A green hedge appeared on the right side of the road. Davonna caught sight of one particularly grand house before the driver signaled and slowed to turn into the drive. In front of them rose a grand two-story home. It was a sweet shade of pink with red shutters and white moulding and trim. Sweeping marble stairs led to a set of glass doors that protected a recessed front door. Above the glass doors was a small patio. To Davonna it looked like the balcony at the Apostolic Palace where the Pope waved at assembled awestruck crowds.
"There you are," John said, as he tore his eyes from his phone.
"It's lovely."
John cleared his throat, and Davonna jumped.
"Would you take out my luggage, please?" she asked the driver.
The young man looked in the rear-view mirror at John, who nodded.
In less than a minute she was out in the heat, a set of keys in one hand, and sweating. A large black suitcase stood on end behind her. She listened as John told the driver to wait while he checked the garage for his black 1936 Morgan 4. The driver whistled and John smirked. The door to the garage rose and Davonna glanced at it. John ran his hand over the curve of the bonnet, the wavelike fender, and checked that the red and green St. Christopher medallion and the silver Morgan grill ornament were still pristinely attached. He slid behind the wheel and started the car, cocked his head, listened to the motor for a moment, and then cut it. He walked back to the black sedan, tossing his keys in the air.
Davonna turned back to the house. It was so quaint (even in its behemoth state), like it came from a Valentine's Day postcard. But the front garden was in a desperate state. The flowers had overgrown their boxes, and the shrubs were at least three feet taller than they should have been with scruffy, Medusa-like tendrils.
A gust of wind tore up the side of the island, and Davonna caught the handle of her suitcase before it topped into the rocky driveway. She unlocked the glass doors, walked into the warm entryway and stuck the key into the second set of doors.
It was grander and larger than she'd expected. Her footsteps echoed off the hardwood floors. Ghostly shapes of furniture stood in the corners. The house had a peculiar quality about it. Davonna couldn't put her finger on it, but the closest she came was that the house was holding its breath as though in purgatory.
She ambled around, looked in rooms, and got lost. She climbed to the second story and found the master bedroom, a new bed stood in pride of place, sheets, duvet, and pillows stacked on top. A large bay window, complete with cushioned seat, faced the back garden. Davonna unlatched the windows and flung open the red shutters. The back garden was a mass of wild greenery.
Across the garden and beyond a towering stonewall were the immaculate grounds of another property. The house was entirely white marble, which gleamed in the sun, giving off a golden glow. Davonna shaded her eyes, leaning out the window to get a better look. A lone black car parked in the driveway. She squinted. It was possible to make out a figure get out of it; he (it was a he, right?) wiped his brow and then hopped back in the car.
The front doors of the mansion opened. A man and a woman exited. Davonna leaned forward, the man was dressed precisely like John: a blue suit with white shirt and a red-checkered pocket square. It had to be him. The woman beside him wore a white dress, which floated around her legs. She tucked a thick strand of black hair behind her ear, reached out, and pulled John close and wrapped her arms around his neck. Davonna's heart sank. It was him. Regardless of the suit, it was the same black car with the same driver in the same hotel uniform. She collapsed onto the window seat and stared at the couple surrounded by glistening marble. They separated after a long while. John moved in for one last kiss, pumped the woman's breasts, and then sauntered down the steps and into the back seat of the sedan.
The woman in white watched the car drive away before gliding back into the house. The double doors shut with an audible thud. Davonna drew her head from the window and laid on the cushions as the black sedan edged out of sight. What had happened? Who was the woman? Tears streamed across her cheeks and soaked the pale blue fabric.
"Why?" she screamed into a pillow and hurled it across the room. She jumped and glowered at the house. The white monolith. A sudden fury overtook her; she'd confront the harpy.
Davonna was halfway across the large hall, her hair streaming behind her, when a knock echoed from the door. Her fury popped. She rushed forward and tugged the doors open. John stood there, his hair windswept, one cheek raised in a smile.
"I thought we'd make use of the new bed," he purred.
Davonna stood frozen, unable to move. Her mind was empty, admonition died on her lips. Her throat was raw. She allowed John to direct her upstairs and into bed. Tomorrow, she thought, as John's lips hovered over the hollow of her neck; I'll confront him tomorrow.
John left Davonna sprawled on the bare mattress. Rays of bright afternoon sunlight warmed her toes. Her mind was quiet. It wasn't important to be angry. John poked his head out of the closet.
"I think we should try to get settled this week. The shipping company called and said they'd be here today."
"It won't be a problem."
"I can't stand the chaos."
"John, I'll handle it," Davonna said, placating.
"I know." He pulled a fresh suit from his garment bag. "Don't you think you ought to get dressed?"
"I was enjoying the moment."
"Time to get to work."
Davonna blinked, hurt, but John just pulled on his suit coat, oblivious. The doorbell rang for the second time. He frowned at her and she frowned at the door. He snapped his fingers at her and she leapt from the bed, as if burned, and pulled out clothes at random from her suitcase. Jeans and a black bra and a long sleeve grey Henley shirt. John rolled his eyes as she wiggled and jumped into the jeans.
They opened the front door. A woman stood sensuously in the enclosed porch, her long black hair tickled the tops of her nipples, which were just camouflaged by a silk dress.
"Hello," John said, waving the woman in. Davonna moved out of the way, her eyes wide with anger and horror. "Davonna, meet our neighbor, Megan Moreau. I met her on my last trip here when I was looking at houses. Megan, my wife, Davonna."
"So pleased to meet you, Davonna."
Davonna lifted her eyes and stared. Megan's skin was the color of caramel and her dark brown eyes shone out of a face that wouldn't have looked out of place in Vogue. The whole effect, the simple construction and long lines, was superb, except for a cloying overpowering scent of perfume, which radiated from her. Even in her anger and frustration Davonna was embarrassed. She still smelled of stale airplane air.
"Please, come on in, Megan, I'd love to show you the house," John said motioning Megan forward. He rounded on Davonna, "What the hell is wrong with you?"
"Just surprised."
"Pull yourself together," he whispered and strode off after Megan who was eyeing a massive chandelier with interest. "Let's go to the garden?"
Davonna walked in their wake, watching as Megan clutched John's arm, and leaned against him, laughing. John smiled. He stood straighter, taller. It's turning him on, Davonna thought, the woman with the see-through dress, throwing herself at him.
They walked to the back of the house to a morning room; the entire back wall was one massive sheet of glass. John flung open a pair of double doors and led them out on to the terrace, which overlooked the garden.
"Here," John gestured.
"It's a lovely space, I've been jealous ever since I moved," Megan purred. "How about a fountain over there, a walkway there, and a gazebo flanked by short hedges? You'll need a large lawn space, separating it all. We should start very organized, mathematical, and as the garden extends, have it grow wilder, more natural. What do you think?"
"I'm sorry, forgive me, but I'm confused," Davonna said. John and Megan turned to her, eyebrows raised, as if they'd forgotten she was still there.
"Oh Darling, it's my fault," Megan said silkily.
"Mega
n is an architect of sorts," John said.
"For gardens."
"I've asked for her ideas on ours."
"Oh," Davonna said, picking at the hem of her shirt. It was stifling outside, even in the shade; it was far too hot for long sleeves.
John, shook his head imperceptibly, and then led Megan through the overgrown garden, chattering and laughing. Davonna stood on the terrace. She forgot the shirt soaked with sweat and how it stuck to her back: she saw only John.
Davonna wanted to scream, wanted to pick up one of the concrete planters, perched on the four corners of the half wall, and chuck it at Megan's head. John looked over as he rounded an overgrown section of half-dead rose bushes. His face was a mask. Davonna slumped, the anger melted away. She couldn't tear her gaze away from his eyes. They were blank. Dead and flat, like a shark's. A predator ready to pounce.
Had they been intimate twenty minutes ago? Had he looked into her eyes with love? Was it love? Or was it something else? Davonna sat on the wall, the sun-warmed bricks pierced through her damp jeans. A film of dust and debris from the scurrying winds covered the patio. The white paint on the intricate metal table flaked off in large tumbling chunks. The windows at the back of the house were covered with the same grime, so thick you could only see hazy distorted outlines of furniture. Davonna sighed and hung her head.
"I'll let you know as soon as I've finished the plans. It shouldn't be more than a week, enough time for you to get settled," Megan said, as she and John completed their tour. Her arm was still through his and her face was flushed. She looked alive, sensuous, tempting.
Davonna scratched behind her ear and pulled loose strands of her hair out of her mouth. They fell limp on her shoulders. Megan tore her gaze from John to consider Davonna. Out of the corner of her eye appraising Davonna like a racehorse she was sure would lose. It was disconcerting. There was no humor, no light of interest, but a simple calculated stare. She looked away with a half smirk and allowed John to lead her into the house.
"It was lovely to meet you, Megan," Davonna said.
Neither John nor Megan seemed to hear her; they didn't turn around at any rate. But Davonna was sure Megan's back stiffened and her arm curled around John's.
The front door opened and closed and John sauntered back indoors. He strode through the glass doors and stretched in the sun. Davonna couldn't help herself. The words spilled out before she was conscious of them.
"What were you doing over at her house?"
John looked at her, confused.
"I went to ask her to come over to look at the garden. Why?" His tone was light, but there was hardness in his eyes, flatness, a warning.
"I saw you kissing her."
"Where did you see us from?" he said, craning his head to look at the house above them. "Oh right, the master bedroom. You can't see a thing at that distance. We hugged. Greeks are affectionate."
"I ... " Davonna started. She fiddled with her fingers, twisting her thumbs around each other.
"You shouldn't have been spying," he drawled, turning away.
Davonna stared at his back. The tension was palpable, the air stilled, waiting with bated breath. "I wasn't spying," she whispered.
John rounded on her, crossing the space between them in a single stride. She shrank from his onslaught.
"Let's keep it that way."
Davonna's knees rattled, cold rushed across her forehead and neck. John's hands balled into fists. He leaned over, his breath hot on her face, like a boxer leering at a weaker opponent. He smelled like Megan's cloying perfume. The impeding violence rose and billowed like a storm around them, cackling and booming.
The doorbell went off like a shotgun blast in their ears. John stepped back, blinking, and Davonna let out the breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding. John dashed off to the front of the house. When she strode up behind him, the open doorway showed a massive moving truck and four men flitting like bees around it.
John turned towards her as she stood watching, "You can handle this, can't you?"
He tacked them on, those last two words. A cutting remark. Tears welled behind her eyes, but Davonna was determined not to cry. She couldn't let him know he'd won. He smirked, and strode out in the bright sunlight, swallowed by the truck and the workers and the incoming furniture.
"I have an opportunity," John said the next day. They sat at the dining table, boxes and wrapping paper helter-skelter around them. Davonna froze, her spoon halfway to her mouth. "The owners of the hotel want to sell and have approached me, to see if I want to buy it."
"That's …"
"I could get loans, but it would be so much easier to use what's in your savings," he said and shoveled a heaping forkful of roast chicken into his mouth.
"My inheritance?"
"Yes. We might have to rent this house and live in the hotel for a while," he said. His eyes glazed over, dreaming already of the future - of his kingdom.
"John ... the account I put the money into ... it's frozen for another twenty years. I can't touch it."
"I'm sure you can get around it. This is our future."
"I'm not sure, John. We don't need it right now ... if it was an emergency." Davonna faltered under the look John gave her.
"Isn't our future an emergency?"
"I don't know that the bank will see it that way."
John stared at her and she quailed. His eyes were flat with suppressed anger. Davonna's heart raced under the weight of his stare. It was as though, in a moment, the air had gone from the room.
"I'll try to call," she said.
"Do more than try."
"What should I say to them?"
"I'm sure you'll think of a way ... that bright mind of yours," he cackled, and left the dining room, padding across the hall to his office.
Davonna stood and took her phone into the library. She dialed the seldom-used number of her London bank.
"Davonna Fitzroy," she said, "I'm calling about a question on my account."
"One moment, Ma'am," a bright Sussex accent said.
Davonna peered out the window at the garden and tried to rehearse her request. What would make the banker override the terms of the account?
"Mrs. Fitzroy, what may I do for you?" The banker's voice was calm and posh, probably Westminster. Davonna took a deep breath.
"I'd like to see if I might get the funds from my inheritance."
It wasn't what she'd planned but she couldn't think, not while John's seething face played in her mind.
"I see," the banker said. Keys clacked away in the background. "Mrs. Fitzroy, I see the terms you agreed on were that the funds would stay frozen until your fiftieth birthday, or if severe financial hardship had befallen your family."
"Yes, I understand," Davonna said. "But we want to invest in a business opportunity and need these funds."
There was silence on the other side of the line and a small, nearly imperceptible sigh. "Mrs. Fitzroy, I am sorry, but I can't release these funds to you. I wish I could give you another answer, but you signed the paperwork. We retain these policies for our clients' protection."
"Yes, but my husband …"
"Mrs. Fitzroy, is something wrong? These policies are on the books for several reasons ... spousal interference being one of them."
"Oh no!" Davonna blurted. "No."
"I see. I am sorry, but there's nothing I can do. If you could give documentation of a dire financial state, the funds can be released."
"Please …"
"Is something wrong, Mrs. Fitzroy?" he repeated.
Davonna shook her head, forgetting he couldn't see her, and blinked herself back to reality.
"Thank you for your help," she said and hung up.
Davonna stood, facing the garden, and saw none of it. Her arms hung and her chest heaved. She turned on unsteady feet and walked across the hall to where John reclined at his desk.
"They won't release the funds, John."
John looked up from his phone. His face darkened a
nd his eyes flattened into slits. "What did they say?"
"I can't access the money until I turn fifty or unless we are in dire financial straits, proven with documentation."
"Well, isn't that perfect," John said, slamming his phone on the desk.
"I'm sorry," Davonna whispered, frozen in place. Her knees knocked together. Her head went warm.
"Don't even talk," John growled, and flicked his fingers at her, as though she was a piece of dirt on the floor.
Davonna fled, went to the kitchen, and sat huddled in a corner. A moment later, John's voice rang out through the first floor. He was on the phone, laughing. It was a strange sycophantic laugh, which rose and fell with nervousness. Davonna sighed and an hour later, no less worried, she retreated upstairs and waited for John to follow.
But he came to bed late, whistling under his breath and fell asleep virtually at once. She couldn't remember the last time it had happened ... a respite from him, from sex. He didn't say a word about the money the next day or ever again. It was as if the whole episode was erased from his memory ... eclipsed or supplanted by something else.
II
JULY 2016
ας με λενε Βοϊβοντίνα κι'άς ψοφώ από την πείνα.
Let me be called Voivoidina even if I'm dying of hunger.
Davonna lay, curled into a ball, and didn't dare move. She dreaded opening her eyes. With a sigh, she propped an eye open and stared at a chink of early morning sun. It lay on the silk pillowcase in one bright bar from a gap in the slotted shutters. She moved her hand and placed one finger in the light and watched as it was bathed in a soft glow. It looked ethereal, longer and shapelier. A twitch, a noise from the house shivered in the air and Davonna shuddered and pulled her hand back under the comforter.
The silk sheets coiled around her legs as she squirmed further under the covers. They moved over her skin like butter, but she didn't notice them anymore. They were silent witnesses, even accomplices, to her pain and suffering. John bought them "to slow the pace of wrinkles and aging." Why had he bothered to spend the money? No one came in and looked at the bed? No one touched the sheets.
Mrs Fitzroy Page 2