21
“I still can’t believe you live in a gated community,” Maria said as she leaned toward the master bathroom mirror and dusted
her nose with loose powder. “It’s so... exclusionary.”
Well, yes. By both definition and intent.
Peter could list all the practical reasons he’d moved to a tiny incorporated city of less than a thousand residences perched
amid the rolling hills of western San Fernando Valley, and done so immediately after receiving his first Gods of the Gates paycheck. He’d used that paycheck as a down payment on the least expensive home for sale in the community, and he hadn’t
regretted it for a moment since.
Those three gates Maria disliked kept Google’s photography vehicles from driving by and sharing images of his house with randos
on the internet, most of whom were harmless—but not all. The guards at those gates also prevented buses of star-hungry tourists
from rumbling past his home all day as they sought out the properties of his more famous neighbors.
Furthermore, the setting was idyllic. Almost ridiculously so.
A greenbelt and nature preserve bordered his side of the community, and his home’s hilltop spot guaranteed spectacular sunset views.
Since the area had been developed in the 1950s, backyards resembled forests, with mature trees gently rustling in the breeze, and all the houses were different, rather than cookie-cutter clones of one another.
There were no sidewalks. No streetlights. Almost as many people riding horses as driving cars. Other than occasional helicopters
overhead, whisking various musicians, athletes, and actors—and their guests—to and from nearby houses, quiet ruled this corner
of the world.
But he was honest enough to admit the truth, at least to himself. Practical reasons hadn’t made him choose this community,
and they hadn’t driven him to scrimp for five years to pay off every last cent of his mortgage.
These two square miles of LA were exclusive. Famously so, and famous people lived here. People who’d undeniably made it .
Every time one of those three gates opened for his SUV and he drove inside, it was like being judged by some pitiless, omnipotent
being and found worthy. His heart weighed less than a feather, and all his risks and struggles had reaped their rewards, and
no one and nothing could make him return to where he’d been.
That lifting gate was a concrete reminder: This community was his. This property was his. This life was his.
And now Maria was his too, finally, here in his home, and she loved him and understood him, and he’d never been so happy in
all his life, and he was trying very, very hard not to panic.
But she didn’t need to hear all that. To her, the gates weren’t a sign of divine approbation. They were just... long pieces
of painted metal.
Meeting her gaze in the mirror, he finished buttoning his shirt by feel. “I’m a private person, Pippi.”
Either she was too busy with final preparations to shake jarred fish an eighth of an inch from his nose, or there were no
herring-friendly pockets in that tempting little dress.
Such a shame.
“Let me rephrase.” She straightened and twitched the folds of her dress until they fell into place. “I can’t believe you live
in a gated community whose gate is shaped like a giant oxen yoke, as if you’re all humble nineteenth-century beet farmers.
Even though one of your neighbors is a reality TV star with a golf course on her property, and you nearly peed yourself every
time one of the cows on the island mooed at you.”
If he protested that the golf course only featured two holes, because there wasn’t enough available acreage for more, Maria
would mock him. Rightfully so. Even though his own property barely encompassed an acre and didn’t contain a single putting
green.
The other issue, however, he’d gladly address.
“Those fucking cows were unnaturally large and loud, and their huge eyes brimmed with malevolence.” Chewing cud and plotting
murder. That was all they did, apart from occasional naps. “They were picturing pieces of my trampled corpse digesting in
their four stomach compartments.”
He might boast a small barn on his property, but a bovine would set foot—hoof—in it over his dead body. And given their inherent
maliciousness, that might literally be true.
In the face of his remembered terror, Maria only laughed at him.
Okay, then. Time to go on offense.
“I know you Swedes like them, sweetheart, but beets?” Aiming for sheer provocation, he flicked the tip of her powdered nose.
“They taste like dirt. Socialism and dirt.”
As anticipated, her nostrils flared in patriotic aggrievement, and she elbowed his ribs. “Beets taste like free college tuition
and universal health care provided via governmental policies aimed toward the common good.” She paused. “Also somewhat like
dirt. And blood.”
“Aha!” Turning from the mirror, he jabbed a finger in her direction. “I knew you—”
But she wasn’t done quite yet.
“Not to mention growing economic disparity, despite our largely left-wing governmental policies.” Her brow creased. “Which
is troubling, frankly. If anything, those beets aren’t socialist enough .”
Shit, she was adorable.
“Wow.” He had to smile at her. “Those are some complex fucking beets, sweetheart.”
She snorted. “Anyway, the gates are weird, but your house is great.”
His smile widened as he basked in that decisive, very Maria-esque pronouncement.
They’d only arrived at LAX the evening before, exhausted from their time in Madison, so he’d waited until morning for the
grand tour. Heart thumping a bit too hard, he’d guided her through the three-bedroom, two-bath, single-story ranch home, an
original 1950s build renovated and refurbished over the years under the exacting eye of the all-powerful Community Association.
Unlike some of the other properties in the area, the house wasn’t flashy, inside or out. From the road in front, only the
home itself was visible, with its neutral gray-green wood siding and white trim, framed by a few bushes and flowers. Inside,
everything had been updated but kept reasonable. He had hardwood floors; a decent-sized main bedroom, a small office, and
two guest rooms; a generous living room open to a kitchen equipped with marble countertops and high-end appliances; and bathrooms
that weren’t huge but were pristine and modern, with more marble and sleek white tile.
After walking into the en suite bathroom and spotting the sunken jetted tub and the glass-walled shower, Maria had offered him a slow, naughty grin. “I believe we’ll enjoy ourselves in here, Peter.”
He’d already considered the tour a success, even before she explored the true glory of his property: the backyard. Surrounded
by the same white three-rail fencing all his neighbors had, perched atop a hill with expansive views of the undulating land
surrounding the community, and complete with a large covered patio and a small, pretty pool, it was his favorite place to
relax.
On days with pleasant weather, he could open the wall of glass doors leading from the dining area to the patio and let the
outdoors inside even as he puttered around the house. And now that he was done filming overseas for most of the year, he might
finally have time to decorate the interior and make it as gorgeous as the view outside.
His mom’s sketches would serve as inspiration.
Right before her business went under, a client—her final client, as they’d soon find out—had requested a serene bedroom in
the blues and greens of a calm tropical ocean. At the kitchen table, Peter had watched his mother’s nimble fingers fly over
her sketch pad, first with pencil, then pen and watercolors. Her nails might have been ragged, lines firmly etched between
her thick, dark brows, but the corners of her mouth had been tucked into a quiet smile as she worked.
Creating beauty from nothing and offering it to others. Unable to keep it for herself.
“There it is, darling,” she’d said as she laid the sketch to dry on the laminate countertop. “What do you think? Will she
like it?”
“If she doesn’t, she’s a moron,” he’d said.
Instead of— It’s beautiful, Mom. You’re so talented, more talented than even you realize, and I can’t find the right words to tell you how much I love you. Thank you for loving me too, always, and telling me so, even when I don’t say it back.
But he’d been so young, and he’d been a sullen little asshole, and they’d had all the time in the world. She’d had all the
time in the world to keep drawing, keep creating beauty, and he’d had all the time in the world to tell her that her hugs
made him believe, if only for a moment, that someone could love him and everything would be all right again. Maybe not then,
but someday. As long as he had her.
The client loved her bright, peaceful new bedroom.
His mother closed her business and became a ghost.
But what she’d offered the world still existed. In him, and in that final sketch he’d had framed. The intricately drawn, prettily
painted death throes of his mom’s dream, now hanging over his fireplace and waiting for him to bring it back to life.
And Maria would help him do it.
His mother would have adored her. Who wouldn’t?
“I’m glad you like my home.” A vast understatement, but Maria would interpret it correctly. “Since it’s yours too now.”
For that, she planted a kiss on his cheek, then rubbed the resulting smear of lipstick from his skin.
“By the way, Peter,” she mumbled, lips barely moving as she reapplied the deep rose shade, “was that an actual barn in your
backyard? Because if so, I’m surprised, given your apparently deep-seated terror of murderous livestock.”
One day, when a bovine criminal mastermind engineered Peter’s grisly death, she’d repent her casual dismissal of his concerns.
He might originate from Wisconsin, the home state of cow-loving dairy-product enthusiasts, but he was no fool.