there’s a pinch of nervousness in Livvi.
She glances at the luggage rack near the window.
His suitcase is still there.
On a nearby tabletop is the Easter basket he surprised her with last night. A lavishly engraved, light-as-air, silver bowl containing an abundance of Swiss chocolates and a hand-painted music box, with a lid that looks like a patch of flower-strewn grass. In the center of the lid is a pair of formally dressed rabbits who, at the press of a button, do silly pirouettes to a goofy rendition of “Tiptoe through the Tulips.”
The presence of the Easter basket and Andrew’s suitcase are easing Livvi’s anxiety, but only to the smallest degree.
This feeling of dread that Livvi is experiencing is out of her control. Automatic. A dance learned long ago at her father’s knee. The waltzing uncertainty of loving a man she doesn’t fully understand.
Livvi has picked up her phone and is about to press Andrew’s number. Then she’s letting the phone drop. Because the door is being opened. In silent, stealthy increments.
Someone is sneaking into the room. One light footstep after another.
When Andrew notices Livvi, sees that she’s awake and watching him, he seems rattled. As if he’s been out doing something a little dicey—and was hoping that she’d still be asleep.
He takes his time closing the door.
“Where have you been?” Livvi asks.
There’s a hint of hesitation before he says: “I went to a sunrise Mass. I always go to Mass on Easter, and on Christmas.”
“Mass? I never knew you were a Catholic.”
“Well.” His attitude is boyish, sheepish. “Now you know.”
For the space of a pulse beat Livvi’s uncertainty continues. Undiminished.
And then.
Then she’s receiving a kiss that’s sweet with the taste of communion wine. A lingering kiss—being delivered with the purity of a sacrament.
***
In addition to the trips and the hotel rooms, there are the days and nights Livvi and Andrew spend together in the Pasadena guesthouse that is Livvi’s home. A little treasure she’s able to afford only because her landlady, a flamboyant former television writer, gives Livvi a reduced rent in return for Livvi’s services as a part-time personal assistant.
The guesthouse has a lovely, old-world sensibility. There’s a gracefully tiered fountain in a little outside courtyard. The courtyard’s perimeter is blanketed in bougainvillea blossoms that are the color of red chili peppers and as delicate as rice paper. Inside the little three-room house are vases of fresh-cut flowers, walls finished in cream-colored plaster, arched windows kept open to the breeze and fronted by fine, wrought-iron grillwork, and floors covered in rose-colored Saltillo tile. Livvi’s furniture is simple. And her bed is high and welcoming, dressed in clean, unbleached cotton.
Livvi has been in this serene space for thirty-six months. Andrew is the only man who has slept with her under its roof.
This is Livvi’s cloister. The hiding place where she has insulated herself from the shadows of the past.
Now a missile has been sent whispering through the night. The attack has come in the form of a midnight phone call—and it has shattered her sense of safety.
While Livvi is putting her cell phone back onto the bedside table she’s wary, glancing at Andrew, to see if he’s still asleep. He is. The call must have been too brief to wake him. It is one of several that have occurred in the last few weeks. This time, unlike the others, Livvi picked up on the first ring. The entire exchange lasted only a few seconds.
There was Livvi’s groggy “Hello” as she was turning on the lamp.
The whispery voice saying: “Olivia. Is that you?”
Then Livvi pressing the Off button—dropping the phone as if she’d touched fire.
Livvi is shifting her attention back toward the bedside table—afraid the phone will ring again.
When it doesn’t, she cautiously turns out the light. And slides down under the
She glances at the luggage rack near the window.
His suitcase is still there.
On a nearby tabletop is the Easter basket he surprised her with last night. A lavishly engraved, light-as-air, silver bowl containing an abundance of Swiss chocolates and a hand-painted music box, with a lid that looks like a patch of flower-strewn grass. In the center of the lid is a pair of formally dressed rabbits who, at the press of a button, do silly pirouettes to a goofy rendition of “Tiptoe through the Tulips.”
The presence of the Easter basket and Andrew’s suitcase are easing Livvi’s anxiety, but only to the smallest degree.
This feeling of dread that Livvi is experiencing is out of her control. Automatic. A dance learned long ago at her father’s knee. The waltzing uncertainty of loving a man she doesn’t fully understand.
Livvi has picked up her phone and is about to press Andrew’s number. Then she’s letting the phone drop. Because the door is being opened. In silent, stealthy increments.
Someone is sneaking into the room. One light footstep after another.
When Andrew notices Livvi, sees that she’s awake and watching him, he seems rattled. As if he’s been out doing something a little dicey—and was hoping that she’d still be asleep.
He takes his time closing the door.
“Where have you been?” Livvi asks.
There’s a hint of hesitation before he says: “I went to a sunrise Mass. I always go to Mass on Easter, and on Christmas.”
“Mass? I never knew you were a Catholic.”
“Well.” His attitude is boyish, sheepish. “Now you know.”
For the space of a pulse beat Livvi’s uncertainty continues. Undiminished.
And then.
Then she’s receiving a kiss that’s sweet with the taste of communion wine. A lingering kiss—being delivered with the purity of a sacrament.
***
In addition to the trips and the hotel rooms, there are the days and nights Livvi and Andrew spend together in the Pasadena guesthouse that is Livvi’s home. A little treasure she’s able to afford only because her landlady, a flamboyant former television writer, gives Livvi a reduced rent in return for Livvi’s services as a part-time personal assistant.
The guesthouse has a lovely, old-world sensibility. There’s a gracefully tiered fountain in a little outside courtyard. The courtyard’s perimeter is blanketed in bougainvillea blossoms that are the color of red chili peppers and as delicate as rice paper. Inside the little three-room house are vases of fresh-cut flowers, walls finished in cream-colored plaster, arched windows kept open to the breeze and fronted by fine, wrought-iron grillwork, and floors covered in rose-colored Saltillo tile. Livvi’s furniture is simple. And her bed is high and welcoming, dressed in clean, unbleached cotton.
Livvi has been in this serene space for thirty-six months. Andrew is the only man who has slept with her under its roof.
This is Livvi’s cloister. The hiding place where she has insulated herself from the shadows of the past.
Now a missile has been sent whispering through the night. The attack has come in the form of a midnight phone call—and it has shattered her sense of safety.
While Livvi is putting her cell phone back onto the bedside table she’s wary, glancing at Andrew, to see if he’s still asleep. He is. The call must have been too brief to wake him. It is one of several that have occurred in the last few weeks. This time, unlike the others, Livvi picked up on the first ring. The entire exchange lasted only a few seconds.
There was Livvi’s groggy “Hello” as she was turning on the lamp.
The whispery voice saying: “Olivia. Is that you?”
Then Livvi pressing the Off button—dropping the phone as if she’d touched fire.
Livvi is shifting her attention back toward the bedside table—afraid the phone will ring again.
When it doesn’t, she cautiously turns out the light. And slides down under the
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