by Dianne Dixon
“And Palos Verdes is only a couple of intersections away—isn’t that right?” Livvi asks. Palos Verdes is the neighboring town, the home of Andrew’s wife. The allegedly frail creature who has threatened suicide if Andrew leaves her. The woman Livvi is so curious about—and jealous of—and unsettled by.
At Livvi’s mention of Palos Verdes, Andrew shoots her a wary, questioning glance.
She looks away—turns her attention to watching a girl and boy galloping a pair of perfectly matched Palominos along the bridle path.
Livvi is rattled. Worried about her complicated relationship with Andrew and the volatile situation with Andrew’s wife. Nervous about meeting Andrew’s mother and father for the first time. And wildly anxious to be reunited with Grace, who is with Andrew’s parents, waiting for Andrew and Livvi to pick her up.
Andrew has slowed the car to a stop, preparing to make a turn onto a side street. “You’re sure you’re okay with this?” he’s asking.
Livvi’s heart is pounding—shaking her in her seat. She’s terrified. But she will do whatever it takes to see Grace, to hold Grace in her arms again. Which is why Livvi’s response is: “Of course I’m okay.”
She’s having a hard time keeping her voice steady. “This is what we agreed to. The new ‘us.’ No more secrets. Everybody knows everybody. I’m ready to know, and be known.”
Andrew has completed the turn, and his hand, the hand that has been on Livvi’s thigh, is now restlessly moving from the steering wheel to his knee, then to the car’s control panel. Roaming the buttons: agitated. Shuffling the music, jumping from one song to another.
“We won’t stay long,” he says. “I told them we’re planning to say hello—pick up Grace—and leave.”
Andrew has angled the car onto the apron of an iron-gated driveway paved in fawn-colored bricks. He’s leaning out of the driver’s-side window, entering a code into a keypad embedded in a stone pillar.
Livvi’s attention is riveted on the house, which is at the far end of the winding driveway, on the other side of the gates.
She is looking at a home with towering windows set into pale stone walls. A palace. Its massive roof gleaming in the sun—like a work of art tiled in blue-gray slate. A magnificent French chateau that should be crowning a hilltop in Provence.
Livvi’s pounding heart—is pounding harder. She isn’t ready for this. She has never flown first class. Or shopped at Neiman Marcus. Or been to a spa. Before going away to college, she’d never ever been inside a restaurant.
She feels so insignificant. So inadequate. It’s actually making her dizzy, and sick.
The towering iron gates are swinging open, while Andrew is telling her: “We’re going to make this work.”
“It’s okay,” she’s saying. “I’m fine.” Her voice is thin and small.
“I’m not talking just about today, just about meeting my parents. I’m talking about us. You and me. We’re going to make it work.”
Livvi lowers the car’s passenger-side window. She’s quietly gasping for air.
After Andrew has parked the car not far from the mansion’s front doors, he reaches for Livvi and turns her toward him, very tenderly. “Olivia, listen to me. The way I handled the situation with Grace—not letting you know about her—was stupid. I’ve apologized for it. I’ve learned from it. I’ll never do anything like that to you again. From now on my life will be an open book. You have my word on that.”
“Andrew, I…” Livvi can’t finish her thought. She is clattering with anxiety.
He kisses her. Then says: “I love you. I don’t want to be without you.”
While Andrew is opening his door and coming around the car to open Livvi’s, her attention has gone back to the house. She’s picturing the people who live here. Imagining that Andrew’s parents will be like their home—imposing and regal, larger than life. She’s also recalling what Andrew has said about their relationship with his wife—that they’re deeply fond of her, extremely protective.
And as Andrew opens the passenger door—Livvi says: “Maybe I’ll wait in the car.”
The look in Andrew’s eyes is impossible for Livvi to decipher. It could be disappointment or, perhaps, relief. All he says is: “I won’t be gone long.”
While she’s watching Andrew walk away and head toward the mansion—the extraordinary place that was his boyhood home—she’s seeing how seamlessly he fits here. How beautiful he is; how at ease with his world. Every movement directed and purposeful.
Andrew is at the door of the mansion now, pausing to look over his shoulder at Livvi, mouthing the words, “I love you.”
It’s making Livvi want, just for a little while, to push away all the nagging doubts; all the places Andrew has taken her where there are gaps and unanswered questions.
And with the soft ocean breeze flowing into the car, and the late September sun warming her shoulders, Livvi is closing her eyes. Willing her thoughts into the other places—the lovely places she has gone with Andrew.
…she’s in Canada. Waking up to singing waiters and a Paddington Bear. To a birthday that Andrew has filled with wonder.
…she’s in San Francisco, the night before Easter. Laughing uncontrollably. At Andrew. He’s wearing rabbit-patterned boxer shorts and a bow-tie while he’s dancing alongside a pair of music-box bunnies, to a silly version of “Tiptoe through the Tulips.”
…she’s in Flintridge on a June morning. Hand-in-hand with Andrew. They’re flying off the diving board of his pool. Cannonballing into the water. Shouting and giggling like teenagers.
…she’s in bed, early this morning. In her little guesthouse in Pasadena. Cradled in Andrew’s arms. She and Andrew are talking, and telling jokes, and making love. Easily. Endlessly. Until the sun is pushing its way into the noontime sky. Their conversation is about how winter will soon be here; she’s whispering to Andrew, “I’ve always wanted to be in a real winter, in the mountains, with snow and hot chocolate and a fireplace.”
Andrew is announcing, “We’ll do a winter trip. In December. We’ll go to Colorado. Aspen. I’ll teach you how to ski.”
Then she’s saying, “David is lining up a December speaking engagement for me at a literary luncheon in New York.” And she knows, even as she’s mentioning it, that if it conflicts with Andrew’s plans, she’ll decline the invitation.
She’s laying her head against Andrew’s chest, murmuring, “I’m going to Aspen. I’m going to learn to ski, that’s amazing.”
While Andrew is promising, “Amazing is how it will always be for us. And more than that, it’ll be—”
A war zone.
A war zone is what Livvi has been dropped into—surrounded, suddenly, by earsplitting noise. The grating din of an engine being raced and tires squealing.
A car—which seems to have come out of nowhere—is rocketing up the driveway. Like a bullet. Aiming directly for Andrew’s Mercedes.
Livvi is staring into the rearview mirror, bracing for the collision, certain that she’s going to die. Then the car, a brand-new BMW, slams to a stop—inches away from the Mercedes’ back bumper.
Livvi screams. With relief. And fright. The BMW’s horn is blaring. Being held in a prolonged, piercing assault.
In the rearview mirror, Livvi is seeing the driver of the BMW. A woman whose platinum hair is framing her features like a silvery cloud. There are tears pouring down her face, which is contorted with rage.
The woman is shrieking—the sounds of her shrieks lost in the blare of the horn. Her mouth is shaping the word “whore.” She is alternately backing up and then revving the BMW. As if getting ready to plow full-speed into the Mercedes—and into Livvi.
Livvi is afraid of staying in the car and being hit—and she’s afraid to get out and risk being run down. She has turned away from the rearview mirror and is looking over her shoulder at the woman in the BMW. Realizing that it’s Andrew’s wife—the vengeful, black lightning stick-figure that was in Grace’s drawing.
Out of the c
orner of her eye Livvi is catching sight of rapid movement—two people running past the Mercedes, hurrying toward the BMW. Andrew. And a tall, slim woman: older, dressed entirely in red.
The blare of the BMW’s horn is inexplicably getting louder. The door beside Livvi, the passenger door of Andrew’s Mercedes, has been yanked open. Someone is taking hold of Livvi’s arm, saying: “Let me get you out of here.”
While Livvi is scrambling out of the Mercedes, the BMW is careening backward down the driveway, swerving madly, barely missing a collision with the gate pillars—shooting out into the street, skidding to a stop.
The tall, older woman in red is shouting at Andrew: “Go after her, goddammit! You’re the cause of all this unhappiness. You’re the only one who can fix it.”
Livvi is being hustled along a brick path at the side of the house, by a man in his midthirties, wearing a long-sleeved plaid shirt and khaki pants. He’s slightly pigeon-toed, a little pudgy, and has Andrew’s marvelous dark hair and steel-gray eyes.
As they’re rounding the corner of the house, he’s glancing back toward the driveway. “I’ll show you some of the sights, keep you out of the line of fire,” he’s telling Livvi. “It may be a while before things calm down. This is the family that put the ‘psycho’ in psycho-drama.”
He stops and gives a comically courteous little bow. “I’m James. I’m in town visiting the lord and lady of the manor, they’re my parents. I teach math in a high school in Long Beach, and I’m Andrew’s kid brother.”
Livvi is aware of who James is, Andrew has mentioned him, but she’s too shaken up to say anything more than: “I’m Livvi. I’m—”
“You’re the reason for all the fireworks.” James says. “Trust me, everybody here knows who you are. You’ve been the sole topic of my mother’s conversation for weeks—by the way, you just met her back there in the driveway—she was the one in red. Anyway, you’ve been the source of much agita.”
The path they are on is sloping sharply downward. Livvi is struggling to keep her footing—and struggling to understand what’s happening. She’s not sure where she’s going, or why Andrew’s brother has offered her his protection.
“I’m figuring you can probably guess what agita means.” James’s tone is apologetic. “It’s Italian slang for heartburn, misery. Andrew and I grew up with it. My mother is Bronx Italian.”
In the midst of her confusion, Livvi is gasping in surprise. Not at what James has said, but at the scene that has just come into view: a spectacular, European-style horse barn with tan and gray stone walls. It has a steeply pitched slate roof and a wide, arched entry. And beyond the barn is a paddock where the grass is emerald green. Beyond the paddock is an astounding, panoramic view of the Pacific Ocean.
“As you can see, my mother married money,” James says. “Dad’s loaded. Used to be the go-to guy for cardiac surgery on the west coast.”
Livvi is trying to come to terms with of all of this. The opulence. The craziness in the driveway. And the dawning realization of what James has just told her. About the agita. About being actively disliked by Andrew’s mother. A woman who hasn’t even waited to meet Livvi before deciding she doesn’t like her.
“Am I a source of agita for your father too?” she asks.
“Maybe. Probably. I don’t know. He isn’t easy to read.”
Livvi is in a whirl of confusion.
“What about you?” she asks. “Why are you being so nice to me?” The words have come out sounding vaguely snippy. For an instant Livvi doesn’t understand why—then realizes that, in addition to being hurt, she’s angry. And jealous. Angry that it’s a stranger, not Andrew, who’s at her side in the midst of this mayhem. And jealous because Andrew is at his mother’s side—and quite possibly his wife’s.
And Livvi tells James: “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be rude. It’s just that I don’t know any of you and I don’t know, really, what any of you know about me. I don’t know what Andrew has told you. All I do know is that your parents don’t like me—and I’m not welcome here. I guess, based on that information, it seems a little odd that you’re trying so hard to be nice to me.”
A blush is sweeping across James’s face, as if he’s been insulted or embarrassed.
“I better go,” he says. “There’s something I need to take care of.”
Livvi suspects she has hurt him—that wasn’t her intention.
While she’s watching James disappear into the interior of the barn, Livvi is trying to think of how to apologize. She’s also experiencing a sudden sense of being terribly vulnerable—exposed to view from every one of the mansion’s rear windows.
Within seconds Livvi is running toward the barn’s entryway.
What she finds on the other side of that entry is wondrous. A set of wide-planked, pale gray walkways arranged in the shape of an enormous cross. Lining the walkways are horse stalls. Spotlessly clean. Paneled in varnished wood the color of toffee, and fitted with gleaming black hinges and grates. The barn’s support pillars and roof beams, and its vaulted ceiling, have been recently painted. They’re the color of fresh milk.
In the open area in the center of the barn, a Latino man who’s short and muscular is saddling a skittish horse that’s enormous and mahogany brown.
James is calling to the man, saying: “You can put him back in his stall, Carlos. I think my mother’s riding plans just got cancelled.”
The massive horse is snorting and shuddering—rearing up, scissoring the air with its hooves, pulling hard on the ropes tethering it to the barn wall. Livvi is nervously backing away.
“He’s just showing off,” James says. “Offer him a carrot and he’s as docile as a puppy. All bark and no bite.”
“Really?” Livvi asks.
“No. But he can’t get loose, can’t hurt you.” James gives Livvi a smile. “I just wanted you to know you were safe.”
Livvi returns the smile, appreciating the kindness he’s showing her. She feels a little calmer now, less frantic.
James indicates a bench beside the entry, near a display case filled with championship ribbons and riding trophies. “You can wait there if you want, and I can go see if the coast is clear…but I don’t think we’ve given it enough time yet. What do you say we stay down here for a few more minutes?”
Livvi nods.
“Excellent choice,” James says. “Let’s take a stroll.”
While James is walking her out of the barn, toward the paddock and the spectacular view of the ocean, Livvi, wondering if it was Andrew, asks: “Who won all the ribbons and the trophies?”
“They belonged to Katherine.”
A shiver flits down Livvi’s spine—she’s back on that rainy day in Chicago, hearing Andrew say: “…that girl looks exactly like Katherine…somebody I loved.”
There’s a terrible sense of foreboding in Livvi; she can barely speak. “Tell me about Katherine.”
“Andrew didn’t tell you?”
“No,” Livvi whispers. She can sense that what’s coming isn’t going to be good.
“He didn’t tell you that he…and Katherine…and our other brother, Mark…were triplets?”
“No, Andrew never mentioned that.”
Livvi has the gut-wrenching feeling that, in listening to whatever James is about say, she’ll be taking a plunge into darkness.
His words are slow, and quiet. “Katherine and Mark were killed. When they were fifteen.”
“What happened?”
James looks out toward the ocean. “I guess I’m not surprised Andrew hasn’t mentioned it. It’s a difficult thing for our family to talk about.”
After a space of several seconds, James tells Livvi: “We always go away for a couple of weeks between Thanksgiving and Christmas. We were up at a vacation home we used to have in Lake Arrowhead and my parents were out at dinner one night…I was with them, I’d just turned eight. Katherine and Mark and Andrew didn’t come with us, because earlier that afternoon my dad caught the three of them underage-dr
unk, on beer, out at the end of our boat dock, and they were grounded.”
James seems to be having trouble keeping his voice steady. “Mark and Katherine were in the house. Upstairs, asleep. There was a problem with an oil heater and the place burned to the ground. They died in the fire.”
Before Livvi can say anything, James tells her: “I’ll save you the trouble of asking how come Andrew is still with us. He wasn’t in the house…he was down at the lake. He’d sneaked out. To be with a girl.”
What James has just revealed has dropped Livvi to the ground—left her in a sitting position on the grass, with her back against one of the paddock’s fence-posts.
James sits beside her and quietly adds: “As far as my parents are concerned, I think that night split Andrew right down the middle for them. Half of him, a pariah—the horny brother who slipped out and left his siblings to die. And the other half, a treasure—their firstborn and the only one of their picture-perfect triplets still walking the earth.”
“It’s horrible,” Livvi murmurs. “All of it…”
She’s overwhelmed by the monumental nature of Andrew’s secrets—and wondering how many others he might still be keeping.
“My brother is a decent guy who’s had a lot of indecent things happen to him.” James is tilting his head in the direction of the house. “You crossed paths with two of them in the driveway a few minutes ago.”
In response to Livvi’s look of surprise, he tells her: “Andrew’s wife is a vindictive former homecoming queen who’s out of her mind, and my mother is my mother—and I love her—but she can turn life into a living hell when she puts her mind to it.”
Livvi isn’t sure what to make of James. “Why are you telling me all these things?”
“Because I think you should know what you’re getting into. And because I want you to be kind to my brother. He’s dragging a heavy load.”
Livvi doesn’t respond. And James says: “He’s screwed up a lot of things—more than he should have. But he has a good heart. You need to understand that, need to believe it.”