation he sometimes played on Waffle Day, otherwise known as Sunday outside the Butler household. It was hard to be upset while listening to Issac Hayes and Otis Redding. He knew this; he’d played it on purpose. And when Jupe and Adella began telling a long story about the origin of a handmade Christmas ornament on the tree—a clay disk that on first glance was Jupe’s handprint, but on second, was actually the impression of Foxglove’s foot—Lon slid beside me on the couch and pulled me close, almost into his lap, wrapping his arms around me. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Rose darting the occasional glance our way, but she made no comment.
Adella and Jupe finished their story. They both made big, sweeping hand movements when they talked. What else had he inherited from his mother’s side? It was as if the mysteries of his dynamic personality were being revealed, layer by layer.
And, dammit, I really liked Adella. She was smart and witty, and she snorted when she laughed, just like Jupe. I tried so hard not to be jealous when Jupe begged her to come up to his room and watch late-night TV. But, you know, that was my job. I got to turn off the TV when Jupe fell asleep on my arm.
Dear God, what a pity party I was having. I wanted to slap myself. Instead, I excused myself and ate another blackberry bar in the kitchen. As I was licking the last sticky crumb off my finger, Rose walked through the doorway. Alone.
“I’d have made more if I knew they’d go so fast,” she said, staring down the nearly empty plastic-wrapped pan.
They were pretty freaking divine, though I wasn’t about to tell her that. And I wasn’t sure if she was trying to tell me to keep my grimy hands off her baked goods, or if she was acknowledging that she was pleased I liked them. Maybe she somehow knew this was my third one, even though I’d tried to be stealthy.
I really didn’t know her intentions at all, so I just didn’t say anything.
She’d taken her jacket off and was walking around in her stocking feet. She had firm, slender arms and incredible legs, which wasn’t fair. She was in her sixties. Her legs should be . . . well, I don’t know, but they shouldn’t look like that. Mine didn’t. I was sort of relieved when she put the blackberry bars in the fridge and moved her too-good legs out of my sight, standing behind the curved kitchen island as I washed my hands in the sink.
“I don’t believe in couples living together outside the bonds of marriage.”
My hand slipped on the soap pump. A streak of green gel sprayed against the white subway tile behind Lon’s sink. “Is there somewhere you’re going with this?” I said as I aggressively lathered my hands. “Or is that just a general comment?”
“Lon told me it was none of my business when I asked if you were living here, which is probably true. But Adella told me that Jupe said you rent a house in Morella.”
“I own a house in Morella,” I corrected.
“Well, regardless of whatever arrangement you and Lon normally have, I’d like you to stay at your own house while I’m visiting.”
I slammed the faucet handle off and spun around halfway, flinging droplets of water into the sink. “Let me get this straight. Are you telling me—”
She held up both hands. “It’s not a demand, but a request. I don’t like Jupiter thinking that couples living together without strings is okay. And if I consent to stay here while you’re living in sin with Lon, then that sends a signal to Jupiter than I approve of this. And I don’t. I’d like you to respect that.”
“Well, I think that’s pretty ballsy of you to ask.”
She took off her glasses and wiped them on the corner of her striped, sleeveless shirt. “No one’s ever accused me of being timid about speaking my mind.” Without looking at me, she fit her glasses back in place. “Regardless, it’s either you or me. If you stay, I’ll go to a hotel in town. But I’d appreciate it if you decide soon, because it’s half-past nine. That may not mean much to someone who works the graveyard shift at a bar, but I’ve spent the afternoon standing in security lines at the airport. I’m tired. I’d like to go to bed. And I’d also like for Christmas to be a happy time. His mother ruined one too many holidays for all of us. I hope you don’t do the same.”
And as I stood there with my mouth hanging open, she turned and walked out of the kitchen.
Dear God, that was some nerve she had.
First, it was none of her damn business what arrangement Lon and I had. And what did she think my leaving would accomplish? If I left for a few days like she wanted me to, I’d just be back when she went home after Christmas, shoving my wanton ways in her grandkid’s impressionable face. It made no sense. I wasn’t leaving. Forget it. Decision made. I had other things to worry about than her moral compass. Like stupid punks with impossible knacks and whether my serial killer mother was trying to make my life miserable again.
Putting a lid on my anger, I exited the kitchen and headed to Lon’s photography studio.
My fingers found the light switch and flipped it on. Bright white light illuminated an expansive room ringed on three sides by wide windows. In the daytime, it was warm and golden in here, lit up by natural sunlight. But at night, the glass made a dark, constricting bracelet around the white walls.
Various light stands, diffusion umbrellas, and scrims stood in a corner next to loops of cord hanging on the wall. Long, pale wood tables bordered by rolling stools held multiple computers and screens, a large format photo printer, and some other equipment that was lost on me. A couple of areas of the room were staged for shoots.
I liked it in here. It was both organized and messy at the same time. Quiet. My gaze flicked over a wall of recent photographs, some of them for work, some personal. One was of me, asleep on the couch with Jupe. When I’d first seen it, I was embarrassed: I looked half-dead, mouth open and lax. Seeing it now pinched at my heart. I forced myself to look away and headed to an area where Lon stored photography paper and framing supplies. He strolled into the studio behind me.
“I need some sketch paper,” I said, all businesslike.
He didn’t ask me why, just bent to reach an oversized pad. “Like this?”
“Perfect. I need a couple sheets.”
He tore out two. When he handed them over, he gave me a look that was all Cool Hand Luke and dismissive. “You live here. She’s family. No one has to leave.”
I stared at him.
“She just told me,” he explained. “No one’s going anywhere.”
All the emotions I’d been keeping in check flew out like a swarm of bees released from an apiary. “Apparently one of us is.” I knew she could probably hear me with her stupid clairaudient knack. I just didn’t care.
“This is silliness.”
“I agree.”
“You were right earlier,” Lon said, obviously not concerned if Rose could hear us, either. “This is about Yvonne.”
Clearly. Bu
t I still stood by what I said: I was not Yvonne. And Jupe wasn’t going to follow in his mother’s footsteps just because his father’s girlfriend worked in a bar or lived in his house without getting a ring on her finger first.
Rose was trying to push my buttons. Testing me. Maybe she wanted to see how far she could shove me until I broke and caused a huge scene. Then I would be the bad guy. I would be the one who ruined Christmas.
If I stayed, she’d leave, and Jupe would be upset. On the other hand, if I was the one who left, Jupe might just be confused. Better confused than caught in the middle of a family fight. As jealous as I was of these two women, and obviously I was—but, come on! How could I not be?—there was no way I was going to fight Rose Giovanni to prove a point.
Dammit.
I found a clean space on one of his photography tables next to the door to the darkroom and laid down the sketch paper there. After lining them up, I carefully folded and creased the papers together into a neat square, which looked a little like the white flag I was now ready to wave. “I’ll leave,” I said, turning around to face him.
Towering over me, Lon placed one hand on the edge of the table near the right side of my hip, then the other on the left, trapping me inside his arms. He shook his head slowly, then leaned down and dragged his mouth over my cheek. “No,” he whispered in my ear.
He kissed me, softly, deliberately slow. My resolve liquefied. His hips pushed against my lower stomach. Was there anything better than this?
“No,” he repeated against my lips.
Sure, he was using sex against me. And as far as arguments went, it was a good one. Just sex with Lon on its own was enough to sway me, but now his head dipped and he was inhaling deeply against my neck, his expanding lungs pushing his stony chest into my breasts as he sucked in the scent of my skin. His loose, honey-colored hair fell over my face, and I was overwhelmed by the urge to beg him to hold me. To give me a refuge. To allow me an unguarded moment. Because of all the things he could do to me, do for me, this particular ability was high up on the list. No one else, not a single living, breathing soul on this plane or the next, could I trust like I trusted Lon.
I didn’t always understand him. His motivations were often half-hidden, and the quiet strength he commanded, especially when he was transmutated, was sometimes frightening and alien to me.
Yet I trusted him. Utterly. And after what I’d been through with my parents, this was no small feat.
“Let me handle this. I’ll convince her to stay,” he murmured. “No one’s leaving.”
But an insistent thought danced in the back of my mind and wouldn’t leave, dousing my body’s revving heat. Even if Lon could convince Rose to stay, even if he changed her mind, what was I going to do? Go to bed with Lon, knowing she could hear the sheets rustle? She could probably hear the shiver-inducing scrape of his mustache against my neck right now.
I was afraid to use the bathroom, for the love of Pete, knowing that she could hear me peeing.
Everything about this stunk. Stink. Stank. Stunk.
Pushing him away was soul-crushing. “I’m going.”
His eyes darkened. “You can’t spend the night in your house. It’s unprotected.”
“I’ll go to Kar Yee’s place,” I reasoned. “Bob can’t stay there forever. She’ll end up killing him. I’ll give him a break. It’s good for everyone.”
“We haven’t spent a night apart in weeks.”
“Every time you go on a photo shoot we spend the night apart.”
“And I despise every damn second of it.”
“I hate it too, but I’m not going to Yoko your family. If anyone’s going to ruin Christmas, it’s gonna be her, not me. Because when I’m not here in the morning, she can damn well tell Jupe that she was the one who made me leave.”
I hadn’t known it until I said it, but that was it, wasn’t it? I wasn’t interested in playing the martyr. I wanted her to lose. And the way that Lon’s eyes crinkled at the corners, I knew he’d picked up on this, too.
“Besides,” I said, picking up the folded sheets of sketch paper. “I have to track down that Noel Saint-Hill punk in Morella tomorrow. It’ll save me a drive.”
Which was true, but I had something else I wanted to do. Because at some point during the hedgehog attack and Rose’s insistence that I leave, I realized there was someone who could tell me if my mother was still alive and kicking on another plane.
Kar Yee’s apartment smelled like microwave popcorn. I surveyed the pristine white-and-gold living room and kitchen, and smiled when I spotted her lone tribute to the holidays: a tabletop white Christmas tree wrapped in red lights sat on the glass table in the dining room, and beneath it, a pile of presents, including Jupe’s tiny opera figurine, now spattered in drops of dried red paint. Kar Yee’s bah-humbug protests in the bar were such a crock.
I dumped a duffel bag of clothes in the foyer near a low wooden rack made for visitor’s shoes. Kar Yee was a shoe-phobe. She was convinced that footwear was invented by Satan himself—or, at best, carried the plague. It was almost one of those obsessive-compulsive things. She often walked around Tambuku’s office in socks or silky slip-on dance things. It was kind of ridiculous, but it was worse when we lived together in college—God help the person who dared to put their disgusting shoes on her dorm bed.
But I guess we all had hang-ups. I slipped off my boots, placing them next to a pair of men’s brown lace-ups, and padded down the hall.
Like every other room in her compact apartment, the decor in her bedroom looked as if it belonged in some swank Far East hotel. Gold leaf-patterned curtains draped the window, blocking out her view of midtown Morella. A muted, oversized painting of Hong Kong’s Victoria Harbor hung over the bed. She was sitting in bed, propped up against gilded pillows, wearing her collarbone brace over yellow silk pajamas. Her normally super-shiny black hair looked dull and limp, pulled back into a bun atop her head. A mostly empty snack bowl was wedged between her legs.
Bob sat in a stuffed chair next to her, his feet on an ottoman. He appeared quite comfortable, lounging in a light blue Hawaiian shirt, white pants, and no shoes. A taupe blanket with a woven cherry blossom pattern lay across his legs. I wondered if this is where he’d been sleeping instead of the couch in the living room.
As I stepped through the doorway, they looked up from what they’d been watching on TV. They were both smiling goofy grins.
Clearly, I’d walked into some sort of apocalyptic nightmare.
“What are you watching?” I asked.
“A Three’s Company marathon,” Kar Yee said in a lazy voice. “Bob says the three of us should move in together and recreate episodes. What do you think? Tambuku could be the Regal Beagle.”
“Are you both on painkillers now?”
This was too weird for me. I’d be glad when the bar was open again and Kar Yee was in the back office being her normal ruthless self.
“Are you okay?” Bob asked me.
Kar Yee feigned a pouty face. “Never mind little miss killjoy. She’s sad. She doesn’t get to sleep with her big-handed boyfriend tonight. Boo-hoo.”
“Big-handed?”
A lock of Kar Yee’s hair slipped out of its sloppy topknot. We’d managed to get most of the paint out, but not all, so she’d had her hair stylist come by and chop off an inch of her bob. Now it was too short to stay in its binding. “His hands are veiny and muscular,” she explained.
“You make it sound like he’s got gigantic ham hands.” They were like the rest of him: strong and lean. He was in perfect shape. It was almost criminal. Muscular, but not showy or beefcake-y. Fabulous arms. And a beautiful stomach with the most perfect ridge of dipping muscle right above his hipbones and—
“His fingers are long, but they sure aren’t skinny,” Kar Yee noted. “Pressing all those camera buttons must give them a regular workout.”
And taking all these pain pills must be rotting soft spots right through her brainpan.
“They are
very tan fingers,” she added, the beginnings of a slow smile lifting her lips.
“So’s the rest of him. He spends a lot of time outdoors.”
“Is he tan below the waistband?”
“Please stop fantasizing about Lon.”
Bob squirmed uncomfortably beneath the cherry blossom blanket. He looked as if he might hack up all the popcorn they’d been chowing down. “Is this what you two talk about after work?”
I said “no” at the same time Kar Yee said “yes.” Then she threw a piece of popcorn at me.
“Seriously, Bob,” I pleaded, bending to pick it up and toss it back in her bowl. “Wean her off the meds. You said she could take the brace off tomorrow.”
“She can,” he insisted, then mumbled, “You try to wean her off.”
Kar Yee was laughing at the TV, oblivious to our conversation. Once Bob left, I was going to swap out all her pills with Tylenol. “Hey,” I said, snapping my fingers in front of her face. “If you even care, I got the name of one of the guys who robbed us.”
Her languid gaze sharpened immediately. “Don’t tease me.”
“Noel Saint-Hill. The one who used his knack to cut the lights.”
“The wimpy elf?”
Bob threw off the blanket. “Are you serious? How did you find this out? The Morella Racetrack thing?”
I gave them a brief account, leaving out the parts about the silver fog and my dead mother’s voice. Though I did tell them about biting my tongue, which still hurt like hell. Kar Yee offered me one of her painkillers; Bob quickly shook his head while she wasn’t looking.
Part of me wished Bob wasn’t here. It might’ve given me a chance to talk to Kar Yee about my identity. Confessing while she was doped up might make things easier. Then again, that was pretty chickenshit. I guessed I’d wait until after she was healed up, but it was starting to make me antsy. Once I decide to do something, I prefer to get it over with.