Total pages in book: 50
Estimated words: 48372 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 242(@200wpm)___ 193(@250wpm)___ 161(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 48372 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 242(@200wpm)___ 193(@250wpm)___ 161(@300wpm)
The foyer leads into a big, open living area that’s pretty mod but also sort of cozy. It’s done in mostly red and beige, with a white fireplace, a pillow-laden window seat, and what’s gotta be a custom red velvet couch shaped like a half heart. I grin as I realize this room must be “Piece of My Heart.”
The kitchen, on the back side of open space, looks like a 1950s diner, with a checkerboard floor, a black leather booth, and a jukebox by the stairs that must lead to the third and fourth floors. Framed Joplin records decorate the partial wall beside the jukebox. I can ID most of them from across the room. I own all her stuff in vinyl.
I’m headed toward the stairs when I realize they don’t just go up. They also descend into a little pool room. It’s done in blues, with wallpaper featuring the cover of the I Got Dem Ol’ Kozmic Blues Again Mama!
Back up the stairs, past the kitchen, to the third floor. Extravagantly fluffy white rugs cover blond hardwood. The rugs lead down a swath of hall that doubles as a library. Both walls are shelves, overflowing with trinkets and books related to Janice. At the hall’s far end is a door.
I open it slowly, my breath hung in my throat. Maybe I’m expecting him. Instead I’m greeted by the biggest bed I’ve ever seen—this massive, warm-wood canopy whose veils are white and gauzy. The room is big enough to suit the bed. One wall is a bookshelf stacked with books whose spines are shades of cream, white, and beige. Another—the one in facing the street—is nothing but that big curved window.
In one corner, there’s a record player. In another, a suede sectional. There’s a giant dresser with a giant mirror that looks like it might be made of pearl. I note the dresser’s knobs and realize—this is Pearl, the album.
Did Luke pick this place for me himself, having seen on my stories that I’m a Joplin junkie? Or was it Pearl the person, who, if her name is any indication, might well be a Joplin fan herself. Surely this can’t be one of Evermore’s properties.
I walk over to the wall-sized window, look down at the street. A cyclist zips by with a basket full of red flowers. Across the street, a man is dancing.
San Francisco.
Here I fucking am.
I sprawl on the bed and stare up at the canopy. Lana had a canopy. I hardly ever slept over, though. She liked to sleep on her stomach in a starfish pose. Also, I don’t think I ever wanted to.
I think about Maya and that dumb shit about Carolina. I think of all the fucks before her. It’s a blur. Mostly, my last year has been about Centaur. He’s a commissioned piece for a woman in France. When I’m finished, he’ll stand at the bottom of a grand staircase in a chateau.
That reminds me—he’s in transit. I check the tracking via my phone’s email. He’s in Denver right now.
Might have been a stupid move to haul him out here, but I can lose my vision. Too much time away and it gets blurry. I can’t let that happen. It’s the only thing I won’t give up for Luke.
I pace the room, stop in front of the mirror. I stick my hands in my pockets and think that I look like an all-right guy. My hair’s just below my ears now—chestnut brown and just a little curly. My face is beard-free, but stubbly on purpose. I’m wearing a black leather jacket, a beige Dead tee, wine-colored jeans, and my old black boots that I wear all the fucking time.
My reflection crosses his arms. “Fool.”
It’s better if I say that up front and don’t pretend I don’t know what the odds are. Still…my pulse picks up a little—because in an hour, I’m due at the church.
I lie on the bed again and rub my always-aching shoulders, then get up and pace around. I’m so distracted, I forgot about the fourth floor. It turns out, a ladder in the bedroom’s closet leads up to it. I hoist myself up into it, then freeze on my hands and knees.
It’s a fucking studio. Or was set up that way for me. I notice the walls just after my eyes move over the easel, canvases, and paints. They’re art, too: ocean waves. Dark waves, painted by someone with skill, a little dreamy, from an underwater perspective. You can see the bubbles and the shifting surf up near the top of the wall.
Near the bottom, spelled by some sea weeds that look incredibly realistic, is the word All. The underwater scene, with the sea floor bearing nothing but some kelp, offers the clues I need. This room is “All is Loneliness.” I look admiringly at the “All.” The texture is so good…and it’s so subtle. If I wasn’t looking for song titles, I might never notice anything but underwater flora.