The Fourth Steven by Margaret Moseley

Author:Margaret Moseley [Moseley, Margaret]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781732065635
Publisher: Brash Books
Published: 2019-04-30T22:00:00+00:00

TWENTY–ONE

Sometimes I wonder if relationships like mine with Steven Hyatt still exist—an extended period of innocence incongruent with the rest of the world; our pretended realities were our truth, and the real truths were tolerated by us only until we could return to the ones of our own making.

Sometimes I’m not sure Steven and I ever made it all the way back. He writes and directs his plays and movies with an inward eye that is hailed as creative by the critics, but I recognize its warped origin, and I balance carefully between productive and dysfunctional lifestyles.

Had our three years on the third floor marked us? Or would we have been the same without them?

That the past week had strained me beyond my capabilities was a surprise to me, but I knew it when I saw Steven. My first thoughts were to curl up in his arms and cry, like a child does when its mother shows up after a crisis.

But Steven was being a good host to Joaquin. He acted as if the dusty, hodgepodge rooms were his, and Joaquin was an invited guest popping in for brandy. No, it was beer Steven was offering.

Joaquin accepted.

I tried to tune in to their conversation when I caught Steven staring at me in a concerned way.

“Murdered! No!” he said.

Oh, Joaquin was telling him about Steven Miller. I couldn’t remember if Steven Hyatt knew Steven Miller or not.

“Honey,” Steven turned as if to comfort me for Steven Miller’s murder as if it just had occurred this minute, not five days ago.

I waved him away. “You’re not getting away with it, Steven Hyatt.”

“What?” he exclaimed innocently.

“Australia. You were in Australia. I may not remember what day it is without my Day-Timer, but I do distinctly remember you telling me that you were going on location in Australia for that new script of yours … the … the … something or other about you-know-what.”

He laughed, “You mean The Playful Platypus Ponders Paradise in Perth? That one?”

I ignored him. “You were there,” I said, remembering. “I called your hotel. They said you were on safari somewhere out in the outback, a reserve or reservoir, or something like that. What are you doing here, Steven?”

Steven leaned forward and said, “Not now, Honey. Not in front of the g-u-e-s-t.” Still leaning toward me, he cut his eyes around at Joaquin and said, “Who is he, anyway?”

If I had been Joaquin, I would have left after introductions were made, but the gardener lingered as if he still didn’t trust me with Steven, who offered him another beer from the Styrofoam cooler at the end of the couch.

Steven loved to talk and show off, and since this was the first time we’d ever had a stranger on the third floor, he gave Joaquin a guided tour like it was the House of Wax. “You notice there are no doors up here? The original plan called for doors, but since Mr. Huckleberry never finished it out, he never installed them.”

He paused at the opening to the largest of the side rooms.

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