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 Chapter One
In the Orchestra’s Absence
Barefoot and still warm from his shower, Lachlan Hayes
stepped out onto his deck and smiled. He would never get used to
this spectacular view.
The Paciic Ocean stretched out before his beachside house like
a skein of dark blue silk undulating with wave and wind. It was
a million dollar view, one the screenwriter had paid $5.2 million
for last Tuesday. Chill blades rolled across his bare skin at just the
thought of spending that amount of money. He had come a long,
long way.
Thirty two year old Lachlan Hayes had always played the role
of the loner. He had been born to it, actually. Being an only child
of a couple infatuated solely with each other, Lachlan’s formative
years had held a certain free-form quality to them, a childhood
that was great for the imagination but lousy for the foundation of
friendships.
Despite this Lachlan lourished. He excelled at all his private
schools. His summer tutors lauded his dedication to the literary arts
and could do nothing but applaud the enthralling, complex plays
ten year old Lachlan would write for his toy soldiers and teddy
bears. It was at these tutors’ behest that the boy’s parents had sent
their child to a prestigious arts academy in New York City. It was a
move that would do nothing but say good things about such self-
sacriicing parents.
Lachlan lived with a housekeeper in his own studio apartment
from the age of twelve to eighteen.
At eighteen years and one day, Lachlan bolted to Berkeley. And
while he had his friends and drinking buddies during his college
years, he found himself spending his summers and holiday breaks
relishing his time alone. He was comfortable within his own skin, a
fact that peeved his girlfriends and bothered the shit out of his one
boyfriend.
Sex was great. Lachlan loved sex. He could happily do it all
day and all night for six days out of seven, but that seventh day he
needed some time alone. At times, he craved the solitude, thriving
in those hours with only pen and paper by his side.
It came as no surprise that he had as of yet to have a serious
relationship.
The lack of that signiicant other in his life, however, wasn’t
even a speck of disappointment in his existence this leeting after-
noon. The southern California sun soon rid him of the $5.2 million
goose bumps. Her hands were warm and guileless across his chest
and arms, cocooning him swiftly in the security of her heat.
The lawn chair of teak and dark blue cotton called to his still
half asleep brain, promising a long late afternoon nap under the
clear June skies.
In nothing but pajama bottoms, Lachlan rubbed his short thick
mop of blond hair and shufled across the patio, surrendering to the
chaise’s siren call.
As his light blue eyes began to lutter closed, he thought to
himself what an absurdly perfect day it had been.
After an all-nighter of tweaking an already sold script, Lachlan
had collapsed across the white down comforter of his king-sized
bed just as dawn trickled through his windows. Until four o’clock,
even the tiny, annoying twinges of hunger hadn’t awakened him
from his deep and dreamless sleep.
A power bar, a glass of milk and a forty-ive minute shower
then followed.
Now, he was going to let Lady Sun do the job of drying his
body and hair for him.
Life was indeed perfect.
* * * *
Life stunk for Heath Isles at the moment. As the twenty-seven
year old landscape architect slammed his truck into park on the
pristine, hill-clinging residential street, he wadded up his latest
speeding ticket and tossed it into the back of his cab.
Grabbing a sketchpad, a notebook of already copious notes,
and his camera, Heath climbed out of his truck and immediately
cursed the time.
“Where the fuck did those two hours go?”
It was a rhetorical question of course. Even the rose bushes
along the side of his new client’s house knew the answer. Traf-
ic was hell in California. With the day that he was having, Heath
wouldn’t have been surprised if he tripped over one of Dante’s
rings about now.
Determined not to add a broken knee to the day’s cache of
goodies, the man slowed his pace as he picked his way through the
overgrown path that led to the house’s private beach.
He had never met Lachlan Hayes himself, since the writer’s
manager had handled all the details and the initial introduction to
the much neglected grounds through a couple dozen 8x10’s, Heath
just hoped that Mr. Hayes understood screwed up work hours.
Heath Isles could not afford to lose this job.
Ducking under a broken limb of a pinion pine, Heath came to a
full stop as the beach inally came into view.
The property was stunning. It had all the bones any landscape
architect liked to work with and just enough of the overgrown, ne-
glected quality to it to give the architect’s creative juices a healthy
jolt of “I’m broken. Fix me.”
Heath had always loved the ixer-uppers the best. While he had
had his share of new construction commissions, the properties of
faded glory or untapped potential were his favorite types to dive
into. He would then devote all his skills to the project until the
land’s God-given beauty was revealed.
Heath smirked at the thought. His job was hardly as haughty
or important as all that sounded. Just because he had the degrees
to back up his ideas, he knew he wasn’t any different than most
gardeners who just wanted their places to look good. It was exactly
this ability to see his work through the eyes of both the “common
man” and the “aristocracy” that had made his career so successful.
Heath Isles appealed to everyone.
Heath outright laughed at that. The California court system
sure as hell didn’t ind him appealing and his father’s ex-wives
out and out hated “every single one of his measly, greedy guts.”
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