The Anti-Crush by Harper West
1
Amanda
Even in thedark of night, I can see the outlines of Kauai’s lush beauty. I can feel its soothing wonder take hold of me as I step out of the airport into the cool November air.
Margot and Stirling have sent a car for me instead of picking me up themselves, but she’s promised to have a beautiful meal waiting for me back at the house they’ve rented.
My driver escorts me to an SUV that’s really not much smaller than the one that transported Father and Em this morning. I shouldn’t have expected anything less, although Margot has never been pretentious about hers and Stirling’s wealth. In other words, she doesn’t act as if their money is the most important thing to them. They live well, but they also share with others. I happen to know that they chose a house big enough for all of us for the summer, but Father refused the invitation, and Emily of course just does whatever he does. I wonder if she secretly really wanted to be here, at least this weekend. Admittedly, I feel more at ease to stay a bit longer without Father and Em here.
We seem to twist and wind over the hills of the island for hours more, even though my destination is only about thirty minutes from the airport.
Finally, a soft glow pushing above the trees signals our approach to a residence. And there, tucked inside what seems to be its own private little jungle, is Margot and Stirling’s holiday vacation home.
The floodlights shining up from the ground reveal the huge home, constructed in dark wood and stone, largely Craftsman in design. It’s opulent, but not ostentatious. Every window glows with warm light from within. It’s magnificent.
Margot stands waiting in the entrance with the double doors thrown wide open before the car even pulls to a complete stop. She runs over as the driver opens my door to let me out.
“Mandy!” Margot says, and she traps my arms in her hug before I can even lift them to embrace her. She’s the only one who calls me “Mandy.” At least she is now—Damon used to call me that too. But it’s still good to hear Margot say it.
“Oof! I’m glad to see you too,” I say, and grab her waist to keep from tumbling backwards into the car.
“Let me look at you,” she says, and pulls back from me. We grasp each other’s forearms as we exchange smiles. We haven’t seen each other in months, even though we live across town from one another. Margot did a good job of distancing herself from the madness of my father. A big part of that was marrying a man she actually loves, who also meets with Father’s approval because he’s rich. So that made for an easy escape. She’s safe and busy with her own family. I really need to make more of an effort to spend time with her, I think to myself. “You look great.”
Margot got my father’s dark hair, just like Em. She keeps it cut in a short bob, parted on the side, and hanging lower in the front. A silvery-white ribbon of color adorns one side in the front.
“And you look amazing,” I say. And she does.
“Amanda! You made it.” Stirling comes out to take my suitcases from the driver. I step away from Margot briefly to hug him.
In addition to being very tall, Stirling is quite a bit older than Margot. But he’s extremely handsome in that distinguished investment banker kind of way. His crewcut is more salt than pepper these days, but he has kind blue eyes to match his good heart.
“Hi, Stirling,” I say, as he kisses my cheek. “Good to see you. Thanks so much for sending the car.”
I open my purse to tip the driver, but Stirling stops me.
“I’ve got it,” he says, and hands the driver some folded bills before turning back to me. “Ah, it’s the least we could do. We both worked late to finish up before the long weekend, and Margot also wanted to have a late meal for you.”
“Well, thank you.”
“Come on, let’s get you inside.” Margot puts her arm around my shoulders, and Stirling plucks up my suitcases. We follow him inside, and Margot closes the huge doors behind us.
The instant I cross the threshold, my breath catches, not from the expanse of the foyer or the dandelion-shaped crystal chandelier casting its happy light down on us. I feel a rush of familiarity pass through me, followed by its stark impossibility, since I’ve never been here before.
“Pretty great, isn’t it?” asks Margot, probably because of the look I must have on my face. “I couldn’t believe we got it as late as I waited to book something. But I guess it wasn’t even available until the last minute, but the owner decided to travel for the holidays after all.
“Yeah, it’s great,” I say, trying to get a grip on myself.
Stirling is halfway up the wooden staircase with my luggage.
“I’ll just put these in your room and be right down so we can eat,” he says.
I nod, and before I can take my next breath, Cammie is running down the front hall toward me.
“Aunt Amanda! You’re here!”
“Yes, I finally made it,” I say as I take her into my embrace. “Hang on, let me look at you.” I hold her back from me. She’s always been tall, but I can’t believe she’s only nine. “You’ve gotten so much taller since I saw you!”
“More than a few, I’m sure. Too bad I have not proof of the ten feet you’ve grown since then!”
We laugh, and lock elbows as we make our way to the back of the house.
“Have you started your summer reading list?” asks Margot. Apparently, she and Stirling aren’t allowing Cammie’s summer to be quite as carefree as she’d like it to be. “Dad and I gave you the whole month of June off to hang out with your friends before we left for Kauai.”
“I have actually, and I really like the first book on the list. Since it is actually summer vacation and I don’t have to wake up early, can I hang out with you and Aunt Amanda while you have dinner?”
“Speak for yourself,” says Stirling from behind us. “The ribs for tomorrow aren’t going to barbecue themselves. But yes, you can sit at the table with us for a while, if it’s okay with your mother.”
“Fine, but you’re helping. Go set the table.”
“The girls ate earlier, but Margot and I had our own last-minute work stuff to finish, so we decided to wait and eat with you,” Stirling says.
“That’s awesome,” I say. “I’d hate to be the only one scarfing down food while everyone else stares at me. Where’s Sylvia, by the way? I hope she’ll at least make an appearance.”
Sylvia is Stirling’s daughter from his first marriage, which ended badly. Neither Stirling nor Sylvia has been on good terms with Sylvia’s mother for several years. It hasn’t been easy, but Margot has done her best to be a positive maternal presence in Sylvia’s life, especially when Sylvia moved in with her and Stirling just a few months before Cammie was born.
“She’s pissed at us for making her come to Hawaii instead of spending the whole summer unsupervised with her boyfriend, who we’re not too keen on,” says Margot. “She’s been holed up in her room since she and Cammie finished dinner a few hours ago, no doubt Tik-Talking or Facesmashing or whatever it is the young people do these days. You might not see her until tomorrow.”
The back of the house is a stunning open-concept layout with a sunken living room, complete with fireplace and a flatscreen tv over the mantle, a more formal dining space, and a massive kitchen with state-of-the-art appliances, wine bar, coffee bar, and a huge island with six stools. The three areas of the space are tied together by the wall of floor-to-ceiling windows, some of which are actually panels of an accordion glass door that opens to the back yard paradise where the swimming pool, jacuzzi, outdoor kitchen and fire pit await. Outdoor lighting shines into shadows that hint at the lush beauty that will be revealed when the sun comes up tomorrow. Whoever the owner of this house is has done very well for themselves.
“Can I do anything to help?” I ask, even as I’m moving toward the couch.
“Not a thing,” calls Margot from the kitchen area.
“Drink?” Stirling asks from the bar in the corner that I hadn’t noticed. “We’ll have wine with dinner—there’s a nice Riesling chilling in the fridge under the wine bar over there—but I’m going to kick off your arrival with something a little stronger.”
“That sounds good to me,” I say. “Martini for me, dry, two olives if you’ve got them.”
“Coming right up.”
I sink into the couch and it feels like heaven to relax and settle in. Except that the nagging feeling that assailed me when I first walked into the house still lingers. It’s as if I know something about this place, even though I’ve never seen it before in my life.
I stare around the room, and I’m only half listening as Cammie regales me with updates on her life while she sets the table. Something about school and riding lessons and the unreasonable length of her summer reading list. Stirling hands me a drink and crosses over to the kitchen with his own to help Margot, who has already poured her first glass of the Riesling.
As I take a sip of my drink, my eyes travel over the night scene in the back yard through the windows. Twinkling string lights hang from the frames of the trellis and are reflected in the breeze-rippled pool. I could stare into it for hours, but Cammie says something, and I turn my attention to her.
“Hmm?”
“I should put a wine glass for you, right Aunt Amanda?”
“Yes please, thanks sweetie.”
“You grown-ups sure are drinking a lot tonight,” she laughs.
I laugh too, and start to reply that it’s a holiday weekend, and that she’ll appreciate holidays and alcoholic drinks more when she’s an adult, when my eye catches the painting on the dining room wall. I turn to look at it more fully and realize that’s it. The strange feeling I’ve been having is from the artwork in this house.
I get up and walk with my drink to the hallway where a series of three vertical rectangular abstract paintings hang. The colors are warm, inviting for the most part. But there’s a smattering of disturbing strokes of black and red. It’s almost as if they don’t belong for a moment, but then they blend with the movement of the other shapes. An edge, a warning, perhaps, that even in warmth there is danger.
Do I know this artist?
I lean in closer to look for a signature—there is none.
I dart back into the main room. Stirling is adjusting the flame in the gas fireplace, and Cammie is drizzling something over a platter of food, while Margot pulls a large pan of something undoubtedly delicious out of the oven. The aroma floods my nostrils and it ought to be enough to make me go over to the kitchen and steal a bit of whatever it is, like I’m sure I’ll do tomorrow with the turkey.
But it’s not enough to draw me away from the painting in the dining room. It’s an abstract of pale greys with splashes of rose and blue. It’s a bit more cubist in nature, with some angles formed in thin, black lines. But it’s the bold lightning bolt of deep purple-blue that cuts diagonally across the painting that almost stops my heart. Again, the disruption of calm, the jagged edge of emotion that disturbs the peace of the composition. And still no signature.
Then another insistent, pounding energy from behind impels me to pivot and I’m nearly brought to my knees at the sight of the massive painting on the living room wall. I don’t know how I missed it before, or why it wasn’t the first thing I saw when I first sat down on the couch. I guess the magic of the backyard night lights distracted me. Or maybe hunger and travel fatigue. But I see it now.
A rendition of pure pain, the gigantic black metal frame holds a white canvas almost entirely covered with an amoeba shape in crimson red that can only be representative of a heart. I know this in my core without understanding why.
A giant perfectly-round dot of black is painted at the center of it, and jagged silver lines, like the edges of a serrated knife, score the shapes in different directions. A few black lines of the same type appear closer to the edges of the painting. I don’t have to look too closely to know that there’s no signature. It takes my breath away.
“It’s really something, isn’t it?” asks Margot, reading my mind.
“Um, yeah,” I say, and turn my back on the painting. As if that’s going to do any good. “It’s powerful.”
“So are the other pieces in the house. You should see the one in the master bedroom,” says Stirling. I definitely do not want to see that. “The owner has great taste in art and design.”
I just nod and walk over to the table.
“Why don’t you sit here?” Stirling indicates the chair between the one at the head of the table, which I assume is his, and the one next to it, which is where my sister will probably sit. No doubt Cassie will take the seat across from mine, to Stirling’s left. “I’ll take that, I can always make you a fresh one later.” He takes my half-finished martini, and I sit down.
Dinner is a beautiful spread, so much so, that I wonder how much more grand tomorrow’s barbecue will be. Cammie had been pouring citrus vinaigrette as it turns out, over the platter which is full of fresh cut fruit, another salad of supergreens, macadamia nuts, and dried figs, a braided loaf of homemade bread, and warm minted pearl couscous. As Margot spoons a pile on each plate, she passes it to Stirling, who lays a generous portion of miso and teriyaki glazed salmon over it that Margot had broiled in the oven. Stirling hands me the first plate, and I add some of each of the salads. Just as Margot is handing him the second plate, the doorbell rings.
“Who in the world could that be at this time of night?” says Margot.
“I’ll get it—” But before Stirling can get up, she’s already down the hall.
Cammie peers over my shoulder and Stirling looks toward the front door with a concerned expression too. Frankly, I’m too tired to care who it is. I’ll let my sister deal with it. Without standing on ceremony, I stab a piece of salmon on my fork and eat it. I close my eyes but my reveling in how delicious it is, is interrupted by Margot’s voice. I can’t make out everything she’s saying, but she sounds distressed.
“What…I can’t believe…why are you here?”
First Stirling pushes his chair back from the table and charges down the hall, then Cammie scampers behind him. I sigh and take a huge gulp of wine before I follow them. This is clearly someone they know, and the least I can do is go to the door and offer whatever social niceties I can.
I make my way down the hall, and as I step into the foyer, the reason for my anxiety—the immaculate design of the house, the stunning artwork—it all crystallizes for me in one horrible instant. Cammie and Stirling move aside as I step up behind my sister to face the man standing in the doorway.
“Damon,” I breathe.
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