A New Eden

by Quent Cordair

  Paige imagined Sandal as a little girl, her eyes alight with anticipation and wonder. Such beautiful eyes, a different beauty than Ian’s –

  “Sandal, do you know Ian Argent?”

  “Sure. Why?”

  “Do you know if he has a girlfriend?”

  “He’s engaged actually.”

  Paige bit her lower lip.

  “Sorry,” Sandal said.

  “It’s okay. I suspected as much from his aunt’s reaction when I asked for him at the gallery this afternoon.”

  “I hope you didn’t take it personally.”

  “No. She was cautious at first, but then she seemed pleased enough to deliver a message to him for me. She even offered his phone number.”

  “For what it’s worth, I don’t think she’s a fan of the fiancée.”

  “Are you a fan?”

  “Even less so, now that I’ve met you.”

  Sandal’s smile was genuine, but her eyes had an ache in them. She moved along to serve new customers.

  Paige dug her phone out from the bottom of her purse. She hadn’t used it once over the past three weeks, hadn’t checked any of her texts or messages. She hadn’t checked the news. She turned the phone on, chose a contact with a Manhattan area code and typed:

  “I may need to stay another week.” She hit “send.”

  Within a minute the reply came: “Do what you need to do.”

  After another minute a second message came: “You’re missed.”

  Nine

  It was Tuesday morning. Aaron stood at the window of his office, looking out over the valley, having just spent an hour on a conference call with little more to show for it than two pages of handwritten notes. His father and Joseph Reisenberg had been on the call for the first twenty minutes before leaving the details to Aaron and one of the law firm’s junior partners. The Windsor project was stalled indefinitely. The West Gate project was on hold until at least the middle of the next week, likely longer. Granted, it was difficult getting any construction done in the valley during Passion Week anyway: half of the workers on the crews would take personal days if not given time off for Passion observances. It was becoming common for non-Obadites to ask for the week off as well.

  Aaron had resigned himself to the reality that the attorneys were doing all that could be done, under the circumstances. The court dates couldn’t be moved up. Joseph Reisenberg was confident of their strategy and position going forward. There was still no direct evidence of a connection between the legal oppositions to the respective projects, though both were of an overt environmentalist nature. To no one’s surprise, both cases against the Hales were heartily and openly supported by the Friends of Aurum Valley, the local anti-development group. A half dozen of the “Friends,” wearing their signature green “Save Our Valley” t-shirts, had attended the initial court proceedings, as they had the planning commission meetings and the city council meetings concerning the projects. During Reisenberg’s remarks at the hearing for the Windsor project, one of the Friends muttered “Earth rapers!” – not loudly, but loudly enough the whole court had heard. The judge had issued a warning. It was the judgment of Reisenberg and the Hales that the Friends were too unorganized and too poorly funded to have hired either of the attorneys; yet so far, the Hales weren’t being sued for monetary damages – there was no percentage of potential settlement or award money in it for the attorneys: the funding and motivation behind the opposition remained a mystery.

  With the Hale offices being located directly between the two challenged projects, it felt to Aaron as if some unseen enemy had initiated a pincer movement, though to what end was unclear. Even if both developments were brought to a stop indefinitely or permanently, the damage to the company’s bottom line would hardly be devastating, given the totality of the Hales’ holdings and interests. Still, the family’s reputation and honor were at stake. The developments were on the Hales’ home turf, near the company’s heart, on private land they had owned for well over a century. It was difficult not to take the challenges personally. Given the growing ire and frustration Aaron had heard in his father’s voice over the course of the conference call, he hoped he would stay away from the courtroom during the proceedings, for the sake of all concerned – especially his own. He had never once seen his father lose his temper. He hoped he never would.

  Aaron stood at the window a few moments more, surveying the city and the mountains beyond. He left the notepad on his desk and stepped out into the reception area.

  “Karen, I’ll be in the Model Room.”

  “Yes, Mr. Hale. Oh – there was someone here to see you, sir. She didn’t have an appointment. You had asked not to be interrupted during your call. I thought perhaps you noticed her.”

  “I’m sorry, no. I was busy. Who was it?”

  “She didn’t say. By the looks of her, I’m pretty sure she’s Flock. She said she’d wait, and she did for a while. Then about five minutes ago she apologized and said she had to leave. But while she was sitting here, watching you through the window, she took out a sketch pad and pencil and started drawing. She left this for you. It’s quite good, don’t you think?”

  She handed him a page of paper, the fringes on its left edge torn. In the lower right corner of the drawing was a tidy, neatly flourished “S.”

  Aaron saw himself through Skye’s eyes, his essence distilled, defined, and refined to straight lines, hatched planes, and unwavering curves.

  “You can take your lunch now, Karen.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  He was still standing there, looking at the drawing, long after she left.

  * * *

  Paige was freshening her makeup in the mirror. On the vanity next to her was a ball of gray modeling clay, its surface hollowed by the impressions of her fingers. She was no longer at The Sophia. All of the hotel’s rooms had been booked for Passion Week, but in consideration of Paige’s three-week stay and the incident with the Angel, Mrs. Hale insisted that Paige take the family’s guest apartment above the real estate office on the plaza, with her compliments.

  The apartment was furnished and decorated even more elegantly than the suite at the resort, with Louis XIV antiques accenting a casual French country theme, and a canopied featherbed mounded and fluffed nearly as high as Paige’s chest. In a wistful moment, Paige mused that her mother, who had been nothing if not tasteful in all things, would have approved. The veil of white sheers at the open bedroom window breathed with the sounds of children playing in the plaza below.

  She had texted Ian within minutes of changing her travel plans Sunday evening. When he responded courteously the next morning, Monday, he had already arranged an appointment to visit Eileen Vasari’s studio again that afternoon. The sculptress was home from the hospital and insistent that she was well enough to receive visitors.

  He had picked Paige up in his pickup truck this time. At first, she was certain he was pleased that she had stayed on, but as he drove, he quieted, becoming even more reserved than before. She wondered if perhaps she had made a mistake in staying. But Ian Argent wasn’t the only reason she had stayed, she reminded herself.

  Eileen Vasari had been cheery and gracious as she showed Paige about the studio and explained her work process. When she asked what it was that Paige liked about Rapture, Paige answered that she couldn’t help but feel as though there were a part of her own soul in the sculpture, a part she’d somehow forgotten and never wanted to forget again. Eileen had smiled at that. She came and hugged Paige – a grandmotherly, loving embrace that nearly brought Paige to tears, it warmed her so, and so unexpectedly. Eileen declared that, given Paige’s response to the piece, the casting with the lighter patina was indeed available for purchase. When they parted, she gifted Paige the handful of modeling clay.

  Back at the gallery, Paige had finalized the purchase and the shipping details with Ian. Content for the moment, she excused herself and returned to the dress shop, where she purchased two frocks, both to Flock standards
– conservatively higher necked and hemmed below the knee – one in a plain, solid tan, the other in a light gray. Her white sandals would go with the tan dress. She bought an inexpensive pair of sandals in a dusty rose to go with the gray.

  Ian had yet to mention his fiancée. Paige had yet to ask.

  She didn’t hear from him again Monday night, but he texted her the next morning, this morning, to ask if she would be interested in joining him and a friend for dinner.

  When she came down from the apartment in the late afternoon, the plaza was teeming with Obadites, the visitors finding pleasure in being in a place other than where they were from. But it was more than that. By their expressions and comments, the plaza and the shops were familiar to many, a home away from home, proudly shared with first-time visitors. The Christian bookstore and the ice cream shop were doing brisk business. The coffee shop, unsurprisingly, was nearly empty. The door of the Elbow Room remained open, and was avoided by all but a few locals.

  As she waited for Ian in front of the gallery, she watched the pedestrians stream by, some glancing sidelong at the art in the windows but few entering. Of the few who did enter, fewer still lingered, especially those with children. Upon discovering, inside, the bountiful nudity, partial and full, parents exited hastily, their eyes widened and focused staunchly ahead, children closely in tow. It pained Paige to watch the young ones looking back over their shoulders, straining with frustration – miniature wives of Lot, curiosity unsated, condemned in its cradle.

  After Ian closed shop for the evening, they walked the six blocks south to the Hale headquarters.

  At seven stories, the office building was easily the tallest structure in town, save only for the cathedral, given its steeple. The hour was late. The parking lot was mostly empty. There was no one manning the security desk in the front lobby. They took the elevator to the top floor.

  The reception desk was unoccupied, the lights dimmed. To Paige, every element of the Hale offices, including the building itself, exuded a sense of quality – solid, dependable materials and design. The furnishings seemed comfortable, functional. The décor and finishing touches were pleasing but neither distracting nor meant to impress. This was a place of purpose, a place of business. Things got done here, and done well. It wasn’t a place to be, but a place to do.

  Ian checked an office, which turned out to be empty, then led down a hallway lined with mostly vacated, darkened offices, cubicles, and conference rooms, a few employees still working here and there in scattered cones of light. He exchanged a waved greeting with a young man through a closed glass door. At the end of the hall was a large, rectangular room, its interior dark except for a spotlighted, topographical model at waist level, extended to within a few feet of each wall. It was a detailed, three-dimensional representation of the entire valley, aligned with the orientation of the valley itself.

  Standing tall at the model’s southerly end, hands firmly on his hips, was the young man who had arrived late to Sunday Service, who had walked down the center aisle of the cathedral to sit next to Sophia Hale. The young man who had left early, at the beginning of Reverend Lundquist’s sermon. This evening, his face was darkly shadowed from above, uplit by the reflection from the model below, his visage that of a stoic, brooding monument in stone, seen at night. He was studying the layout intently, dispassionately. She wondered if he had heard them come in.

  They came to stand next to him, at the valley’s southwest corner, below the lower end of the Garnet Range. To Paige’s eye, every building, every road, and possibly every tree in the valley was represented. The model stirred a childlike delight and excitement in her. It seemed like an enormous toy, a playground in which to move buildings and roads and vehicles around, a place to create adventures and to spin stories. It reminded her of a layout for a model railroad, except that the only rail line was the paired tracks running down the valley’s easterly side, with the single-line spur leading off the north end to where the ore mill on the Vasari property had once stood.

  Aaron turned and acknowledged them, his smile welcoming. Ian made the introductions.

  “Paige – my friend Aaron Hale. Aaron, this is Paige Keller, the new client of the gallery I’ve been telling you about. She bought one of Amuma’s sculptures yesterday.”

  Aaron extended his hand. His eyes were steady and clear. His hand was large, strong, embracing but respectfully so. She felt instantly comfortable with him.

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Paige Keller. Which of the sculptures, may I ask?”

  She glanced at Ian. “It was her Rapture that I had to have.”

  Aaron’s look traveled between Paige and Ian – quizzically, almost amused, as though he were puzzling something out.

  “I empathize,” he said. “I’ve purchased three Raptures myself – one for the office here, one for home, one as a gift for a friend. I like having her around. I don’t mind sharing her with worthy friends.”

  “I apologize if we’ve interrupted something,” she said. “You seemed quite focused when we came in.” There was a singular essence about him, she thought, in his style, in the way he carried himself. He was tall, but not at all physically bulky, once you looked at him, yet he was something larger than life. A thing apart, and yet part. A man’s man, surely. A woman’s man, undoubtedly. His presence filled and permeated the close room as naturally and rightly as it had filled the grand cathedral Sunday morning.

  “I appreciate your concern, Ms. Keller, but no, you didn’t interrupt,” he said. “I was expecting you. I was just thinking – ” he glanced down again at the model, scanning the terrain – “Ian, if you could build a home anywhere in the valley, if money and accessibility were no obstacle, where would it be?”

  Ian pondered, his hand coming to his chin. “It’s hard to imagine a better view than from the homes you’re putting up on West Gate. We rode by them Friday. Sorry about the delays. . . .” He was looking to the top of the model, to the westerly side of the hill. Below the winding, climbing West Gate road, the fairways and greens of the golf course stepped down into the gorge, where the river flats and eddies were frozen in blues and whites.

  “Those will be some of the finest homes in the valley, to be sure, when we finish them. . . . Paige, Ian has been telling me about you.” She felt the heat rise to her cheeks. “I understand you’ve been visiting our valley for a few weeks now. As a newcomer, if I may ask, if you were to move here, where would you choose to live?”

  “I’ve always been more of a city girl myself, but if I were to live here, I wouldn’t mind residing where I’m staying now, thanks to your mother’s hospitality, above the plaza. As much as I enjoy my occasional solitude, as a rule I prefer being around people, observing, in the middle of things.”

  “You do, don’t you. You are Paige Keller the journalist, aren’t you? Who went undercover in Afghanistan? You wrote about what life is like for women under the Taliban.”

  She took a long breath. “One and the same,” she admitted. On the horseback ride with Ian she had revealed only that she was a writer. When asked what it was she wrote, she had responded only vaguely, that she wrote on current affairs, politics. And then she’d changed the subject, and he hadn’t pressed. It wasn’t that she was trying to hide anything – she only wanted to keep the two worlds separate awhile longer. But now Ian was regarding her with an uplifted eyebrow. She hoped he thought of her with no less respect or interest. But why would she worry? Journalism was a perfectly respectable profession. Highly regarded by many, of course.

  “I’ve enjoyed your work,” Aaron continued. “Not only are your articles well written and insightful, but you’re remarkably courageous, taking the risks you do.”

  “Thank you. Truth be told, I don’t think I fully appreciated how dangerous this most recent assignment would be – though I believe my editor did. It wasn’t even an assignment, really. It was my idea. I never truly convinced him it was a good one. He practically begged me not to go.”

  “But yo
u went and you stayed, and you saw it through. You must be fluent in Pashto then?”

  “Pashto and Farsi. My parents were diplomats in Kabul when I was a child. We lived there for ten years.”

  “That wasn’t the first dangerous assignment you’ve been on. I’ve followed your work for a while now.”

  “Thanks . . .” She was suddenly uncomfortable. It wasn’t a sufficient response, but she felt flattered, shy. Her work was good, maybe, but not that good. It was okay sometimes. She had never felt worthy of the praise, and she wasn’t accustomed to being recognized outside of her small circles in Washington and New York. The occasions she had appeared on television, she had been wearing a veil, sometimes with sunglasses in addition. She preferred the anonymity, and not only for safety’s sake. For the present, she wished to offer nothing more on the subject, having no desire to discuss her experiences in Beirut, or in Cairo, or in Syria. She would be grateful if Aaron didn’t mention Cairo in particular. The whole world, it seemed, knew what had happened to her in Cairo. The sordid details were known only by her cameraman, the staff at the hospital, and a man at the American embassy who took her report, but speculation had been splashed all over the international press for a twenty-four-hour news cycle. She was hoping that Ian wasn’t aware of the incident, and that somehow it could stay that way. She glanced at Aaron, her eyes hopeful, asking.

  “Welcome back to the States, Paige Keller,” he said, his smile reassuring. “I trust that my mother has been taking good care of you.”

  “Very good care, thank you,” she replied, relieved, grateful. He seemed to understand.

  “Perhaps we can have you up to the house for dinner soon.” He gave Ian a look. “Mother loves to entertain. I think she would be delighted to have you over.”

  “I would enjoy that, thank you. I wouldn’t mind getting to know her better – I mean, not as a reporter for a story or anything, just for myself, personally.”

  Aaron smiled. “Of course. She’s a remarkable woman. Speaking of dinner – ” he made a last, sweeping examination of the valley model before motioning to the door – “shall we?”