Grandview, page 1
Grandview
Trace Larkin
Published by Trace Larkin, 2023.
This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.
GRANDVIEW
First edition. March 1, 2023.
Copyright © 2023 Trace Larkin.
ISBN: 979-8215201343
Written by Trace Larkin.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Part One | Chapter 1: Mistakes
Chapter 2: Marshmallows
Chapter 3: Reconciliation
Chapter 4: Revelation
Chapter 5: Innocence
Chapter 6: Princess
Chapter 7: Girlfriends
Chapter 8: Sluice Box
Chapter 9: La Reina
Chapter 10: Chrysalis
Part Two | Chapter 11: Alarm Clocks
Chapter 12: Invaded
Chapter 13: Serendipity
Chapter 14: Calligraphy
Chapter 15: Relationships
Chapter 16: Zemstvo
Chapter 17: Permissions
Chapter 18: Champagne
Chapter 19: Stiletto
Chapter 20: Expedition
Chapter 21: Geneviève
Part Three | Chapter 22: Lavaplatos
Chapter 23: Ivanhoe
Chapter 24: Mortality
Chapter 25: Pilgrimage
Chapter 26: Syntax Error
Chapter 27: Suave
Chapter 28: Destination
Chapter 29: Witness
Chapter 30: Tenderness
Part Four | Chapter 31: Novios
Chapter 32: Diameter
Chapter 33: Despotism
Chapter 34: Loyalties
Chapter 35: Scientific
Chapter 36: Alliances
Chapter 37: Historicity
Chapter 38: Heroine
Chapter 39: Formalities
Part Five | Chapter 40: Debutante
Chapter 41: Crenellations
Chapter 42: Tadpole
Chapter 43: Provenance
Chapter 44: Parachute
Chapter 45: Contract
Chapter 46: Horizon
Chapter 47: Domesticity
Chapter 48: Nostalghia
Chapter 49: Emissary
Chapter 50: Bridegroom
Part Six | Chapter 51: Epilogue | Or | What Happened with Robert and Letty
This book is dedicated to
Countess Sophia Andreyevna Tolstaya
and the people of Encinitas (especially Leucadia).
Keep Grandview clean. Pick up trash.
Support local shops and shapers.
This is our home. Be nice to it.
"Show respect
and you will find
the people here
are very kind."
-Trace Larkin
Part One
Chapter 1: Mistakes
Making his way back home, Sean was grateful for the intermittent road work. Each cluster of workmen, with their orange cones and noisy machines, caused the northbound lanes of State Route 163 to slow. Among that impatient throng of drivers, perhaps he alone desired to remain.
The massive Lincoln kept him well-insulated from the heat of the day and rode smoothly over uneven surfaces. The vehicle’s refinement, however, was not the reason he appreciated the extra time behind the wheel. Sean didn’t care much about cars.
He had purchased the Black Label Continental to impress a pert, young lady from his CrossFit gym. This fantastic creature (called Stephanie) had blonde dreadlocks and many tattoos. She had a nose ring and loved beach volleyball, vegan restaurants, and big, expensive sedans. The woman was wonderful to observe and better to touch. Compared to Esme, Sean’s wife, her young body was remarkably taut and hairless. Esme had become much softer over time, more shapeless with each child. When Stephanie did her box jumps, every part of her followed instantly.
And now he was in trouble.
A man of words, smiles, and handshakes, Sean was famous in his various social and business circles for being out of date technologically, a reputation he frequently exploited.
Last night at dinner, he remembered saying, “Next time, text me to make sure I saw the changes before you move forward with it. I really am an actual idiot. You’ll learn.”
The others at the table were laughing, shaking their heads, and pouring saké for each other.
“But please,” he continued, “just text me next time to make sure. I’m like a baby. Scott will tell you. Right, Scott? You’ve got to hold my hand constantly.”
“This man,” said Scott, pointing unsteadily in Sean’s direction with a pair of chopsticks, “is not a man. He is a child in need of corporal discipline. A totally ... worthless ... bastard child. Dead weight!”
The table erupted with real and forced laughter, both of which suited Sean’s purpose. It was not the privilege of new men to question the established way of things, regardless of pedigree. From the face he wore, Sean guessed the new man (who was Scott’s nephew) now understood better his rank within the system. To punctuate the lesson, Sean called loudly for the check.
Entrusting his American Express to the bill folder, Sean excused himself from the table and hurried to the restroom, eager to rejoin the text conversation he had begun with Stephanie before his colleagues’ arrival. After checking his hair in the mirror, he locked himself into one of the spacious stalls and immediately checked his phone to find dozens of unread messages. Blue text bubbles filled with erotic language alternated with images of Stephanie modeling sets of newly purchased lingerie. Artistically speaking, the poorly lit photographs—all of them taken through the same streaky mirror—were not very good. In a few of them the light from the flash obscured the most important details. Nevertheless, the effect was thrilling.
As sole witness to the alchemical transformation of his department’s petty cash (which he did not value) into silk and lace on Stephanie’s body (which he valued much), Sean felt himself uniquely fortunate. Responding to his paramour from inside the locked stall, he was thankful that at least with this technology he was proficient.
It was marvelous to him that he could, from anywhere in the world, engage in sexually stimulating conversation with another willing person. It felt boyish, adventurous, and purifying. His wide smile was contented and whole, the kind of smile his wife remembered only by photographs.
Full to overflowing with a simple happiness, he sent and received, sent and received, and sent and received again, while every message appeared in duplicate on the screen of an iPad in Esme’s trembling hands.
Sean was startled when his phone rang through the car’s audio system. Seeing the call was from his sister, he answered.
“Heather, can you hear me?”
“Yes, I can hear you. What’s going on? I got your message but I couldn’t understand it.”
“I’ve got a big mess. Real big. I think Esme’s taking the kids to her dad’s.” Sean was surprised to feel a quaver in his voice. Am I going to cry, he thought, right now, on the phone, to my big sister?
“To Querétaro?”
“No, the townhouse up in Carlsbad.”
“For how long? Oh, Sean, what did you do?”
“I messed up, Heather. Really bad,” he said, his voice hitching. “I was texting with this girl, and Esme saw it ... all of it.”
“All of what? What girl?”
“This girl from CrossFit. I didn’t know you could see texts on an iPad.”
“No,” Heather said, groaning. “No way. Damn.” Neither spoke for a moment, and then Heather said, “Hold on a second, Sean.”
He heard her explaining to her husband that she needed privacy. The man’s muffled reply was unintelligible but clearly sympathetic. From Sean’s teen years onward, Heather’s husband James had proven a reliable ally and mentor. In fact, Sean would not have minded his involvement—for surely he would learn all the details soon enough—but he coveted his sister’s undivided attention. Sean heard the sound of a door shutting, and then Heather gave a deep sigh.
“Okay, start from the beginning.”
And so he did, at times weeping freely. It felt good to cry, to open up, and be loved. Heather listened, first consoling and then rebuking her foolish brother. A few miles out from his exit, Sean found he had nothing else to say.
“Wow, you were right. This is bad. And Esme’s leaving? She’s gone?”
“Not sure. I tried calling her from the office, but she didn’t answer.”
“You went to work? What a dumbass move, Sean.”
“She told me to, Heather!” Realizing he had shouted, he said in a softer voice, “I’m sorry. You’re right. I just didn’t know what to do. I tried calling her all day.”
“Now and then, my little Glow Worm,” Heather replied gently, invoking his childhood pet name, “you are so stupid I can hardly believe it.”
“She threw my iPad against the wall, like, out of control. I tried to talk to her, but she was just totally losing it ... screaming in my face, slamming stuff around ... someone was going to call the police if I—”
“Sean, hold on,” Heather interjected. “Where are you at now? Are you near your house?”
“I’m getting off the freeway.”
“Okay, don’t go in yet. Just pull over outside the gate where those benches are. I’ll call Esme and let her know I’m coming down there.”
“No, you don’t want to be here,” Sean said, knowi
“Just pull over and wait,” she said. “I’m gonna call Esme and talk with her. I’ll call you after.”
Sean acquiesced, inwardly relieved to hand over control to his sister. It had always been this way throughout their lives together. At a certain point—some unspoken, mutually understood level of severity—his problems became Heather’s responsibilities. Theirs, on occasion, was nearly like that which occurs between a mother and her son, roles adopted by necessity during their early life, parallel childhoods spent grasping for each other within a private world of affluent neglect. Many young aspirants (to whom Sean O’Brien seemed the paragon of aristocratic nonchalance) would have been astonished to discover how often major decisions affecting their department were made by a woman of whose existence they knew nothing.
With every passing minute Sean felt lighter and more hopeful. Had Esme rejected Heather’s diplomacy, he would have gotten a call back already. He had been sitting outside the gates for more than twenty minutes. Surely, then, Heather was making progress, and his wife would soon be in a more reasonable frame of mind.
Inside the gatehouse, a large silhouette was stirring. What is today, thought Sean, Thursday? So that must be Marcus, wondering who it is in this strange car just sitting here. I’ll bet he comes to see who I am. Immediately, as if reading Sean’s thoughts, the side door of the little gatehouse slid open, and Marcus came lumbering out, followed by a smallish young man Sean didn’t recognize. The smaller man was black, like Marcus, and Sean thought, I’d better be sure to signify that I assume no relation between them. They will appreciate that, being addressed as individuals. As they approached, Sean lowered his window and waved a greeting.
“Hey, my man. What’s going on?”
“Big Sean,” Marcus said, grinning widely. “Hey, I thought you was lost or something. When’d you get this car?” He looked over the sedan slowly from front to back, nodding and gawking in approval. “Pretty sweet. Esme like this one?”
“Naw, man, all me,” Sean said, in an accent quite distinct from what he’d been using only minutes before. “I just needed something like this, you know what I mean?”
“Aw, hell yeah I know what you mean. Hey Sean, let me introduce you to the new blood. Sean, this here’s Terrance. He’s tryna take my job,” Marcus said with a wink as his trainee nodded. “We’ll see ’bout that though. Still gotta see how he does.”
“Looks like he’ll do fine,” Sean said, looking the youth up and down. “Say, bro, you seen Esme today? She leave here at all?”
“Don’t think so. Been here since one o’clock.” Marcus leaned closer to the window, and said in a quieter voice, “You okay? Jessica told me she could hear Esme hollerin’ from down here in the gatehouse.” Sean sucked his teeth.
“You know how it is, man.”
Marcus moved closer still and raised his eyebrows. Moving his lips slightly in little more than a whisper, he said, “I know how it is.” He turned back to Terrance. “This here’s the blackest white guy I know ... fifteen cents shy of a N-word pass.” To Sean he pointed his finger and cautioned, “Don’t you say it, Sean. Don’t say it! Not if you don’t got fifteen cents!”
Sean and Marcus laughed. Terrance looked on without visible reaction.
A work truck pulled in to the visitor’s lane and Marcus hurried back to the gatehouse. Sean got out of his car and caught up with Terrance, who was following Marcus at a walking pace. Laboring to speak in a manner communicating respect, Sean said, “So, Terrance, you like it here? Kind of a cool spot, right?” He waved his hand around, indicating the faux bucolic landscape.
“Yeah, it’s cool.”
“Cool. You in school or anything?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay. Well, it’s nice to meet you. If you ever need anything, you just let us know. That’s my house right there, that one with the stained glass peeking through the trees.”
“Cool,” Terrance said, as they arrived to the gatehouse. The young man’s eyes darted around, never making full contact with Sean’s.
“I mean it. We’re all here for each other. You need anything, you just come knock on my door. My wife, Esme, she’s cool too. I’ll make sure you meet her soon.”
The three men stood in awkward silence for a few seconds, and then Marcus said, “He means it too! Remember that time we came up there and had marshmallows on that fire pit? We up there cookin’ marshmallows, and I kid you not Fight the Power comes on, and this man spits out every word. Every word. And good too!”
This brought Esme to Sean’s mind, and he felt for his phone. After patting his pockets, finding only keys, he remembered leaving the phone in the car. Marcus stopped talking and looked at him with concern. Sean backed away, raising his hands in apology.
“Sorry, guys,” he said, before breaking into a run, “gimme a sec.”
Before opening the door, he saw he had missed a call. Trying not to panic, he picked up his iPhone and saw the missed call was from his sister. There were also two text messages, one each from his sister and wife. Swiping away the voicemail, he opened the text from his sister first.
“Sean, it’s going to be okay. Esme is ok. Go home and I’ll be there in an hour if there’s no traffic. Don’t say ANYTHING to her except sorry or I’ll beat your ass <3”
In ecstatic relief, he opened the message from Esme.
“Sean, come home. I can see you from the window.”
Leaning forward in order to look upward through the windshield, he saw his wife’s outline, backlit. She was waving to him. Like a calf released from its stall, he started his car and drove in quickly, past the gates, up the hill, and into the driveway of the second house on the right—his home. Much later in the evening, while roasting marshmallows at the fire pit, he remembered having forgotten to explain his sudden departure to the gatekeepers. He had not even told them goodbye.
Chapter 2: Marshmallows
Doing his best to demonstrate a contrite and chastened condition, Sean was deliberately taciturn during the time by the fire pit. Like the young man alone in the gatehouse below, Esme avoided making eye contact with her husband. The children, sensing the conflict between their parents, spent their energy instead on maintaining their aunt’s attention.
Heather was a favorite of the O’Brien children. The young twins, Teddy and Maisie, made no secret of their opinion that Auntie Heather was the funnest person in the world. Their younger sister, Roisin, possessing few words, was plainly infatuated with her.
Following the enrollment of Heather’s stepson, Jason, at Army and Navy Academy, she had suffered a period of depression; the sense of loss in his absence was something she had been totally unprepared for. Esme had made a point of reaching out to Heather during this time, often bringing the children along with her. The five of them formed a unique bond, independent of their shared connection to Sean. They grew so close that people frequently mistook the twins (who were fair-skinned and blonde, like their father) to be Heather’s son and daughter. Eventually their day-tripping together became ritual. And while Jason’s stay at the academy had been brief, the connection forged between Heather and her brother’s family endured.
“Tia, look,” Maisie said, holding aloft her flaming marshmallow. “I like it like this.”
“Me too, Tia,” offered Teddy, setting his own little puff alight. “I like it burnt all the way.”
“You copied me,” Maisie said, blowing the flame from her sugary torch. “You always copy me.”
“No, I just like it myself,” replied Teddy, his blackening marshmallow beginning to droop from the roasting stick. When it appeared the poor marshmallow would fall to the ground, he caught it on a graham cracker with practiced dexterity.
Heather smiled as Maisie handed Teddy a piece of chocolate, both children now entirely focused on the consumption of their respective masterpieces.
“All right, let’s go inside and get cleaned up. How about playing a game?” she said.
“Make slime,” Teddy said through a mouthful of s’more. Maisie nodded aggressively.
“Slime,” she said through a mouth painted with chocolate and sprinkled with graham cracker crumbs.
