Chapter Text
"I'm sorry, madam. It'll be just one moment. Would you like to wait, or should we call you back?"
"I'll wait," she muttered, running a hand through her hair. It fluffed between her French manicured nails then fell against her back again, long and thick. She'd been in the process of braiding it for her hot yoga class, but now the braid was undone and forgotten. Before her on the little Louis the XIV register by the telephone stand, she had a yellow notepad. There were a great many items on the list, and so far none of them were marked out. Seeing that list made her anxious, and she began to tap her pen against the paper in time to the minute playing Bach as she waited on hold. Occasionally something new occurred to her, and with a little frown she added the new item to her list. Soon it would spill over onto the next page; perhaps she should have fetched a larger notepad.
Antonio was there suddenly, shirtless and delectable as ever. He had been waiting for a good ten minutes, and although she'd assured him that the yoga class would have to be postponed, he hadn't left yet. He packed his bag slowly, watching her with a frown on his already pouty lips. It made him look es intelligent when he made that face, and although she'd been able to ignore it so far in lieu of the festivities they indulged in afterward between yoga poses, it bothered her more now that a crisis loomed before her.
Finally, he broke the silence. "You want anything, Madam?"
"No, we're done for today" she said, a little more curtly than she'd anticipated. She had a way of coming across as rather haughty; it some something the tabloids commented on endlessly. Nevertheless, it had never really struck her as problematic before, and it certainly didn't now.
Antonio frowned all the more, "I made time for you today. There are other clients who wouldn't cancel."
"If you want money, I'll gladly pay you to go away." Really, was the sex worth it? He'd become more needy lately, and although he was young and it should have been understandable, he'd been pushing his luck even more. It was a telltale sign for her. Iris wasn't one to keep the young lovers in her life for long once they began to push for a real relationship. She had a husband for that, thank you, and he wasn't going anywhere.
"That won't be necessary," he growled, snatching his gym bag and making for the door. "I know my way out."
"Congratulations," she muttered under her breath as the door slammed. She closed her eyes, letting the tinny minuet wash over her. Was it Mozart? Perhaps, though it didn't matter a whit.
Her poor son was suffering and here she was on the telephone. It was enough to make her blood boil. Perhaps she should have had them call her back? Certainly she could have them contact one of her personal assistants, though that did seem rather insensitive. Still, she should be with her son right now. It felt wrong to just be standing here, her gym towel on the register, her yoga mat still rolled up across her back, waiting for the woman on the other end of the line to return.
Iris Cavendish-Jones Crawford could have been a model, but she had chosen the silver screen instead. She was slightly built with large honey-brown eyes and brilliant chestnut hair that cascaded down her back. Although she was in her early 40s, she had never felt younger and she looked as good as ever: all the tabloids said so, and so it must be true. She made People magazine's list of Best Celebrity Beach Bodies consistently each year, and although the writers there never failed to add the little slap of "for her age" on the end of the commentary, the fact that she had won made it sting less. She hadn't been in a film for three years now, mostly because of her devotion to charity work and to her horses: she had three contenders for the Kentucky Derby last year, and two in her stable would be returning if her jockeys were to be believed. She'd developed a few laugh lines around the corners of her mouth, and all the face lifts in the world couldn't have prevented the crinkle from showing at the corners of her eyes or the distinctive neck lines of a woman as she aged. These were major concerns for her, although the only people who commented on them were the writers of those tabloids she so hated and followed.
Once the tabloids got wind of the situation that had just befallen the Crawford household, they would descend without mercy to scrutinize the appearance of each member of the household, including the family and the staff. It would wreak havoc on Maximus' schedule, and she could already imagine the lengths her husband would have to go to in order to keep his illicit business out of the public eye. Not that the reporters in his native Las Vegas would wonder, for they had been long accustomed to the actions of the Crawford family for generations. California, though, was different. Perhaps she should relocate the lot of them? Maximillion wouldn't want to leave of course; he'd want to be near the places that reminded him of his beloved. She made a note in the little legal pad to speak with Maximus about it. He'd have some good ideas by then, once he'd had time to process the situation and come up with a fresh angle.
"Hello, Mrs. Crawford?"
"Yes, I'm still here."
There was the sound of a keyboard in the background as the woman continued in her chipper little voice, "I've got the notes all made. The cake wasn't finished yet, so that's canceled now. However, you'll need to speak with your wedding planner to get more information. I see that he's listed here, but I can't seem to reach him. A mister Michaels...?"
"Darien. Yes, he's my brother. I'm sure he hasn't heard yet, but I knew you were planning on starting the cake today and Monsieur Guient doesn't like surprises."
"He really doesn't," the woman said, a giggle leaking into her voice before she remembered the situation and turned it into an unconvincing cough. "It's canceled now, though. Thank you for calling ahead. Is there anything else I can do for you?"
"I suppose not. Thank you." She hung up, sighing. The call to Darien could wait. Phone in hand, she went in search of her son.
The Crawford home was vast, but that wasn't really surprising. It had originally belonged to Iris herself. She'd received the land as a gift from her father before his death, and she'd been toying around with the sort of thing to build there before she'd met and fallen in love with the dashing and equally wealthy Maximus Crawford. They'd had big dreams then, she a budding starlet and he a rising name in the upper echelons of West Coast society. She'd been introduced to him as a person of interest, a nouveau-riche sort supposedly, though there were rumors that his family had been wealthy for some time, lost it all, and was only now slowly recovering since the death of the old patriarch. They'd hit it off almost immediately; they'd danced for most of the night, and within a week she'd slept with him already. It was a whirlwind romance complete with flowers sent to her dressing room and surprise visits when she was on set. When she'd taken a role for filming in Madrid, he'd shocked her by showing up after shooting one afternoon and proposing to her. They'd been married within a month, and soon were traveling the world together. Those had been some of the most beautiful moments of her life, and all the critics said that her love for Maximus Crawford had deepened her skill as an actress: where once they'd called her romantic parts flat and uninspired, now they were hailed as some of the most compelling performances of the year. She'd won an Academy Award at 27, and it still stood in a place of honor in their home, despite her not having any others to join it. Life had been perfect for a time, and it was in that mindset that they'd built their home in Marin, California next to the vineyard she'd so loved as a child. From her window, she'd watched the harvest come in for autumn, the mists rolling through the heavy boughs in spring and summer, and the winter snow padding it all in a cool, fluffy dreamscape each winter.
The marble floor was imported Italian. It had once laid in a church, but the place had fallen into disrepair. Maximus had acquired it before the fashion began to turn toward rose marble, and although it was everywhere nowadays, theirs had been on the cutting edge at the time. The foyer had been featured in Architectural Digest , and Maximus still had a mint condition copy of the magazine framed on the wall so visitors could see the effect soft lighting and professional photography had: the foyer hadn’t been changed except to add a potted fern, and even that seemed as though it belonged.
Her ballet flats made no noise on the hard surface as she padded across the foyer, opening the double doors that led out to the patio and looking around. In the distance, she could see the Golden Gate Bridge across the San Francisco Bay, but she didn’t bother. She knew her son, and he wasn't much interested in bridges. She peered into the garden below, at the pool and the lagoon that fed it, and the tops of the palms that had already grown so much since she and Maximus had planted them together almost two decades ago. She was about to head inside and check his room, but then she saw a glint of pale hair. Breathing a sigh of relief, she descended the staircase and passed the pool, leaving the view behind as she made her way along the flagstone path into the greenery.
Had the famous landscaper and architect Frederick Olmsted been alive, he might have been commissioned to design the Crawford family's gardens. As it happened, the Parisian designer Iris had commissioned had done a fine job in his own right; it might have even made Olmsted envious. The plants were mostly rare specimens, though quite a few were native to California. The Crawfords paid a team of skilled horticulturists and arborists to maintain all of the plants there, including regular pruning, disease management, protection from frost, and propagation for those plants that needed it. It was an ever-changing landscape; like a fashionable woman, the gardens changed their colors and textures every month or so. It was designed to hold one's interest, and so far it hadn't disappointed anyone who entered. The lovely Cyndia had adored those gardens, and she had often accompanied Iris' son there for hours. It didn't surprise her to find him there, sitting on a stone bench near the twin lion statues, each modeled after the ones that flanked the entrance to the New York Public Library: they had long been a personal symbol for Iris, and her designer had added the touch on her behalf.
Maximillion was laying on the bench, his hands folded on his chest as he stared through the branches of the olive tree above him into the cloudless blue sky. His eyes were puffy, and she didn't have to ask if he'd been crying. Wordlessly, he shifted his legs aside and she sat on the end of the bench, watching him. They didn't speak for a long time, listening to the birds and the ever-present wind blowing in from the bay. At last he sighed, sat up, and looked at her. He hadn't shaved that day, but it didn't make him look any older. He may have been nearly a man, but he would always be her wide-eyed little boy. She pushed a strand of silvery-blond hair out of his eyes, but said nothing. There wasn't anything she could say that would help anything; years of acting out parts on the big screen had taught her that actions could speak more loudly than any words, especially in times like these.
Finally, Max sighed, "What am I going to do, Mom?"
She didn't answer immediately, and when she did she kept her voice low. "You're going to come upstairs and get cleaned up. Have you eaten anything?'
He shook his head, staring at the flagstones. "I don't think so. I might have had something from the commissary."
She tsked, "At least Croquet made you eat. Come inside." She didn't want to say that he smelled like a hospital, that there was a bruise on his right arm as though someone had gripped him tight in a last painful gasp. She didn't know if that hand print belonged to the dead girl he'd so loved or to the girl's mother, begging her son for God knew what or perhaps losing control. Either way, it surely hadn't helped. She would have to ask Croquet later, once he returned from fetching Maximus from the office. She rubbed his shoulder helplessly, knowing that she couldn't force him inside. "It'll be alright, darling."
He looked at her, his eyes, so like her own, brimming with tears. "No it won't. It'll never be alright again."
"Hush," she said, pulling him against her. She hugged him, muttering motherly things. She could do this, enact the role of the caring mother for the grieving son. It was a role familiar to her; she'd once enacted a similar one across from Ben Affleck. "It'll be alright."
But instead of crying against her like she'd expected, Maximillion pulled back, scrubbing the unspent tears from his eyes. "Stop saying that. How can you say that? She was everything, and now she's dead. They let her die. I watched her die, and her parents just... just stood there."
Iris frowned. She'd known the girl had been diagnosed with some sort of cancer, but that normally didn't bring instant death. She let him go, watching as he pulled away from her, pulling his knees to his chest. "Tell me. I only just heard myself. It might help you to talk about it."
He shook his head, not meeting her eyes. "It was terrible," he said, his voice small. "Mom, it was the wort thing I've ever seen. I felt her go. I felt her pain, and it was..." He squeezed his eyes shut, his hair falling into his face as he sometimes had done as a child when he was feeling shy.
Felt it, he'd said. She frowned, already eager to talk to Croquet all the more. "Max, her parents loved her very much too. I'm sure it was just a terrible accident."
"No, I felt it. They wanted her to die. Her mother, she was enjoying the attention. She was happy about it! I tried to tell her father, I even tried to tell the doctors, but they eventually kicked me out. Cyndia begged them not to, but they kicked me out and now she's dead." He rubbed the hand print on his wrist, "I didn't even know until she'd been dead for an hour! They left me sitting in the waiting room, and she'd been dead an hour, mom!"
Iris' mouth had settled into a firm line. The family didn't speak much about Maximillion’s strange ... abilities. They made both she and her husband uncomfortable, and who wouldn't be? But they'd learned to take him at his word when he said something felt wrong or someone had something bad in mind for them. They'd thought he'd had a mental illness for awhile -- schizophrenia did run in her family, shameful secret or not. However, after being examined by the head of the UCLA Parapsychology Department, he'd been given a lean bill of health. He was empathic, they'd said. He would sense things. He was just very sensitive to the pain of others.
She would give Croquet a piece of her mind after this, and then she would lay into that poor dead girl's parents. How dare they do this to her son? He'd been nothing but chivalrous toward the girl, and this was how they repaid him, not even two months before their wedding?
She grasped her son's shoulders, looking into his eyes, "We'll take care of them. For now, you come inside with me. You need to rest, clean up, and eat something."
He looked at her in that strange way that he had, then nodded. It was like she'd passed some kind of test, and as she helped him to his feet and put her arm around him, leading him back up the flagstone path, she couldn't help but feel that this was something that wouldn't just go way. She'd been a very emotional little girl, and as a woman she'd learned to control it. Maximus was the same way, and their son was the perfect blend of the both of them: he could be so passionate that he sometimes lost himself in flights of fancy. She had a bad feeling, a very bad feeling indeed.