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The Voigts lived on what must have been six or eight acres, if one could judge property lines by the course of the fifteen-foot hedges that snaked along the road and cut down along the hillside. The shrubs and flower beds were all carefully tended, towering eucalyptus grouped together at the fringes. The driveway was a half circle with a bed of thickly planted pansies massed together in its center, a blend of deep reds and purples, petals vibrant in the glow of the landscape lighting. Off to the right, I could see horse stalls, a tack room, and an empty corral. The air smelled faintly musty, a blend of straw, dampness, and the various byproducts of horse butts.
The house was built low to the ground, white frame and white painted brick, with long brick terraces across the front, dark green plantation shutters flanking the wide mullioned windows. I left my car out in the drive, rang the bell, and waited. A stolid white maid in a black uniform opened the door. She was probably in her fifties and looked foreign for some reason-facial structure, body type… I wasn't really sure what it was. She didn't quite make eye contact. Her gaze came to rest right about at my clavicle and remained there as I indicated who I was and told her that I was expected. She made no reply, but she conveyed with body language that she comprehended my utterings.
I followed her across the polished white marble foyer and then trudged with her across white carpeting as thick and pristine as a heavy layer of snow. We passed through the living room-glass and chrome, not a knickknack or a book in sight. The room had been designed for a race of visiting giants. All the furniture was upholstered in white and oversize: big plump sofas, massive armchairs, the glass coffee table as large as a double-bed mattress. On a ponderous credenza, there was a bowl filled with wooden apples as big as softballs. The effect was strange, re-creating the same feelings I had when I was five. Perhaps, unbeknownst to myself, I'd begun to shrink.
We walked down a hallway wide enough for a snowplow. The maid paused at a door, knocked once, and opened it for me, staring politely at my sternum as I passed in front of her. Francesca was seated at a sewing machine in a room proportioned for humans, painted buttery yellow. One entire wall was covered by a beautifully organized custom-built cabinet that opened to reveal cubbyholes for patterns, bolts of fabric, trim, and sewing supplies. The room was airy, the interior light excellent, the pale hardwood floors sanded and varnished.
Francesca was tall, very slender, with short-cropped brown hair and a chiseled face. She had high cheekbones, a strong jawline, a long straight nose, and a pouting mouth with a pronounced upper lip. She wore loose white pants of some beautifully draped material, with a long peach tunic top that she had belted in heavy leather. Her hands were slender, her fingers long, her nails tapered and polished. She wore a series of heavy silver bracelets that clanked together on her wrist like chains, confirming my suspicion that glamour is a burden only beautiful women are strong enough to bear. She looked like she would smell of lilacs or newly peeled oranges.
Francesca smiled as she held her hand out and we introduced ourselves. "Have a seat. I'm nearly finished. Shall I have Guda bring us some wine?"
"That would be nice."
I glanced back in time to see Guda's gaze drop to Francesca's belt buckle. I took this to mean she had heard and would obey. She nodded and moved out of the room on crepe-soled shoes. "Does she speak English?" I asked once the door was shut.
"Not fluently, but well enough. She's Swedish. She's only been with us a month. The poor dear. I know she's homesick, but I can't get her to say much about it." She sat back down at her machine, taking up a length of gauzy blue fabric that she had gathered across one end. "I hope this doesn't seem rude, but I don't like leaving work undone."
Expertly she turned the piece, adjusted a knob, and zigzagged a row of stitches across the other end. The sewing machine made a soothing, low-pitched hum. I watched her, feeling mute. I didn't know enough about sewing to form a question, but she seemed to sense my curiosity. She looked up with a smile. "This is a turban, in case you're wondering. I design headwear for cancer patients."
"How did you get into that?"
She added a small square of Velcro and stitched around the edges, her knee pressing the lever that activated the machine. "I was having chemotherapy for breast cancer two years ago. One morning in the shower, all my hair fell out in clumps. I had a lunch date in an hour and there I was, bald as an egg. I improvised one of these from a scarf I had on hand, but it was not a great success. Synthetics don't adhere well to skulls as smooth as glass. The idea for the business got me through the rest of the chemo and out the other side. Fu
"I've been beaten up. Does that count?"
She didn't respond with the usual exclamations of surprise or distaste. Given what she'd been through, merely being punched out must have been an easy fix. "Call me if it ever happens to you again. I have cosmetics designed to cover any kind of bruise you might have. Actually, I have a whole line of products for the ravages of fate. The company's called Head-for-Cover. I'm the sole proprietress."
"How's your health at this point?"
"I'm fine. Thanks for asking. These days, so many of us make it. It's not like the past when any cancer diagnosis meant death." She added the other small square of Velcro, flipped the foot up, removed the garment, and clipped the threads. Deftly, she adjusted the turban around her head. "What do you think?"
"Very exotic," I said. "Of course, you could wrap your head in toilet paper and you'd look okay."
She laughed. "I like that. Disposable head wraps." She made a note to herself and then set the turban aside, shaking her hair loose. "Done. Let's go out on the terrace. We can use the heaters if it seems chilly."
The wide stone terrace at the rear of the house looked out over Santa Teresa with a view toward the mountains. In the town below, lights had come on, delineating the layout of city blocks in a grid of streets and intersections. We settled into wicker chairs padded with plump cushions in floral chintz. The pool was lighted, a glowing blue-green rectangle with a spa at one end. Wisps of steam drifted off the surface, creating a mild breeze scented with chlorine. The surrounding grass looked lush and dark, the house behind us a blaze of yellow.
Guda appeared with a bottle of chardo
Francesca surveyed her surroundings as if seeing all of it through my eyes. "Odd that you should say that. I've been thinking of leaving Ke
I was surprised at the admission. "Really?"
"Yes, really. It's a matter of priorities. Wi