setting: friday night at sunset drive in, echo acres
featuring: j. royce van doren iii & cecile van doren @cecevandoren
The sky above Lunar Cove darkened, a seasonably warm and clear night. Royce zipped down the streets in Goldie Hawn — his yellow ‘73 Alfa Romeo Giulia Spider Veloce 2000 — with her top off and looking stunning in the glow of the downtown streetlights. A flashy car for an often times flashy man, the kind he only ever brought out on humid summer days and nights when the sunlight shown off her hood exquisitely. Lately, though, his mind had been overcome with so much, that he hadn’t had much of a desire for joy rides in his pretentious vintage cars. The Catalyst. The Coven. The Council. All things that took so much of his time and attention, that kept him in some level of stress he hid behind carefully crafted and winsome smiles, a lofty attitude, or simply by locking himself away in his office at the back of the gallery. That futon offered a comfortable spot for many a restless afternoon when he just needed a little shut eye, if it would even come to him. But these lazy tactics just wouldn’t do much longer. After the grief of losing yet another coven member, Royce needed a far better respite than just an afternoon nap. And his other favored way of clearing up frustration was unavailable, at least until much later he figured. That left him with one other potential, one he thought may have been the most centering idea he’d had but regrettably didn’t come to first.
Swerving to a stop by the sidewalk, he’d leaned back in his seat and eyed the entrance of New Leaf, sniffing indignantly at the sight of it. He wasn’t here for new reading material, no. Most of his books he got in various languages from charming book stores on his visits abroad, or in estate sales and auctions as coveted first editions, all pressed tightly into bookcases back home. Novels didn’t entice him today, instead he was there for the blonde who had just barely ducked out the front door. The blonde who was so far above this ridiculous little retail job she stumbled into. “Cece,” he called, grabbing her attention with a wide grin and a single wave of his hand. No doubt she was looking for Bernie in one of the sleek black SUVs the family typically entrusted to staff, but was met instead by the sight of her brother in his ostentatious yellow convertible, prescription sunglasses hanging low on his nose as he beckoned her over. Hair wind blown and tousled while devoid of his usual three piece suit, Royce sat there in a crisp white button down, his jacket and vest neatly tucked away in the back, tie long forgotten. His sleeves were crumpled up to his elbows, collar undone and the top buttons on his shirt unfastened to reveal the scooped neck of a thin white undershirt beneath. If one squinted at him, they may have even noticed his shirt was untucked. He looked utterly unkempt by his standards, nothing like the J. Royce Van Doren III he presented in public, but Cece would see him then for who he was: Tripp, the Van Doren boy who liked running off on untold adventures or silly little inconsequential hijinks once the responsibility of life weighed too heavily on him, sloughing that stern and accountable persona in favor of something a little more relaxed.
By the time she drew near he was leaning over and pushing open the passenger’s door. “Blythe called,” he said, “She’s got a late meeting with the historical society, and the old man took off to Fuck Know’s Where for the night. Kath’s at the country club with that tennis instructor she has a shine for, God she’ll eat them alive. …I think that leaves you and I to our own devices. I figured I could steal you away for some proper brother-sister bonding time. Better than staying cooped up in ol’ Greenie all night.” He referred so affectionately to their aptly named emerald family home, Verdant Vale Hall, where a quiet night in alone with a book likely awaited Cecile. But by God, they could do better. It had been a while since he had really dedicated time to either of his younger sisters, or the family in general, and while he wouldn’t say it out loud, it was certainly weighing on Tripp. It dripped something blue in his heart, seeing Blythe scared to the point of fainting last month on the full moon and for him to have not been there right when it happened to shoulder the burden. He was learning quick that his globe trotting cowardly on the run ways were no good to anyone, especially the Van Doren women he loved so dearly. If only he could properly change.
“The Drive-In’s showing classics — Bing Crosby, Grace Kelly, Sinatra in High Society. Or was it Grace and Jimmy Stewart in Read Window? …Whatever, point is they’re showing old movies, and I thought it could be fun.” He reached into a small cooler on the floor before the passenger seat and pulled out a pint of Talenti’s Gelato Layers. Black Raspberry Vanilla Parfait, which he knew was a favorite of hers. “And I don’t come empty handed,” he grinned, but he withheld the ice cream as he motioned for her to sit. “C’mon, humor your old brother, won’t you? Before I’ve shuffled off this mortal coil.” Tripp sighed dramatically, before straightening in his seat. He had initially, when the tragedy first struck, thought about jet setting to Mykonos for a hedonistic respite, but he supposed there were great difficulties here in town that required him to stick around, and it wasn’t all too safe to just leave. Maybe this, a relaxed night with his darling little sister, could be just as nice a break from the chaotic noise, in spirit, as a Grecian getaway. Likely not the same, but he could try to enjoy himself more innocently.