Kenneth Pacifico sat in his sitting room, looking over his house. He was relaxing and just letting his thoughts drift. It wasn’t too terribly hard for his mind to wander here. This was his. He had spent the last three years building this place. Oh, not just the renovations, all that was required for that was time. But they had come out so well. As he wandered through his foyer into the sitting room, he had to just marvel at what reconstruction really could do to a place. His home was on the outskirts of Downtown L.A. It was perfect for what he needed, not too far away from all the action of the city, but far enough away to be out of direct eyesight to those he worked for.
He had had the whole house gutted from the inside out and remade into a Victorian cottage, complete with parlor and sitting room. The whole ground floor was remade with good oak furniture and deep red carpets. The place was sufficiently dark, but warm as well. He truly loved how the place had all come together. The hard wood floors around the carpets gave enough of a separation between the colors that they gave the whole place the feel of an eternal summer afternoon.
He let himself slide down into his favorite chair. A free standing, high backed, red velvet upholstered chair. The four legs of the chair gently curved out from under the base to support the chair nicely. The legs themselves glided down to the floor and ended in four elegant cat’s paws, a panther he thought, as they spread out their claws to rest gently on the hard wood floor. He heaved a sigh of deep relief and contentment. After all the time he had spent looking and building and planning and gathering and teaching, he was finally able to say, I’m home.
And what a home he had made. The soft velvety cushions of his chair supported his whole body so deliciously he could fall asleep in minutes. He glanced over at the full bar in the corner. The mirror behind the booze shelves was polished to where not even his keen eyesight could pick out a single finger print or even a hairline scratch.
The booze lining the top shelves were of his own choosing, Fonseca Bin 27, a few bottles of Armagnac, Vermouth Gancia Bianco, eight bottles of Crystal head Vodka (Just because the bottles were so damn cool), and of course some Kauffman Vintage Luxury Vodka. The rest of the upper shelves were filled with various Italian grown wines, Bourbons, and others. The middle shelf was reserved for his pick of foreign wines and sitting proudly center shelf was his St. Croix Shiraz. For some reason the wine made in Franschhoek was among his favorite. He had to admit there were other more distinguished wines, especially from his home in Follonica, but the St. Croix label was delectable, in its own right. The bottom two shelves made him cringe just a little. The only reason he hadn’t cast that swill out of his house was because he did entertain those who preferred it over his choice stock. How could someone prefer Jagermeister over top quality Vodka? And that wasn’t even the worst offender. There was Crown Royal which wasn’t too bad, he supposed, but Captain Morgan Spiced Rum? It sent shivers down his back just looking at the stuff. Alcohol shouldn’t have to be chased with anything for one to enjoy it.
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Oh well, the small sacrifices one had to make, and they were so very small. The work he had put into this place and his life in general were finally paying off, quite well in fact.
He glanced over the room through his beautiful French double doors which faced west. The red and deep oranges of the sunset poured through the glass and burned the red carpet there. The light and the colors of his house sang together in beautiful harmony. The poet in his heart sang and cried out to the heavens at the majesty and beauty of this perfect moment. He had never missed this opportunity, even at the great risk to himself. The one part of his old life that he still clung to, foolishly perhaps, but one had to sit back and take time to enjoy the little things.
The fire faded slowly from the glass doors and the light muted itself, as the murderous ball of gas and fire outside sunk lower on the horizon. His house had a moderate amount of trees and landscaping, which gave him a little more time outside of direct sunlight. It also shaded his home from prying eyes. Trees were no substitute for the high stone walls of the palaces and great cathedrals of his home country to be sure, but trees gave a different kind of protection one that made people not think too hard about what they may be concealing.
As the light faded and receded even more from his home he got up and poured himself a drink. He reached up to the second from the top shelf and pulled down a bottle of Barbaresco. A perfect wine for the mood he was in. The powerful but graceful flavors of the Nebbiolo grapes from which it was made gave this hard to find wine a perfect and delightful sting on the pallet. Rare and beautiful, just like his home.
He heard the footsteps outside before the key rattled in the lock. He smiled to himself, his “student” was a long way from attaining true grace but, she was learning. He turned as his front door gently opened and the woman he was expecting entered into his foyer.
This one was not as elegant as some of his other students, and she would never attain true beauty. Her nose was a little too small and her neck was long. Her deep auburn hair was a treasure onto itself though. The long strands were not wispy, nor were they thick and brutish, but a perfect volume and body that any woman would be jealous of. Her eyes were muted blue steel which, by themselves were unremarkable. But framed by her hair, those eyes burned and shone with a devastating light that could ensnare any man. Maybe it was that combination alone that led him to take her as a pupil.