CHAPTER I. THE DECK
I have an invitation.
My memoir! And what will you remember? Well, for a start, fellow bookstore owners can shelve me under Merrywood, alongside the legends of literature. Though I answer in person, and proudly, to Anselm. A distinctive first name! Thank you, and having introduced myself, I can introduce my story, with a further distinction. A good character also answers to a call.
I live in the city. So I had to take a drive. The card of summons remained in a drawer, the envelope of forwarded address. Another invitation was waiting at the destination, fully on display, a festive deck her pedestal. You too would find her inviting. At least you should.
I paint the proof. Blue eyes, bountiful curls, button nose, she did the party proud. The person was somewhat short of stature, but what about Napoleon Bonaparte! Our picture was certainly an original, mounted on a redwood railing, framed by the cloudless skies. I am getting a little carried away? All right, I did fancy a fairy, floating over a magic flowerpot—a spring blossom opens in the sun! Our budding rose held some pale gold nectar, a goblet glinting in her grasp. And her show held the attention; a tongue tickled the rim, toes toyed with the pottery, skirt teased the painter, breeze-billowed at her knees. A picture is worth a thousand words? Well, the bare feet made a statement. The restive lips also had something to say—a person of interest was talking to herself!
The sun was shining. The deck was crowded. Words were flowing. And who was a motor of conversation? Well, I love to talk literature, devote my life to books. A woman at my table came with a strapless dress, though my choice of adjacent seat was pure coincidence, I can assure you. The fashion plate was yet to turn the evidence, though she had been cross-examining a waiter.
“Having fun, yet?” I took the wheel.
“They never listen!” She gave full attention, to the retreat of her server.
“My name’s Anselm, by the way.” I fired up the engine.
“I ordered a dry martini!” She studied her half-empty glass.
“You might have heard of me.” I put it into gear. “I own a bookstore in the city.” I got the motor rolling. “The Last Refuge.” I stepped on the gas. “What have you been reading lately?”
“At least the gin is decent.” She was willing to share, after all.
“I’m also a writer.” I tooted the horn.
“I’m a lawyer.” Now she wouldn’t shut up.
“We all make mistakes.” I had to hit the brakes.
“She is something else!” The lawyer pressed on, the woman was less forward with the fashion.
“Gloria?” I am a man of forbearance. “Our hostess throws some party, I guess.”
“The young chatterbox!” The examiner had noticed the person of interest, who had plenty to say, to herself. “I believe I’ve seen her before.”
“Juvenile court!” I am also a man of foresight? A barrel of fun, for sure!
Let me set the stage. A stained glass door slid open to a vibrant patio; a sturdy iron gate swung onto a vital colonnade, through which a spritz of celebrants was chaperoning their champagne down a private pathway to the beach. A yellow brick road? Well, Dorothy would not be in Kansas anymore! Purple parasols plumed a table circle, white-jacketed waiters dazzled the drinkers, ruby cocktails bejeweled the ring. My potion packed a punch, loose laughter lent more warmth, and a little industry furthered the festival—a party of bees sounding out a swath of jasmine. You could hear a concert, playing in the petals.
Nature had another show. A bluebird flitted from the fence, goldfinches livened the foliage, and a streak of red flashed across the flora, a carmine-throated hummingbird darting past the pollen to hover by a rarer nectar. A flower girl has an attraction, as you have gathered by now.
The soliloquy was through. The person of interest had found someone to talk to, though a bird is perhaps not the most rewarding conversation partner, even if humming! But who knows? The nature lover looked over the garden, and saw that it was good. Our guardian angel turned to our table, where a man in a tuxedo was monopolizing the exchange, loudly lamenting his chauffeur. The woman in the dress hung on his every word, despite a far more worthy candidate, sitting to the other side. Loudmouth then monopolized her knee, to confirm your suspicion.
Who cares? The flower girl caught my eye, took in my appearance, broke out a grin. She suspected a scoundrel had crashed the party? Well, my behavior was exemplary. But my footwear . . . !
“Uh-oh!” The woman in the dress acknowledged my vicinity.
“Your martini should have been shaken, not stirred?” I am such a wit! You will be shaking too, with laughter.
“We’re being watched.” And the turncoat gave me the benefit of her risqué choice of clothing.
“Our juvenile delinquent?”
“I think she likes you.” The woman was coming around! “Strange world, sometimes!”
“Gloria was talking about you.” Her man took charge. “Famous writer, hmm?” He rose. “Senior attorney, here.” He reached a considerable height. “I write too . . . personal injury briefs!” He needed work? “Gloria would have a good case.” He looked down on my shoes.
“I’m a close friend.”
“Let’s dance.” He extended an arm of assertion. I was not the recipient, you will be relieved to discover.
The pretty picture? Her skirt continued to flap, her hummingbird had flown. She still found her diversion. A tall man in tuxedo, a woman in strapless gown, had taken to the floor. The couple were delighting in a dance of love, others soon to follow. To the timely encouragement of Mozart. And the bare batons of two floating feet.
She was something else, indeed. And she would soon be somewhere else—adjourning the private conference, the conferee wandered off the deck. But the sun was shining, couples swaying, drinks were on the house. You get the picture. And you have an invitation. The party is just getting started.
Merrywood! . . . Pretty picture, huh? . . . Completely gone to your head!