Sometime during the afternoon I had fallen asleep at the piano. I folded my arms on the cover and tried to dream again. It wasn’t that I was tired, I was bored.
Without a car or time alone, I was for the most part at the mercy of my parents.
I considered going back to my room and working on lesson plans when I heard heavy footsteps coming toward the music room.
“Clara ! Clara”, I heard my sister Claudia going in and out of each room looking for me.
She made her way into the music room with a stack of wedding magazines in her hand. I was slightly envious of the large diamond ring on her finger.
With Both of my sisters were getting married at the end of the month and I had been drafted into playing made of honor.
“Are we going to look at dresses again?”, I asked.
“Clara”, she seemed alarmed, “Who is that man talking to Papa ?”
“I don’t know probably another investor."
“I don’t know, he is very strange. . .”
I sat up from the piano and turned in the chair to face her.
“Strange how?”, I asked
“Well, he has long hair and his skin is very. . . um light ?”
“Claudia, are you sure ?”
“Well, yes I mean I didn’t stare or anything. . . he is not like Papa’s usual old and stuffy investors, except for the car”
I followed my older sister over to the window and saw a silver 1958 Aston Martin parked in front of the house, the exact one my father wanted for his 50th birthday.
Claudia followed me as I hurried down the stairs, where father was waiting for me at the bottom.
Father (or Papa as we affectionately called him) was a tall man with dark black hair and light brown eyes. He was dressed casually in a dress shirt and pants.
“Clara, Sweetheart”, he said, “We have a guest.”
I followed my father down the stairs and to the living room where the man Claudia had described, Mr. Fierro, was sitting opposite our wall of family pictures. He seemed some what intimidated by them and held a bouquet of long stem roses.
“This is Mr. Fierro”, introduced my father, “He is a horticulturist . . . don’t you think some cultivated roses would look nice on campus? Introduce yourself, sweetheart.”
“Nice to meet you, Mr. Fierro”, I said resisting the urge to do more than shake his hand.
“You may call me Addison”, he said kissing my hand to my father chagrin.
“Clara”, ordered my father as he noted the light grasp Mr. Fierro still had on my hand, “Why don’t you get our guest something to drink and then you and your sister can finish wedding plans.”
My father was careful not to let on exactly whose wedding was being planned, not that I minded.
I found a bottle of my father’s favorite scotch in the cabinet and bought it out; Father seemed pleased that I remembered.
“You are very young”, said my father to Addison while I searched for glasses.
“I am a very independent person. I cashed in a few war bonds and inherited quite a bit from a friend”, he lied with ease, “It amazes me how much one will spend for a flower. Not that one should place a price on beauty.”
Without really paying attention he separated one of the roses and handed it to me, it was a light pink and a type of rose I hadn’t seen before.
Father watched out the corner of his eye but didn’t say anything.
“No thank you”, Mr. Fierro said stopping me from pouring the scotch
Little did he know Father considered this an insult, or maybe he did. He didn’t protest to water. I was careful to place the decanter and water pitcher back on the tray, Father sat back in his chair with his arms folded, like he always did when he conducted business.
Father was wearing his wedding band and class ring from Stanford, he never left the house without them. I had occasionally taken a taste of scotch and could never take it as neat as he did.
“. . . does that sound, Clara”
“Sorry Father, I wasn’t listening?”
“I was saying. . . give you, your mother and you sisters each you own flower, named after all my girls. How does that sound ?”
“Really”, I said, “You would make me my own rose, Mr.— ”
“Yes, it is simple science”, he replied.
“Well then, I think I’d like that”
"Maybe a Gallica rose, colored like the blush across your--"
Father stood up, his Blackberry and papers falling to the floor.
“Why don’t we finish this outside”, Father said, “I’d like to see that car of yours, Clara why don’t you put these roses in some water.”
"Skin", He finished“I want to see that car, too”, I knew I sounded childish but I couldn’t stay inside for another minute.
We left the front door open, there was a older man, a chauffeur, sitting on the porch. He tilted his hat to my father as we came outside.
Papa walked around the car, looking at he interior and all the details. I stood under Mr. Fierro’s umbrella, as it blocked the rays of sun from his skin. When my father slipped into the driver's seat ,Mr. Fierro lowered the umbrella and I kissed him.
"Great car", my father said stepping out of the car. The driver propped up the engine for my father to inspect.
This time Mr. Fierro kissed me.
“It’s James Bond’s car,” I explained.
“Is it?” Mr. Fierro said signaling to the driver, who opened the back door.
“Leaving so soon?”, questioned my father.
“I’ve seen all I need to see, we can finish this at a later date.”
As soon as the door closes he rolls down the window, holding out his hand he is still holding the water glass.
Careful not to scratch the paint, I lean over the window to retrieve the glass.
“Ms. DeLune you should come and visit sometime . . . we can go for a little ride?
“Why do you want to work with my father?”, I was curious
“If fate had been on my side, he would have been my son. I wanted to know if he was a good man, good father and of course. . .”
He ran a finger across my wrist and gently over my palm.
“Do you think he is a good man ?”, I asked
I noticed a faint red line on my hand where Mr. Fierro had touched me; he suddenly noticed a dot of deep red blood on his finger.
“Beautiful rose, terrible thorns.”
I stepped back as the window rolled up and the driver settled in behind the wheel.
Joining my father on the front porch we sat a while as the silver car cleared the gates and turned off the main road.