Lovegame(70)

“I can imagine. He built this house, didn’t he?”

“He did, yes.” She blinks her eyes for a moment, like she’s fighting tears, but brightens almost immediately. “Would you like a tour? This place has a million secrets.”

I feel a little like I’ve got whiplash considering just how many emotions Melanie Romero has run through in the last five minutes. Almost like she isn’t sure which one it’s appropriate to feel right now, so she’s throwing all of them at me at once.

Her color is a little too high, her eyes a little too bright, her laugh a little too loud. As I follow her down the long, winding staircase, I can’t help wondering if it’s natural—if she’s always like this—or if she’s just hyped up from the party. Or maybe she’s on something. This is Hollywood, after all. If you’re famous, there’s always someone around to get you whatever little pick-me-up you need.

“Have you seen the guest rooms?” Melanie asks as we hit the third floor landing. “They’re quite unique.”

“I’ve seen a couple of them,” I tell her honestly, “but I’d love to see more. I love art.”

“Well then, you’ve come to the right place. We have plenty of that.” She leads me down the hallway straight to the Andy Warhol room. I don’t tell her I’ve already seen it—she’s the one giving the tour after all—and her face is filled with pride when she thrusts the door open.

“My husband had this piece commissioned many years ago,” she tells me, gesturing to the painting of her that dominates the wall across from the bed. “I had such fun posing for it. Of course, back then, everyone wanted me to pose for something or other.”

“It’s gorgeous. The color palette suits you.”

She laughs, slaps gently at my arm. “Darling, didn’t you know? Everything suits me.”

It’s such a Veronica thing to say—at least when she’s in man-eating mode—that I do a double take. Then again, it shouldn’t really surprise me. Melanie Romero is one of the best. Is it any wonder her daughter learned from her.

“And down here is the Mapplethorpe room,” she says, leading me across the hall and several doors down. I notice she skips the Picasso room and the Pollock room. Because she doesn’t like them? Or because—this time when she throws open the doors, what’s on the other side is a surprise. Except that it isn’t, because of course, there are two Mapplethorpes hanging on the wall. Both portraits, both in his signature, stark black and white. Both of Melanie, nude, in her heyday.

“Robert was such an amazing man,” she tells me as she walks over to the window, as if to look outside. But I can see the subtle way she’s posing next to the photograph, her positioning mirroring that in the photo perfectly—almost like she’s had a lot of practice.

“You can come in, you know,” she tells me without turning around. “The art won’t bite. It’s meant to be looked at.”

“They’re beautiful,” I tell her as I follow her instructions, stopping halfway into the room so I can get an objective look at both photographs.

“They are,” she agrees. “But then, Robert always said I made it so easy.”

I bet he did say exactly that to her. I bet a lot of people do. Not because it’s necessarily the truth, but because it’s what she needs to hear.

“So,” she says, turning back to face me. “Do you like them?”

“Of course. They’re stunning,” I tell her honestly.

“They are. Robert was a genius and such a powerful social influencer. Such a shame we lost him so early.” She sighs. “Like my Salvatore. Did you ever meet him?”

“No, I’m afraid not. I’m a big fan, but I’ve always stuck to the solitary writing side of things, at least until Belladonna became a movie.”

“And now you’re here, in one of Salvatore and Melanie Romero’s guest rooms. How does that feel?”

“Surreal, honestly,” I tell her with a laugh. “But I was under the impression that this is Veronica’s home now?”

I watch her carefully as I say it, looking for I’m not sure what. Some sign of discomfort, angst, something. Whatever it is, I don’t get it. In fact, Melanie laughs—a real laugh and not that weird tinkling sound she usually makes. “Forgive me,” she says after a moment of unchecked mirth. “Here in Hollywood we aren’t used to your East Coast bluntness. But yes, this is Veronica’s house now, though she lets me stay here whenever I’d like. She’s also lovely enough to still let me call it my house, though it’s not anymore. But that’s the kind of woman my daughter is, Ian. Lovely all the way through.”

“She absolutely is,” I agree, relaxing slightly now that I can see the woman behind the Hollywood mask. Or, more accurately, see that whatever else Melanie Romero is, she is a mother who loves her daughter very much.

Melanie switches the light off as we head out of the room. “What would you like to see now?”

“Wherever you’d like to take me. I saw most of the house the other day, during the photo shoot.”

“Did you? And still you took me up on my offer of a tour when you could be upstairs dancing with my daughter?”

I shrug. “I wanted to see how your tour differed from hers.”