Jessica's Art Deco mansion now
Stella has ambushed me once again—showing up without notice to remind me of our bargain.
She knows I need to see how the house looked in the Thirties, so she's blackmailing me into dating her, but I don't care.
All I want to do is find a portal to return to Jessica.
“Did you get the sticky note I attached to the plans?” she asks demurely.
I nod. “Yeah, thanks—it’s certainly an intriguing footnote in the house’s history.”
“Thought you’d like it. You know me—always going the extra mile.”
I give her a brittle smile.
Stella's not dumb—she senses my reserved manner.
“Anyway, I was driving out this way to a closing and thought I’d drop by and let you know another fact I uncovered about your mystery lady.”
"ReallY?" My eyes light up. “Go ahead—I’m dying to know.”
She smirks. “Yeah, well 'dying' is the operative word—Jessica died in this house. Her relator didn’t disclose that little fact. Do you want to pursue it?”
“Pursue it—what do you mean—sue?
“Of course, sue—he was supposed to disclose anything untoward—you’re entitled to seek compensation at least.”
I shake my head. “No—definitely not. No lawsuit. Her passing here only gives the house character.”
“Or provides a resident ghost,” she chuckles.
I sidestep her sarcasm.
“By the way, how did she come to die here?" I ask, trying to appear nonchalant. "Was it sudden?”
A sad smile crosses her face. “No, it was tragic. Jessica became a recluse—broke off contact with people and lived alone. She was dead a week before they found her.”
“Where did they find her?”
“In the garden apparently. She presumably suffered a heart attack or stroke. No foul play—she died of natural causes. A broken heart probably.”
A silence falls between us.
Stella, taking her cue from my sullen face, says in a voice barely audible, “Well, I should go.” She gets to her feet and heads to the door, and I follow her out.
She pauses on the front stoop and says softly, “I hope I didn’t depress you, Leon—I just thought you should know.”
“No—no problem—it’s all good,” I smile reassuringly.
Stella can be compassionate.
On impulse, I lean over and give her a quick peck on the cheek. “And thanks for playing Nurse.”
“Just one of my many roles,” she smiles coyly.
She walks slowly to her car, hips swaying, aware my eyes are following her.
Admirable, I smile. She can still grab my attention even through the fog of a painful hangover.
I like her. I really do, but I’m interested in another woman.
By mid-afternoon my headache’s gone and I’m feeling much better. I resist the urge to have a glass of wine.
It’s weird this situation I’m in. I haven’t discussed my strange experience with anybody. Somehow it’s more romantic and magical when I keep it a secret—besides, who would I tell? Not Maya, and definitely not Elias—and as for Stella, well, she’s already made her position clear—the woman is dead.
And the fact is, maybe this is an experience not to be shared with anyone—other than Jessica herself. It has the privacy and intimacy of a dream—and you can’t invite spectators into your dreams.
But now that I know for sure the hidden wing of the house and the tennis courts actually existed in the Thirties, I’m also encouraged to believe my seeing Jessica was not a hallucination.
It’s uncanny but I seem to have stumbled upon a portal that will let me go back and be with her, and that being the case, I see no reason to wait.
I intend to go back and see her today. Fate be damned.