Thirteen

A star-spangled canopy blanketed the Pacific as time passed in soft conversation, the crackle of the fire and the rhythmic pounding of the surf filling the air.

Amanda formed a question in her addled mind long before she was able to articulate it. She turned to Margot. “Do you have a favorite composer?”

“For flute or symphony?”

“Flute.”

“It’s a toss-up. I like Cécile Chaminade because she was a female in an era of male composers. Her flute concertino is romantic and moves in a flowing way that baroque music doesn’t. On the other hand, I like Francis Poulenc for the opposite reason—modern phrasing full of dissonance and unresolved melodies.”

Amanda nodded thoughtfully. “I’m not sure I’ve heard any flute pieces by either.”

“I’ll play them for you sometime.”

Shit. Fell into that one. Amanda chose not to respond, hoping she seemed contemplative in the firelight or too stoned to focus. Death by flute recital!

“Do you have a favorite piece you like to play?” Margot asked.

Amanda sighed, reluctant to admit her recent meanderings through the darkest of dark nights. “Lately, I’ve been playing a lot of Saint-Saëns because I’ve got the blues, and the low, elongated notes help draw out my sadness, so I…” Her voice came up short, preventing her from completing her sentence.

“Which piece?” Margot asked.

With great effort and in a shaky voice, Amanda said, “ The Swan… You know, from—”

“ Carnival of the Animals.” Margot rested a knowing hand on Amanda’s forearm. “It’s a beautiful, bittersweet tune. I can see why it makes you cry.”

Amanda nodded, embarrassed that she was verklempt again. She didn’t think of herself as emotionally labile, but the notes, how they sang to her, resonating with her broken heart after Jen cut off their relationship like it was the head of a fish. After playing for hours, Amanda had felt as though she had cried for an eternity, so cathartic was the ritual of making music.

Unbidden, the notes exploded in her inner ear like big, fat bubbles, bursting with their full timbre and soul, spilling the melody into her brain, phrase after phrase. She swayed dreamily to The Swan’s languorous melody, as if she were drawing the bow across the strings there, in front of the fire. The sound had never been clearer to her. The phrasing never more touching. The notes never so tender, torturing her.

She stared blankly into the fire, the hypnotic effect of the flames dancing to the melancholy tune, her body vibrating internally to the pure beauty of music. What she couldn’t express in words she communicated through her cello, the large instrument humming between her legs, drawing, pulling, and even ripping out her heartache until she could weep no more.

She felt as though she were in the center of a swirling blue mist, serene in her thoughts, modest in her intentions, content to allow herself to be carried away, giving up control, acquiescing to the inevitable. Fate. But she wasn’t afraid. She was calm and assured. If this is what Blue Dream did to her right brain, she needed to smoke it more often.

She had played The Swan and another, quieter piece— Thaїs: Méditation by Massenet—several times day and night, drowning herself in their unrelenting, plundering of emotion, pushing her deeper into depression, dredging mysterious cells of sadness in the deepest reaches of her body. She swam in a black abyss over the last week, alone in her house, a turbid sea of unrequited love for Jen.

One night, she had pulled out the sheet music for a Shostakovich piece in a minor key. Stress minor. Considered one of the bleakest of compositions, its notes drove Amanda deep into the mortal reaches of night from which she could see no daylight. It had a wild movement that was atavistic and tuneless, emoting death. The composition had resonated with her, but she had abandoned it for fear of taking her own life. She needed hope, and Shostakovich’s work provided none. In the interest of self-preservation, she had returned to the French composers.

Reflecting on what the music had done for her, she wondered whether playing was indeed cathartic or whether it was anchoring her heart below the surface of the water, drowning it. Drowning her soul. Drowning her ability to be happy. Drowning her ability to feel again. Was she seeking the darkness in the music or was it the other way around? Should I set aside the music and the instrument that binds me to the haunting melodies?

She had been at her lowest point of sorrow over losing Jen, the grief of unrequited love as painful as grieving death, to which she was no stranger. The cold-blooded murder of her driver, George Banks, at the hands of Eddy Valentine. That had hit her hard even though she had avenged George’s death by killing Valentine herself. Afterward, she had grieved the loss of innocence in her soul. And, it hadn’t stopped there. She had killed a wise guy in Kauai when he was holding Jen hostage. Another fragment of her soul, gone.

Was she destined to carry the guilt of murder in her soul forever? Would it subside over time? The thought occurred to her that guilt had had a grip on her long before she had pulled the trigger to avenge George’s death. As she stared into the fire, the realization came to her in crystal clarity—she was a killer. Worse, she likely had been long before she was born Amanda Hawthorne in this lifetime.

This type of familiarity with a killer instinct and death at her own hands could only derive from an old soul. A previous life. Her epiphany made her aware of a perennial sadness that resided deep within her. A sadness that had nothing to do with Jen leaving her. This sadness was tied to the history, and apparent trajectory, of her soul. She had been a fighter, and killer, in her past life, again in this lifetime, and was saddened to think she probably would be in her next life. Splat. Her soul laid bare before her to see—that of a killer.

She felt shame and wretchedness deep within, intangible from the exterior but oh-so tangible on an emotional level. She realized that she carried darkness everywhere, all the time, like an anvil residing in her core. It weighed her down, burdened her, prevented her from experiencing the innocent, lighthearted ways of happier people.

As she held on tightly to this new, profound insight, she couldn’t help but wonder how to move forward. How to extract the anvil. How could she remove a prophecy wedged so deep in her soul? Would she be held hostage to her past; a legacy she didn’t understand? Where in her genetic code was the culprit dooming her to battles and heartache?

In her reverie of introspection—the flicker of the fire hypnotizing her mind, the sound of the surf lulling her senses—she was vaguely aware that Margot was saying something again. Like a hand pushing back a sheer curtain, Amanda’s conscious emerged from her dreamlike state and refocused on Margot, who was neither friend nor foe in that moment. She had interacted with a thousand Margots in the continuum of her existence, none making an indelible impression like Jen. Her Jen. Her one and true love. Out of politeness but not curiosity, she focused on what Margot was saying.

“I can’t play worth shit when I’m high, but I love listening to music when I’m wasted. How about you?”

“Ah, yeah…I guess so,” Amanda said in the tone of someone whose mind was elsewhere. “I’ve never really tried to play when I’m high.”

“I can play the drums when I’m high,” Timpani Tom said.

That’s nice, Amanda thought, so can a monkey.

Suddenly, Amanda’s limbs felt very heavy and her neck strained to keep her head up. She was snowed. “I’m kind of tired. I might go to bed early tonight.”

“As in, now?” Margot asked. She consulted her iPhone, which indicated it was only half past seven. “Do you usually go to bed before eight?”

“Is that what time it is? It feels so much later to me.” Caught in Blue Dream’s curious elasticity of time, its human measurement was no longer of consequence to Amanda.

“Must be the weed,” Margot said.

“Maybe, but just the same, I’m heading up.” Amanda bolted to her feet but swayed like a palm frond as soon as she stood—the right side of her head giving way to a throb. She sought and found Chance’s shoulder with her outstretched hand, anchoring herself. “Whoa. Sorry. Head rush.”

“No need to be sorry,” he said. “Do you want me to walk you?”

“No, no. That won’t be necessary.” She turned and stepped over the log bench, caught a toe, and felt herself losing the battle against gravity. Her last thought was, oh fuck! as she landed face-first in the sand, hands outstretched in front of her.

Chance and Margot jumped up and rushed to her side.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

Amanda laughed heartily, her face full of sand and her wrists sore from cushioning her fall. “I feel like I’m sixteen and drunk on Sloe gin.”

“Well, that can happen with kush.” Chance rubbed her shoulder and back, soothing the muscles that were shocked from the hard impact.

She lay on the cool sand, a sobering relief from the warmth of the fire, which must have been messing with her body temp like it had been with her mind. Maybe I could just sleep here. Suddenly, a searing pain split the right side of her brain, so she brought her hand to her head.

“Can you stand?” Chance asked.

“Maybe,” Amanda slurred, hand on head.

“Do you want to try?” Margot asked. “You’ll catch a chill if you lie on the sand too long.”

She’s a practical one, Amanda thought while pushing up on her hands and knees, wobbling like a rickety table. Her body instinctively took a couple of cat-cows under the watchful eyes of Margot and Chance, then she sat back on her heels and went into child’s pose for a few seconds. Or minutes. Finally, she felt the lingering touch of a hand on her back. She sat up and brushed the sand from her cheeks and the front of her sweater, sending out feelers to her limbs to see if anything, besides her ego, was bruised. The distant nerves signaled the drugged receptors in her brain that she was in good shape, but a distinct pain still split her head in two. “I think I need a glass of water and an ibuprofen. Headache.”

“Let’s go inside and get that,” Margot said. She and Chance stood and extended their hands.

Amanda accepted their help and gingerly raised herself to her feet, tipsy at first, but finding her balance after a few heartbeats.

“Right this way,” Chance said, slipping his arm around Amanda’s waist.

What normally would have offended her, Amanda now found reassuring, the strength of a man’s arm guiding her through the now-shifting sand to the wooden steps of the veranda. On Amanda’s other side, Margot slipped her hand into Amanda’s and held it tightly as they walked up the steps.

“Thanks, guys,” Amanda said, feeling silly that they were taking such good care of her. She was Amanda, the invincible DA, a yogi, and a fucking killer. Now dependent on others.

Chance led her into the kitchen and poured all three of them a glass of water from a pitcher on the kitchen island. He opened a cupboard stocked with medicine and found a bottle of Aleve.

“This okay?” he asked.

Amanda squinted at the small print, while holding her hand to the right side of her head. “Sure.”

He opened the bottle and shook out a pill for her. She popped it into her mouth and drank heartily, draining her glass. She held it out to Chance. He refilled it. She drained it again.

“More?” he asked.

An audible bubble rose from her throat, which would have been considered a burp in anyone less attractive. “Maybe in a minute.”

Her eyes traveled to the ceiling, Chance and Margot’s following, as if there were bees buzzing overhead.

“I never noticed these before,” Amanda said, staring at a flock of glass birds hanging over the island. “They’re beautiful.”

Each one about two inches in length, the fragile and unique birds flew in an assortment of colors.

“Thanks,” Chance said. “A glassblower down the beach created these seagulls for me. I just love them.” He gazed upon them like prized children.

“Margot, did you notice these when we came in?” Amanda asked.

“I did, but I’d seen them before, so I didn’t comment,” Margot said, regarding them kindly.

“They look so smooth. I want to fondle each and every one.” Amanda reached overhead but they were just beyond her fingertips.

Chance’s eyes widened in fear until he remembered he’d suspended them too high for his impaired guests to reach, a decision for which he now commended himself. “They are smooth but very fragile. How about we save the fondling for tomorrow when we’re not high?”

Her head thrown back and still in awe, Amanda asked, “You know what they remind me of?”

“Birds?” Margot asked, eliciting a wink from Chance.

Enraptured, Amanda didn’t register or acknowledge Margot. “They remind me of a glass collection my parents have in their studio by Dale…” Amanda stopped and clicked her fingers. “Oh fuck. What’s his last name? It’s escaping me because I’m wasted. You know, the famous artist with the eye patch?”

“Dale Chihuly,” Chance supplied.

Amanda pointed at him, her eyes darting quickly to his, then immediately returning to the birds. “Yeah. Him.”

“Your parents have a Chihuly collection?” he asked in disbelief.

“Yeah.” Amanda smiled broadly as she looked at the flock of seagulls. “My mom’s tech company commissioned him to do some dangly glass sculptures on the ceiling in the atrium of her company.” Amanda gestured with both hands in a series of twists with her index fingers, as one might describe a ribbon falling from the ceiling.

“And he did some dangly sculptures for them at the same time?” Chance asked.

“Yeah.” She shook her head. “Not dangly, though. More like sea creatures—colorful urchins and kelp and other stuff that inhabits Monterey Bay. I’ll show you sometime. It’s quite beautiful.”

“I’ll bet,” he said. “I’d love to see it. In the meantime, I have some photographs of Chihuly glass creations in my up-and-coming art gallery. Want to see?”

Amanda lowered her head from staring at the glass flock. “I’d love to.”

The women followed Chance down the hallway between the kitchen and living room. He stopped at a white door with a security keypad. “This was a formal dining room, but who needs one of those in a beach house? So, I converted it to a gallery.”

“I can’t wait,” Amanda said, swaying against Margot.

Chance pushed aside the white pocket door and flipped on the spotlights, each flooding the walls with the right amount of wattage to illuminate the prized pieces of his collection.

There was a small padded bench in the middle of the room, but Amanda and Margot elected to stand.

“Ohhh. These Chihuly photos are glorious,” Amanda cooed, leaning in and studying the vivid colors and creative shapes of beautifully blown glass.

Overcome with the exquisiteness of art, Amanda’s hand slipped into Margot’s. Together, they strolled in tiny steps from one photograph to the next until the theme switched.

“What do we have here?” she asked. “These look totally different.”

“They are,” Chance said. “They’re Peter Liepke photographs. Very unique. He uses a hundred-year-old camera and processes the film himself with palladium and pigment. I’m a wee bit high, so I can’t remember everything, but that’s how you get that blue effect of the couple walking in Central Park.”

They paused and admired the photograph on a print signed by the artist.

“I love both Peter and his brother, Malcolm Liepke, who is another famous artist,” Chance said. “A few of his original paintings are over here.” They moved slowly, admiring Malcolm Liepkes’ work, each design element, nuance of color and subtle brush stroke coming alive to Amanda in vivid clarity.

“Kip’s pot really enhances my sense of color and shape,” Amanda said. “I’ve never experienced this enchanted feeling about art before.”

“Now you know why I decided to add a gallery to the beach house,” Chance said.

“Why not display these pieces throughout the house?” she asked.

“I have some others here and there, but I like them all in one room, so I can sit here and admire them over a glass of wine. Besides, I paid a fortune for the originals, so I need to take certain security measures.”

Amanda envisioned one of the rooms in her San Francisco house being dedicated to an art gallery. They were all currently spoken for by Jen, Kristin and herself. Would Jen be moving out? Would Amanda be replacing Kristin’s toddler room with an art gallery? As she was sadly considering this possibility, Margot’s arms slipped around Amanda’s waist from behind, and Margot pressed her breasts and tummy against Amanda’s back.

“Mm,” Amanda said, the sensation of Margot’s breasts against her shoulder blades a welcome touch.

They turned together to the final wall to find a collection of Piet Mondrian prints. In her unfiltered state, Amanda sarcastically blurted, “How ingenious—straight lines in blue, red and yellow. Did this guy invent the Rubik’s cube too?”

“Don’t forget his generous use of white and black,” Margot sniggered.

Chance rolled his eyes. “Ye untutored snobs. Piet Mondrian invented ‘neoplasticism.’”

Amanda nodded in mock-solemnity. “I apologize for my gaffe. Speaking of Piet, I really have to pee. Is there a bathroom close by?”

“Jesus wept,” Chance said, shaking his head.

“Jackson Pollack wept too,” Margot replied.

“I think he peed,” Amanda said.

Margot snorted.

Chance held out his hand for Amanda. “Follow me. Margot, you stay and guard my precious collection.”