Season of the Dragonflies

by Sarah Creech

  Willow put on a black Dior dress and her size-seven Prada pumps and rode the elevator down at 1:50 P.M. James awaited her in the lobby. One bowl of steamed edamame and two dirty martinis later, Willow still didn’t know why they were having lunch together. Seated next to a large aquarium with suckerfish glued to the sides and yellow-and-black-striped angelfish lazily swimming from one end to the other, Willow wondered at what moment during their swim the fish forgot they had made the same turn a million times before. The couple at the table next to Willow fed each other dragon rolls and salmon sashimi.

  James had the tall, lean frame, wide shoulders, and tapered waist of a swimmer. She wished she could stop thinking he was so damn handsome, but so far, she’d failed. Her first thought when she stepped off the elevator and onto the marble floor of the lobby was Oh, he’s so good-looking, and as they strolled side by side in the open-air lobby and he led her by the arm to their table next to the aquarium, her only thought was I wonder what he looks like underneath that suit.

  James smiled at Willow, giving her a look more charming than a waltz, and said, “Let’s order.”

  Willow forced herself to stop wondering what he’d do if she undressed him, and said, “Surprise me.”

  James’s eyebrows lifted and he said, “My pleasure.” He ordered fifteen different rolls with names like Sunshine Burst and California Dreaming, as well as miso soups and seaweed salads. More food than Willow could manage to eat for lunch, but James said, “A tasting,” as if to reassure her.

  The waiter brought two more dirty martinis and Willow decided to stop keeping track.

  James drank his martini, and as casually as if he were complimenting the sesame flavor of their seaweed salad, he said, “You smell nice.”

  Willow said, “It’s good to compare the market.”

  He swallowed a bite of seaweed and said, “How’d I do?”

  “Decent,” she said, not expecting him to be the kind of man to seek compliments. “There are so many outstanding perfumes, it’s hard to say.”

  “And you’re biased,” he said, his chopsticks aimed in her direction like a pointer finger.

  Willow thought for sure that his perfectly polished Oxford shoe was now touching the tip of her Prada pump. She shifted the position of her legs.

  The waiter brought the miso soups and left just as quickly as he had arrived. James said, “I’ve got a detail for you.” Willow slowly sipped her warm soup and James said, “Cold tequila shots out of a pair of goggles on a white surfboard,” and Willow was already shaking her head no when he put his hand up and said, “Hold on, I’m not done.” He continued: “Duke Ellington’s ‘Mood Indigo’ right before a biker brawl erupted outside the Sandy Secret Bar at Sunset Beach.”

  She closed her eyes, and just as forcefully as a wave from the Pacific, Willow saw James nearly forty years younger, his hair thick and curly and down past his ears like a band roadie’s, his bare feet in the dark sand, his washed-out jeans rolled up at the ankle; he carried her out of that bar—she was too drunk to walk herself—to shield her from the flying beer bottles when the fight moved indoors. The sunset boasted a bright purple and orange at the horizon, and the white frothing ocean covered Willow’s sandals. What a terrible and huge crush she’d had on James Stein that first visit, and how forcefully she had to forget him after she got married a few months later. He had a girlfriend too, if she recalled correctly. But those obligations had no longer mattered, at least for a moment, once James kissed her that night. A full moon was rising on the ocean’s horizon. That’s what Willow could remember now, and that nobody had ever kissed her like that before. This memory returned so effortlessly from the ether, she felt as giddy as she had the night she met James.

  Willow placed her chin on her outstretched fingers, as if they were a small table, and said, “I can’t believe my mother let me go out with you.”

  James wiped his lips with a napkin and said, “All I’ve ever had going for me is charm, and it worked on her.”

  “It sure did,” Willow said, and remembering such a distant memory and the feeling of that night with James made her elated. She said, “Weren’t you just an assistant then?”

  “Not even,” he said. “Mail boy.”

  “How did you rise?” she said, and continued with her soup.

  “My mentor Donald Briggs, who was head of A-List Talent then, snatched me off the mail cart that day your mother came. His note-taker called in sick, and she approved of me. I moved up fast after that and ran the talent agency for a few years.”

  “I do remember that,” Willow said. “But didn’t you leave?”

  “I went to New York with my wife for a long while,” he said, “or ex-wife, I should say.”

  “That explains it,” she said.

  “Do I look much different though?” James said. “You didn’t seem to recognize me.”

  Willow shook her head, though she’d be lying if she said he looked exactly the same. Boyishness hadn’t fit him as well as this seasoned look. She said, “I had a difficult meeting today, that’s all. I was distracted and not expecting to see you.”

  “Your mother liked me,” James said.

  “She did,” Willow said. “She was so selective and revealed the perfume only to the people who needed to know about our business, and she chose to give you access that day.” This move had confused Willow; she remembered feeling that at the time. And when she asked her mother why, she had told Willow that the boy had talent. She could see it in him, and he’d probably be a powerful force in the industry someday. A good ally.

  “And Lily’s opinion about the industry mattered to Donald and just about anyone important out here. I’ve got her to thank for a lot, that date included.”

  Willow smiled and placed her spoon on the table. “How long have you been with AGM?”

  “Six months,” James said. “My second ex-wife was a junior agent at an agency I ran in New York, and when we divorced I moved back.”

  Willow finished her martini. “A junior agent” translated into a younger wife, and a younger second wife at that. And recently. How silly for Willow to think he’d be interested in her. She glanced around the room. So many thin and big-busted women. For a brief moment Willow with her oyster-white hair and naturally aged skin felt as old and unattractive as that suckerfish in the tank. She reminded herself that she had more than enough money to afford any of those chemical peels and Botox injections and cheek implants. She chose to be wrinkled because no procedure truly reissued the vitality of youth.

  “Can we talk about your meeting?” James said.

  “I’d prefer to forget it,” Willow immediately quipped. “And it was a private meeting, as I’m sure you know. I won’t ask how you found out I was here.”

  James wiped his hands with his linen napkin and said, “Willow—”

  “Lunch first,” she said, and continued to enjoy her soup.

  “We can make small talk, if that’s what you’d prefer. The soup’s good?” James said. He stopped eating and stared at her, and now the rest of their time together would be forced. “You have elegant hands,” he added.

  She sat back in her chair and said, “What’s on your mind?”

  “Zoe Bennett.”

  “Mine too,” Willow said.

  James leaned into the table with his strong hands clasped together. “The bigger she gets, the more toes she steps on,” James said. “The public demands her and she knows it. I’ve never seen a career take off that fast, not even Jennifer’s. Arrow Heights is a big one. One I specifically set up for Jennifer. She kindly auditioned for a roomful of studio execs and they all agreed she was the one. But Nick Schol gave it to Zoe for some reason only he knows, and no one’s willing to fight him on it. But Zoe’s not right for it. She’s already threatened to drop it for some indie project with her boyfriend. I’ve got a lot of money wrapped up in this one, and it won’t do what I think it can without a strong lead. And there’s no way Jennifer will take the role now if Zoe quits.”<
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  Willow took a very long sip of her martini. She didn’t know what to say.

  James said, “Zoe’s edging Jennifer out.”

  The waiter brought three oversize white plates and placed them on the table. “Enjoy,” the waiter said, and James prepared a small saucer of wasabi and soy sauce for Willow.

  Willow took one piece from each plate and James said, “Help yourself to more, please. I can’t eat this much sushi alone.”

  She didn’t have much of an appetite now, but she took another piece of yellowtail sashimi from the platter. “She was supposed to stay in music,” Willow said. The pale fish landed flat on the plate.

  James said, “But she didn’t.”

  Willow waited for him to make the next move, but instead he began to eat and they sat in silence, minus the clink and clank of glasses and the soft, hurried talk of lovers and friends all around. Willow sighed. If only this could’ve been a date. Nothing more, nothing less.

  James coughed once and then said, “Any way to get rid of her?”

  “Excuse me?” Willow said, and put down her chopsticks. Had James Stein just asked her to commit murder?

  “Like an antidote formula?” James said.

  “Oh,” Willow said. “Well, no.”

  “What’s the point of the contract then?” James said, and continued to eat.

  Willow folded her hands. Who was he to question her business practices? She said, “It’s a formality, I suppose, an agreement that we can terminate the relationship at any point, as can the customer, and that there are terms, like use limits, that must be followed. Certain terms are always understood from the handshake, and it was no different with Zoe, but she broke the most essential of the agreements. You don’t cross industries. Our formula is powerful enough to do what it does and without it—I mean, who would want to be without it once they have it? We’ve always had happy customers, never had to cut anyone off, and no one’s ever threatened to expose our service. I don’t think my mother or my grandmother ever imagined that someone would want to.”

  “Probably not,” James said. “But all businesses experience setbacks.”

  Nearly a century had passed since Grandmother Serena launched the company, and not a single setback had hampered the business, not until Willow Lenore became president. “Setback” meant failure: another word Willow wouldn’t mind forgetting. The rest of the meal would not taste quite as good as it did at the start, and she stopped eating and let him finish the last pieces. Willow turned down dessert and coffee and pleaded an overwhelming degree of exhaustion. He offered to take the elevator and escort her to her door, but she said, “I can find it.”

  “I hope I didn’t upset you,” James said.

  “No,” Willow said. “I have a lot to think about, that’s all.”

  “If you need anything,” he said, “call me.” With his hand on the small of her back, James leaned down without a pause and kissed her. The longing she felt those many years ago to kiss him just like this returned with more immediacy than any memory she’d had at lunch. Then he hugged her and said in her ear, “I’ve wanted to do that for far too long.”

  She almost said, “Maybe you could walk me to my door,” but he had already stepped away from her.

  “I’ll be on the East Coast next week. Could I drop down to Virginia and take you out for a proper dinner?” James said.

  “I’d like that,” Willow said, and the elevator doors chimed.

  She stepped inside and he said, “Good-bye,” and he remained there until the doors closed. When she arrived at her suite, a bouquet of white roses awaited her in the foyer. The note said: Flowers almost as striking as your lovely hair. Until we see each other again, be well. —James Stein.

  He was too much. Like he’d done this more than a million times. Yet Willow couldn’t stop smiling. She pressed the note against her chest and wondered if she would forget this date too. There in the suite flooded by afternoon sunlight, she admitted to herself that these slips could become permanent, along with her loneliness, and she might never experience deep love and romance again before forgetting those concepts altogether. She wished she could stay in L.A. just one more day to share another meal with James. But work called her home; always work called her. Willow dialed the concierge desk and ordered a chamomile tea. She needed something to calm her down after that kiss.

  A few minutes later the doorbell to her suite rang, and she assumed it was the waiter. She opened the door with the phrase “thank you” on her lips, but James Stein stood there instead, and she blinked a few times.

  “One more kiss and then I’ll go,” he said, and leaned down and wrapped her in his arms.

  “Why don’t you just stay awhile?” Willow said, and gave him a knowing smile.

  Without another word, James closed the door behind him.

  CHAPTER 6

  To Rue Her Return

  THE CABBAGE PATCH–STYLE dolls her grandmother Lily had sewn for her when she was a little girl still sat on her white daybed as if they’d been waiting for Lucia to return. One cloth foot had lodged between Lucia’s calves as she slept in the fetal position on the small twin mattress. She woke up in the cabin feeling almost hungover. The queasiness reminded her of nights of heavy drinking with a handsome stranger that led to the next morning’s discovery that his eyes were a little too close together and his waistline a little too soft. Here she was in a bedroom she hadn’t seen in fifteen years, and she had no clue why coming home had registered as a good idea. Divorce and despair were just as toxic as alcohol, and she had combined all three yesterday.

  Mya didn’t ask to come in. She never had, and Lucia wasn’t sure why she’d expect anything more from her now that they were adults. The sound of her humming announced her. As the older one, Mya could do what she wanted—at least that’s how she always rationalized her invasion of privacy. Lucia inched the smooth cotton covers down from her face just enough to see that Mya had sauntered into Lucia’s room completely naked except for a pair of fuzzy purple socks. Mya didn’t seem to notice Lucia’s presence in the room and instead inspected the closet. Slowly Lucia covered her entire head to make sure her sister didn’t know she was awake. Mya pulled out a short yellow robe from the closet and then sat down in the rocking chair. The sound of the rocker falling forward and backward on the hardwood floor was almost unbearable. Lucia prayed her sister would just leave.

  “That doesn’t work,” Mya finally said, and drew back the curtains to let in the sunlight.

  Lucia sighed, and the cotton sheet billowed upward with her breath. She pulled down the covers and stared at her sister. And in the sunlight filling her room, to Lucia’s dismay, Mya looked like the younger one now, her skin more radiant than Lucia’s and her blond hair fuller and brighter. Her lips didn’t look permanently dried out, and all the curves of her body were as perky as ever. Had it really come to this? Mya had told her it would, those many years ago right before Lucia took off. The mountains won’t take you back. The city will be hard on you. The city had been hard on Lucia and her body—too much food and drink and exhaust. Not enough fresh air.

  Mya lifted a nail file from the pocket of the robe that she kept in Lucia’s closet for some odd reason. Or was that Lucia’s robe from high school?

  “Smells like liquor in here,” Mya said, and worked her nails back and forth.

  “I had a few drinks,” Lucia said, and pressed down on her eyelids with her fingertips in an attempt to clear away the blurriness and the headache behind it.

  Mya said, “Explains how you got here.”

  “I guess so,” Lucia said.

  Mya blew the dust from her nails.

  Lucia squinted and tried to find a clock in the room. “What time is it?”

  Mya stopped filing and peered out the window. “I don’t know,” she said, and then stood up for a better look at the sun. She stretched her arms above her head and the robe inched up, revealing her bare buttocks. “About ten thirty-five,” she said. “Maybe ten forty.”<
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  The years of separation were already bearing down harder than Lucia had expected, and she didn’t want to leave the bed. She just wanted the little things—a cup of black coffee would do just fine.

  Mya said, “She’ll be home soon, you know.”

  Lucia sat up slowly and placed her feet on the cool hardwood floor. The feel of it reminded her of being twelve years old and not wanting to leave the room to check the fields or go to the factory and distill oil. Mya loved it and woke up early; Lucia sighed and wanted to stay in bed.

  “Where’d she go?” Lucia said.

  “L.A.”

  “She finally accepted a premiere invite?” Lucia said. “That figures.”

  Mya said, “Just business.”

  Lucia hoisted the duffel bag she’d brought with her onto the daybed and unzipped it. It did not smell fresh. Mya looked offended. That’s what she got for having such a sensitive nose. Lucia’s hair fell forward, creating a shield around her face. She’d brought home a suitcase full of filthy laundry just like a college student.

  Mya said, “So what’s the mystery?”

  Lucia stood up in the jeans and T-shirt she’d worn on the plane, and the entire room smelled like sweat and gin. Was it possible her mother had kept her clothes from high school? She wished Mya wasn’t in the room to witness her slide open those drawers. But she was, so Lucia did, and there inside the top drawer was fifteen-year-old underwear pressed and folded, and in the drawers below, overalls, leggings, midriff T-shirts, flannel shirts, and a wrinkled spaghetti-strap dress with a white flower print. Lucia’s high school boyfriend had given her this dress for her seventeenth birthday. Ben chose it because the flowers in the pattern reminded him of the Lenore family flower. Lucia didn’t care much for the style of the dress, but she still remembered his thoughtfulness, how proud he’d been to offer her the box over a dinner that he’d cooked and how quickly he conceded that he hadn’t wrapped it himself.