Stella’s unexpected visit this morning has unnerved me, particularly her off-hand remark about Jessica being dead.
Her words strike me like a blow and I actually reel under their force. Her arm darts out and steadies me.
“Whoa! You better sit down, Lothario—you’re still hung over. I’ll get those coffees—and make yours black.”
“Suits my mood,” I murmur glumly.
In a few minutes she returns and hands me a steaming mug while setting hers down on the coffee table and sitting in the sofa chair opposite to me.
I’m relieved—my fears about her seductive plans are assuaged.
I pictured us together on the couch, she leaning in provocatively going over the house plans—but on second thought, I realize she has a better plan. She’s sitting opposite me in a navy, pinstriped Edith Pena business suit, long legs seductively tilted to one side.
Of course, I stare.
“Did you get the sticky note I attached to the plans?” she asks demurely.
I nod. “Yeah, thanks—it’s certainly an intriguing footnote in the house’s history.”
“Thought you’d like it. You know me—always going the extra mile.”
I give her a brittle smile.
“Anyway, I was driving out this way to a closing and thought I’d drop by and let you know another fact I uncovered about your mystery lady.”
My eyes light up. “Go ahead—I’m dying to know.”
“Yeah, well that’s the operative word—Jessica died in this house. Her relator didn’t disclose that little fact. Do you want to pursue it?”
“Pursue it—what do you mean—sue?
“Of course, sue—he was supposed to disclose anything untoward—you’re entitled to seek compensation at least.”
I shake my head. “No—definitely not. No lawsuit. Her passing here only gives the house character.”
“Or provides a resident ghost,” she chuckles.
I sidestep her sarcasm.
“How did she come to die here—was it sudden?”
A sad smile crosses her face. “It was tragic. Jessica became a recluse—broke off contact with people and lived alone. She was dead a week before they found her.”
“Where did they find her?”
“In the garden apparently. She presumably suffered a heart attack or stroke. No foul play—she died of natural causes. A broken heart probably.”
A silence falls between us.
Stella, taking her cue from my sullen face, says in a voice barely audible, “Well, I should go.” She gets to her feet and heads to the door, and I follow her out.
She pauses on the front stoop and says softly, “I hope I didn’t depress you, Leon—I just thought you should know.”
“No—no problem—it’s all good,” I smile reassuringly.
Stella can be compassionate.
On impulse, I lean over and give her a quick peck on the cheek. “And thanks for playing Nurse.”
“Just one of my many roles,” she smiles coyly. She walks slowly to her car, hips swaying, aware my eyes are following her.
Admirable, I smile. She can still grab my attention even through the fog of a painful hangover.
I like her. I really do, but I’m interested in another woman.
By mid-afternoon my headache’s gone and I’m feeling much better. I resist the urge to have a glass of wine.
It’s weird this situation I’m in. I haven’t discussed my strange experience of contacting Jessica with anybody.
Somehow it’s more romantic and magical when I keep it a secret—besides, whom would I tell? Not Maya, and definitely not Elias—and as for Stella, well, she’s already made her position clear—the woman is dead.
And the fact is, maybe this is an experience not to be shared with anyone—other than Jessica herself. It has the privacy and intimacy of a dream—and you can’t invite spectators into your dreams.