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Alicia poured, then handed Sylvia a glass. She took it and leaned back, fingers itching for her sketch pad to capture the moment. Not a pencil sketch. This place needed color. Watercolor would have been too pale; she’d need pastels, which, despite the name, would allow her to capture the richness of the colors.
“Tell me what you see with your artist’s eyes,” Alicia said softly.
“Power,” Sylvia replied. “It’s there, waiting. In the sky, in the ocean. A hurricane, a tsunami, would wipe all this away. Every careful human detail could be gone in a moment.”
“Power,” Alicia repeated. “It’s always about power, isn’t it?”
Sylvia turned to face her mentor, her friend. “Alicia, why did you leave Exeter?”
“An intimate question.”
“And one I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t care about you. I was worried. That’s why I had Oscar check that you were all right.”
“Things were, are, changing for me. You know I have my secrets.”
“Secrets by necessity,” Sylvia said. “I understand why you and your husband were not just private, but secretive about your sex life. But you weren’t ashamed.”
“No, secrets from shame are not my way.”
“Are you…are you sick?” Alicia was such a proud woman that a terminal illness, especially one that would rob her of her dignity, would be abhorrent to her. Sylvia had wondered, more than once, if Alicia had left her home so she could die anonymously, away from those who would pity what illness did to her body.
“Sick? No, and I’m sorry if that’s been worrying you.”
Sylvia waited for the other woman to say more, but Alicia merely turned to look out at the view. Alicia had taught her many things, including how to be quiet. How to fight that all-too-human urge to fill a silence. How to listen to hear, rather than listen to respond.
“You know more about me than most,” Alicia said finally. “Perhaps, after my husband, my lovers, you are the person who knows me best.” The way she said it was as if that was a compliment.
Instead of feeling honored that she held such a position, Sylvia felt sad for Alicia because it seemed like a lonely existence.
They sipped their drinks in silence as the moon shimmered over the ocean.
“Secrets and power,” Alicia said at last. “An appropriate start to what I fear will be a difficult conversation.”
Frowning over the change in her tone, Sylvia sat forward. “Difficult in what way?”
“You’re not truly naive, but there are truths you don’t know.”
“I’m not afraid of the truth,” Sylvia said softly.
“Do you believe in conspiracy theories?” Alicia asked.
“That’s a non-sequitur.”
“Actually it’s not. There aren’t lizard people running around in human skins, and the moon landing was quite real, but secret societies, powerful men who have worked in secret to shape the world, that is not a theory, but a reality.”
“Secret societies…” One thing that hadn’t occurred to Sylvia was that Alicia had suffered some sort of mental breakdown.
“Think about how many stories there are in history. There is usually a kernel of truth buried in the tale.”
“But there is also fabrication and elaboration. It’s the nature of storytelling.”
“Also true, but there is a secret society, very real and very powerful, that is destroying our world.”
“You mean…like a secret group of oil company CEOs?”
“I’m sure many of the members are soulless proponents of capitalism, but when I say destroying our world, I mean that they keep the playing field unlevel.”
“What do you mean?”
