“Wow! This is some house,” Janet said, her eyes opened to their widest as she looked avidly around the foyer.
“We like it,” Wes retorted.
“Oh, Wes!” she said, excitedly going to a large portrait opposite the door. “This must be your mother.”
She stared at the most beautiful woman she’d ever seen. Her hair was long, black and curling, just like the lashes which fanned so perfectly around large, midnight black eyes. Those eyes, Wes’ eyes, held mischief and her smile seemed playful. In all, the woman had a distinctly happy aspect. It made you long to be with her, to know her.
“She’s so beautiful!” Janet gushed.
Wes stood behind her and placed his hands on her shoulders as he too looked at his mother’s lovely face. “She was,” he said, sadly.
Janet suddenly remembered this woman was no longer on this earth. This loving wife and mother was dead due to some stupid drunk with a car. Angry tears filled her eyes. She knew Wes missed her dreadfully as she would if it had been her own mother who was dead with only her portrait left as proof she had been here at all.
She grabbed one of his hands squeezing it. “I wish I could’ve met her,” she mumbled.
Wes wrapped his free arm around her waist and pulled her close. “She would’ve loved you,” he whispered in her ear.
“You think?” she said, both surprised and hopeful.
“Positive,” he replied, kissing her cheek.
For several minutes they stood like this simply staring at the portrait and enjoying the feel of each other. Finally, Janet sighed and slowly turned around. Wes looked so much like his mom yet he lacked that decidedly happy aspect she had, at least at the moment. She so wanted to tell him something, anything to make him feel better, but not finding the proper words she did the next best thing. She hugged him.
“I’m sorry about your mom, Wes,” she said quietly.
Surprised, Wes smiled and held her tight. “You’re so sweet, Janet…just like my mom,” he said.
She lightly kissed him. “You’re not so bad yourself, Mr. Genius,” she said. “Um, will you show me your house?”
Taken aback he said, “Really?”
“Please?” she said pouting a little.
“How could I say no to my yenta?” he retorted, taking her hand and leading her first to the formal living room. “I think you can guess what this is.”
“Yes,” she said smiling impishly. “It’s the kitchen.”
He chuckled. “Smart girl.”
Janet ooh-ed and ahh-ed throughout the first floor, loving the house. Wes seemed to be enjoying showing her the house and her reaction until he brought her to double sliding pocket doors and he just stood there staring at them.
“Um, Wes, are you okay?” she asked after having waited a full minute.
He nodded absently. “I don’t go in here…much,” he said gruffly. “It’s my mom’s office.”
“Oh,” Janet said, touching his arm. “We don’t have to go in there.”
“It’s okay,” he said, squaring his shoulders before throwing the doors open. He let Janet enter first.
Feminine and efficient, Janet thought as she moved further into the room and looked around. It was a sunny, airy room with large floor to ceiling windows covered with lacy curtains and overlooking the formal gardens. At one end of the room, a comfy sofa with a large floral print sat in front of a massive stone fireplace. Twin bookcases flanked this each full with leather bound books. As Janet got closer she noticed one was full of famous and not-so-famous novels, thrillers, romance, mysteries and classics. Oddly, the other held books from only one author, a Cynthia Wesley.
Janet had heard of this author and even read a few of these books. She was one of her mother’s favorites, too. Then, Janet turned and spotted several New York Times best seller plagues and other impressive romance novel writer awards on the walls beside the shelves. They all bore the same name Cynthia Wesley. She gaped at these and read them over and over again. She then turned to Wes, the question apparent on her face.
“That was my mother’s pen name. Her real name was Margarita Esperaza Cabrera Sabastian. Not exactly as easy to remember as Nora Roberts or Stephen King. Her agent told her it wouldn’t sell, so she changed it to Cynthia Wesley. Her children’s names put together,” he said dispassionately.
“Wow,” Janet whispered in awe. “I know you said she was a writer, but I never thought she was someone I would know. There must be hundreds of her books here. I’m gonna read all of them now that I know who wrote them! I heard once that writers pour a little of themselves into their stories. JK Rowling did. I’ll bet your mom did too. I can get to know her through her stories. Maybe I can. What do you think? Wes?”
Janet tore her eyes away from the books to see if Wes was even still there. He was, but it didn’t seem he heard her at all. He stood just barely inside the door with his fists stuffed deep into his front pockets. He stared miserably at the beautiful, antique white and gold wooden desk which sat at the other end of the room. It was lovely yet somewhat messy and disorganized with notebooks, sundry sized scraps of scribbled on paper, folders, brochures, pamphlets and books on topics as diverse as astrology, forensic evidence, baby names, mythology, medicinal herbs, drug interaction and criminal profiling. All this surrounded a dusty computer monitor and keyboard with several letters worn off, probably from overuse.
This, Janet could see quite clearly, was the center of a very successful creative writer’s world, one which she would love to explore if only to get to know how it all worked, the putting together of a novel. But she merely glanced at this. It was Wes which concerned her at present. The sad, lost little boy expression on his face broke her heart.
She rushed to him and forced a smile on her face. “Come away, Wes. I have to go home soon and I haven’t seen the rest of the house,” she said as cheerily as she could muster taking him by the arm and out of the room, closing the doors behind them.
She led him to the curving staircase at the front of the house all the while chatting nonstop about anything that popped into her head. It was the only thing she could think of doing. It was how she saw her mom deal with her sister when her husband had been killed in the war. You have to try your best to distract them. That way they don’t feel as bad as they might otherwise.
“Have you lived here all your life? It’s such a great house…twice the size of mine. You know, I may get lost here. You better draw up a map for me or I’ll get lost on the way to the bathroom,” she teased.
By the time they reached the top of the stairs, she managed to get Wes to smile ever-so-slightly.
“Is this your room?” she asked pointing to the first closed door.
“No, that’s Cindy’s room,” Wes said, as he reached for the doorknob.
“Oh, we better not go in there. She might kill us!” she said, feigning fear.
“You may be right,” he agreed. “The room at the end is my dad’s and the one across is a guest room but this one, is mine. Before I let you in, though, I should warn you.”
“Hmm, a typical teenage boy’s room? Posters of half-naked girls on the walls and playboys under the bed?” she asked smirking. “I’ll try to divert mine innocent eyes.”
He chuckled and scooped her into his arms, squeezing her tightly. “Thanks, Janet.” He wanted to say so much more, but he couldn’t. He figured she wouldn’t want to hear it anyway.
“Um…okay,” she said.
“What I was going to say was that it’s messy,” Wes said after he released her.
“Oh, well, I can handle that,” she said dismissively.
He stared at her for a few seconds and odd thoughts popped into his head. He pictured himself carrying Janet over the threshold as if they were newlyweds, the both of them falling onto his unmade bed and…
“Wes, are you okay?” she asked, her soft, warm hand on his cheek. “I don’t care if it’s messy.”
“Uh…yeah…right. Sorry,” he mumbled, opening the door. He frowned as he walked in and looked around. “What the…?”
“You call this messy? It’s cleaner than mine!” Janet said laughing.
“I thought the house seemed much cleaner. I think my dad finally got a maid service to come. I didn’t think they would come in here though,” he said grumpily.
Janet patted him consolingly on the arm. “I’m sure they didn’t take your playboys,” she said, trying to hide a grin.
“I don’t have any,” he said genuinely smiling now.
“Penthouse, then?”
He laughed. “You are so…”
“Unreasonably clothed?” she suggested innocently. “I’m not playboy material anyway.”
He stared at her grinning and took a minute to thank God for the best girl he’d ever have in his bedroom. He then went to the door and closed it until it clicked.
