Strings. Megan Edwards
on my face. “You really are going out with her?”
I didn’t have to answer. Bill rushed up and grabbed the iron out of my hand.
“Hey, watch out!” I yelled. “It’s on the cotton setting!”
“Shut up and sit down,” Bill said. “You don’t know what you’re doing, anyway. I’ll iron. You talk.”
I gave up and flopped down on a folding chair next to the dryer.
“You’re looking at someone who spent his formative years under the guidance of one of the world’s greatest laundresses,” Bill said. He was referring to his early childhood in Venezuela, where his father was still in the oil business. Bill lived there until he was nine, when his parents split up, and he came to the States with his mother. Both parents had remarried and had more children, which meant that Bill was a half brother to three girls and two boys, all much younger. Bill sometimes referred to himself as “the early mistake,” and I always had the feeling that he hadn’t come up with the term himself.
“Yeah,” he continued, “I got two things from growing up at the knee of Maria del Pilar Mata de Salazar. Accent-free Spanish and a mighty skill with starch.” He turned the collar on my shirt. “This could actually use a little, but you’re already too stiff.” Bill gave me a look, and I knew I had to start talking.
“She invited me,” I said.
“Interesting,” Bill said. “I could have sworn it was you doing all the pining away.”
God, had I been that obvious?
“So where are you going?” Bill asked.
“A folk music festival,” I said.
“Your idea?” Bill said, surprised.
“Hers.”
“Hmm. How’re you getting there?”
“Her mom’s driving,” I said. There it all was, ready for voracious consumption in the dorms. The violin virtuoso was going to a love-in with the cleaning lady and her daughter. There was nothing to stop Bill from spreading the word.
I’ve never admitted to myself until now that I was worried about my reputation there in the laundry room. I had relished the thought of showing up at the Spring Gala with Guenevere on my arm. I would have loved to parade her in front of Elizabeth Dunhill and her snotty society cronies. Olivia would have been my trophy at the Ojai Valley Hunt Club, but a trip to a folk music festival with her—a place where they played things like spoons and kazoos—was something else entirely. It was exactly the sort of event my classical training had taught me to scorn.
“Here’s your shirt,” Bill said. “Say thanks.”
I took the shirt.
“Say thanks,” Bill said again, but I left without a word. I figured it was only a matter of hours before the entire campus would be laughing as I rode off to hear banjo music in a ratty old Chevy station wagon.
But Bill didn’t spread the word about my plans. I’m not sure whether it was because he was my friend or that he considered Olivia’s feelings, but either way, his silence made him a better man than I. As I headed back to my room to decide which pair of slacks to wear, I was nothing more than a chicken-hearted snob who was terrified his classmates might find out that he was about to embark on his first real date.
Chapter 6
Whenever I size up new locales, it’s always Santa Barbara I use as a measuring stick. Nowhere on the California coast has architecture wedded its setting with such seductive perfection. White adobe and terra cotta tile mingle with the dark green spires of ancient cedars. The city slopes gently down to its world-famous coastline, where miles of sugar-white beaches greet the rolling turquoise surf. Balmy ocean breezes bear the scent of jasmine and honeysuckle almost every day of the year. In spring, the whole place erupts in an ecstatic explosion of fuchsias, begonias, roses, bougainvillea, and geraniums.
Ever since my four years at Haviland, no matter where I’ve lived, I have always cultivated at least one geranium in a red clay pot to remind me of that riotous California springtime. When denizens of less temperate zones assail me with long-winded speeches about how they could never live in a place that has no seasons, I never try to set them straight. I just look at my geranium and remember rebirth on the Western edge. I remember Santa Barbara and being seventeen. I remember Olivia.
On Saturday, I got up at four to practice my violin, then stationed myself on a terrace next to the science building at eight thirty. I could see the gym from my vantage point, and my plan was to wait until I saw the station wagon pull into the parking lot. Then I’d saunter on down in a fashion I desperately hoped would come across as casual. Unfortunately, Mr. Gillespie was working early in his lab, and he saw me through the side window. He immediately joined me on the terrace.
“Spencer!” he called jovially as he emerged from the building. “What brings you to science land so early on a Saturday?”
I could tell that Mr. Gillespie, whom I actually liked a lot, was in a mood to chat.
“Oh, uh—”
“I think I’ve finally convinced Puck to stop barking at the orchestra,” Mr. G. continued. “Now all we have to worry about is the audience.” Puck, Mr. Gillespie’s sheepdog, had the role of King Pellinore’s shaggy companion in Camelot. His looks made him perfect for the part, but his personality was making things difficult.
“I’m sure he’ll be fine,” I replied, still wondering how I could escape and find a better place to count down to nine o’clock in private.
“Well,” said Mr. G. heartily, “at least we’ve got the perfect Lancelot.” He clapped me on the back.
“Sir—I’ve got to go. I’ve got an appointment,” I blurted. With Mr. Gillespie staring after me, I took off down the stone steps to the path below. I was still trotting when I turned right onto the one-lane road that led to the gym parking lot and heard a car closing in behind me. I jumped over the curb and turned to see Olivia and her mother laughing behind a dusty windshield. I smiled lamely. So much for looking casual. Olivia stepped out, opened the back door, and disappeared inside.
“You ride in front!” she called, leaning out of the window. “Your legs are longer than mine!”
I slid onto the peeling vinyl and pulled the door shut. The car smelled of incense, and a string of glass beads swung from the rearview mirror.
“Hello, Mrs. de la Vega,” I said. “Thank you for inviting me to come along today.”
“You can call me Eleanor unless it makes you feel uncomfortable, Ted,” she replied. “And you’re welcome, but you really have to thank Olivia. It was all her idea.”
I twisted my head around. “Thank you, Olivia,” I said. Olivia smiled her response from the back seat.
Both Eleanor and Olivia were wearing long dresses. Eleanor’s was a Shakespearean-style gown with a tight bodice that pushed her breasts up and gave her eye-catching cleavage. I tried not to stare at her as she drove but, until that morning, I had never seen her in anything except a brown housekeeper’s uniform that made her look at least two decades older than she was. I hadn’t been able to picture her as a performer, but now, with her hair attractively styled and her face made up with professional skill, I could no longer imagine her mopping floors. Like her daughter, she was beautiful. She had the same delicate fingers, I noted as I watched her navigate the curving road down the hill. Her hair was lighter, and she had freckles, but her green eyes were the same shade as Olivia’s. And they laughed the same, a bubbly giggle that made me laugh, too.
Olivia’s dress wasn’t a costume. It was made of something white and gauzy, and the bodice was much more modest than Eleanor’s. Olivia was wearing a wreath of flowers in her hair, and the whole effect was delightfully Botticellian. The two of them made me feel terminally un-hip. My plaid madras shirt and khaki slacks might have been considered “cool” at my parents’ tennis