Summer Recollections #3 - Angela

 Summer 1995

            I was twenty-five and I was sure that Denise was the one true love of my life.  Yet here she was, telling me with two weeks’ notice that she was moving to Italy.  I had to sit down at the news – the apartment we shared suddenly felt so much smaller and hotter, even with the ceiling fan strumming its beat above us.

            “But Denise, what about the plans we made?” I asked desperately.  She went to the window so she wouldn’t have to face me.

            “It’s too good of an opportunity to give up,” she said.  She’d said that at least three times already.  The outside sun lit up Denise’s dyed blonde hair from my vantage point inside the dark room.  I slipped my hand into my jeans’ pocket to play with the ring that had been hidden there for the last two weeks.  It felt dangerous to have it loose in a pocket, but I had to be ready when the time came.

            “But Denise, we just renewed the lease on the apartment.”  She turned back to me, her face shining with light that didn’t reach me.

            “This could set up my whole career, Phil,” she insisted.  I squeezed the ring so hard I could feel the halo of diamonds digging into my skin.

            “Even if we break the lease, what am I going to do?  What job could I get?  I don’t even speak Italian.”  Denise’s eyes widened.  She moved away from the sunny window, tugging the curtain shut and darkening the room further.

            “No Phil, you shouldn’t come.  You have a good job here, the apartment, your friends…”  I took my hand out of my pocket and stood up, looking down at Denise.  From this vantage point I could see the brown roots growing in.

            “So that’s it?  You’re leaving everything to make yourself a new life in Italy?”  How sad she was, looking up at me through her eyelashes.

            “Phil, this is important.  I could do important things, I could be important, working for a national news organization.  You don’t know what an incredible opportunity this is.”  That word again, opportunity.  Never mind the opportunity to stay, to be with me.  I left the apartment before she had the opportunity to see my tears.

 

Summer 1996

            When I met Angela I was under no illusion that she was the love of my life.  It never occurred to me that I might love her at all, at first.  She was decades older than me, lived in a mansion, and wore pearls and furs.  I was merely assigned by my company to manage her financial affairs.  I never dealt with her husband – the money coming in was all from Angela’s long-dead grandfather’s business so Grey left her to make the decisions.  Angela talked a lot to me, but my company never minded that a simple monthly statement review took an entire day.  When Grey was away on his own business Angela would have me over for dinner.  She’d tell me stories of her travels and I’d contribute by telling her about books I had read about those places.  Her favourite place was Italy, but Grey would never agree to move there.  Sounds sensible, I told her, moving to Italy would only cause grief.

            It was a hot August evening when I got a phone call from Angela.  Her voice was breathless and frightened.

            “Philip dear, I know it’s late and this is terribly uncalled for, but I need somewhere to go.  Could I come by your place for a few hours?  I need to get away from here.”  It shook me to the core hearing her usually composed voice so distraught.  I agreed, and had to give her my address because with an estate such as hers why would she ever come to my small, dark apartment?

            It was odd seeing her in my living room – though she wasn’t a large woman with her fine clothes, glittering jewelry, and regal posture she seemed too big for the place.  I got her to sit down and brought her a coffee, even though it wasn’t Cuban like she was used to.  Finally, she told me what had happened.

            “I came home from some shopping, and went to find Grey.  He was supposed to be home, and I had bought some shirts for him to give me his opinion on.  I went all the way through the house, looking for him and calling for him.  Then there, in the second guest bathroom –” Her voice caught and she paused to dab her eyes with a silk handkerchief even though no tears dared to leak out and smudge her mascara.  “I found him.  Oh Phil, the tile was all red.  I didn’t even know what had happened at first.  The police said that he’d been shot five times.  They said it was unnecessary; he was probably dead after the first shot, they were so precise.”  She dabbed her eyes precisely again.  I moved to sit beside her and rest a comforting hand on her shoulder.  “There’s going to be a huge, awful investigation now.  They have the house all taped up, that’s why I needed somewhere to go.  They already interviewed me for hours and the press was waiting outside the police station.”  She gave a shudder and I pulled her closer to me.

 

Summer 1997

            The publicity and pressure had become too much for Angela, so she realized her dream and fled to Italy.  This time, I broke the lease on my apartment, quit my job, and fled with her.  I had been interviewed too by the police, though nothing came of it.  Still, I heard the rumours and felt stifled by the heat and oppression of the city.  And Angela needed me.  I helped her tie up all the financial loose ends from Grey, adding his business assets to hers.  More than that, I held her close, closer than I suspected Grey ever had.  It was hot in Italy, but we lived out in the countryside where the breeze blew freely and clear streams cooled our feet.  I thought it was our escape, but one day I came home from shopping (I didn’t have a job – I still didn’t speak Italian) to find Angela with real tears running down her face.

            I hurried to her side.  She handed me a magazine and I looked down at the page she had it opened to.  The article was in Italian, but I could guess its topic from the paparazzi picture of me and Angela at the top, with a picture of Grey inset.

            “They’re saying such terrible things about you, Philip.  That you shot Grey so that you could run off with me.  They know everything about you – your family and your old job.  Philip dear, if we can’t get away from it here, where can we go?”  But I knew exactly where I needed to go, because I had seen the name on the byline – Denise Allegretti.

 

            It was a delicate dance to get Denise to agree to meet.  First, she wanted to meet in public.  When I refused, she suggested my and Angela’s house, but I wouldn’t bring her into our sanctuary.  Finally, Denise begrudgingly gave me her address, a bright and airy flat in a trendy area.  Like her flat, Denise was impeccable – there were no dark roots showing in her hair today.  Even though she knew by now why I was there I still threw the magazine down dramatically on the table.

            “You’re big news, Phil,” she said cooly.

            “I wasn’t until you wrote all of this garbage about me!  What are you doing, telling everyone my dirty laundry?  Oh, and accusing me of murder!”  My words came out in a jumble, not at all like I had rehearsed them in the shower.  Denise folded her arms, her head held high.

            “The public deserves to know the truth.  There were already rumours back in the States, but then you and Angela show up here?  What did you expect?”  Her voice was so cold it seemed to chill the midday heat.

            “The truth?  Denise, you’re working for a tabloid!  That’s not the truth.  For one, I didn’t kill the guy.  And then you go and write all this personal stuff about me, stuff you knew from when we were dating.  What’s wrong with you?  How could you do this to me?”  Denise shook her head, strands of hair escaping from her smooth bun.

            “It’s important, I have responsibilities you know.  I need this job, I need to be good at it.  And to be good at it I have to write what the people want to hear.”  I started to interrupt, but she took a step back and held up her hand.  “And I didn’t do this to you.”  The coldness was back in her voice.  “You’re the one who ran off with a rich old widow whose husband was conveniently murdered.  How do you think I felt, reading that?  I thought I knew you.”

            We argued in circles a few more times.  By the time I left neither of us were bothered about maintaining a cool exterior, and the heat of our words matched the heat of the pavement outside.  I thought I was saying goodbye to Denise for the last time a second time.

 

Summer 1998

            Angela’s sickness progressed so fast I wondered if she hadn’t known she was sick for a long time and hadn’t told me.  It didn’t matter – I stayed by her side as I had after Grey had died.  I held her hand, I brushed her thinning hair, I lied to her that she would get better.  She insisted on staying at home at the end even though the heat and humidity made her struggle for breath.  I told her I loved her and I’m fairly sure I meant it.  When she died, I was left to deal with the doctors and funeral home workers who all spoke to me in rapid Italian that was as nonsensical to me as it had been a year ago.

            I came out of the post-mortem haze at the office of Angela’s lawyer, who mercifully spoke perfect English.  He discussed her assets at length, but I already knew most of the details from being her financial manager.  Then he pulled out the will and read through a lengthy list of bequests Angela had made to various charities.  She was very passionate about the Girl Scouts – who knew.  Then he turned the page and read out that the remainder of her estate was to go to Philip Spry.

            “Okay,” I said, and gave the lawyer my banking details for the deposit when the estate was settled.  Then I returned to the home that Angela and I had shared.  It felt less like home now even though I now was the sole owner.  I started packing.

 

            Denise called multiple times in the weeks after Angela’s death.  I ignored them until everything was packed, then agreed to meet her the day before my plane was to leave.  I suggested a coffee shop, but she didn’t want to meet in public.  I decided it didn’t matter at this point, so I invited her to the house.  She looked tired, but more unusually wasn’t trying to hide it under a layer of makeup.  I served her the last of the Cuban coffee, then observed her cautiously.

            “Are you here for the scoop about Angela’s scandalous death?” I asked.  Denise sipped the strong coffee and shook her head.

            “They didn’t like the article I wrote about it.  I got a new job, back in the States.  I think you’d approve – I’ll be working for National Geographic.  Not as much money, but…”  She trailed off as though there wasn’t really any other positive side.  Her eyes took in all of the packed boxes.  “You’re moving back too?”  I nodded.

            “I still don’t speak Italian, so it’s not like I could get a job here.”

            “Well, you don’t need to work anymore, do you?” Denise asked delicately.  It was true, and it was public knowledge thanks to the scathing article Denise’s former tabloid had published in her absence.

            “I don’t know what I’ll do,” I admitted.  Denise took another sip of coffee, then set it to the side.

            “Well, when you’re back in the States, if you want, you can look me up.  If you’ve got the time.”

 

Summer 1999

            I did look her up, eventually.  Unconstrained by a workplace, I moved to Jacksonville for the summer to be with her.  Even if all had gone well between us I don’t think I could have handled another summer of constant, clinging sweat and choking humidity.  Denise was still passionate about her career, but now she was also passionate about new camera gear and expensive freelance trips to foreign lands.  Angela’s money and Denise’s article were both a constant source of unspoken tension between us.  Some days I dug the diamond ring out of the back of my sock drawer and twirled it longingly between my fingers.  Other days I fished Denise’s article out from the jumble of papers in a desk drawer just to look at the picture of me and Angela at peace in Italy.

            One day in September the humidity had finally broke, leaving behind a torrential downpour.  Denise was trying to sell me on a trip to research Mediterranean diets to, of all places, Italy.  I was having none of it.

            “But the people there are so nice!  You’ve lived there, you know,” Denise insisted.

            “Yeah, especially the reporters,” I snapped back.  She brushed back her hair, now dyed red for some reason, to gaze at me with a pout.

            “Phil, I thought we’d moved past that.”

            “If we’ve moved past that then don’t expect me to go back to Italy.  Angela died there, in case you forgot.”  I didn’t often bring up Angela’s name around Denise, but the pictures of pastoral countryside that Denise kept showing me to entice me to return were too wrapped up in my memories of Angela to deny.

            “Oh, I remember.  I remember that the only reason you can do all these things and go all these places is because the old woman you fell in love with just so happened to be filthy rich.”  Denise’s hair had fallen back into her face but she didn’t bother brushing it aside this time.  Maybe she didn’t want to look at me, or maybe she didn’t want me to see her face.  Instead, I looked around the apartment.  It was Denise’s apartment and she paid the rent, but everything else was paid for by me.  By Angela.  By Grey, even.  The man Denise had thought I’d murdered, or at least had found it expedient to pretend she did.  I stood up.

            “I can’t help it if I’m lucky,” I said coldly.  I left for the last time again.

 

Summer 2009

            I hit send on the e-mail I’d been working on half the morning before finally turning to the stack of new files my manager had dropped off.  Why were we still using thick files full of useless paper?  Computers were supposed to have solved this.  I flipped through the first file dispassionately.  A rich woman, single by the looks of it.  Her name was Denise, but the last name was Greenway.  No matter, there were plenty of Denises.  My eyes lingered on the date of birth.  There were plenty of Denises born in the ‘70s, but how many were born August 15^th of 1970?  I started combing through the file more closely.  After flipping through a stack of financial reports from the last company that managed this mysterious Denise’s money I came to my senses.  I turned back to my computer and quickly typed in ‘Denise Greenway’.  She had a Facebook page.  I clicked on it, and there she was.  Denise was now a haughty brunette who described herself as a ‘freelance photographer’ and had a profile picture of herself staring down a lion through her camera lens.  I closed the Facebook page and turned back to the file.  I was still staring at it when Rodney arrived at my desk.

            “Hey Phil, looked at those new files yet?”  He leaned over my shoulder to read Denise’s name on the file.  “Oh yeah, that’s a good one.  Wealthy divorcée, more money than sense, I reckon.  You good to go meet up with her and sell her on the whole package?”  I listened to Rodney, then looked back down at the file.  I flipped a few pages as though I was considering my answer based on Denise’s financial holdings.  There were a lot of Italian companies in the stock listings, none doing well.  I closed the file.

            “Yeah, no problem.  Set up a meeting.”