Chapter 22 – Vale
PAINFUL BEAUTY
VALE
Itake my time getting ready for dinner. I took a long shower, exfoliated, and shaved my legs.
I blow-dried my hair and curled the ends.
If we have the chance tonight, I hope he’ll touch me again.
It’s why I’m going through all the trouble.
I even did my laundry today so I’d have something decent to wear.
I’d ruined one of my skirts trying to iron it—so much for wrinkle free—and it now had a burned imprint of the iron right on the ass. So instead, I opted for a yellow sundress that could get wet without ruining it and a pair of chunky, cork-heeled sandals with braided straps.
Oliver had told me to bring a bathing suit, so I pack a bag with my new black bikini that I’d yet to wear and clothes to change into that are actually comfortable.
Gramps and I haven’t gone swimming yet this summer.
And with Kat gone, I didn’t think I’d get to wear the bikini at all.
So, when Oliver offered I was super excited.
I love swimming. I missed it so much. I used to love to compete with the other kids at the gym.
I’d swim faster and jump off the high dive when none of the others were brave enough.
It was a way to discharge all the energy that left me anxious.
If I was exhausted, I didn’t get in as much trouble.
But that outlet ended pretty quickly once my father learned boys were allowed to swim with the girls.
Hoping to look more sophisticated, I decide to clip half my hair up at the side so it shows the length of my neck. When I look at the floor-length mirror in my bedroom, I feel like an imposter. I feel like an intimidated, little girl, not a woman.
I don’t have a speck of makeup on—Women wear makeup, right?—so, I grab a tube of tinted lip gloss and slather it across my lips. But I still feel like a fool as I stand there staring at myself, wondering if I’ll ever feel like a woman.
I’m about to leave my room but worry stops me.
What’s going to happen at Oliver’s house?
Now that my mind has slowed down, I don’t know if I can hide what we did from Gramps.
Will he know I kissed him? Will I be able to hide it?
Should I go? I don’t know what to do, but I told them both I’d come, and I’m sure he told Gramps I’d be there by now. I have to go.
I force myself to walk down the rear staircase. This time guilt is slowing me down a bit. Oliver is friends with Gramps; I’m putting him in an impossible position. What will happen if Gramps finds out about what we’ve been doing behind his back? He’d be very mad at us.
I make my way out the back door, then cross the partially covered wooden deck in the back where I first met Oliver.
I step onto the big gray flagstones which connect our yard to his.
Gramps and I have always wondered who built the stone pathway.
It was one of the many mysteries about these houses.
I wonder if Oliver knows. I bet it was someone in love.
They must have built the path together to make it easier to get to one another . . . I obviously have love on the brain.
The sun doesn’t go down till late in the summer, so there’s still sunlight.
Though I think a meteorologist would call it twilight.
You know, the time of day when the sound of crickets and cicadas singing has just started up.
The incessant buzz of a southern, summer-night symphony.
I miss that song so much whenever I leave Silver Springs.
What little light is left paints parts of the sky in shades of orange to peach, then to a rich salmon-pink. I stare up at Oliver’s house in awe. It looks so much larger now.
I can’t help my own curiosity and search for his bedroom window. The light is off. I know he’s inside somewhere, probably still cooking in the kitchen. Would he try to make a good impression on me tonight? The way Gramps and I had tried for him.
I make my way onto the porch that wraps around to the back of the house.
I admire the pretty white spindles and the detailed brackets that pull it all together in the corners.
I study the swirling designs with one hand on a tall, Corinthian column to keep me steady.
The first-floor bay windows sit protected under the porch roof.
I hadn’t noticed before, but the glass flashing of each window is intricately detailed.
The glass is trimmed in royal-blue, and red roses sit at different intervals with frost-colored leaves and vines.
I bet it’s amazing with the early morning sunlight shining through.
The house is beyond beautiful. I’ve never seen so much detailed work on a single house.
Even the fish scale shingles, with their robin’s-egg color, popped.
Each piece is astounding in its beauty. I could sit on the lawn out front, studying the facade for hours and continue to find new details. I can’t wait to see inside.
I ring the doorbell, a tinny sounding ring that I hear from outside, then wait, fidgeting, until Gramps opens the door. I giggle, not expecting him.
“Long time no see, stranger. Thanks for the pancakes this morning. If you keep making those, I’m going to gain a hundred pounds. How’s the library stuff going?” I ask, then give him a quick hug.
“Oh, Vale, you have to see it. It’s exquisite. There are Byron originals. Come and see,” he says, then he’s off, taking me into Oliver’s house as if he owns the place. Why did he answer the door anyway? Maybe Oliver’s still cooking even though I’m late.
Gramps leads me straight to the library, though I really want a tour of the whole house.
Most of all, I want to find Oliver. I follow Gramps and pretend to march behind him like a good soldier.
I take in the foyer with its dark wood paneling that shines, dust free in the mellow Tiffany lighting.
It’s so nice, and for the life of me, I don’t understand why someone like Oliver would want to have a house like this.
It seems too traditional for a single guy.
I look up at the antique, floral runner on the stairs, knowing his bedroom is up there.
I wonder if he’s in it. I start to walk in that direction, but Gramps interrupts my thoughts by tapping my hand.
I follow him through a formal living room, then past several rooms with carved doors tightly closed.
There it is, through decorative pocket doors made from dark wood and stained glass.
The stained glass is decorated with a gold shield and bright, blood-red roses, the same color as the ones outside.
I wonder if it’s some sort of family crest. There’s definitely a theme inside and out.
The roses must be important. I smile with the memory of the rose he left at my bedside and how it’d been stripped of all its thorns.
I step through the doors, and Gramps closes them gently behind me.
Holy shit! There’s no way this has always been here.
It couldn’t have been. “Did he build the library on to the house or is this original?” I ask as I stare up at the domed ceiling that must be at least thirty-five feet high.
There’s a second floor at the base of the dome where beautifully hand-carved bookshelves line the wall.
I can’t believe my eyes. It’s magical. The space is huge, probably bigger than Silver Springs’ public library.
How is this here? It doesn’t make sense.
I swear the house is the same size as Gramps’s house.
I’ve never seen the dome. Surely no amount of trees and shrubbery could have covered all of this up.
“I think he added at least part of it on. I’m not sure. You’ll need to ask him. Isn’t it lovely. Come over here, come and see,” Gramps says with excitement and joy in his voice. He loves it here.
“Now I know why Oliver needed help. Gramps, this is something else.” I gasp in awe as I study the painted dome above me.
The dome is painted to imitate the sky above with pale blue and brushstrokes of creamy white meant to mimic the clouds.
There are many small gold fleur-de-lis medallions, each like a star, and tiny lamps that glow and come down like rain at different intervals.
I bet it would look like the night sky when the rest of the lights are off.
I turn in a circle underneath, watching as each angle changes it. Not only are the medallions a map of the night sky, but the lights are meant to look like meteors. They put the glowing plastic stars in my bedroom to shame. Is this what people say is a sign? If so, what’s it a sign of?
For a moment, I can’t look away. I’m in shock, awed by the library’s beauty. I’ve never seen anything like it. The dome itself may be the most beautiful piece of architecture I’ve ever seen.
“Gramps, who designed this library?”
Gramps looks up, joining me while I stare at the dome. “I knew you’d love that. Oliver designed it. He’s an architect. Didn’t he tell you?” he says, and all I can do is nod my head. He did tell me that, the night we met, but I hadn’t thought anymore about it.
It is a sign. It must be.
Gramps grabs my hand and tugs me forward, jerking me out of my reverie. I follow him into a reading nook that happens to have several yellowed, handwritten pages protected in a glass case. I study it, but the handwriting is curled and slanted, slashed across the page—not exactly readable.
“What are those?” I ask, curious why these would be protected so.
“Those are Lord Byron’s works, written by his own hand.
And those are love letters to his muse. I can’t imagine any reason these shouldn’t be in a museum somewhere, but Oliver insists they must stay here.
Some of these poems have never been published.
I don't understand why they don’t share them with the world,” my grandfather explains, and I pat him on the back to comfort him.