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Finally the Mustang maneuvers under an ornate archway composed of granite pylons and red iron spanners. It looks like Salvador Dali was commissioned to make a garden sculpture. Immediately the lawn spreads out in front of the car, with gently sloping planes covered in spongy moss. Periodically, circular divots are scooped out of the lawn and blossom with strange-looking plants. The overall effect looks sort of like a golf course, if a golf course was planned by sculptor Joan Miró.
Maxwell leans toward me, one wrist draped over the top of the steering wheel. He extends a finger toward the front door of the house structure, some fifty yards away. Squinting, I can see an undulating, sea-green figure materialize from a darkened portal, like a mermaid swimming up from the depths of a coral cove.
“That’s her?” I breathe in disbelief. “That’s Sunny?”
“In the flesh,” he chuckles quietly.
Reminding myself that this is a work trip, I take a moment to appreciate the grandeur of the entrance. The landscaping certainly makes an impression, but the house, even more so. I’m certain that Maxwell referred to this as a “cottage.” Can I use that word in the listing? I’m
not sure anyone’s going to believe it.
The architecture is definitely nontraditional. It looks sculpted out of soapstone, with towers jutting out of a central dome at random intervals. The spires glitter in the sunlight, topped by various religious symbols like crosses, orbs, and even Egyptian ankhs.
I can barely find a straight line anywhere. Even the windows are circles, ovals, and other freeform shapes I couldn’t name. The house barely looks planned. It looks planted.
“Sunny is very into organic everything,” Maxwell informs me, as though he is reading my mind. “You can see why I thought taking a couple of days to absorb all of this would be helpful.”
“It’s definitely… challenging,” I agree breathlessly.
“Just wait until you get inside.”
“Maxwell!” Sunny calls out as Maxwell pulls the brake, her pronunciation strangely putting the emphasis on the “well” portion of his name, somehow making it sound more robust.
“Hello, gorgeous!” he calls out, startling me.
I haven’t heard him act like that before. He’s usually so polite, so straitlaced. Except for that first day at the coffee kiosk. I don’t know if I’ve ever even really heard him crack a joke. Was that just his work persona? Despite myself, I am intrigued.
Maxwell keeps his eyes on her as he offers me a hand to help me out of the car. It seems to be a natural gesture for him, an old-fashioned expression of masculine manners. Even though it’s not something I have experienced much of in my life, I find it easy to simply place my hand against his palm and allow him to assist me from the passenger seat, then guide me toward the front door. It’s like participating in a dance I didn’t know I knew.
Sunny Regales is a beauty. That is her primary claim to fame. In the 1940s, she was one of the early movie stars, the sort of woman who would simply coo and blink charmingly for much of the movie. She barely had to say any lines. She simply glowed.
Throughout the 50s and 60s, she stayed in the national imagination by being mischievous and sort of naughty. Who even knows how many lovers she had? She was always turning up at unladylike events, challenging what people thought of her. She smoked cigars. She was rumored to have carried on a torrid affair with Sophia Loren. She knew how to scuba dive. She wrecked a racecar once in Monaco. She ran with the bulls and the young Spanish man next to her was gored to death while she was merely a little winded.
And here she is, sixty years later? Seventy? No, that can’t be right. The woman in front of me is as ageless as a painting. Her silver hair drips over her shoulders in glistening waves, curling through the heavy hoop earrings that drop from her ears. When she raises her arms to me to demand an embrace, countless metal bangles chime against her wrists as the turquoise silk sleeves slide back to her slender shoulders.
“And who is this creature?” Sunny purrs at me, her voice a musical sonata. “Call me Auntie.”
“This is Clarissa, Auntie,” Maxwell tells her, the amusement clear in his voice as I stumble forward helplessly into her embrace.
She smells amazing, with perfume that is practically as intoxicating as opium. Soft flesh that curls around me like a mythological embrace. Like I’m being seduced by a mermaid.
Swallowing, I return the hug and then step backward, trying to regain my composure. Sunny just beams calmly, apparently completely aware of the effect she has on people.
I’ve never met anyone like her. I think she may be a sorceress.
“So wonderful to meet you,” I stammer gracelessly, trying to remember some kind of manners. “Your home is… magnificent.”
She shrugs and looks around, as though she’s not sure it’s all that great.
“I don’t think Salvador ever really finished it,” she sniffs. “But what can you do? Then he went and died. Let’s go inside!”
With a flourish, she spins around and disappears through the darkened entryway, leaving me stumbling in her wake. I glance at Maxwell to catch his eye and mouth the word Salvador? He grins and nods.
Yes. Apparently this “cottage” was designed by Salvador Dali.
Wow.
As though drawn forward on an unseen current of water, I can’t help but follow Sunny as she disappears into the interior, threading her way through oddly shaped rooms and corridors. As she swiftly walks, she calls questions out over her silk-shrouded shoulder.
