Chapter 18

Max rose that morning to the smell of coffee.  As he raised his head, it was apparent to him that what he was smelling was good coffee.  Realizing Sam was already up, he rolled out of bed and walked to the breakfast nook where fresh fruit, buttered toast, coffee and the New York Times awaited him.  He poured himself a cup and peered out the window.

Below was the Pacific.  To the right, he could see Sam walking among the roses with the maid, cutting a bouquet as they moved through the sea of red, orange and pink.

Max smiled to himself, thinking how perfect everything appeared.  He sat down in the window seat and opened the paper.

Cedar bark crunched beneath their feet as Sam and Josefa, the maid, walked through the meandering garden mot.  “Our neighbor was right… there aren’t any whites anywhere.”

“Pardon, Mrs. Quinlan?” the maid said, picking yet another perfect red rose.

“The roses...  None of the white roses are blooming in our garden.”

The maid smiled.  “I’m sorry, Mrs. Quinlan.  There aren’t any white roses on the island.  If you’d like, I can have some brought over for you from the mainland…”

“Oh… well, that’s alright.  That’s perfectly alright.”  Sam turned to her right, then her left, noticing that the adjoining castles were also void of any white roses.  “Which is Castle number three, Josefa?  

***

“Of course I respect you as producer of the show, but I don’t think that’s appropriate, Harwood,” sighed Edward into his cellular phone as he sat outside the racquetball court.  He was patiently waiting his turn to step into the glass cage and relieve himself of the daily pressure that running a network foisted on him.   As he listened to Harwood’s argument, he thought, my body isn’t up to this.  Look at that kid in there moving around the floor as fast as the ball he’s pounding.  Winner of that match, I’ve got to meet?  “I must be crazy,” he muttered aloud.

“Don’t be so hard on yourself, Edward,” said Harwood, mistakenly taking Edward’s mumbling realization as directed at him.  “Look, I think I can keep Senator Thorne happy using him to book-end the show… no speech, no politics, just direct appreciation for Umberto’s work.  This can all be settled without you having to get involved.”

Edward gave a shake of his head and shouted into the phone.  “What?  As head of network, I am involved.  You trying to tell me I’m not when a man of Pasolini’s notoriety questions how his program is aired on my network?”

“The stock holder’s network, Edward.  We both work for the same boss.”

“Are you finished?” said Edward.

“Yes, but I’m afraid Umberto may not be if I don’t cut the Senator’s speech out of the special.  And if I do, we run the risk he’ll cut both our hearts out when congress reconvenes, and he tells his committee to forget about your network’s bid for more room on Sat COM Eight.  I take a hit in trying to keep my show alive without Asia and Europe, and you take an even bigger hit without the seventeen new stations that extra satellite room can guarantee.”

Edward rose, picked up his racket and stared at his opponent waiting.  “The little son-of-a-bitch just smirked at me.  He’s going to annihilate me.”  Edward walked to the entrance as the young man inside patiently waited, slamming the ball several times at the wall, hitting the exact same spot each time.  He turned his back to the player and gave one last shout out into his phone.  “Look, Harwood, we owe Umberto one.  His seven previous Specials won sweeps for us.  He wants Thorne off the show.  No speech.  No bookends.  He’s off.  This network’s contribution of three mil’ to the Senator’s re-election will keep him calm.  You cut it, Harwood, you hear?  Cut it.” 

“Umberto Pasolini over Senator William Thorne?  Maybe you are crazy,” answered Harwood with a hint of doom.

Edward pushed open the door with a smile he hadn’t mustered up since asking for his first date.  “Hi.  I’m your new game.”

As the young man stopped momentarily and returned Edward’s smile with a little cayenne added, the telephone conversation came to a final end.  “Umberto,” was all he said as he shut down his iPhone and dropped it in his gym bag, taking the last step into the smaller war zone.

***

When the call came through to Senator Thorne, he didn’t ask anyone to leave.  Why should he?  It was a politician’s job to be visible, then accessible when it suited him, and getting a call from the CEO of the biggest broadcasting network in the world, was what keeping a 24-year political career going was all about.  He excused himself from the conversation with the other three senators and picked up the phone.  He covered the mouthpiece and leaned back at the Senators. “Harwood Crane.” He took a breath, “Harry, Harry, Harry.  Damn, it’s good to hear your voice.” 

“No, it’s not, Senator.  Not really.  My voice is about to deliver some unpleasant news.”

***

The butterfly was common as far as Ari was concerned.  Common, but beautiful as it held its brown and gold striped wings in a perpetual flutter that created a strobing freeze effect.  Click.  Click.  Ari pressed off the fourteenth shot in his camera.  Still the butterfly held its pose atop the peach colored rose.

“You are very lucky, Senor,” whispered the teenage gardener assigned to Ari’s grounds.  He propped his rake against the mote’s embankment and hunched down to view the wings with the light behind them.

Ari’s eye remained pressed against the viewfinder.  “Lucky because it doesn’t fly away, or lucky because it’s beautiful,” he whispered.  Click.  Click.

“That too, but most important, Senor, it brings good luck.  Like the pretty lady standing over there.”

Ari lifted his eye cautiously from the camera, not wanting to disturb the butterfly.  There to his left at the edge of the high embankment, not more than fifteen or twenty yards away, was Samantha.  Even at this distance, Ari understood the young man’s hushed, enamored tone of reverence.   Love and being loved after all was what Samantha Turner was mostly about when she was away from cameras or the stage.  And she was away.  And this was no exception.  To Ari’s eyes, her strong body looked like steel girders of a modernist sculpture straddling the irregular blocks of granite surrounding the mote.  She stood motionless, hands on hips, defying what or whomever saw her at the moment, letting nothing but the gentle winds off the Pacific disturb her sense of silence.  It was difficult to know whether she was looking straight out to the ocean or merely facing the water.  Was she taking in the Pacific or… me, Ari wondered.  He moved his body slightly, placing the butterfly in complimentary composition with Samantha.  Click.  Click.  Click.   She didn’t move.

“She is very beautiful,” acknowledged the gardener once again as he turned and moved respectfully back to his rake. 

The butterfly held its wings perfectly still, creating the ideal picture for most, but not for Ari.  The merging of the colors and paisley like shapes in a constant soft display of energy was the strength of the picture, he thought.  He leaned in within a foot of the rose and exhaled a breath, then two, then three, wanting to remind the winged creature of her essence.  Flutter little one.  Flutter, he wished.  Suddenly, she turned, lifted from the petals, held her self suspended in a hummingbird display of motion… click, click, click…  and then flew away, leaving the statuesque Samantha to fill the frame.  Click.

High on Castle number three’s corner tower perched the raven… motionless as well.