Young Writers Society

After his departure, the next two hours were spent in a state of pleasant stupor. He winked and nodded and smiled; yes, Theresa, lovely to see you, Theresa. How are the kids, Theresa? The repartee was followed by talk of business, of the embassy’s support of Greyhound’s international efforts. The value of the Indian business expansion was brought up on multiple occasions. Jobs, national economy, et cetera, sliding the bargaining chip back and forth across the miniature tea house tables.

A minor tactic of business largely unknown to the general public was the formal importance of social tea selection. Landon, desiring the upper hand in negotiations, selected a strong rooibos. With taste being immaterial, he chose one not overly fragrant yet powerful enough to make his intentions clear. Theresa Goodwin, with no premeditated aim to change her annual response but a willingness to do so, selected a fleeting white. It was an art, not a science, a game only for experienced players. No factor was trivial.

The charade was carried to the car, held, shield-like, until the doors had closed and the homeward journey began. Landon relaxed, sliding in the leather seat. He fell into the steering wheel’s rhythm, calming his nerves. Turn left, turn right. Turn left again. Most would find the trek into the city and back again exhausting; Landon found it a relief. Time away from people. He enjoyed the complete him-ness of it; his car, his thoughts, his silence. No necessity to share. No obligation to be anything but honest. That honest, unfortunately, led to the honesty of the uselessness of self-honesty. What use is the truth if you’re the only one you can share it with?

Wallowing aside, there was little more relaxing than a drive through the countryside. On occasions of particular satisfaction and solitude, Landon may have even considered it his countryside. The passing trees stood as his furniture, smoothly upholstered with a rustling fabric of hued leaves. Rocks accented the velvety soil carpet and filled the passing rooms for miles across. The forest delusion, as he liked to call it, fell toward the top of Landon’s lengthy list of metaphorical absurdities.

Ascending the horizon was the old gate to Landon’s manor. An ancient, wrought iron thing monogrammed for the original owners, he rarely ever had it closed. Not only were the hinges rusted beyond any reasonable mobility, but he also enjoyed putting out the welcoming false front of friendliness and acceptance. He wanted, in some way, to be better than the others; old money who sat on their secluded haunches, up in their fortress-riddled hills. The manor itself presented its expanse behind the gate, and again the self-honesty of solitude reared its head. He could have chosen against this life; lived, instead, an existence of humble wealth. That, Landon thought, came to the forefront of betterment.

His fiance stood at the gate, as she often did, awaiting his arrival. Rolling down the window, she called to him. “Could I trouble you for a ride, sir?”

“You may as well, though I’m just heading up the road.”

“All the better,” Veronica said, laying her lips to his, “since you once again insist on putting our chauffeur out of a job.”

“Nonsense, dear,” said he, returning her affections. “I simply took advantage of the time. A man like me gets very little opportunity to plan his exploits.”

Veronica echoed his words with laughter. “Oh, wicked, wicked! I could not take a ride from such a man!”

“Well, you had better find another. Not a waystation for miles around.”

“Must you push a lady so far? A villain you must be, as only a villain would.”

It was Landon’s turn to laugh. “Then a villain I am, but that doesn’t change the quality of your footwear.”

She cast a faux scowl down at her slip-on lounge shoes before throwing her arms up in theatrical agreement. The door clicked open, and she gracefully tumbled across the passenger seat. The door clicked shut, and her head rested on Landon’s lap. They drove up the smooth drive, winding through the groomed hedges and flowering shrubs. The graveled lane encircled a ring of guardian flower bushes, planted around a marbled cherub fountain. To the left, the house rose. To the right, a small path led to a wood-paneled garage door.

The door opened silently and Landon expertly maneuvered the slope, twisting into the small out-building and evading the partially assembled racks of shelving. He had never finished that particular weekend project, and much to Veronica’s chagrin, he never planned to. Although she had stopped hassling him about it several months ago, her eyes glistened with playful irritation every time she entered the small building.

Through the heavy side door and down the foliage-guarded path the happy couple walked arm in arm. Laughter from both blazed a trail toward the house, toward their pleasant reality.

Entering through the house’s side light blue side door, the couple passed Michael Andrew, the estate’s hired chef. “Afternoon, Mr. Grey!” the tall, black-haired called without turning.

“Good afternoon.” Landon replied with a smile.

“What’s for dinner, Michael?” Veronica asked.

“Oh, how should I know, ma’am?” the response was carried with a chuckle as Michael hefted two filled brown grocery bags through the kitchen’s saloon doors.

Michael Andrew was a New-York born, German raised, France educated chef who had originally moved to Manchester to get married. One week prior to the wedding, his fiancee had abandoned him and eloped to the Caribbean with the son of the CEO of Manchester’s primary financial firm, Chesterberg and Williams. Landon had run into him by chance while wining and dining two prominent executives of a failed acquisition. Temporarily abandoning the two, he went to speak to Michael who happened to be wearing his toque despite quitting his job three days before. Landon and his sister still debated, in a general sibling manner, whether the loss of the acquisition was his fault or not, a fact which is neither here nor there.

The hallway opened up into one of the darker of house’s many sitting rooms, draped elegantly in violet damask. Tall vases on either end held stalks of fresh lavender, scenting the room.

“How did the meeting with Theresa go?” Veronica asked, settling down into one of the sitting room’s over-stuffed chairs. The purple corduroy of the upholstery enveloped much of her small from, sinking her down to a comfortable level.

“The same as every year. She pretends that the embassy might drop us. I pretend that I could convince her not to.”

“That’s a bit of a grim attitude, don’t you think?”

“Possibly. But that’s government. Frankly, it’s a miracle that anyone could pretend to be as happy as she does.”

Veronica’s eyebrows took three steps up her forehead. “Did it ever cross your mind that she could be legitimately happy with her life? After all. She’s married, lovely husband, with two children.”

“Impatient, are we?”

“Maybe.”

“Just another few months, darling. I want to settle this business with the Chinese before I can let myself sleep soundly again.”

Veronica’s arms joined her eyebrows in the air. “Can that really be more important?” Swooping down, Landon lifted her into the air and twirled her to the opposite doorway.

“Of course not. However, I’d rather not have the entire Chinese Board of Trade join the wedding party. Just out of preference.”

Veronica sighed melodramatically through her nose. “I suppose you’re right.”

“As usual?” Landon returned with a hopeful smile.

“Don’t push it, mister,” Veronica whispered, breath on his ear, as her toes graced the carpeted ground.