Love in an Undead Age, A.M. Geever [best contemporary novels txt] 📗

If walking around the SCU campus made Connor feel like a time traveler, Palo Alto was like visiting another planet. It had the same easy affluence as before the ZA. The houses were as beautiful as he remembered. The lots of destroyed homes were absorbed into the yards of their neighbors, making a good third of the residences mini-estates if not outright ones. The only concession he could see to the present were bars over all the windows, but even these were artful curlicues of wrought iron that managed to be as decorative as they were functional.

Massive sycamore and oak trees created leafy canopies over spacious streets. Children played in their front yards, running and shouting or whizzing around on bikes and skateboards. Most of the lawns in the semi-arid climate were grass. Connor did not even want to think how much water it took to keep them green. Nannies and well-coiffed mothers supervised the organized chaos of playtime. Two young women chatted as they walked down the sidewalk, their stretchy, form-fitting exercise clothes accentuating the work they performed on the yoga mats tucked under their arms. Not one person in sight carried a weapon of any kind.

The center of Palo Alto was still the commercial strip along University Avenue. It housed all manner of shops and boutiques: grocers, butchers, upscale fashions, bakeries, restaurants, and countless fitness studios where one could perfect their yoga, capoeira, jiu-jitsu, judo, and kickboxing. The fitness and martial arts studios seemed to be the closest Palo Alto came to acknowledging that the world outside its walls had changed.

“Here we are,” Karen announced as they turned the corner.

A regal wrought iron fence started at the corner of the block and stretched far in both directions. If there were proximity alarms on the fence, they were an unobtrusive design Connor did not recognize. They pulled up to a gate painted shiny black with gold leaf on the points and cornices. Men in dark suits who talked into their sleeves and touched devices nestled in their ears stood guard. Their menacing-looking but obedient German Shepherds and Dobermans following them like shadows. Unlike everyone else they had seen these men were armed, but unobtrusively so as not to disturb the illusion.

This is how it must have been to go to the White House.

They were waved through and started up the long tree-lined drive, which blocked their view until they turned at the end and were presented with one of the biggest Mediterranean Revival houses Connor had ever seen. A mansion, in point of fact. Two stories of Palladian arches, verandas, French doors, and brown slate roof stood before him, surrounded by tall, graceful palm trees. There was even a multi-tiered fountain between the curved drive and the entrance. Not carrying weapons was crazy, but the houses were pretty damn sweet.

One of the massive front doors flew open and Emily darted out, the smile on her face so wide her jaw looked like it was wired in place.

“Connor! Oh my God! Connor!” She jumped up and down as he got out of the Rover, then wrapped him in a hug so tight he felt like the occupant of a Chinese finger trap.

He hugged his cousin back. A dark-haired man and three children stood at the front door. Connor looked at his cousin, drinking in the sight of her. It was Em, alright. Her gray eyes were alight with joy and overflowing with tears. She was the spitting image of Aunt Maureen, especially around the eyes and nose.

“I don’t even know what to say, Em. It’s good to see you doesn’t begin to cover it.”

“I can’t believe you’re here, Connor! I just can’t believe it!”

Emily wrapped her arms around him tighter. Connor saw Miranda and Karen over her shoulder. They both smiled and cried, their shoe quarrel forgotten, but Miranda’s body language was off. When the dark-haired man, who had to be Emily’s husband, approached them, she stepped away. Delilah did not share her mistress’ sentiments, for she jumped and wriggled in front of the man, warbling with delight. The smaller boy called for “Auntie Miranda” to pick him up. An older boy and a toddler, a girl if the pink trousers were any indication, joined their father in fussing over Delilah before the older children ran off with the overstimulated pit bull.

Emily loosened her grip a little and turned, wiping her eyes. Keeping her left arm around Connor, she said, “Come meet my family.”

The dark-haired man, now carrying his young daughter, stepped forward. He smiled at Emily with affection as he shifted the toddler to his left arm and reached to shake Connor’s hand.

“Connor, this is my husband, Mario,” Emily said.

“It’s great to meet you, Connor,” Mario said. His square, even teeth were the white of toothpaste commercials. “Her feet haven’t touched the ground since she heard the news.”

“It’s good to meet you, too,” Connor replied, not sure if that was true.

Mario Santorello was not what Connor had expected. He knew Santorello was thirty-five, a few years older than himself and his cousin, and that he was a celebrated biochemist, but had never seen his picture. His eyes were dark, brimming with an intelligence that was almost tangible, but what struck Connor most was how ordinary he looked. He was dressed in blue jeans, a white polo shirt, and wore (of all things) espadrille sandals. Not quite the Prince of Darkness that his imagination had conjured.

“It looks like the boys have run off with Delilah,” Mario said. “Why don’t we go inside and get a drink?”

“I’ll drink your good booze any day,” Karen laughed, accepting a peck on the cheek from their host. To Connor’s ear, her laughter seemed forced, too cheerful. But Karen had told him she liked Mario. Miranda’s discomfort around Emily’s husband was obvious. Karen must be worried about Miranda, he thought, I better make sure she’s all right.

But Emily hugged him again and asked a question as they entered the house, and the thought flew away.

They were dining al fresco on a veranda overlooking the extensive grounds with the help of several patio heaters. Emily had taken Connor on a brief tour of the richly appointed residence. Emily’s home was on the decadent side, but what else would the home of one of the world’s most powerful men be?

“So, Connor,” Mario started. “What are you planning to do with yourself once you get settled?”

“Mario, he hasn’t even eaten his dinner and you’re already grilling him!” Emily protested.

“No worries, Em,” Connor answered. He passed the platter of homemade fettuccine in a basil cream sauce, topped with sliced tomatoes, down the table. “I have no idea, Mario. I’ve only been here for two weeks. I still don’t know the lay of the land.”

Mario sat down, now that everyone had food, and spread his napkin over his lap. “If you ever want a job, just let me know. I’m sure we can find you something.” He raised his wineglass and the rest of the table followed. “To family.”

“To family,” they echoed, glasses clinking together.

The conversation meandered from old family stories to getting to know you chitchat. Emily told Connor how she had gone to GeneSys for an interview and never left. Her first impression of her husband had been poor but improved while they were holed up in one of GeneSys’ bunker-like labs. Every so often Mario would offer his perspective, which sometimes diverged from his wife’s account, but humorously so.

Connor watched the interplay between them and had to keep reminding himself that Santorello was the enemy. Emily’s husband was intelligent, charming, and personable. If he had run for president before the ZA, he would have won the all-important “Who would you rather