Prologue
She was born Valeria Luisa Artiz, the daughter of a Spanish painter, but hailed from America and was—in light of her upbringing in the sizzling humidity of the Florida Panhandle—very American in her style and personal habits. Her husband's European friends thought her Americanisms very charming, and though Valeria spoke Spanish with Castilian flair, they begged her to chat in her self-described "round sounding, flatly accented" English. They got a kick out of it and thought she was sexy—so did Valeria's husband of four years to the day; it was mid-June and they were triumphant, if not a little smug about finding a babysitter for their young son; they were just in time to make the trek to Madrid to celebrate their anniversary in style.
On this particularly fine morning, the guests at the Ritz stirred in their high thread-count beds and thought about breakfast. At least Valeria did; coffee was her lifeline and it was time for a critical a.m. infusion. Her husband preferred to go for a run. The way they kissed in the lobby drew a whistle of appreciation from tourists sitting down for a light bite to eat. The heat of his kiss lingered on her neck while she watched him from the window. He rounded the corner and headed toward the Parque del Retiro, bursting in the stunning floral variety one could expect this time of year. Had she joined him, she would need the sunglasses that went missing sometime yesterday. The beauty of Europe blinded her sometimes, and she relied quite a bit on those glasses to catch a reprieve from it all. Valeria's habit of overdosing on the best life had to offer was in full swing today as she sat by the window overlooking the Prado Museum. She thought she might browse the Renoir exhibit after finishing her seven dollar cup of coffee. (After all this time, she still had the habit of converting euros to dollars.)
Better make this coffee count; it don't come cheap.
She sighed in her happiness, eyes burning with something she hoped was inspiration, and scratched out a haiku on the newspaper someone left behind. The way the sun poured in and bounced off the opulence of the hotel bar made her think the sun was made of pure gold; she smiled when she added this thought to her Haiku. She was the happiest woman in the world until something distracted her. All of a sudden, commotion drifted in like a bad smell—a band of paparazzi clicked their cameras and fired questions at an attractive woman, Valeria recognized instantly, as an American actress named Halle Fox.
No, it couldn't be! She reproached herself. What were the odds? A second look, proved it; that was Halle Fox, all right, standing in the golden light of the sun drenched bar.
Halle Fox was an old high school buddy of Valeria's from Florida; back when "Halle" was "Stephanie" and represented your garden variety debutante, appearing in community theatre and all the senior plays—not too shabby, but not too spectacular either. Valeria had not seen Stephanie Halifax (that was "Halle's" real last name) since they swam, years ago, at the Halifax mansion. Steph seemed to vanish overnight soon after that hot day at the pool. Valeria cringed when she felt it again—that stab of abandonment. Steph, her so-called best friend at the time, up and went to Paris that summer, leaving everyone scratching their heads and choking on wander-dust. There were no postcards, calls or letters after Steph's departure. Valeria could consider herself dumped and that was that.
"Halle" caught Valeria's gaze and the two women locked eyes. The actress said something to break up the paparazzi and was left alone after that, making her way over to where Valeria was sitting. "Val!" she shouted with an electrifying stage presence that was almost annoying.
Valeria's mother was melodramatic, too and it created big problems over the years. Nonetheless, her face registered nothing but sheer joy when she stood up to greet Stephanie. In her haste, she spilled her seven dollar cup of coffee. She swore with relief when she saw the airy-light china cup still in tact.
"Well, shit!" Valeria laughed, shrugging and giving Steph a hug.
"Don't worry about the coffee," Steph beamed. It was great to run into another American overseas and her demeanor showed it. "I'll buy you another one." She motioned for a waiter and ordered two coffees in English.
"Oh, my God!" Valeria shrieked for the third time. "I can't believe I'd run into you all the way out here. What are the odds?"
Steph sat down and lit a cigarette. She had not smoked in the years Valeria knew her. At closer inspection, she could see that Steph was not aging as gracefully as she was; they swapped stories on the why and how of being in Spain.
"So, you still haven't told me. Explain the odds of finding you all the way out here," Valeria asked through a haze of tasty smelling smoke. She was tempted to bum one off her old friend.
'Well," Steph said, taking a deep drag and exhaling, "the odds are, I'm shooting a movie in Madrid."
"Congratulations on your career, by the way." Valeria was sincere in that. It was pretty impressive how far Steph had come since community theatre in little old Leland, Florida.
Steph finished her cigarette; it was one of those long skinny elegant jobs, looking absurdly appropriate in Steph's manicured hand, which was offset by three diamond rings and a tennis bracelet that cast rainbows against the wall.
"Look," Steph leveled, actually reaching out with her hand; the contact sent a shiver along Valeria's spine. "All these years, I've felt bad about disappearing that summer without a word. I can safely tell people now it was because…" she paused, leaving Valeria to fill in the blanks.
Because you got knocked up? Valeria surmised under her breath; the truth of what Steph uttered next came as even more of a shock.
"I was in love with Paul Morgan. Remember him?"
Valeria gasped. "Of course, I remember Paul! You didn't tell me you were in love with him. In fact, you never so much as told me you were dating him."
"It was a whirlwind thing. Anyway, I had a pregnancy scare, Paul proposed and my parents…well, you know my parents."
Valeria did remember them and not with a whole lot of fondness. Mr. and Mrs. Halifax were horrible snobs and not in a way you could fix; their desire to keep up with the Joneses was programmed into their DNA. In high school, Paul was part of Valeria's wrong-side of the tracks demographic, so it all made sense.
"So, they wouldn't let you marry him?" Valeria guessed.
"Bingo," Steph answered, still rueful. "It all happened the night of my play—the one you and your mom bailed on? Paul asked my Dad's permission for my hand in marriage that night. Mom lost her mind and threatened to yank my trust fund. So, I caved in and, well…" Steph paused, looking over Valeria's shoulder at a fixed mark somewhere on the busy streets leading all the way to Salamanca. "I had a broken heart and Paris was their way of helping me nurse it."
"I'm sorry to hear all that," Valeria said, "but you're happy now, right?"
Steph sat back and crossed her arms across her breasts, "Yeah," she said smiling at last. "I am." She turned her attention on Valeria, "What about you? God, you look great!"
Valeria did look pretty good. She still wore her black hair long, only today it was swept into a pony tail and looked fresh off an Arabian horse. She saw Steph staring at the fist sized locket she wore around her neck.
"Pretty necklace," Steph observed. "Huge! It's a locket, right?"
"Yeah," Valeria shrugged.
"Anything in it?"
"Oh," Valeria cupped the heart in her hand. "I keep a proverb in it. I had a friend write it out in calligraphy for me a long time ago. It says, 'To make an omelet, you have to break a few eggs.' It turned out to be tremendously true over the course of my life. To get something good, you gotta heave-ho through a big mess first, right?"
Steph ran the phrase through her mind. "To break a few eggs," she muttered in what was scarcely a whisper. "Where have I seen that before? Isn't that from somewhere in Leland?"
"Guess where," Valeria challenged.
Steph snapped two of her fingers together; the nails were so long and brightly polished they made her hands seem like lacquered birds. "I got it!" she said at last, "wasn't that on the sign outside the funeral home?"
That wasn't where the proverb had been, but Valeria didn't bother refuting it. It didn't matter anyway. The wonderful life she currently enjoyed was set in motion in that funeral home—the place where life is supposed to stop and not unfold.
Steph looked at her watch and sighed with true regret. "Listen, she said, they need me on the set and I'm already late." She fished around in a little coin purse that was as sparkly as her tennis bracelet and extracted a business card. She handed it to Valeria, hugged her, and got up to leave.
"Keep in touch with me this time, okay Val? I'll be in Spain for six more months. My e-mail and phone are both on that card. That's my direct line, not my publicist."
Thanks," Valeria said. "I will call." This was not a lie. She looked forward to it.
Steph and/or Halle Fox looked over her shoulder on her way out of the lobby, and for a split second, lost her Hollywood aura and became the small town debutant Valeria remembered.
"It'll be great going down memory lane," Steph said and was gone.
You're too late. I'm already there, Valeria thought, closing her half-Spanish eyes and time traveling back to Square 1.
© 2004 - Jennifer Russon
posted on Thursday, March 11, 2004 1:15 AM