Chapter 5
Chapter Five
FRANKIE
I don’t know what’s worse. Sleeping in my childhood bed, or not sleeping in my childhood bed because I can’t stop thinking about a guy I despise.
My old bedroom is an instant flashback. Shelby hasn’t changed the décor in here one bit. Same crocheted blanket on my bed. Same faded wallpaper with oak leaves and acorns on it that’s peeling in places (I may have helped it along when I was little). Same desk with Powerpuff girl stickers on it. Same posters of Pink, and Warhol’s multi-colored Marilyn Monroe on the wall.
Mom and Dad bought this house along with the vineyard the year they got married. It was built by the previous owner, who favored a folksy arts and crafts style, all exposed timber and shaker tiles, wagon wheels in the garden, that kind of thing. The house wasn’t renovated once in the whole of my eighteen years at home, because we had zero money. If Mom hadn’t been arty, the place would have been a crusty dump. But she had the ability to brighten even the shabbiest corner, with arrangements of flowers and leaves, painted stones, and candles. She covered the walls with our kiddie daubs, family photos, and the very occasional painting she had time to make. She wasn’t ashamed to scour the thrift stores for old furniture, and colorful throws and cushions to cover the holes. She used mismatched crockery before it became cool.
The one thing she never skimped on was new clothes and shoes for the four of us. We didn’t have extensive wardrobes by any means but everything we wore was of good quality. I’m not sure if it was a front, to make the world believe that Flora Valley Wines was doing well, or if Mom refused to let us be singled out and shamed by the wealthier kids at school. Funny now that Shelby looks like she picked out her clothes from Goodwill’s reject pile, and I’m the vintage thrift queen. Okay, I do have two quality suits for work but one’s blush pink and the other’s primrose yellow. I like to ensure my opposition underestimates me. It’s fun to watch their faces when they suddenly realize they’re being eaten alive by the young lady who looks sweet as candy.
I should turn out the bedside lamp, but I know I’ll only lie awake in the dark. I stare at the Warhol Monroe print. It’s the version with an orange face on a fuchsia background, lemon yellow mouth, and neon pink eyelids. I chose it because it’s the most unsettling combination, the most unlike the real Marilyn. People, and not just guys, often call me “Monroe-esque”. They think it’s a compliment, but they’re basically saying I should be grateful that I resemble her because I don’t fit today’s ideal of beauty. That’s why I have the Warhol poster, to remind me that image is fleeting, and that character is everything.
Character. Integrity. Honesty. That’s what I value. And that’s what Danny Durant lacks. He is a values-free void. A black hole of assholery. So why can’t I stop thinking about him? And why is my body reacting to these thoughts? Was there something other than a hint of tropical fruit in that craft beer? Crushed up Spanish fly, for example?
Okay, let’s do what I do best: assess the facts. Danny Durant is handsome, no doubt about that, if you like the preppy look: blond hair, neatly trimmed but with a wave on top as if he’s casually pushed it over with his fingers, tanned skin, straight nose like the statue of David, and a firm chin. Great cheekbones like his older brother, and the same eyes, but where Nate’s are a striking topaz blue, Danny’s are softer, like denim. His mouth is softer, too, and mobile, like he smiles a lot. The kind of mouth you just know will be terrific to kiss…
Speculation, Ms Armstrong! Stick to the facts. Of course, he smiles a lot; he’s in love with his own boorish, sexist wit. And don’t call it a smile – it’s a smirk !
The quip about the cork comedies wasn’t bad, though. He was quick, I’ll give him that. And he did apologize. Reluctantly, true, but I’ve grown to be skilled at judging body language, because it’s super useful in court, and I can tell the difference between someone squirming because they’ve been caught out, and someone feeling genuine shame. Danny was in between, but definitely leaning towards the side of shame.
And I was watching him when Shelby said she loved us, loved having her family around. He flinched – actually flinched. Just for a second but I caught it. I’m not sure what it means, yet. He’s allergic to expressions of affection? I can identify with that. Maybe he feels like he doesn’t deserve love? That’s getting into deeper psychological territory than I care to tread, but it’s not out of the bounds of possibility. Some people are born with an iron-clad sense of self-worth – my dad was one of them. Most of us have to fight a little harder to feel like we matter.
Danny’s staying in the tiny house attached to the workshop, built by our Flora Valley Wines handyman and barrel-maker, Cam Hollander. Cam’s another who’s had a hard road to self-respect. Dad and Mom rescued him over a decade ago, when Cam was a homeless army-vet hanging on to life by a thread. Now, Cam’s shacked up with yet another Durant sibling, Ava, in a cute bungalow, surrounded by fruit trees. They took the cantankerous winery goose, Dylan, with them. Mrs Dylan died, and seeing as geese mate for life, Cam and Ava are the only family Dylan’s got. Nate was relieved; he was convinced, accurately, that Dylan hated him. Shelby was a little sad, but her house and yard are full of cats and dogs. So many, I’ve long since given up trying to count or identify them. There are also two Vietnamese pot-bellied pigs, Ham Solo and Luke Skyporker, but they’re kept in a pen. Ham and Luke were the only pets I really bonded with. I’ll go visit them tomorrow morning, take some food scraps, see if they recognize me.
I start thinking about Danny again. A natural segue from pigs, obviously. The workshop and tiny house are about twenty minutes’ walk cross country, through vines and trees. Four minutes’ drive by road, but I didn’t see a vehicle except the pick-up, so I assume Danny got settled in, then came over on foot. I know he trades in classic cars, and I’d be interested to see what he drove up from L.A in. I wonder if he’ll give my baby blue Karmann Ghia the seal of approval or dismiss it as a faddish piece of crap? Maybe I want him to hate it, so I can keep on hating him ?
Do I hate him, though? Or do I hate what he represents? The privilege that good looks and good breeding automatically unlocks. The Durants are wealthy, like super rich. Shelby says they live in a mansion with five hundred rooms. Okay, she might have been exaggerating in her usual feverish fashion, but unlike us, the Durant kids grew up with money. They went to the best private schools, the best colleges. The youngest two, twins Izzy and Max, are at MIT and Juilliard School of Music, for crying out loud! I got my law degree through a community college, and I had to work my ass off to get my foot in the door of a decent legal firm. Danny Durant has had everything handed to him on a plate, and he may as well have a badge of entitlement embroidered on his preppy shirt instead of that stupid dude on a polo pony.
Right, job done. I’ve worked myself up to a low boil of loathing. Not so much that I’ll lie awake churning with rage. Just enough to ensure any thoughts I have of Danny Durant stay up in my brain and don’t slide downwards to parts that are easily swayed by soft blue eyes and a kissable mouth.
Of course, I can’t guarantee what might happen in my dreams.