Shadow’s Edge

The bathroom was the one place she’d invested money to upgrade her tiny one-bedroom apartment, and it had been money well spent. The plumbing, though, she thought as a trickle of water from the faucet ran in a chilly sluice over her left big toe. She was going to have to talk to Saul about the plumbing.

The building was over fifty years old, done in a poorly executed art deco style, and had what her landlord Saul referred to as “character.” The faucets dripped, the toilet ran, the kitchen cabinets stuck, the walls were thin as paper. She had become overly familiar with her next-door neighbors’ personal problems.

Still, she loved it. It was home, and a home was what she most desperately needed after her mother died.

It wasn’t a shock, her mother’s early death. No one survived long drinking as much alcohol as she did. But her death had left Jenna, at eighteen years old, with no one, not a single soul in the world to call family. Once her father vanished when she was ten, her mother had adamantly refused to even speak his name.

Jenna had only the most fleeting memories of him. Tall and dark, handsome, somber, mysterious. And the memory of his smell was burned into her mind. He carried the cool scent of night on his skin no matter the time of day.

Her mother had no siblings, her grandparents were long dead...there was simply no one.

College was out of the question. Her mother left her with no money, nothing other than an upside-down mortgage on a small bungalow in the Valley, a few pieces of jewelry, and furniture bought from a secondhand store. Jenna sold it all and used what little money she had left as a down payment on her first month’s rent on this apartment.

She’d made her way. And knowing she could survive alone, after the chaos of her childhood, after all the unanswered questions about why she was so different from everyone else, there was nothing she would allow herself to be afraid of.

Except, maybe, what happened today. Which she wasn’t thinking about.

“Yoo-hoo, Jeennnaaaaa! It’s your fairy godmother!”

Jenna smiled and opened her eyes to the singsong warbling of her neighbor, Mrs. Colfax, calling through the open patio door.

“In here!” Jenna shouted, then hauled herself out of the bath. Bubbles slid in languorous sheets down her naked body. She set her glass of champagne down on the counter and wrapped herself in the lush white embrace of a Turkish cotton towel.

Two short raps on the thin bathroom door, then the elegantly coiffed blonde head of Mrs. Colfax popped through.

“You’re taking a bath? In this heat? My dear, are you mad?” Mrs. Colfax asked, one perfectly arched eyebrow raised.

She’d been an actress in her youth, beautiful though not particularly talented, and retained both the elocution and melodrama of the theater in her speech.

“That is debatable,” Jenna said. She gestured toward the fizzing champagne. “But I have a headache, so I thought a bath and a little bubbly would help.”

“Ah, yes,” Mrs. Colfax agreed and swung the door open to invade the bathroom with her larger-than-life persona.

She wore one of her signature Chanel suits—this one a powder blue—Valentino patent d’Orsay pumps, a double strand of pearls, and three-hundred-dollar French perfume that smelled of rare orchids and sex. She had seduced, wed, and divorced a succession of wealthy men and made efficient use of them—and of their money. She lived in a sprawling, modern mansion next door that towered over Jenna’s tiny apartment complex like a glass Goliath.

“Cristal will do wonders for one’s level of happiness and good health,” Mrs. Colfax added. “I’m glad to see you developing a taste for something more refined than that hideous whole milk you drink.”

Jenna reached for another towel to wrap around her head. “You realize there’s a reason they say milk does a body good, right? Besides, it’s more affordable than champagne. Especially the ones you drink.”

“Having money for French champagne is far more important than having money for the rent, my dear, never forget that,” Mrs. Colfax shot back. “By the way, I ordered the filet from Boa for dinner, darling, I hope you don’t mind. I’ll be in New York for your birthday next week and thought we could celebrate tonight, since you don’t have to work?”

Filet mignon, Jenna thought. Heaven on a plate.

She remembered with real regret the thick rib eye she’d left at the checkout this afternoon. The only thing better was a T-bone. Or a New York strip. Or a nice grilled tri-tip. Her mouth began to water. How anyone could be a vegetarian she couldn’t fathom.

“You know I can’t resist filet mignon.” She flipped over at the waist to bundle her long hair into a towel, which she twisted around and flipped back up, leaving her hair wrapped in a towering cotton beehive above her head. “What’s in New York?”

Mrs. Colfax twisted her mouth into a roguish smile and gave Jenna a dismissive little wink. “Just a certain gentleman. Nothing for you to worry about, my dear.”

Jenna smiled back, satisfied. At least some things would remain reliably the same, even if everything else seemed so confusing.

The doorbell rang. Mrs. Colfax turned to look out the bathroom door, toward the patio, a mere twenty feet away. “Ah! The steaks!” She clicked out of the room in her designer pumps and Jenna shut the door behind her so she could finish drying off and shrug into her clothes. It wasn’t two minutes before she heard her name called.

“Come along, princess. Don’t let it get cold!”

Jenna made her way to the table and watched Mrs. Colfax plate the filet mignon, along with perfectly steamed asparagus spears and a lavish mound of garlic mashed potatoes. She tossed the empty containers onto the granite bar counter behind the dining table, then sat down. She poured two glasses of champagne and raised her own in a toast.

“To my dear friend Jenna, who is tragically alone, hideously overworked, and grossly underpaid. She truly deserves more from life than what she got.” She tipped her head back and drank her champagne in one long draught, then set the glass back down on the table with an elegant flourish of her slender, fine-boned hand.

Jenna just stared at her.

Mrs. Colfax raised her perfectly plucked eyebrows. “What is it, my dear?”

“That’s my birthday toast? Seriously?”

“Oh, my. That was rather lacking, wasn’t it?” she replied, completely unchastened. “Shall I try again?” She cut into her filet mignon, took a dainty bite, and chewed, all the while looking at Jenna as if waiting to be amused.

“You’re hopeless,” Jenna answered with a laugh. She refilled Mrs. Colfax’s glass and picked up her own.

With a twinge of sadness, she thought of her mother and the toast she used to make on Jenna’s every birthday. She raised her glass and swallowed around the lump in her throat. This one’s for you, Mom.

“Life is pain and everyone dies, but true love lives forever.”

Mrs. Colfax pursed her lips. “Tch. How uplifting. And please don’t tell me you believe that hornswoggle, my dear. The myth of true love is one of the greatest self-deceptions ever embraced by the female sex. It’s right up there with the ridiculous notion that money can’t buy happiness and size doesn’t matter. Now eat your steak—and don’t tell me it’s overcooked; I made sure they prepared it just as you like. Bloody rare.”

Hours later—dinner finished, dishes cleared, Mrs. Colfax off to the glass Goliath—Jenna lay in bed, staring up at the shadows crawling over the ceiling, thinking about love and death and self-deception, about a pair of fine green eyes burning bright.

She fell asleep with the image of those eyes still glowing behind her lids.