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So why did I put on the best dress I’d brought with me? It’s a lavender dress from Nordstrom. The label is Laundry. The skirt is cut asymmetrically and the material is chiffon. I don’t know why I brought it. Oh wait, I do. It was just in case I had occasions like these – in case I had to meet David Kinney over a fine dinner.
Once a fan girl, always a squealing fan girl.
I have removed my bandage, of course. There’s a cut at my upper forehead, rendered by crashing my head through the windshield, according to Jeffrey. But I have artfully arranged my blonde hair so that it is partially concealed. I have other bruises on me, but nothing makeup cannot hide.
I don’t quite know how to find my way around here, but the house is not that big. It’s a mansion, yes, but it’s not one that has several wings sprouting from it, like spokes. I patter in my shiny new shoes – the ones I have worn only once – to where I think the dining room is.
The whole house is done up in old-fashioned décor. By old-fashioned, I mean anything that doesn’t resemble a souped-up, expensive version of Ikea. The lamps are brass and ornate and the lampshades tasseled. The couch and armchairs are Victorian. The chandeliers dangle with teardrop shards of crystal.
I enter the dining room. There is no one in there, but the table has already been laid. Have I gotten the time right? Jeffrey said seven o’ clock, did he not?
There are only two place settings – both at opposite ends of the long table. I guess there will be no passing of the salt. Some red and lilac candles have been lighted in the middle of the table. They throw flickering shadows upon the wall.
I take my place at one end of the table, feeling self-conscious. I sit there, wondering if I’m even supposed to sit. Where is Jeffrey? Should I go find him? The hair on the back of my neck prickles. I feel as though I’m being watched through the walls.
I swing my head suspiciously, but there’s no one. The paintings on the wall are not of portraits with their eyes cut out to admit a human pair of orbs. They are more of the same type as upstairs. Watercolors. Even a modern art rendition of a Dali-esque tortured landscape. A still bowl of fruit.
I stare at the painting of the bowl of fruit.
One apple in the center of the bowl is rotten, with a worm sticking out of its red-cheeked side. The rest of the fruit is plump and glistening and healthy.
Who would paint such a thing?
A large shadow merges into mine against the wall. I turn.
And freeze.
David Kinney stands at the doorway.
He’s older, for sure. You can’t get by ten years without changing. But the features are the same. Symmetrical. Almost perfect, but not quite. Those deep mud green eyes which turn a little yellow in the light, as if he’s ethereal, are the same ones that used to mesmerize audiences in the movies. His hair is darker. His mouth is as sensuous as ever. His nose is a little high-bridged, but in profile, it is perfect. His eyes and mouth have always been the most startling part of his face – so out-there and beautiful that they take your breath away.
He was twenty-five years old when he made his last movie. I remember watching it, not thinking it would be his last. He played this gay man who was wrongfully accused of murdering his rich sugar daddy. He always did have a penchant for taking on roles other actors shy away from.
What age is he now? Thirty-five? Thirty-six? It’s like seeing a matinee idol after a long break. Where has he been? You find yourself comparing him to his prime.
God, he’s still beautiful, you think as you immerse yourself in his performance.
He’s tall, though not as tall as Jeffrey. Six one and the half inches, so says his IMDB profile. He’s staring at me too, as though he hasn’t seen a woman in years. I know this cannot be technically possible. He goes out. He has investments. But maybe he hasn’t entertained a woman on his premises for years.
Yes, that must be it.
We are both seemingly mesmerized by each other. Until I hear the clearing of someone’s throat.
“Sir, please allow me to introduce Ms. Tremont to you.”
I glance at Jeffrey, who is carrying yet another one of his endless trays, in the doorway leading to the kitchen, presumably. I stand up. My chair is pushed back by my knees.
David Kinney’s spell is broken.
“I’m sorry,” he says. His voice is the one I heard earlier downstairs. He walks to me, holding out his hand. “I’m Ethan Greene. I’m not used to having visitors.”
“So I heard.” I shake it. Our palms touch, and a delicious shiver travels down my spine. “I’m Virginia Tremont.”
I will my hand not to tremble. I can’t help but gaze into his large green eyes, which have captivated millions on the screen. Those very eyes which have rendered so many teenagers weak-kneed and trembling when he played the tortured vampire in Paradise Revisited.
