Olivia—again, unlike me—had surrounded herself with things. Beautiful, numerous things. There was a collection of fine crystal on a floor-to-ceiling sweep of built-in shelves. She had a preference for Scandinavian designs; the clean lines of Orrefors mixing with the bright, whimsical creations of Kosta Boda. Next to that was a marble fireplace, unlit and unused except as a holding place for some of the trees and plants that seemed to sprout from nearly every corner and niche in the room. I rubbed the leaf of a wildly trailing spider plant, wondering how she did it. The things absolutely thrived under her care.
Instead of a sofa, she’d placed an oversized daybed with high scrolled sides in the middle of the room, piling it high with bright chenille pillows. A large tray inlaid with mother-of-pearl and onyx sat in the middle of the bed and was used in place of a coffee table. Candles burned everywhere—colored ones, scented ones, tea lights and tapers—and a television unit, rarely used, was tucked inconspicuously off to the side.
Despite this colliding mishmash of color and items, Olivia’s home managed to feel airy and alive. She even had a cat skulking around here somewhere, full of attitude and ever waiting to trip a person up.
I lifted a copy of the latest computer journal from the tray, and noted it was already thumbed through, dog-eared, and marked in places. The first time our father—her father—had caught Olivia reading a scientific journal, we were all clustered around the breakfast table, pretending to be a normal, well-adjusted family. I’d known for a while she’d been reading Popular Science and Computers Today, and was teasing her about it, calling her a technogeek and, on my more caustic days, Bill Gates’s wet dream.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Xavier had said, staring from her to the magazine that had fallen from her hand.
Startled by his sudden appearance, she nonetheless recovered, and lifted the periodical between two well-manicured fingers to use as a lipstick blotter. Watching from over the rim of my coffee cup, I’d been surprised to see that instead of angering Xavier, this seemed to pacify him. Olivia avoided looking at me for the rest of the morning. And I never teased her about her reading habits again.
I tossed the magazine back down and nestled myself among pillows the color of buttercream and scotch. There, I removed my weapons, placing my purse with the kubotan on the tray in front of me, along with the fixed-blade at my back. I left the short blade where it was; sheathed and secured in my boot. I felt too naked if bereft of all my weapons.
Olivia, carrying two oversized martinis, raised a brow at the knife settled between her vanilla candles and knickknacks, but there was no widening eyes or surprise. She was as used to my weapons as I was to her scholarly journals.
“Vodka martini, straight up, two olives stuffed with Roquefort,” she said, winking. “Just in case you haven’t already had an orgasm today.”
“Be still my heart,” I said, taking one of the glasses. She settled across from me and folded her legs beneath her.
“Happy Birthday!” she said, raising her drink in a toast. “Here’s to you always being older than me!”
“Thanks. I think.”
“And,” she said slyly, “here’s to Ben Traina bringing your hormones back into whack.”
I lowered my glass. “My hormones weren’t out of whack.”
“Yes, they were.”
“No, they weren’t.”
“Yes, they were.”
I scowled. She smiled sweetly. “So, is he everything you remember? Different? The same?”
How could I tell her? What words could explain how the edges of the boy had been whittled down into such a finely sculpted man? Sure, there were some sharp edges too—and I was determined to be careful of them—but how to tell her about the new passion ignited between us? That he made Michelangelo’s David look practically wilted? There was just no comparison between my girlish feelings for Ben and the thoughts I entertained now. Perhaps Olivia was right and he had brought my hormones back into whack.
“He’s more, Olivia. So much more.” And I left it at that.
Despite this inability to articulate my thoughts, Olivia was satisfied. Her eyes went dreamy and she sighed into the bowl of her martini. Reaching down, she absentmindedly stroked the cat that had appeared from nowhere—what was its name again?—and said, “You’re finally going to get laid.”
I choked on my cheesy olive. “Excuse me, but how do you know I haven’t been?”
“Because you’re always too tense,” she said, shaking her arms. I think she was illustrating how to relax. “You treat sex like a combat sport, like that ‘dog maga’ stuff you practice.”
“It’s ‘Krav Maga,’” I bristled, “and I do not.”
“You do,” she insisted. “You treat it like it’s a battle to be won. You wear your femininity like a badge, and you’re daring someone to make you flash it.”
“That’s ridiculous,” I said, pretending not to wonder at that. “Besides, none of my lovers have ever complained.”
“Because they’re probably afraid your viselike vagina would squeeze off their manhood. Like those credit card machines that suck up the card and won’t give it back.” And she laughed gaily, waving off my outraged cry. “Besides, we’re not talking about lovers, we’re talking about love, and you haven’t allowed yourself to go there since Ben.”
My mouth snapped shut. True. Even I’d thought those emotions had dried up like a shallow lake bed beneath the desert sun.
“Like you’re an expert,” I muttered.
“Darling, I fall in love on a daily basis,” she said, waving a hand around her. “I love that tree and this drink and Luna here.” Ah, that was the name of the beast twining about my legs. I reached down and scratched Luna behind her ears. Her throat rumbled. Outside, lightning flashed. “I love you,” Olivia continued, “and I love Ben for loving you too.”
I must have looked surprised at that. My hand stilled on Luna’s back.
“You know he does,” she said.
“Maybe he does,” I nodded cautiously, stroking the cat again, “and maybe I know it, but how do you?”
Olivia leaned forward. “Because how could anyone know the real Joanna Archer and not love her?”
I smiled at her sincerity but looked away. It wasn’t that the sentiment wasn’t appreciated, but her rhetorical question brought to mind that afternoon’s confrontation with Xavier.
Olivia, sensing that, quickly changed the subject. “Don’t you want to open your present?”
I nodded, but didn’t reach for the package in the corner of the coffee tray. “I need to ask your help with something first.”
“Want me to take Ben for a little ride? Break him in for you?”
“I think I can handle that on my own,” I replied dryly.
“Too bad,” she said, demurely sipping her martini.
“I want to find out who my real father is,” I said. “I think Xavier knows, but he’s keeping it from me.”
“Why would he?”
“Knowing him, it’s probably just a power trip, something he can use to keep me under his thumb.” I frowned and tapped my finger against my glass. “But I was thinking about it this afternoon. What if he knows where the guy lives? What if Zoe mentioned it to him at some point?”
“What if,” Olivia finished for me, “she returned to this man when she left Xavier?”
I smiled at her use of his name. “So you’ll help me?”
She looked at me like I had the mental capacity of a two-year-old, which was unsettling. “I’ve already begun.” She rose and jerked her head, indicating I should follow. I did, leaving my present, my martini, and Luna on the couch behind me.