So many replies! I better do these cliffhangers more often, actually. Evil pays.
That was really nicely written, Trip! I love the backstory of your characters.
Thank you!
Oh my! Cruel, Trip, so cruel! But this was certainly an intriguing chapter! Looking forward to more!
My cruelty fuels some pretty great things.
Oh Annette, you recognizable drunk person, you.
I couldn't change her much, could I? She's the type of character who actually works pretty well in a vintage world. Beautiful, timeless looks, but with a party-hard attitude that no era can wipe away.
Wow, this story just goes from one cliffhanger to another! That's one of the things I love about it. Now there are so many more things I can't wait to find out.
Cliffhangers are some of my favorite things to write. Thanks!
Ooh, you token evil thing, you! 
I'll keep at it!
The backstory adds an all new dimension to it. It's almost like we're getting two stories in one, and that in itself is pure awesomeness. 
That being said...darn you on the cliffhanger. 
I wanted to frame the dynasty by having a character look back on it in retrospect, but I'm quite liking how my vision spiraled out of control. Thanks!
Torn. On the one hand, getting more information on the family, especially THIS information, is golden. On the other hand--Bronson!
Bronson's in limbo and only the continued comments of my readers (plus me using my time correctly for writing) can save him now.
I just got caught up, Trip, and this is such a great story! The backstory was great, but that cliffhanger...my goodness. We all are waiting with bated breath
Thank you! Hopefully you have enough breath to last a few more chapters.
Ack! Bronson no! Trip you can't leave me like this! This cliffhanger is... one of the best cliffhangers! I can't wait to hear more!
I do wonder if I can make a greater one. This cliffhanger certainly attracted some attention!
Chapter 64: Pastille
Just take it easy on the drinks, Olive, while you’re young.
Moira gets her drink, mixed with carbonated water and one sugar pastille dissolved in, nothing too fancy. I still haven’t given my name, but to Moira, her juice is all that matters.
“Fine, be that way,” she grumbles after downing the whole drink in one gulp, like a shot, “It’s not like you should be scared by my type, should you? Now who do I have to look out for?”
I head towards the pool, down the stairs from the tall deck and at the back of the property. Agnes beat me there ten minutes ago. She left her dress in the bathroom, whichever one of the many here, decided that underwear enough for swimming, and found a pair of round sunglasses on an end table.
“Come on, you can’t just bail on me,” Moira says, her voice trailing off as I walk further and further away, “You should be lucky that I’m here! You try partying with a kid to tuck in each night!”
Yes, I know what that’s like, Moira.
“Ah, to hell with it. I’m not juiced enough yet.”
I will say, the view is far better by the pool, between the dim garden lights, the shrubbery, and Agnes. The lights of the pool are enough to bring out the details of her, such as her slender body in a matching bra-and-panties set, and every strand of her creamy blond hair tightly tied back, even after ten minutes of treading water.
“Find your guard yet?” she asks.
“Yes, but it’s a little more complicated than that.”
“Family?”
“I don’t know why I didn’t guess that sooner.”
“How about you get it? Mr. Dandy keeps the pool water heated, and, goodness, I do like seeing you in your undies.”
“Sounds good,” I say, winking. After a minute of wrangling with and nearly freaking out over a stuck zipper, I throw my dress into the bushes, and kick off the five-inch heels in the same general direction.
The water touches my toes, but without the burn of chlorine. Mr. Dandy keeps a saline-cleaned pool, that’s my best guess, and on a cool summer night, the gentle heat helps me ease into the water much better.
I tread water too, near a jet stream that blasts more warm water onto my flank. Moira is probably getting buzzed, and considering that one or two men are swimming laps around the pool in high-waisted speedos, I could use whatever she’s having. But then again, I lasted for a lifetime and then some going to the pool with my elderly father and his regular speedo. Am I supposed to complain now?
Moira comes down the stairs, two drinks in, or more. I know Annette could go through a tray of cocktails in fifteen minutes, so Moira might have more juice than plasma in her veins by now. Her footsteps are very quiet, as if she forgot her shoes. Oh, she is barefoot. She walks in a straight line, defying the juice’s powers, and doesn’t miss a step on the staircase.
“Look, if you don’t need me, just tell me,” she says, “You listening, blondie?”
I am.
Moira then crouches down by the pools edge, knees up and scowling almost as bad as Bill or Franco could. I get out to wipe the grimace off her face, or try to.
I might be soaked and in the wrong fabric to go swimming, but Moira deserves a job tonight, right?
“Okay, I’ll just need another drink.”
“Listen, you juicehead,” I barked, getting up my feet in an instant, “I might have gotten off on the wrong foot with you, but I’m not letting you near the bar again. You actually do have a job tonight.”
“I can’t do this sober either. It’s hard being sober. I have a flask under my belt anyways. You can’t stop me, Jo.” She puts her hand on her waist, on top of a rectangular bulge in her shirt. “A girl’s gotta do her job.”
”Well, it is my job,” Olive said, as she mixed a new recipe of fermented cranberry juice and cherry coke in her cocktail shaker, “And life sucks, doesn’t it?”
“Save it for widowhood, darling. All of us elders are addicts, and do I want you to go down that path? No, not while you’re young. I expect you to be hitting the bottle when you’re old and weary like me. But do you really want to wake up each morning, just to crack the locks to your place under the counter where you keep the strong stuff? Do you want to wake up in a bunch of cattails because, heck, that’s where you fell asleep after exhausting another bar? Do you want group therapy like your mum and grandpa Phil needed?”
“I mean, I get enough therapy,” Olive muttered, pouring liquid as maroon as her long hair into a glass. “Is there some turning point that makes juice okay?”“You don’t have to do this,” I say, as if defending my great-great-great-grandmother, instead of a glorified thug I hired for the night, “Do you want to be an addict?”
“You’re five years too late, blondie. Now, who am I protecting you against?”
“Peter Garcia, the tan one. He and his cop buddy aren’t too happy with me.”
“I waved to him on the way out. He’s long gone. So much for a job tonight. I can still drink.”
“Why?” I ask her, “You’re probably not even 30 yet. And I met your daughter at Ei’s house, she’s lovely. Why would you want to drink?”
“Maybe!” Moira yelled, “Maybe life isn’t too peachy when you’re widowed and a single mum and hanging on to your family’s estate by a thread, and guess what? I’m not 30 yet and dealing with all of this crap. Forgive me for having a few drinks.”
”The turning point is widowhood. You’ll lose like the rest of us, and you can drink a whole tray of those in one sitting if you feel like it when that happens. Speaking of which, I’ll take half.” Annette walked away with a rounded glass in each hand, red liquid sloshing as she balanced her steps and each sip.“I’m sorry,” I say in a hushed tone, “Drink up.”
She chugs from her flask, until it fails to make a swishing noise when she puts it back under her shirt. The tears flow from her eyes, and she turns towards me again.
“I’m sorry for all the anger,” she says, with a sniffle, “It’s been five years and recovery ain’t going well for me. I just want a new friend.”
“It’s fine, it’s fine. I need another rainbow chick, right?” Moira leans on my shoulder, her breath thick with fermented fruit and her tears likely pure juice too. “The name’s Jo, by the way.”
“There’s totally someone suspicious behind the columns by the way. I can do this job.”
“Can you?” I ask.
“Yeah, she really can,” one man says from the pool. I guess Moira gets better business than I thought.
As Moira runs towards the figure, with a slight stagger, I make out the figure too, with red hair and patches of ivory-esque skin sticking out of a mass of black clothes and shrubs, though what makes her suspicious is anyone’s guess. Maybe Moira is the reverse of the police here. Or the juice really doesn’t help her job.
“Tricked ya! You’re one those Alto mooks, aren’t you?”
“Aw crap,” is the only other thing I hear.
“Don’t worry guys, I got this!” Moira proclaims to the whole backyard, “There’s a nice bedroom upstairs to take care of this lovely. Follow me, Jo. I think you’ll like this.”
Okay then.
“Well, well, well,” Moira says, after the suspect is seated on the bed, “Thought that my family is worth fighting?”
“Shut up, blueface,” she says.
“Ooh, we hit the jackpot tonight, Jojo. This redhead didn’t even think that a McGrail would see her.”
“Can I ask some questions?” I ask, “You’re probably a little, shall we say, buzzed.”
“Shut up, blondie. Now, gingerbread, I don’t care about your name right now. Would you rather face our authorities or your own?”
“I don’t even care at this point,” she says, “Can’t you just call me by my real name? It’s Candy.”
“Yeah, I do need that for…whoever. Getting all of gingerbread’s info?”
“Sure, sure.” Candy is a pretty distinctive name, after all.
“Oh fine, the police back in Sunset Valley are pretty used to me by now. Candy Ashleydale, and you know what? I’d rather be in a cell with my prisoner buds than around some buzzed banshee.”
“Sweet, that’s a new one,” Moira says, “Oh, and one more thing.” She takes Candy’s arms and lifts her off the bed, then hurling the woman towards the carpet. Her foot keeps Candy restrained down, as she dials the authorities’ numbers. “Oh, Officer Nest, you’re on right now? It’s your absolute favorite devil girl, darling. I have an Alto mook over here. I’ll drive her over. No, I didn’t have a drop! You know me by now. Alright. Buh-bye. Be kind to us rainbow folk, why doncha?” It’s loud enough to hear “yeah, that’s enough, Moira” multiple times on the other end.
“Should I drive?” I ask, “I don’t know if you can.”
“Nah, I’ll live,” Moira says, holding Candy’s wrists together, “I’ll clear up. I always do.”
In the meantime, I find Agnes and explain the story to her. At the first mention of “Altos,” we both nod, if in confusion as to why they’re here. I mean, I lived in Sunset Valley for five years, and my seafoam-colored skin didn’t tip them off in that time, did it? And dad, well, I’ll trust him on the “laying low” promise he gave. I left hampers full of dirty laundry to drive him crazy and keep him occupied.
“I think we’re safe,” I say, panting, “That is a pretty scary surname to work for. Maybe the McGrails are scarier, but I dunno, they could be charity workers for all I care.”
As the sun’s first rays greet the beautiful Roaring Heights, Moira, in her juiced glory, screeches up to the curb in a black convertible. Maybe she sobered up, but when she nearly drives into the bridge after Agnes and I pile into the car, it’s clear that she still has a way to go.
By the time we get to the café, Moira orders a cup of water and a paper packet of salt, dissolving the crystals in the water and finally ready to face the morning light with a forlorn, weak frown.
It’s just coffee for Agnes and I, though. By the time the sky is as hazy blue as, well, Moira, she’s gone, but someone is on the ground level. I investigate while Agnes bugs the barista for coupons.
“You okay?” I ask Moira, “I know I sound like a worrywart, but it’s because I am.”
“Fine, fine,” she says, exasperated, “Okay, Jo, I think I’m mostly sober now.”
“That’s nice.” She walks up me, reeking of old banana peels. “Sorry, it’s a habit. I love repurposing trash, and other things left out. It, um, brushes me up for my other job. Security is a euphemism for most of us here.”
“Lemme guess, thievery?”
“You’re a smart cookie, aren’t you?”
“I am still very sorry about being a jerk about your drinking,” I say, “It sounds rough.”
“Eh, I’m alive, so sometimes that helps. And you’re right about my little Bridget. She’s an angel. It keeps me going, but I wish I had more in life, you know?”
“Sure.”
“If there’s one thing I’ve learned from this, it’s that arranged marriages suck. I’d never force that on anyone. Kill me if I do.” And that’s when I freeze.
“So, maybe lunch sometime?” she asks, “Bridget has swim lessons every Thursday.”
No response.
“We’ll keep in touch,” she says, walking across the street to where she parked.
“Yeah, you hate arranged marriages, and I’m secretly a Vanderburg. Sure,” I say under my breath. Agnes walks around to where I am, near the full parking garage under the café, looking like she saw an eldritch god or a bad ex stroll by.
“You’re not gonna like this,” she says, nauseated, “Look behind you.” The tap of flat boots grows closer. I turn my neck, and my brows form five new wrinkles just by furrowing so much.
“Ladies,” he says, with a curious smirk.
Word Count for this chapter:
2,099Word Count so far:
105,472The little cut-scenes with Olive (one of my later immortals) were something I quickly whipped up after getting the idea during my lunch break today.
