Revenant Rising (38 page)
On the way there, he entertains himself with follow-up thinking of how well things went yesterday afternoon. Paying asking price with cash-money made all the difference in the world when it came to smoothing out paperwork with the seller of the El Camino. And surrendering the Jimmy to the half-abandoned Newark neighborhood where the sale took place still strikes as the best idea for getting rid of the clunker. Stripped of license plates and other identifying tags, it was probably chopped up for spare parts before the sun went down, and set fire to soon after.
At the turnoff to Holbrook Road, he drops the window and hollers out “A wig and a wag and a long leather bag” in an overflow of high spirits. At the turnoff to the connector road into Old Quarry Court, his watch and the dashboard clock agree that it’s not even eight yet, too early in the morning for much to be stirring. But high spirits don’t let that bother him when he parks where he can see the entrance to the court and keep tabs on anyone coming or going.
Colin is only fifteen minutes early when he enters Old Quarry Court at eight-fifteen Sunday morning. Laurel’s instructions were precise; he found the street on the first try and number 13 would be hard not to find, situated as it is at the central point on the cul-de-sac. He eases the hired Jaguar into the driveway and makes no move to get out. Instead, he surveys from behind the windscreen what’s visible of the Chandler Family Shrine.
The brick-and-frame structure sparks no special interest; it’s the landscaping that has his full attention. Dark-leaved branches showing above the roof of a side porch can only belong to a copper beech tree, and the stand of growth along the other side of the property is unmistakably dogwood looking as though it could blossom yet today. In another direction, lilacs are heavy with buds and azaleas bordering the low dry-stone wall next to the driveway are ready to burst into bloom. Daffodils have the stage to themselves, flowering in organized beds across the entire front of the place instead of scattered through the lawns as his are at home. Noteworthy, all of it, but he could be reaching to make too much of these scaled-down similarities to his own gardens.
To avoid robbing Laurel of personal time again he decides to stay put till the appointed hour of eight-thirty. Yesterday jumps in to fill the waiting period, asking what might have been her reason for wanting to take such a prolonged and pensive look at the island of Manhattan and why she used that opportunity to get rid of her coat, of all things. What was that about? Was that a significant gesture or meaningless whim? Did that in some way symbolize the turning point he predicted for her? What of his own turning point? What will he have to toss overboard in order to achieve full independence?
Without warning the garage door goes up and Laurel appears. Her hair is loose and longer than guessed, reaching well past her shoulders. She’s wearing close-fitting trousers and a skimpy top of the sort worn under something else. She’s right next to the car now, playfully rapping on the glass and accusing him of having dozed off again. He has in a way; her effect on him can be stuporous even when he’s well rested.
He gets out of the car and wishes her good morning as a start on all the other good things he’d like to wish her. “Do you like to garden?” He goes with a safe follow-up, indicating the well-tended lawns and flower beds.
“Good question. I really don’t know. I’ve never gardened when it wasn’t just one more chore to be done and now I’ve hired a service to take care of it.”
She leads him through the garage where they both eye the door opener mechanism and exchange meaningful glances.
“I won’t butt in again. Promise,” he says
“You won’t need to, it’s working fine now,” she says.
They proceed into the house where his initial impression is all about aromas as she leads him along a wainscoted passageway. Whatever is cooking smells like everyone’s most idealized version of home. He detects the individual scents of apple, cinnamon, and bacon before he notices anything else. Then, in the kitchen he gets an impression of what estate agents call good bones and established character—the same indefinable quality that contents him with a hotel suite just this side of worn.
Appointments and furnishings that have all seen long and loving use contribute to an eerie sense of familiarity. Wide-plank flooring, copper kettles suspended above a center island, and a mass of white tulips drooping in informal arrangement on that island produce an unshakeable feeling of homecoming. As does a long farm table positioned adjacent a shallow bay window and served by an assortment of mismatched chairs.
Could there be a better place to make his appeal? He’d do it now if he thought there was any way in blue-bloody hell to ignore the fact they’ve known each other less than a week.
“Coffee?” Laurel offers. “I hope you’re hungry. That’s an apple pancake you smell baking, something of a Sunday tradition when there were more people to cook for and always a favorite of my father’s. I’ll be taking him a piece when I see him later, but if my brothers and sister want any they’ll have to come home to get it.”
She keeps up a steady chatter as she ties on an apron, minds the cooker, pours him coffee and just bustles about in general. He’s never seen her like this before, not this bubbly and twinkly, and he’s hesitant to name a cause beyond over-caffeination because sheer happiness seems like too simple a reason.
At her direction he takes up plates and cutlery and carries them to the table with its view of the gardens beyond. Whilst he’s laying the two place settings she excuses herself to see to laundry left in the washer since yesterday morning.
Assured that there’s no cookery to mind in her absence, he lets his interest wander to the large bowl in the center of the table. Instead of fruit, it holds an assortment of clutter amongst which are a matchbook from the Oyster Bar at The Plaza, a cork from a bottle of Orvieto wine, a napkin from the Stage Deli, and a creased brochure from the Circle Line outfit. If he saw other evidence of souvenir collecting lying about he might not place any great importance on this find, but since nothing similar’s in sight he could be onto something.
When Laurel reenters the kitchen she’s ever so slightly flushed and a bit out of breath. “Do you know what I’ve just realized?” She returns to the cooker to fuss with the bacon. “I need a wife.”
“So do I,” he says, the comment lost in laughter generated by her remark.
She briefly reenters his sphere, hands him two glasses of juice to take to the table and he’s grateful for anything to do that will keep him from advertising either his intentions or his little theft.
Now she’s busy taking a fantastic-looking inflated pancake from the oven and transferring bacon onto a platter. As she dusts the pancake with icing sugar she calls over her shoulder for him to be seated. He complies without offering to help carry anything because he still doesn’t trust himself not to provide a guaranteed buzz-killer by word or action.
However, when she brings the food and takes her place across from him it’s clear whatever buzz does exist in the room has been modified because no one needs to look as serious as she does about cutting into a pancake and serving a few rashers of bacon. An educated guess says she’s mired herself down again with the Nate issue.
“I know what you’re thinking and I’m telling you one last time that was a typical Nate tactic—creating smoke where there’s no fire,” Colin says. “Nate knew none of those messages needed my immediate attention yesterday. He knew there was nothing I could do about any of it and admitted as much to you. So, as I told you at least three times on the phone last night, you did absolutely no harm by withholding the information for a few hours. Reminding me—I never did hear why you didn’t drop it all on me straightaway, there in your office.”
“I . . . don’t know. Perhaps because you were sleep-deprived. Perhaps because I saw no point in stirring you up over things that were already beyond your control. Reminding
me
—have you talked to David since we last spoke?”
Did he actually think she was going to admit she didn’t want to tell him anything that might have prevented his going with her on the mystery cruise round Manhattan? “Yeh, David reached me late last night to say the Pinnacle label’s suddenly claiming I owe them another album.”
“You don’t, do you?”
“No, it’s their last gasp. It’s Saul Kingsolver at his worst and David assures me nothing will come of it. Whilst we’re at it, I’d better mention I’ve confirmed as recently as this morning that nothing can be done about the leak to the press concerning Anthony’s mischief. Too late, it is. Too late to do more than brace myself and hope the story’s short-lived. As for the other record label, the rumoured offer from the Rajah label—I don’t respond to rumour. If and when an actual offer’s made, I’ll look at it. There, are we done with this, then?”
“What about the murder victim, the Gibby Lester guy?”
“That’s not a topic for the breakfast table. No, not whilst I’m scarfin’ down this fabulous food.”
“But you’ll talk about him later? About Lester, and about the other one you said was murdered in L.A.?”
“Yeh, I said I would, didn’t I?”
The rest of the conversation drifts off into a maze of subjects. As has so often been the case, they never quite finish one when another comes along. He helps clear the table and mainly gets in the way of the washing up.
“I have to finish getting ready, so please feel free to look around the house. I’m betting you’ll agree with David that the old relic should be pushed aside to make way for something new.” She strips off the apron and disappears towards the front of the house. Her footsteps creak on an unseen set of stairs.
He has no idea how long she’ll be gone, so he may as well have that look around.
In her absence he ducks in and out of rooms that more closely resemble stage sets—tableaux minus the people—than actual living spaces. In a large room he would call the lounge he encounters an upright piano and shelves holding board games, videotapes, and books. A table in front of the fireplace holds a chess set, arranged and ready for the first move; on the hearth, logs are stacked, ready for igniting. Magazines are available near an easy chair, and the couch cushions are plumped and ready for the next bloke wanting a lie-down. There’s something vaguely Pompeian about the whole setup, as though the inhabitants had suddenly dematerialized. But if that were the case, wouldn’t something be in disarray?
He tries a few keys on the piano, expecting it to be out of tune. When it proves to be otherwise he starts to catch on that all is not abandoned; all is in readiness in case the former occupants happen to return. He tries a few more keys on the piano, then sits down to test a tune that’s only hours old. He’s well into the test before realizing Laurel has returned and is touching his shoulder.
“What is that you’re playing? That’s not something new, is it?” she says.
“It is, actually.”
“How strange . . . I’m sorry, I should say interesting, haunting even, because it doesn’t sound new, it sounds like something I’ve heard all my life.”
He somehow gets through the moment when he’s madly tempted to reveal lyrics that could come across as greeting card sentiments this early in the game and concludes the demo with a few random struck chords.
She has no idea how much of a compliment she’s just paid him and he has no idea how he will get through another day without declaring himself to her. He leaves the piano to see that she’s readied herself by tying her hair back with a scarf and donning a jacket to match her trousers.
“Do you play?” he asks as they leave the lounge.
“‘Fur Elise,’ ‘Turkish Rondo,’ ‘Golliwog’s Cakewalk’—the usual recital pieces and very badly,” she says as they reenter the kitchen. “Do you want to use the phone or the facilities before we go?”
“Just the phone.”
“Help yourself and don’t feel you have to rush. I still need to gather up some papers from the other room and wrap a piece of pancake for my father.”