Wow! Oh my... Daddy's there... Me thinks this might not bode well XD
Nothing bodes well when he's there! Not even for me; that guy is a menace.
This is going to be another cliffhanger, isn't it? 
Ah, I just can't wait to find out what will happen to the Waverlys next, in any part of their story.
Nah, I think it's obvious what happens next. At least with her dad. We've met him, and I hope I conveyed well in earlier chapters that he misbehaves.
Ooo, Olive is gorgeous. I am intrigued.
She was quite the stunner, thanks to those obvious Rotter genes. You'll see more of her in a few generations. Or sometime else. I'm still trying to figure that out.
Chapter 65: Philip Makes Three
He orders his coffee with a bit of cream and amaretto-flavored syrup, just as he did back in Twinbrook. He will likely cry about how he took a later train and missed a party, when he could have arrived a day earlier and made a fool of himself even earlier.
“Jellybean, why the grumpy face?” he asks, “I know we’ve had our rough patches, but I thought we patched those over.”
“We didn’t. You’re still kind of scum.”
“Is this about Katherine?”
“It’s about a lot of things.”
“One breakfast blend with cream and amaretto for…Phil?” the barista asks, pushing a full paper cup closer to dad. Steam escapes from the lid.
He holds it up to his mouth, gingerly taking the first sip. Dark grey clouds gather as he settles in to the city. “Dang, worth it for the coffee alone! I better get a taste of the parties too, and everything tastes better illegal, right, Jo? Are we still calling each other twins, or did you write a different story?”
“I honestly can’t give a crap anymore, Phil.” I put my elbows on the tables and lean over, ready to vomit my morning latte on the counter, if I need to.
“No formal titles, gotcha,” he says.
“It’s for his troubles,” I tell the barista, waving a one-simoleon bill in front of her, “I apologize. Don’t say a word about him to anyone else.”
“Uh, okay? Thanks for the tip.”
I get out of my seat, and the coffee hasn’t absorbed all of my dad’s attention.
“Jo, can’t you stay and split a danish with me? I haven’t eaten all day and the train food makes Lily’s old cooking taste good,” he says, when I’m three steps down the stairs. “Can’t we just hash some things out?” When I’m one floor below him and pushing open the glass door. Agnes has already headed home, but the last thing I need is dad following my lover and I back to the flat.
There has to be a sanctuary among these skyscrapers. Urban parks, the cemetery, a pond, of course! It’s over the bridge and a few blocks down. Walking distance.
How did I walk in heels so well back in Twinbrook? My pumps were glued to my feet, whether I got married or shopped for groceries. But now, less than a mile and my ankles nearly give in after crossing the bridge.
I digress. Dad, Phil, whatever I’m supposed to call him now will find a morning after-party or an attractive date of either gender long before h finds a pond.
The ground is wet with rainwater and lingering morning dew, and some of it dampens the inside of my open-toe shoes. Storm clouds shield me from the sun. The occasional car hums by, and a local species of frog awaken whatever is underneath the water with its shrill call, but all is quiet. Dad is missing. All is quiet. Praise the lord.
After five minutes in my thoughts, the outside of me is dripping with rainwater. My hair curls in the light rain, and the rapid patter of cowboy boots approaches. They squish and splash in the trimmed, soaked grass and in every puddle, which, for dad, will drive him absolutely crazy tonight when he discovers the mud stains.
“Phil,” I groan.
“Look, I want nothing more than to be with my wonderful daughter,” he says, “I can say that. We’re alone. My boss won’t think I’m going soft or anything.”
“That’s not what happened.” I get up to face him, crossing my arms.
“Fine, I angered a hornet back in the Valley.”
“Literally, or?”
“In the figurative sense. You see, I met that Alto guy who lives on the hill, and it was unemotional physical attraction at first sight.”
“Oh, god,” I say, groaning again, feeling parts of my mocha latte bubble up for the second or third time today. “Please tell me that you left it at admiration.”
“Nope! I did what I’m best at. And the woohoo it resulted in rocked.”
“Why do I even bother?” I ask, holding my head in frustration.
“And okay, I maybe sent someone on your tail. No regrets on the woohoo bit, but maybe I should warn you about the other thing.”
“No, no, no, let me get this straight, Philip. You did nasty things with some fat, middle-aged VP, he sent one of his cronies at your daughter, right into a city where they likely have some rivals, and we might be dead by the end of the week for all we know. You say that’s worth it?!”
“Well, yeah. Nick Alto makes for a good fling.”
“We took care of the crony. She’s toast. But this is serious. I might have put someone in grave danger.” If they get word of Moira’s work with Ms. Candy, that is. And yet, I would be okay with seeing her harmed. She said to kill her if she sided with an arranged marriage, and little does Moira know, she did. “Okay, okay, why did you follow me?”
“I need you in my life, jellybean,” he says.
“Doesn’t mum have a tour stop in Sunset Valley?” I ask. “I think she’d be happier to see you than I am.”
“Mum is the problem.”
“You’re not saying-“
“I’m part of your club now. Still part of the ‘Gay and Bi Immortals United’ club too, but you gotta welcome me into the other one.”
“Not the Divorce Club.” He then flashes two bare ring fingers at my face.
“Surprise, Jojo,” he says, weakly, “It wasn’t an impulse decision either. We had a long talk, and a lot of fighting and one hospital visit for me, but we decided that it’s best to go our separate ways. And you’re an adult anyways. We’re not heading into a custody battle.”
“You’re tiny. Why don’t I just stuff you into a box and send you back where you belong?” I grumble.
“Please, deliveries to Hell are tough and not worth the shipping costs,” he says, rolling his eyes, “And it’s not like you,
you can be so morally opposed to divorce, now can you?”
“Fine, you win.”
Two minutes pass, and dad is stuck in a weak, warm smile. Perhaps we’ll survive the night at this rate, as long as someone doesn’t get to us first.
“So,” he says, “What did you find?”
“Annette herself, that’s what. She beat up that Alto for me. I’ll say my farewells, I guess,” I reply, “Well, it’s Annette’s doppelganger. Can’t decide who I hate more. But this double is a young widow, a single mum, she has a lawyer for a sister, and if I’m guessing this right, a mum named Tegan. She even said where she lives right now.”
“Was her Tegan widowed early too?” dad asks, with a chuckle, “We gotta see how well the Tegans’ stories match up.”
“Rude thing to say about Gram.”
“Well, hey, it’s all better for her now. Let’s laugh about it now that we can.”
I yawn in his face, albeit out of instinct. I really have been up all night, haven’t I? I could fall asleep here, and I can, as it’s just rain, and any mud-stains are just another job for Arthur. Speaking of Arthur, shouldn’t I take dad to him for a new wardrobe? That shaggy green monster needs it, lest he embarrass me. It can happen, right?
But that can wait. I rest on the damp grass, face-up, faking sleep that never comes. All that does come is the rush of pre-sleep thoughts, of the main piano melody of “Pyramid Song” by Radiohead playing on repeat and a budding solution to global poverty. I stay in that haze for a few hours, until Roaring Heights starts to darken even more as the day wears on.
I hanged my head down, defeated. "But why an arranged marriage? I don't even want one without you guys in the mix."
”Yeah, arranged marriages suck, but we have to do what we have to do,” Annette says, “You’re marrying Simon whether you like it or not. Because, get what? That’s all the sweet kid wants from you.”“Oh, you didn’t,” I mumble, rubbing my eyes.
“What?” dad asks. He kept vigil over me the entire time, playing FoldIt on mobile and fidgeting with simulated proteins until his battery ran out, “I behaved.”
“Surprisingly. Ugh, she told me where she lives, this morning. Right above the dry cleaners’. We’re going there.”
“Wait, is this about Annette? That kind-of Annette you described? Really, what?”
“Exactly about her.”
I remember where the stairs are. I run past Arthur as he scrubs down the counter, stopping right before one of the rooms of clothes. “Moira lives upstairs, doesn’t she?” I ask him.
“Yeah. Did she invite you? I know she’s been lonely. Well, maybe she told you that already.” He wags his wet sponge around for effect. “She’s at the end of the hall.”
“Sure, sure.”
I’m halfway up the stairs when I vaguely hear Arthur say, “Aha! You look like a male Jo.
Nice.”
Fine, dad, you’re divorced now. I don’t care what Arthur thinks of you.
There must be a buzzer system and Arthur must have his finger on it, because the door opens with the effort needed to turn a knob, even though the entire place looks deserted, and clean. Perhaps due to Arthur’s influence, the carpets are the deepest blue and stain-free, and the light-colored furniture doesn’t even sag, nor does it have a wrinkle, which is pretty remarkable for a drunkard and her young child. Small palm-plants and cacti sit on end-tables near the windows, the dishes are all clean and in cabinets under the counters, I assume.
The kitchen has an old, gas-range stove, and with a can of hairspray, I could set the whole place on fire. No, too dramatic, I’ll leave that for dad. Yes, I could gas the entire building. I could condemn Moira out of her apartment, as the real Annette went missing a long time ago. I could pretend to get my revenge on Annette by harming a young, suffering bodyguard and thief.
I turn on the gas. I really could, couldn’t I? The flame underneath the burner burns blue and natural gas from the line escapes. I could just leave this on. Out of boredom, I grab a strand of spaghetti from a drawer. They burn when they come in contact with a burner, whether electric or gas, and I hold it under one flame until the tip smolders black and orange. I always thought that looked cool.
No, no, I can’t do this. A smoldering piece of pasta smokes up the place a tiny bit, and it will take all night to gas just the kitchen place at this rate. I can’t do something so illegal. I can’t go further, not without awakening watcher-knows-what fury. I turn off the range. I throw the spaghetti to the ground and prepare to stamp it out.
And I swear that it wasn’t actually on fire. The floor ignited before I could smother it with my shoe into the tiles. There aren’t any alarms in the building—they’re rare in this analog hell—so I scream as loudly as I can so Arthur or dad can give me a hand.
As it turned out, I would have harmed someone if I went even further. Bridget’s high-pitched screams make me turn around, even though I panic as loudly as she does instead of grabbing water, baking soda, or anything to save Moira’s floors and Arthur’s building.
If there is one plus, it’s the sort of rush that dad needs, right on top of his makeover.
But, just in time, Arthur bolts up the stairs and nearly tears the door from its frame by running into it with his 210 or so pounds of mass, with a heavy fire extinguisher.
“The electrician just won’t put in smoke detectors. I’m going to have to get Tank on that. He’s good at convincing.” I think he just talks to hide his nervousness now. Is he nervous? He is a lot more competent with fire.
“Did you do this, Jo?” he asks, while blasting his extinguisher in the direction of the oven.
“If I pay you enough, does it mean I didn’t?” I ask, rushed as I continue to panic over the slowing flames.
When the last spark is smothered and out, he gives his answer. “It’s that I’m here for. Now pay me to clean these floors too. You’re lucky it’s just charred ceramic. Do you wanna face Moira? I don’t think so. 700 simoleons.”
While Arthur does his unexpected night duty, I try to comfort Bridget. “It was a mistake. I thought your mummy was home, and I tried to cook to surprise her…”
Bridget isn’t buying it.
“If I add a little more to his check, our uncle Arthur will make you forget this anyways. Look, I can play piano! It’s been a while, but I still remember one song my mum taught me.”
“Okay,” Bridget says flatly.
I hit the first notes and ease into the chord progression. If there was one song to remember for Roaring Heights, it was this one, with slight jazz notes and a heaping helping of lounge influencing its smooth piano melody. Granted, I don’t have a bassist to accompany me, so I do my best to replicate the line on the low keys of the piano.
It’s also been a while since I’ve sang, perhaps the last time being karaoke with my then-husband. But I exhale and decompress when the time comes. Bridget already is tapping her feet to this.
Come and share
This painting with me…
Not even one verse in, and Bridget won’t have a story about the wannabe-arsonist to tell Moira, but she might have something nice to say about my musical talent.
…I wonder,
Do I love you,
Or the thought of you?
Slow, love, slow-oh-ooooh
Only the weak
Are not lonely.I cut out the saxophone bit and the lingering last chorus, but it leaves about three minutes of my rusty piano-work and hoarse voice, and it also leaves a sleepy Bridget, who heads the bed once I’m done.
“Where is Moira, anyways?” I ask Arthur, after he puts away his mop.
“Out at work. Well, her real job. Thievery. Apparently it’s a jewelry store. I’m cleaning up for her after that too.”
“She’ll be out late?”
“You’re on your own after this,” he says, lowering his brow.
“No, I understand.” I open each door in the hall once Arthur leaves. Bathroom, another bathroom, Bridget’s room, and Moira’s is the last one I open, or I gather it’s hers. Dark brown and black accents color the area, and a single bookshelf sits between two windows, with a row of white photo albums calling my name.
I start with the earliest. The first pages are full of birth dates and death dates, all the way back to Dragon Valley. A copy of the citizenship papers for one Aislin McGrail. Photos of her, and her wavy, bobbed cinnamon-brown hair, starfruit-yellow skin, and light-colored freckles as even as the seeds on a strawberry. Her children, green and sunshiny Tegan. A scowling, yellow older sister named Maeve, who appeared in neither the marriage nor death records.
Those two girls grew up, and Tegan got one special photoshoot of her own.
She held hands with her husband at their wedding, at the community garden a street away. I slip the photo out of its sleeve to read the back, in case someone made noted. Scrawled in messy cursive,
13/5/30. Joseph and Tegan.Joseph, huh?
You’re naming it Lamia?” Annette asked, shocked, “Why not a nice traditional name, like Joseph?”
“It’s a girl, nan,” Phil said, rolling his eyes, “Lamia was a female demon.”
“We don’t need another demon in the family. And Josephine. It’s a girls’ name. I rest my case.”So much for Annette’s unknown past. She dropped those hints and scattered them around Twinbrook, even if his name and mine didn’t send me on a chase when she retold the story.
And do I really want to harm her, or her doppelganger? I hate Annette, and I love her, with all of that ambivalence. As for Moira, I hope she’s none the wiser, or that Arthur is as good of a storyteller as I am. I never thought that I’d say this, but I need her. Even if she is just as a way to unravel the past and make some peace with the family.
Word Count for this chapter:
2,776Word Count so far:
108,242So if I haven't mentioned the name of Jo's dad yet in the story, it's Philip, or Phil for short. The spelling is something I'm a bit particular about; he's named after someone I knew who spelled it with one l. Not that I'll edit the posts of anyone who spells it as "Phillip," but I thought that I should justify using the less-common spelling.
The song Jo plays is "Slow Love Slow" by Nightwish. Give it a listen, because the atmosphere screams "ROARING HEIGHTS!!" (granted, the rest of their material isn't much like that at all).
Let's just say that Phil's job during the dynasty was supplemented by a lot of special relationships with his co-workers. Hence him and Mr. Alto. He probably thought it was like romancing anyone else in the industry of evil, but alas, the Altos are a bad force to deal with. Phil actually did like women too. A lot! He was a flirty menace who didn't discriminate.
I also realize that it seems a little suspect that the characters know about the Altos but never bring up the Rackets. While I plan to reveal this in the story too, the justification is that I never saw the Rackets as powerful outside of Twinbrook. The Altos have outside connections (huge amounts of power in business and politics) that the Rackets don't.
I hopefully won't refer to Eileen and Moira/Annette's mum too much by her first name from now on. I think "Mrs. Stoneham" will do whenever she comes up.
