And Yesterday Is Gone (24 page)

“You should see Dr. Teddy. I'll ask her if she has any time tomorrow. More tea?”

“M
rs. Mackey definitely has a way with a rack of lamb. I think she knows when I've had a long day,” Teddy said, sniffing appreciatively as they seated themselves at the elegant table where her father once sat.

“Good food, vintage wine and a love like no other…oh, Sara, we have a good life.”

Leaning forward, Teddy poured the wine.

“Ah, Teddy, why won't you slow down? You have no need to work such hours. You're nearing your sixtieth birthday.”

Reaching out, Sara clasped Teddy's hand and held it to her cheek.

“Such a beautiful hand that has brought so much comfort to others, and given me everything.”

“I love my work,” Teddy responded, “second only to you. This is my life and I've had it all.”

“Not quite all.” Sara smiled as she gave Teddy her hand back. “Mrs. Mackey has a chocolate torte for dessert. She is a jewel, but I can't say I care much for her husband. Juan has been helping him with the roses. Speaking of Juan, he seems so unhappy. I pray that someday he will find his happiness as we have found ours. And Rica—tears and more tears. Her parents are angry and very disappointed that the wedding was canceled and she has moved.”

“Really?” Teddy raised an eyebrow. “That decision may give her an additional problem. I examined her this afternoon and she is almost four months' pregnant.”

“Pregnant? Oh my.”

“That girl was so shocked and scared. She acted as though she didn't know how that could possibly have happened.”

Teddy leaned forward to replenish the wine. “So much for the age of enlightenment.” Then added, “Frankly, I was shocked. The only time I met her fiancé was at your party. It occurred to me that he was hiding in the closet, that Rica was only window dressing. I'd guess Steve had a finger in that pie.”

“Finger?” Sara laughed. “Teddy, you do have such a way with words.”

•  •  •

The question nagged me. Why had Rica driven out with Juan? What had she wanted to say?

The shame kept building for the hateful things I'd said, but I tried to comfort myself with the excuse that “She hurt me, so I hurt her back.” But somehow I couldn't bring that off. I was raised better than that.

My conscience gave me no rest. I'd have to apologize, but I'd held out for three weeks—that should show her that I was a man not to be trifled with. Yeah, sure. Had to laugh at my own pitiful attempt to detour the feminine psyche. Hadn't I retained anything I learned from Ma and Sis?

I did hold tough to one decision: I was going to find out if I was at bat or on the bench. This “kiss and run” tactic was no more.

Ma was mad at me, I'd insulted Rica, and the look on the face of my best friend had cut me like a knife. I sure wasn't on the best of terms with myself, so when J.W. called, I hoped he'd send me to the Arctic to interview a polar bear.

Opening the door to his sanctuary, I saw his bald head with its untidy fringe of iron gray hair above the straggly white brows that met above his eyes, and those piercing eyes that could reduce the most hardened reporter to a mass of quivering jelly with a look.

He sat behind a desk piled high, the perpetual ashtray in a prominent position, a still-smoldering cigarette lighting the one dangling from his lip, the wastebasket overflowing…

“Steve,” he growled, “sit down.” With a sweep of his arm, he cleared a chair and I sat.

He took a long drag and eyed me speculatively. Then his gravelly voice announced, “I've kept you pretty busy and you've done a damn good job. Don't let that go to your head. A good job for a kid who has only three semesters at college to brag about and slides by on natural talent—so says your old boss, Prentiss.” He chuckled, then added, “I've decided to throw you a little candy.

“How would you like to spend a few days in Los Angeles to cover the National Bathing Beauty contest? Should be right down the alley for a young stud like you. A lot of hoopla and bullshit, but a beauty in a bikini is always good press. Wrangle some backstage interviews, background stuff. Who knows,” he grinned, “you might get lucky—on your own time, of course. But business first. I'll expect something that will go on the front page, so don't disappoint me.

“Won't take long to drive down. Leave tomorrow morning.”

He shoved an envelope toward me.

“Go easy on the expense account. Have some fun, live a little. You look like hell.” With that, he waved me out.

W
riting for a major newspaper had always been my dream. Ma's faith in me, along with opportunity and countless hours of doing what I loved to do best, had earned me a spot as the youngest reporter on the second-largest paper in San Francisco.

I had proven myself as a featured writer where thousands read my words on the front page, my name on the byline.

Is this success? Sure wasn't failure. But now it was only half of the equation. I wanted the other half: Rica. Even as my frustration grew, I could feel her presence.

What the hell, I thought, pounding on the steering wheel. She's not the only woman in the world. Forget her; find someone who will appreciate me—no sweat.

Ma's words sneaked back into my feeble brain. “I can always tell when you're lying, Stevie.”

Speeding along that breathtaking coastal scenery that was Highway 101, my emotions ran the gamut; no less tumultuous than the tossing whitecaps below.

Finally arriving in the City of Angels, I felt my way, trying to read the street signs as they flashed by in that brawling, frantic traffic.

L.A. made me feel welcome with the universal middle-finger salute.

With heartfelt relief, I found the hotel, which surprisingly had an adjoining restaurant, complete with patio and bar. J.W. had booked a room for me much nicer than I would have dared to put on the expense account.

Checking in, the bored voice of the clerk informed me, to my delight, that the convention center where the beauty pageant was to be held was within walking distance, then turned wearily to repeat the same information to the next person in line.

Coming from the cool, sophisticated city of San Francisco, whose misty skyline was so often blurred by fog covering it like a soft blanket and obscuring that which was not good to look upon, I was not prepared for this great, golden city that lay like an overfed cat, sprawled lazily in the sunshine of an open doorway. The Sierra Madre Mountains stood guard in the distance.

City of Angels. Red-tiled roofs, palm trees standing tall against the startling blue of the sky. Purple bougainvillea, the raucous blare of horns, ricocheting traffic, where gang wars erupt upon sighting a jacket of a different color and prostitutes fight for their corner on Sunset Boulevard.

“Drugs? You name it, bro.” Available to rich and poor alike.

Chauffeured limos, Rodeo Drive, Bel Air, Beverly Hills mansions looking down their stuccoed noses.

Home to the beautiful people.

The “Hollywood” sign that dwarfed the hillside announcing to thousands that this
was
the end of the rainbow.

Movie studios, starlets, young hopefuls seeking fame and fortune in this make-believe world that really was the end of the rainbow for most.

Hollywood Boulevard, the street of broken dreams, and in this bawdy, teeming city of exotic mix, woven somewhere in between was the tenacious thread that held the fabric together: the ordinary people with their ordinary nine-to-five jobs.

With my few clothes quickly unpacked and hung, the nagging thought of a tall, cold beer urged me to the elevator. It stopped a couple of floors down to admit two women. One, a bleached blonde with a swinging, bulky camera bag over her shoulder competing with a dangerously bulging purse. The other reminded me instantly of the one I had promised myself to forget. I think it was the black hair that hung over her back, or perhaps it was wishful thinking.

As the elevator touched down, I noticed that they had preceded me to the bar and, as I ordered, they walked past me carrying a tray with glasses and a pitcher of something that momentarily erased beer from my mind. They were heading for the near vacant patio.

With a beer in hand, I stopped at a table partly obscured by a large potted plant and carefully seated myself on a spindly legged chair that hopefully would sustain my hundred and eighty pounds. Lifting my glass, it hung frozen in midair as I heard clearly the laughing voice, “…fat-assed Miss Alabama…got a few good shots of her. She's a thirty-eight/thirty-eight/thirty-eight if my camera doesn't lie.” Their voices choked with laughter.

My mind went into overdrive. This was the back door that J.W. had pointed to. I leaned over farther as the voice snickered. “…and the tits on Miss Ohio…” The rest was lost as the damned chair collapsed. Fighting to maintain my balance, I found myself swiping frantically and uselessly at the beer cascading down my front. “Son of a bitch,” I cursed as I kicked the three-legged chair and its orphaned leg behind the flowerpot.

The women laughed uproariously and clapped. Then the blonde said, “I shoulda had a picture—my editor would have loved it.”

I gave a weak smile and continued the vain attempt to dry myself.

The dark-haired woman drawled, “You know they'll probably bill you for that chair. Maybe you'd better sit with us. We'll cover for you.” She smiled and patted the chair beside her.

I was in. Her foot held the door wide open.

Gratefully, I sank down in the chair beside her as she pulled it closer and motioned for another glass.

“My name is Amy, and this is Janella. What should we call you—‘handsome'?”

“Just call me anytime,” I flirted. “Steve Smith for now. I'm a salesman just passing through.” Anything, anything—keep them talking.

“Janella is a big-time photographer for the
L.A. Times
—she's covering the beauty pageant that my sister is going to win at the convention center tomorrow,” Amy said confidently.

Turning to Janella, I said innocently, “You're really a photographer? That must be an interesting profession, taking pictures of beautiful women. Wow.”

“They're not very beautiful in the morning, although the plastic boobs stand up pretty well. Already shot two rolls today—human interest stuff.”

“My sister's boobs aren't plastic. She was always beautiful even when she was nursing a kid at fifteen and living on a dirt floor,” Amy said defensively.

“Fifteen?” Janella's eyebrows raised. “Thought that was illegal.”

“Not down on the border where we lived. People didn't notice stuff like that. After we moved to the hill country in Texas, everybody thought the kid was our mother's.

“We're doing better now that EmmaJean—of course, that's not her real name—won the Miss Abilene when she was seventeen, Miss Texas at eighteen. In Phoenix, she was runner-up—the lighting was really poor there. I always do her hair and makeup so I flew in last night. She'll win this one; I know she will.”

“Doubt she's prettier than you,” I said gallantly. “Bet you could beat her.”

She smiled and patted my knee as she generously filled my glass.

I got all the details right down to the thirty-four/twenty-two/thirty- four C-cup in that honeyed drawl that was beginning to send shivers down my spine.

All the salt on the rim of that frosty glass was keeping me thirsty. Janella motioned to the barkeep who arrived just as she poured the last drop—while Amy's foot played with mine under the table. I began to sweat.

“That Miss Michigan—her ass is as big as Kansas and her tits look like parts left over from Frankenstein. Miss Arizona—isn't she a mess?” Amy asked, turning to Janella. Not waiting for an answer, she continued, “The lighting was great in Tucson where she came in third…”

The shop talk and information flowed so fast I couldn't absorb it all, so excusing myself, I found the men's room to make copious notes on my forearms, then rebuttoned my sleeves.

Amy chattered for two more hours. My eyes glazed as she caressed my thigh—or close to it. I endured this torture manfully. Anything for the story that would bring joy to J.W.'s wicked heart and my byline to the front page.

Janella excused herself—it may have been apparent that Amy and I were joined at the hip, and we practically were. She had moved her chair so close she was, to a casual observer, sitting in my lap.

The patio had filled with a noisy crowd; the air was blue with smoke. My head was spinning and I was eager to get away, eager to put this story together knowing it would take all night.

Finally I stood. “I gotta go.”

“What room are you in, Sugar?”

“Six-thirteen,” I lied.

“Will I see you later?”

“Of course. Knock three times on the ceiling.” I fled.

•  •  •

High above the noisy crowds and congested traffic, I rang for coffee, made myself comfortable and pulled the cover from my typewriter. The words seemed to flood the paper.

Writing steadily, the hours flew by and my story came alive. I knew that it was good.

Amy had been a goldmine of information—her candid descriptions of backstage activities left little to the imagination. Where there was a lapse, I took a few liberties—a writer's prerogative. It was three a.m. when I added the last period.

I routed the sleepy night clerk from his dreams to fax my night's efforts over the airwaves to join the morning coffee on J.W.'s desk.

As I showered the priceless information from my forearms, my thoughts were not of the attractive, talkative woman with whom I had spent most of the day, but of a woman in San Francisco who disturbed my dreams and told me nothing of what I so desperately wanted to hear.

I was about to work myself into a righteous rage when I fell asleep.