Furious - By Jill Wolfson Page 0,16
huge fluffy, fringy petal wings. But it’s the plant in the middle of the garden that makes me walk right up to it.
It’s like from another world, a world where plants mimic human body parts, and these are the lips, parted, cracked, and red. From the center shoots a stalk, a sharp, silvery spear of a tongue—it must be twenty feet high—composed of all-white flowers, hundreds of them, thousands of them, and I know that I’m seeing a bloom that doesn’t happen very often. Maybe once every ten years, maybe every hundred.
The wind shifts and I’m overcome suddenly with the smell of rotting meat oozing from that plant. No bird or butterfly would have anything to do with it. This is a lure for maggots and beetles. Who planted it? Why put something so amazing and yet so disgusting at the center of so much sweet-smelling beauty?
I hold my nose and back away. I start to jog, glad to leave behind that stink. A few more twists on the driveway and the sprawling red house comes into view. I also see that I’m not the only guest. Alix is standing beside her battered brown Volvo with the surf racks on the roof. It’s parked next to Ambrosia’s gleaming convertible, and I doubt that any car with a cardboard back window and bungee cords holding down the trunk has ever parked in this driveway before. Stephanie is kicking at some gravel. Her bike is propped against a fence, and she’s red-faced with sweat from the trek up the hill.
None of us is thrilled to see the others. That’s obvious. Alix glares as I approach, her upper lip curled. Well, I’m disappointed, too. Not that I have anything personal against them. But—I know what Raymond said and I can’t help it—I thought Ambrosia invited only me. The way she whispered the invitation and didn’t let go of my hands, I figured it would be just us. Her and me. What are these other two doing here?
At the front door, Ambrosia, dressed in her usual black—pants, silky blouse with a sweater, cashmere of course, that drapes like a cape—observes the scene. She’s standing in the redbrick doorway, which must be fifteen feet high. Her dark, almost purple, hair hangs loose. With both hands she lifts the huge mass and twists it into a pile on the top of her head, which shows off her long, slender neck. The hair drops, settling instantly into glamorous waves. She beckons us over. “Come on in. This is home.”
We enter. We stop. We stand. We gawk.
“My family, we’re collectors.” Ambrosia clearly expects our stunned reaction. “My people despise anything modern or contemporary. Loathe it.”
As she gives us a quick house tour, her voice strikes a tone that somehow manages to combine bored and bragging. “Drapes, red velvet with silk lining imported from Turkey. Carpet, eighteenth-century Afghanistan.”
There’s so much red in the living room, it’s like walking through a sore throat. My brain spins with the dates and origins of rugs, fabrics, and vases. I’m not the only one who’s awed. From what I’ve seen of Stephanie, she’s not normally a person who cares about things like wealth, power, and precious heirlooms, but her head snaps from side to side, trying to take it all in. In intimidated silence, we follow Ambrosia upstairs. Alix walks practically on tiptoe since our path is lined with about two million dollars’ worth of breakable stuff. At the landing, I catch a glimpse of myself in a huge hallway mirror. Framed by gold leaf and filigree, even I look like someone important and powerful. I like it. I give myself an approving last look and follow the others down the hallway.
“My room.”
Ambrosia opens a door into a space that is less like a museum than the rest of the house, but still not like any teenager’s room I’ve ever seen. It is very much Ambrosia, whose style is what fashion magazines would call classic. Only instead of her usual all black, the bedroom is glaring white—white walls, white bedding, everything understated and reeking of money. My eyes lock onto interesting treasures. These aren’t the usual clutter of knickknacks and memorabilia from childhood visits to Disneyland. On a table there’s an ornate jack-in-the-box inlaid with scenes of mountains made out of what look like real jewels. Only Jack, this pitiful Jack, lies toppled, his head half ripped off.
Ambrosia takes note of what I’m noticing. “Meg, there’s something special that might interest you.” I