Holy Cross Cemetery was everything a cemetery was supposed to be: well manicured with religious statuary scattered in an aesthetically pleasing manner. Indigenous plants and flowers bordered the walkways and the chapel. Everything was neat and tidy. This was where San Francisco's wealthy dead Catholics were interred.
Logan sat in the driver's seat of his charcoal gray Aston Martin V12 Vanquish, staring out over the lawn of the cemetery. It was an appropriately dreary day for a funeral: gray with the constant threat of rain from the looming clouds. He drummed his fingers on the window frame and watched the burial service from afar. The cerulean blue tent that covered the grave site snapped with the occasional gust of wind and drowned out the faint voice of the priest.
He couldn't see her. The deceased's immediate family always sat under the tent and there obviously weren't enough chairs; the standing crowd was about 4 or 5 people deep and they completely obstructed any view he would have had of her. So he waited.
He reached into the front of his jacket and pulled out the flask again, taking a swig of the expensive scotch. It still burned, expensive or not, numbed his throat as it slid down, but it took the edge off his nerves and kept him preoccupied while he waited to get a glimpse of her.
Logan didn't need to hear what the priest was saying. Funerals were all the same: Jesus and eternal life and not asking why. Funerals were supposed to be for the living, but none of them had ever done him a damn bit of good; not Lily's, not his mother's, not Cassidy's, and sure as hell not his father's. The others he didn't remember, not a word the various ministers had said. Just images stuck in his head. The shiny black lacquer and pewter of Lily's casket. The white calla lilies surrounding a silver gelatin portrait of his mother. Dick's drunk, blank face and bloodshot eyes. But his father's… Logan remembered it in all it's garishly poetic detail. Trina had planned it so carefully: candles and white roses and a big, blown up headshot of Aaron.
At the burial, he'd stuck around after the minister left, watched the funeral director take away the chairs, waited out the mourners and hangers-on. Finally Trina drove off in a limo with her latest boyfriend and only the grave diggers were left, waiting in the wings to finish the job. Logan had spent two hours getting even more drunk and babbling incoherently at his father's casket, cursing a blue streak and wiping angry tears from his cheeks. Finally one of the grave diggers came over to him. "Sir, I'm sorry, but we really need to get started, if that's okay..." A big guy, real blue-collar, salt of the earth-type. Logan had looked across the green to the rest of the crew leaning against their truck, arms crossed, probably in irritation.
He had laughed, sounding a bit unhinged, even to his own ears. "Yeah, dude. Do your thing." The man had waved the others over and Logan stood back watching them work, moving the flower arrangements to the side and lowering the casket down into the hole. You're right were you should be, he had thought. The same place you put Lily. The same place you put my mother. He had stepped closer and peered down into the blackness, toe to toe with the edge. The shiny metalscrollwork on Aaron's casket had glinted back up at him. Another crazy laugh had bubbled up in him. He had turned to the nearest worker, about to throw the first shovelful of dirt on top of the late, great Aaron Echolls, and held up his hand. "Wait, man. There's something, I gotta do." The guy had politely stepped back and the rest of them withdrew and Logan took another drink from the bottle of vodka in his hand. He had unzipped his pants, took out little Logan and took a piss right on that swanky fifteen thousand dollar bone box. F-U-C-K Y-O-U, he had spelled out, and had wished there had been a poetic dusting of snow on the coffin so he could see his handiwork. When he was done, he zipped up, sighed, and smiling, turned back to the worker. The guy's mouth was gaping like a fish and Logan had smiled back at him. "Wanna drink?" he had offered, shaking the almost-empty bottle at him. The guy had shaken his head, mouth still gaping and took a step back from Logan.
"No?" He offered it up to the others, who declined as well. Logan downed the rest of it. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and turned, searching around absent-mindedly for a place to toss the empty bottle. He had shrugged and threw the bottle, cap and all, over his shoulder. It arked and fell, end over end, straight down into his father's grave and Logan had smiled with satisfaction when he heard it shatter on the lid of Aaron's coffin.
Logan had pumped his fist in the air. "Woohoo! Nothin' but net!" He had turned back to the workers and gave them a grandiose bow and wave of his hand. "Gentlemen, he's all yours."
Now the service was over. People were making their way back to their cars. Logan tugged at his collar and took another pull from his flask, watching people pass by his car window in somber tones of black, gray, and navy. He slouched down, glancing in the side view mirror and loosened his tie and there, out of the corner of his eye - there - suddenly, he couldn't breathe - he caught a glimpse of her blonde head. Logan repositioned the side mirror so he could get a better look at her.
Her face was angled down, her pale hair pulled back in a severe style. Her black jacket and knee-length skirt were smartly tailored, but they seemed to hang on her; or maybe it was the way she was carrying herself, curled inward towards herself, like a dried leaf. She was pale - she'd always been pale - but her skin was sapless, dark circles like bruises around her eyes. It looked like she'd gone twelve rounds with the Sandman and lost. To her left, a little tow-headed boy, maybe five years-old at most, clutched her hand and swung it back and forth, blithely immune to whatever Veronica was going through. On her right, Keith Mars walked, his arm wrapped protectively around her shoulder. He looked the same, maybe a little less hair, if that was possible, a few more lines around his eyes. A little girl walked at his side. She looked about seven or eight and her small hand was swallowed in Keith's larger one. Her face was turned down like her mother's, obscured by a tangle of dark blonde waves. Her black patent-leather Mary Janes shuffled on the gravel driveway as they came closer. Logan ducked down further in his seat as the little girl passed by his window. Behind them, another group: an older woman with a sleek, silver bob, and a pretty, 40-ish woman. Logan couldn't place her, but he knew he'd seen her before. The younger woman turned, as if someone had spoken to her, and Logan caught a glimpse of a man walking to her left. Wallace Fennell. So the woman must be Wallace's mom. That's where he knew her from. She used to date Keith, much to Veronica and Wallace's chagrin. Apparently, that was no longer the case. A teenage boy, a younger version of Wallace, hands stuffed deep into the pockets of his suit, rounded out the group. Logan watched them as they continued up the driveway and one by one, slipped into a waiting limousine.
Logan finally took a breath and relaxed his white-knuckle grip on the steering wheel. His hands ached from holding on so tight. He flexed them and scrubbed his hands over his face, sighing heavily. He didn't know why he was here. He didn't know why he'd spent hours online Googling her and her semi-famous dead husband. Pictures of Veronica and Tom at a benefit, a charity ball, an awards ceremony. Veronica, make-up and hair impeccably done and smiling adoringly at her husband.
The black limo pulled away, followed by several cars. What to do? He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel and gnawed on his lower lip. God, he wanted to see her. He wanted to see where she lived, the kitchen where she cooked - a laughable thought - the bed she slept in. It was morbid curiosity, he supposed. Creepy and positively stalkerish, not to mention masochistic and maybe even a little sadistic - after all, what would he say to her if she caught him lurking around her house? "Sorry your husband's dead. I just wanted to let you know I still love you and I probably always will." She'd probably have Wallace and her dad throw him out.
Wait. Hold the phone. Was that what was driving his compulsion? Love? Theirs was a story of hate; deception, mistrust, regret.
"I love you. IloveyouIloveyouIloveyou," he'd chanted, moving above her, pushing her towards her climax. He'd pressed his lips to her throat and moved his hips just so... and she'd shattered around him, her heart thudding against his. Now, he'd thought. Do you believe me now?
But she hadn't believed him. Something would never let her. Maybe she'd thought, after his horrific childhood, that he was incapable of feeling the real thing; that someone like him - whose father had shown his love by beating him, whose mother had turned a blind eye, whose sister had only cared when it suited her, whose first love had betrayed - couldn't know the difference. And hehadn't for the longest time. Until Veronica. She'd laid the cool palm of her hand on his cheek and smiled up at him - smiled - after all he'd done to her - and he could have sworn his heart had stopped… But in the end, he had became a bore. He'd bored her with his fear - paralyzing and stomach-churning - for her safety. She'd never understood. If Lily, who'd been a force of nature, tough and shrewd, could be snuffed out in a heartbeat, Veronica could easily meet the same fate. Easier, because she went out to meet danger with nothing more than a tazer and righteous indignation to protect her. He'd tried to hold on to her, too tight, and like a slick little gold fish, she's slipped between his fingers. In the end, he'd been a disappointment. And that was the end of it.
So was it love, then? Was that even possible? To love someone for so long, never seeing them... Omne esse est percipi. To be is to be perceived. George Berkeley. Didn't he learn that in Philosophy 101? It seemed farfetched to believe that unrequited love was driving him; but people went on loving God, didn't they? All their lives and never seeing Him.
"What are you doing? WHAT are you DOING? WHAT ARE YOU DOING???" He asked the question to himself and the only answer he received was… nothing. Veronica's pale face swam in his mind's eye and he didn't need another excuse. He turned the key in the ignition, put the car into drive, and joined the line of cars leaving the cemetery.
*****
Veronica stared at the bouquet of white lilies and frowned. She ran her thumb absentmindedly over the stem of the flower in her hand. The vase was full, the thick green stems pressed tightly against the clear glass.
"Veronica."
She turned the container to look at it from another angle, her small fingers trying to wriggle in between the glass and the stems to find a gap, just one small gap, so she could slip the last flower in and be done with the whole. damn. thing.
"Veronica!"
Veronica blinked and turned to Lisa, who was looking at her expectantly over the kitchen island.
"Sorry. What?"
"Sweetie, I've been saying your name for, like, five minutes."
"Oh…"
Her eyes shifted around the kitchen to where Wallace and Alicia were staring at her, their eyes grave, pitying, limbs frozen like statues in mid-motion.
"I was saying that people are starting to arrive…"
"Oh. Okay." The single lily fluttered helplessly in her hand. "I was just…" She sighed. "It won't fit."
Her sister-in-law put down the butcher knife where she was chopping more celery for the veggie platters. Veronica didn't know why she bothered. No one ever ate the celery. "Oh, Vee. Sweetie, don't worry about that…"
"I'll take care of it." A gentle hand was laid on her shoulder. Alicia smiled softly down at her, carefully taking the flower from her hand. "Why don't you go check on Maggie, see if she needs anything, hmm?" Her step-mother's hand slipped soothingly down her back and Veronica felt the lump return to her throat. Please don't look at me like that. Don't treat me like the fragile, grieving widow. Please don't pity me... I can't take it.
Ding-dong. An electronic chime rang out. Ding-dong, like an old-fashioned doorbell. Everyone froze, then Wallace pulled out his cell phone. "That's not me."
Veronica turned to the office, just off from the kitchen. The chime sounded again from behind the closed door. Tom's office. Tom's computer.
She moved to the door and gingerly turned the knob. The door swung open easily on well-oiled hinges and Veronica instinctively recoiled a little. Everything was neat and tidy - just the way he'd left it. A half-drunk glass of water rested on the desk, catching the light from the window. It was the only tangible evidence that anyone had been there recently.
The computer chimed again.
Veronica shook her head, taking a step away from the door. "I can't go in there."
No one moved for a moment.
"It's okay. I got it." Wallace slipped past her into the room and sat down in Tom's chair. He swirled the mouse over the mouse pad and the computer screen blinked to life. "It's an instant message. Someone named 'Dokall82?'" He swiveled around to face Veronica.
"Daniel. Tom's friend from Oxford. Shit!" She scrubbed her hands over her face and groaned. "I can't believe I forgot to call him!" Veronica closed her eyes in exasperation. "What does he want?"
"He wants to know what Tom thinks of the Lakers' new power-forward."
"Okay. Well? What did he think of him?"
"He thought he was a good rebounder, but his outside jumper needed some work…"
"Okay. Write that."
Wallace's eyebrows shot up. "Wha-?" he broke off. Wallace examined her warily for a moment, and then, sighed in resignation. "All right. I can do that." He turned back to the screen and started to type.
Veronica turned back to the kitchen. Lisa and Alicia were shooting each other significant looks and Veronica felt her spine start to stiffen, a pit of anger forming in her stomach. God, she was sick of those looks, like everyone expected her to start sobbing or have a nervous breakdown at any moment. They were all being so goddamned careful with her, she wanted to scream. Lifting her chin and squaring her shoulders, she brushed past them and went to find her mother-in-law.
*****
The drive from the Menlo Park cemetery to Potrero Hill took longer than expected - an hour. If Logan had known where he was going, he would have made it in thirty. But he was playing "Follow the Leader," and was at the mercy of a white Escalade. Logan merged onto Mariposa Street, following it for a few blocks. The Escalade slowed as it approached Rhode Island Street and hung a right. Two blocks later the Escalade slowed again. Stretching the entire length of the block, the street was lined with cars on both sides. The Escalade continued slowly on, probably looking for a spot large enough to fit in. Logan managed to squeeze the Vanquish into a spot at the end of someone's driveway. Sure, he was half-way blocking it, but he doubted he'd be there long.
While he waited for someone to come along and give him a clue as to which house was Veronica's, he flipped down the visor mirror and straightened his tie, ran his hands through his hair. He sucked in a breath. Logan's nerves were flaring up. His heart was beginning to race and the vein in his temple was starting to throb in time to it. Inhale. Exhale. Deep, cleansing breaths, Echolls. Finally, an older couple, early 40s, probably from the white monster Cadillac, approached on the sidewalk across the street. They stopped under some low-hanging trees right in front of a heavy Japanese-inspired redwood gate. The privacy fence, overgrown with ivy, stretched the entire length of the front yard. Logan assumed there was a house back there, somewhere in the foliage, but he couldn't be sure.
He opened the car door and got out, taking care to lock it with the remote. It certainly wasn't the gated community he'd been expecting. Though Veronica's neighborhood was by no means shabby and Logan wouldn't have been surprised if the smaller houses there went for a million minimum, five blocks back he'd seen some very artistic tagging - probably gang-related - on the side of a tiny neighborhood grocery store. One couldn't be too careful.
He jogged across the street, feeling a bit like James Bond: stealthy-like, about to infiltrate her little world - and maybe blow it to smithereens. On the other hand, he felt a little like he was walking into a Balboa County Jail cell again - ah, such fond memories. He pushed open the gate and slipped inside.
Logan thought he'd stepped into a miniature jungle. Above him, the low hanging branches shaded the front of the house and to his left and right, palm trees grew next to citrus and banana trees. There were succulents potted in terra cotta planters next to the front door and bright tropical flowers bloomed in the few patches of sunlight that streamed through the canopy of leaves. The house itself was wood frame. Dark, burnt orange shingles - California Redwood - sided the house. The windows, doors, and gables were painted a deep green, giving the property a rustic feel. The home in front of him wasn't the largest on the block, nor was it the smallest, but truthfully, he had expected something a lot flashier for a couple of their status. After all, Tom Kelley was the celebrated plastic surgeon who had reconstructed British pop star Shanna Rhys-Lively's nose after it collapsed from chronic cocaine use.
The front door was propped open, an open invitation for guests to go in and out. As he was about to take a step into the smaller entry way, the interior door swung open and two little boys came barreling out. Logan had to throw himself back against the door to keep from being run over. The giggling twin blurs darted past him and ran around the side of the house. Logan chuckled and shook his head. How nice to be that age - completely oblivious to life's arbitrary cruelties.
Christ, I'm really not drunk enough for this.
He stepped across the threshold.
*****