The door opens and a breathtakingly beautiful woman stands at the entrance. Her face is delicate and sharp, fragile, like it was etched from porcelain, but with a bold nose and amber-glazed skin stretched taut over flaring cheekbones. She can’t be any taller than maybe five-two, and her black hair is shiny, center-parted, and hangs in textured waves to her elbows.
“Good evening, Mr. Holt,” she says, smiling at me somewhat stiffly before shifting her glance to Evan. “And you must be Mr. Bancroft.”
“Uh, yeah… that’s me. I am,” Evan says. He’s usually a little smoother than that, so I shoot him a surreptitiously curious glance. He’s looking all dazed and confused.
“Welcome.” She steps back to allow us inside. “I’m Law’s wife, Linh. He’s wrapping up a call. Please come in.”
We enter a grand foyer with an intricate stone chandelier suspended from the ceiling.
“That piece is incredible.” Evan tips his head back to study the light fixture.
“Thank you,” she says. “My father made it.”
“Your father?” I ask, looking from her to the chandelier. “Wow.”
“He’s a sculptor. Chap Brody. It was a housewarming gift.”
“Chap Brody is your father?” Evan’s mouth hangs open in uncharacteristic awe. It takes a lot to impress my jaded production partner, but apparently this does it. Chap Brody is the only Black sculptor I know by name. Real talk, he’s theonlysculptor I know by name, period. That’s not really my thing as much as it is Evan’s.
“You’ve heard of him?” Linh asks with a pleased smile.
“Of course.” Evan looks almost boyish in his enthusiasm. “I’m kind of an architecture geek, and I’ve come across his work in a lot of cool spaces. He’s a genius.”
“So he keeps telling me.” She laughs, leading us down a stark white corridor lined with vases and busts and various other pieces displayed in dimly lit alcoves.
Lawson collects beautiful things—the most beautiful of which is his wife. He’s one lucky man. By the way Evan can’t take his eyes off Linh, he must agree. We’re trailing her into their living room and I elbow him, giving him mywhat the hellface. Seriously? He’s going out like that in the man’s house? He gives me a confused look, like he has no idea what I’m talking about, but he knows.
“Wine, or something stronger?” Linh asks. “I have appetizers here, too, while we wait for Law.”
The appetizers are various combinations of vegetables, fruit, and seafood. Also some kind of dumpling in a brown sauce, all of which Evan and I devour. We load up small plates and sink into the luxurious white couch at the heart of the living room. Through a wall of glass, an aqua-blue infinity pool glitters under strategically placed floodlights, but Evan seems more interested in the viewinsidethe house than out. Linh’s Black and what I’m guessing to be Asian ancestry blend beautifully. I can count the times he’s looked away from her.
“Mom, I’m stuck.”
The statement comes from a young girl, maybe ten or so, standing atthe foot of a staircase. She’s a replica of Linh, but with fairer skin and silkier hair.
“Oh.” Linh rises and tops off our wine. “I’ll be right back. Algebra calls.”
As soon as she leaves the room, I turn on Evan. “You do know she’s Lawson’s wife, right?”
“Uh, yeah.” He looks at me like I’m crazy and he’s clueless. “And?”
“And you’re all up in her grill. Stop it.”
“A man can look. She’s gorgeous.”
“You’re asking for trouble. Stop that shit.” I suck my teeth and reach for another dumpling.
“Gentlemen.” Lawson enters the living room. “Sorry to keep you waiting.”
He’s a typical Hollywood exec. Since he’s home, he’s shed the shiny suit for the studied casualness of a button-up and slacks. Linh has melanin working for her, so it’s hard to discern her age, but I’d put Lawson Stone in his late-forties, early fifties. The work he’s probably had done may have firmed his jawline, but he wears the years in his eyes and his too-uniformly black hair.
“I see Linh got you started,” he says, holding up the bottle. “How’s that pinot noir? It’s Linh’s favorite.”
“She’s great.” Evan takes a sip of his wine and mock toasts. “I mean,it’sgreat. Delicious.”
“Good.” He scans the room. “Did she go check on dinner?”
“Your daughter needed help with homework,” I tell him.
