Come Sunday Morning Read Free Page B

points in the rolling fence allowed passersby brief glimpses of the magnificent home. A wrought-iron gate emblazoned with the initials “HC” quietly parted at the sight of the car and gently closed behind it. Palm trees that lined the winding driveway quivered gently as the car drove past. Meticulously manicured grounds surrounded the home and seemed to spill down the hill into the skyline. To the left was a freshly painted green tennis court with sharp white lines. A whitewashed gazebo stood to the right, overlooking the Pacific Ocean, and a two-story guesthouse could be seen tucked behind a grove of trees. At the final curve of the driveway, the trees unfurled like a stage curtain and the house could finally be seen. It was an off-white Mediterranean villa, nestled behind pine and oak trees, sitting on a sloped crest with spectacular views of the city and Pacific Ocean. Double stone stairways ascended to the grand main entrance under a covered porch, which was held by four twenty-foot-high white carved pillars. Each window on the front of the home was topped by cream-colored arches and flanked by stone columns. Branches dripping with lavender and white wisteria spilled from a deck on the second floor.
    The car stopped at the foot of the stairway.
    â€œAre you coming in?” she asked coldly.
    â€œNo,” came the abrupt reply.
    â€œWhat time will you be home?”
    â€œI won’t be gone long.”
    Samantha slammed the car door and walked up the steps to the house without turning to see her husband being driven back down the hill.
    Etta Washington, the Cleavelands’ housekeeper and cook, opened the massive double wooden doors as Samantha approached.
    Etta had been with the Cleavelands for five years. She was forty-eight years old but appeared much older. She wore a white apron, knotted at the waist, over a simple black dress which fell just below her knees. Samantha insisted she wear the uniform at all times. Etta had never married and had no children. To Etta, the Cleavelands were her family, but to Samantha, Etta had never risen above the rank of hired help.
    The opulent exterior of the house was mirrored in its interior. Sunlight poured through a skylight in the two-story foyer and coated the oval-shaped room in a warm glow. Double living-room and dining-room doors framed in oak were to the right and to the left. A round marble table holding a massive floral arrangement sat in the center of the room and on each side symmetrical stairways molded into the curve of the walls and climbed to a second-floor landing which overlooked the room. Black wrought-iron banisters provided a stark contrast in the bright room. Directly ahead hung the first of two original Picassos in the Cleaveland home. The painting was in the center of the foyer rear wall and the first thing seen when entering the home. The dreaming woman’s hands rested suggestively in her lap. Her head was slightly tilted to the right and her closed eyes hinted of erotic sweet dreams. Parts of her deconstructed face provided a glimpse of the thoughts that seemed to give her such serene pleasure.
    Antique furniture and European oil masterpieces were skillfully displayed throughout. A well-thought-out floor plan of wing-backed chairs, marble and glass-topped tea tables, and satin-swathed couches created the optimum setting to impress and entertain the rich, the pious, and the famous. Crystal chandeliers and Lalique vases glittered throughout, while plush pastel carpets softened the hard edges of each room. A sleek black baby grand rested in front of a wall of glass which overlooked the grounds and a shimmering cobalt blue infinity edge swimming pool. The second Picasso hung over the fireplace in the living room. The five women of Les Demoiselles d’Avignon looked approvingly over the elegant room. Their faces resembled primitive tribal masks and the jagged edges of their pink flesh formed sharp angles that pointed in every