We Run the Tides(36)

“How can you be Swedish and not have blue eyes?” the gelled boy says.

“Ignore him,” Axel says. “I like your hat, by the way.”

I check his face for sarcasm and see none. “Thank you.”

I lift a forkful of risotto to my mouth.

“How is it?” Axel asks.

I’m still chewing.

“Are you going to spit or swallow?” says the tan boy.

“Dude, drop it,” says Axel, and turns toward me. “What’s your name again?”

“Eulabee,” I say.

“Eulogy?” says the gelled boy.

“Ignore both of them,” Axel says. His full body is turned toward me now, both his knees almost touching mine. I can smell his Polo by Ralph Lauren but there’s also another smell, almost cardamom-like, beneath the cologne. Alcohol, I realize. He’s drunk, all three of them are, or else they’re on their way.

“What are you drinking?” I ask.

Axel smiles. He has the kind of smile that reveals the man he’s going to become. I see it clearly. He is destined to sell high-end real estate—his photo, with that same smile, will be featured in a little box on laminated full-page, heavy-paper stocked flyers for Pacific Heights mansions.

“Give me your cup,” he says. I oblige. He reaches into the inside pocket of his suit jacket and turns away from me theatrically.

After five seconds he swivels toward me once again.

“Ta da,” he says and holds the cup out to me.

“Dude,” says his gelled friend. “You should never ever become a magician.”

I close my eyes as I down the contents of my cup in one long, long gulp.

“Oh, shit,” one of the boys says.

I look at Axel, who now appears less like a future real estate magnate and more like Milan Kundera.

Suddenly, I hear a triangle, like the kind played at a symphony. Reluctantly I turn away from Axel’s beautiful face.

It is a triangle.

Arabella is holding the triangle and striking it with a wand. She pauses to allow the sound to reverberate throughout the house. She’s removed her bolero jacket—most likely to show off her toned arms as they hold the triangle. Her white dress is even snugger than I imagined. She’s not wearing underwear.

“We are gathered here today—” she begins.

“To celebrate this thing called life,” Axel’s tan friend says.

Arabella owls her head toward the study. I suspect she’s going to call him out for disrupting her speech, but her eyes are on Axel. I realize she thinks it’s Axel who’s spoken. And clearly, she likes Axel. A slow and possibly seductive smile creeps up on her orange-lipsticked mouth.

“Exactly,” she says. “We are gathered here today to celebrate life. And one life in particular. We are so grateful that our beautiful friend, my incredible goddaughter, has been returned to us.”

“Amen,” some adults whisper loudly. The girls clap. The boys whistle.

Maria Fabiola is still nowhere in sight.

“Maria Fabiola’s mom was my roommate at Vassar,” Arabella announces. “That was before . . .”

The doorbell rings and the entire crowd turns, expecting to see Maria Fabiola. Lotta, the Dutch girl enters, looking hesitant. She’s wearing a red flannel skirt, a bright yellow tank top, and a purple coat. Everyone looks disappointed that she’s not Maria Fabiola; Arabella looks disappointed to have such a terribly dressed guest. Arabella turns away abruptly as though wishing to erase the sight of her. Lotta’s eyes search the room and lock with mine. She wants to come sit with me, I can tell. But Axel’s alcoholic concoction has warmed my body and sharpened my mind and I see her for the traitor she is.

I deliberately dart my eyes away from hers. I turn them to my empty red cup and then to Axel, who mistakes the flight pattern of my eyes to mean that I want a refill. I don’t need one, but I appreciate that he’s been watching me closely enough to think that’s what I’m signaling. When Arabella resumes speaking, Axel plays the part of the bad magician. He turns away, reaches into his left suit pocket with his right hand as though about to extract a sword, but instead refills my red cup from what I imagine is an engraved silver flask.

“Calgon, take me away,” I whisper into his ear. Axel leans toward my mouth so that my lips inadvertently graze his upper earlobe. Even though I can’t see his face, I feel his body tense in pleasure. He returns the red cup to me.

We’ve missed whatever else Arabella has said. When I turn back, everyone is silent, their eyes on the stairway.

Maria Fabiola steps down the first rounded stair. Audible gasps emerge before we can even see her face. She’s wearing a long white wedding dress. She looks like the photos of debutantes in the Nob Hill Gazette. I watch as her white satin–heeled shoe takes a step around the curved staircase and then her body turns and she’s facing the crowd. She looks stunning, and five years older in the best possible way. Her hair is styled in a bun with highlighted tendrils framing her face. It dawns on me that she’s spent the day in a beauty salon—that’s why she wasn’t at school today.

She takes another step down, and then her serious face with its hazy gaze absorbs the appraisals of everyone in the crowd. I suspect she’s counting the number of people who have shown up for her—115, 120. When the room is silent, she breaks into a smile, and extends her hands diagonally in front of her, as though she’s just finished an incredible performance—a dance routine, or an aria with a high note. The party guests all break into applause.