Claire Voyant (13 page)

“Perfect.” He clapped. “It's straight up 95. He could make it back in two hours without traffic.”

“I don't ever want it back, see, 'cause I don't want to live here no more. I don't care for the building.”

“What the hell is wrong with the building?” he argued. “I noticed some nice new plantings out front. And the carpeting in the hallway looked very clean this time.”

“Everyone is dead, Dad,” I said. “She's trying to tell you it's depressing here. She has no friends left. She has to depend on strange people to take her everywhere, and I do mean strange. The only neighbor who still drives is Rose down the hall, and she forgets to put on her pants.”

“Oh. So, fine. We'll help her find another place. But she's still going to need her furniture.”

“No, I won't,” Grams said. “Claire found me a place that's already got furniture.”

“What are you talking about?” My father looked bewildered. “How could Claire find you a place, Gert? She's only been here two days, and one of those days was spent in an emergency room.”

“A friend of Claire's knew about it.”

“Again with the friends!” My father threw up his hands. “Claire, is this by chance the same friend who did your shopping, or a different friend? 'Cause I'm wondering where all these people are coming from. Roberta, were you aware that your daughter was so popular in Miami?”

“How should I know? She tells me
bupkas
!”

“It's because of what happened on the plane,” Gert said quietly. “It's…the dead man's place.”

Oh God. The San Andreas fault has just ruptured. No way to stop the tremors now
.

“The dead man's place?” My father's face reddened.

“Claire, let me make you a bite to eat.” My mother headed to the kitchen. “Maybe a nice tuna fish sandwich. Ma, you got fresh bread for a change?”

“'Course I got fresh bread. It's in the freezer. You just gotta let it sit on the counter awhile.”

“Wait. Hold on there, Gert.” His pitch registered an octave higher. “This man who died…didn't we agree we were going to have nothing to do with the family? I mean, he was a complete stranger, of course,” he said for my benefit.

“You can stop your tap-dancing, Lenny,” Grams yelled. “I told Claire everything this morning. The whole stinkin' story about her and Gary and Penelope—”

“Oh my God.” My mother grabbed hold of my father's arm. “You did what?”

“For Christ's sake, Gert!” he screamed. “How could you be so irresponsible? Claire, honey. You know your grandmother. Does she ever get a story straight? Never!”

But like voyeurs surveying a wreck, they glanced at me out of the corners of their terrified eyes.

“If you hadn't noticed, she's a grown-up now,” Grams practically spit. “Old enough to know the truth. Claire, tell 'em what I told you.”

Tell them what? Every regrettable word of a story I should have heard twenty years ago? They already knew the facts inside out. Why should I repeat them? So that they could be let off the hook from having to explain their god-awful decisions in their own pitiful words?

As the seconds ticked away, the tension mounted, and I knew they were expecting me to say or do something. But what? Go on a deadly rampage with the gun? Fall into a pitiful, crying heap like Little Sally Saucer? Scream and kick like that time at Toys “R” Us when they wouldn't buy me a bike?

If a tantrum didn't require so much work, I might have gone that route. But I was feeling so incapacitated, the only thing I could muster the strength to do was bend over, pick up my pocketbook and my shopping bags, and head toward the door.

“Wait. Claire. Where are you going?” My father followed me.

“I can't do this.” I choked back tears. “I can't talk to you right now. I can't even look at you…. I don't understand anything, other than I am exhausted and heartbroken. I just know I don't want to be in the same room as you.”

“I hear ya, but you have to believe us. We thought—”

“Spare me, Dad! I'm not interested in your side of the story right now. In fact, I wouldn't give a shit if I ever heard what you had to say. The only thing I know for sure is that there is someplace else I'd rather be.”

“Well, fine. Where do you have to go?” He tried to stop me. “I'll take you there.”

“No.”

“Then how will you get there? You don't have a car.”

“I've got a ride.” I opened the door.

“What time will you be back?” My mother ran over. “We can go out for a nice dinner. Anywhere you like. We'll talk. We'll tell you everything. Anything you want to know.” She grabbed hold of me. “We're sorry. Very, very sorry, Claire.” She began to cry. “I wanted to tell you, believe me. For years I pleaded with your father. But you know him, Mr. Know-it-all, always thinks he's the smart one…. Please. Don't walk out the door angry…. Lenny, stop her.”

“No,” he said in his indignant, how-dare-you-question-me tone he always used when he was losing an argument. “Let her go, Roberta. Obviously she needs to go sulk in a corner somewhere.”

“Excuse me.” I glared. “But I'm not going anywhere to sulk. I'm going over to my friend's house…to meet my
real
family.”

A
H, GENETICS!
D
REW HAD BASICALLY JUST TOLD ME THAT
“A
UNT
Penny” was very big on dramatic gestures and didn't like having her thunder stolen. So maybe there really was something to that whole like-mother-like-daughter thing. It seemed I'd inherited her ability to make sweeping statements and grand exits. For after dropping that little bombshell on my parents and grandmother about going to meet my new family, never had I seen three mouths opened wider.

But then, typical of me, once the big climactic scene was over, I didn't know what to do with myself. Grab a cab and head to the airport? I swear I could hear L.A. calling my name. And what I wouldn't give to be back with my friends.

Oh, and this time I would be sure to find work. Pablo had gotten me thinking that I could get an office job, maybe even for one of the film studios. At least until I was back on my acting feet.

Meanwhile, I would crash at Sydney's. Or, wait, wait, wait—I could ask my newly discovered mother if I could move in with her. What do you bet she lived in a fabulous McMansion in Malibu or Benedict Canyon? Surely she had an extra guest house she could spare. And how cool would this be? We'd hang out together. Make up for all the lost years. Really bond….

On the other hand, maybe the fall in the shower had done some serious brain damage, for clearly I'd lost touch with reality. Why would Ms. Nichol ever jeopardize her stellar reputation by admitting
to having abandoned her tiny infant? She didn't need Peggy Siegal, the PR maven, to tell her to deny any connection between us. In fact, I could just see the interview with Diane Sawyer now.

Penny would tell all of America that I was your typical low-rent extortionist. A money-grubbing loser who thought that this little scheme was my only shot at cashing in on hush money, or getting my fifteen minutes of fame. “Ms. Greene is Tanya Harding without the hammer,” she'd sniff.

Oh God. What if that was true? Not the part about me looking for fame and fortune. What if there wasn't actually a biological link between us? At the moment I had no tangible proof. No smoking-gun birth certificate that said,
This woman is definitely your mother
. Just a string of assumptions based on all these odd coincidences, and a smattering of circumstantial evidence.

So I had better be open to the idea of mistaken identity, that there might be another Penelope Fabrikant running around with nary a thought of her out-of-wedlock baby. My luck, she would probably be this strung-out alcoholic who lived in a trailer park with her boyfriend and a dog.

I was so sad and confused, I didn't realize I'd taken the elevator down, walked out the front door, and was now standing in front of a Greek coffee shop that was easily a half mile from Grams' building. Ah, but the smell of food was so tantalizing. And come to think of it, I was famished. Maybe I would feel better after some nourishment. A home-cooked meal served without a helping of guilt or a side of aggravation.

Unfortunately, the dark-haired man behind the cash register seemed more interested in reading the sports page than in feeding a hungry patron. Talk about southern hospitality! When I cleared my throat to announce my presence, he shoved a menu in my direction. “We're outa lamb,” he grunted.

But not flies
. I swatted two off my arm. And was it warm in here, or was I just flushed from all the craziness? Whatever. My coffee was fresh, and the Greek salad delicious, just the way my father liked it. Huge and cheap. But oops. Scratch that. Who cared what he liked anymore?

Point being, it was the first time in two days that I remembered what normal and calm felt like. Although that little bubble burst the instant my cell rang.

Funny thing about being an actress. We hear a ringing phone, and our hearts jump. Could this be the big break we've been waiting for? So there's almost never a time when we don't answer, unfortunately.

“What is it, Mother?” I didn't have to act annoyed. I
was
annoyed.

“Where are you?”

“I'm not telling.”

“I don't know what you're getting so crazy about. Didn't we give you a good home, a fine education, nice vacations, a nose job for your sixteenth birthday, which may I remind you came out much better than Jennifer Zucker's because at least your father knew how to pick a decent surgeon?”

“Oh, I agree. It was a wonderful life…. You gave me everything but the truth.”

“Grams had no right to say anything to you.”

“That's right. You should have.”

“Fine. But that other family? Awful people, Claire. Trust me. Don't get involved.”

“Nope. Can't trust you. I may never trust you. And please don't call me again. I won't pick up.”

“You're being foolish.”

“Foolish?” I yelled, glad that at this in-between hour in the afternoon, I was the only customer. For now my raised voice was only disturbing a disinterested owner and a bunch of flies. “What you and Daddy did was disgraceful.”

I heard a muffled sound. “Claire, this is your father.” His tone was gruff, as if I were still ten and easily intimidated. “You have no right to speak to us this way. We didn't raise you to be rude…. And you have no idea what we've been through all these years. How difficult it's been for us.”

“Oh, I'm sorry. How much do I owe you? I'll send you a check for your time and trouble.”

“That's a bunch of crap, and you—”

Nope. Sorry. Didn't want to hear the end of his stupid sentence. That's what the “end” button on the cell was for. And what bullshit to suggest that they were the innocent victims here, while the Fabrikants were monsters.

On the other hand, their level of concern convinced me that this was no case of mistaken identity. The Miami Fabrikants had to be the same people my parents feared they were, otherwise they wouldn't be this freaked out.

“More coffee, miss?” The owner stood at the table with a hot pot.

“Definitely.” I pushed my cup closer.

“A bad day for the pretty lady?” He filled it without spilling a drop.

“Uh-huh.”

“Every family fights. It's normal. We love them, we hate them. Believe me, I could tell you stories.” He laughed. “It could always be worse.”

“Well, thanks for the Greek philosophy, but not in this case.”

He smiled. “Things will work out okay.”

“Really? How do you know?”

“Because you give good aura.”

Is that like giving good head?
“Thanks for noticing. I sure hope you're right.”

“Can I ask you question?”

Only if you don't sit down
. “Okay.”

“Do you believe in love at first sight?”

Oh God. Of all days to be hit on. Check, please
. “No. No, I don't.”

“Because I think the problem is you fell in love, but you don't want to admit it.”

“And you know this because…how?”

“Let's just say I have a good sense about these things. Customers come from miles. They say to me, ‘Costa, the food is so-so, but the predictions? The best!'”

“Is that right? Well, then, here's a question, since you're so psychic. If you were on a plane, and the old man next to you suddenly dropped dead on your lap, and afterwards you found out from your grandmother that, surprise, surprise, this man was actually your
grandfather, and that your parents weren't really your parents, they sort of inherited you, and that your real father was dead, and your real mother was now this big, famous Hollywood star who abandoned you because you were too much trouble to raise, and that after figuring this all out, you fell in the shower and almost cracked your head open, and had to be rushed to the emergency room…would you be thinking about love?”

“Can I get you anything else, miss?” The man blinked. “Or just the check?”

 

I dug for Viktor's card in my pocketbook and dialed his cell. Never was I so glad to hear a crazy man's voice. And bless his little soul, he had been waiting to hear from me. Was I feeling better? Was my grandmother feeling better? Did I get the packages he left?

Yes, yes, yes, I told him. But was it possible for him to pick me up at the House of Athens Coffee Shop on Northeast 188th, and then take me someplace where I could shower and change before going over to the Fabrikants' for dinner?

“Miss Claire,” Viktor said, “wat is going wrong with you today? Why ken't you shower at your grendmotherz place?”

“Viktor, there are so many problems over there, you wouldn't believe.”

“Uch. Thet's the bed thing about rentals…thi landlords. They fix nothin' until the lawyer calls. Em I right?”

“As always.”

“So I hev idea. How ebout I take you to Drew's place? He's not using thi shower now.”

“Oh no, no, no. I couldn't do that. It would be such an imposition. I was thinking…Oh, jeez. I don't know what I was thinking. I guess you can't very well rent a hotel room for half an hour.”

“Oh, believe me. In Miami you ken.”

“Yes, but I don't have the money. What about a JCC or…I know—a country club with lax security?”

“I could take you to my house, but we only hev tub. Believe me, you'll be very heppy at Drew's.”

“But I don't want to bother him. He's got enough on his head without worrying that he left the place a mess, or that Marly will get mad.”

“He won't be beck until tonight. He iz busy with heez father all day. I hev keys to all their places. It's no beeg deal. I've done it.”

“Are you serious? You've stopped there to shower? He doesn't mind?”

“He doesn't know. He hez a maid. If something iz dirty, she cleans.”

“But don't you think he'll be mad if he finds out we snuck in?”

“Em I crazy? He only wants to make you heppy, Miss Claire.”

Well, I only want to make me heppy, too
. “If you say so…and I won't be long. In and out.”

“I like eh woman who thinks like eh man.” Viktor laughed. “I'm on my way.”

 

I have seen some fairly amazing bachelor pads in my day, and regardless of whether the place was a hotel room, a condo, or a sixteen-room estate, I could count on the same basic three things: great views, a huge bed, and enough high-tech toys to rival the local Best Buy (because size does matter, especially when it comes to plasma TVs).

And yet, when Viktor took me south of Fifth, then led me from the underground garage in Drew's condominium complex to the private elevator which shot us up to the penthouse floor, I was blown away. His apartment, if you could even call it that, was a spectacularly designed, three-thousand-square-foot mecca of delight.

Between the ocean views, which the floor-to-ceiling windows made hard to miss, the rich, tasteful furnishings, the vast, open rooms, the assortment of Brookstone gadgets, and the ultimate indulgence, a wall of vending machines in his playroom, he would be crazy to share it with anyone.

“Oh my God,” I must have repeated a dozen times. “This is all for one person?”

“Not bed for a kid who was born to a dencer and a plumber, em I right?”

A dancer and a plumber? Oh right. Drew wasn't born into money.
His widowed mother had played Chutes and Ladders for Husbands, and with one roll of the dice, shot all the way to the top.

“This kitchen is absolutely amazing.” I rubbed the Italian marble countertops. “So Drew likes to cook?”

“He no hev time. But Marly, she ken
potchke
in here all day—an excellent cook.”

“Oh,” I blurted. “She lives here, too?”

“Not officially, no. Of course, efter they get married…”

“Lucky girl,” I sighed. “So where should I shower, and how much time do I have?”

Viktor looked at his watch. “How about I ken pick you up in forty-five minutes?”

“Perfect.” I nodded.

“End take my advice, Mr. Drew's bathroom has excellent shower. Thi water, it spleshes from all around. Top, bottom, everywhere. Thi other showers…not so special.”

“Ah-hah. And what about towels? Maybe I'll take them with me so they're not lying around.”

“Believe me, Drew iz too busy to notice who used this towel, who used thet towel.”

“Okay. Anything else I should know? Alarm codes, light switches…how should I lock up?”

“I'll do it when I come beck up. And don't forget. He hez peppermint soap…try it. You'll smell like kendy store.”

Oooh. Good thinking. Then he'll never suspect I was here
.

 

Of course, I snooped around. Oh, come on. You would have done the exact same thing, and you know it. What girl wouldn't want the unofficial tour? Besides, I might never get another chance to open Drew's closets, medicine chests, and the all-important refrigerator. The true indication of whether he was still allowed to think for himself.

And the verdict? According to the contents of his mammoth Sub Zero, his life was over. The shelves were lined with fruit, yogurt, and salad makings, and one entire door panel stocked Diet Coke and bottled Evian. Yes, there was beer, but it all screamed
light
. And the
freezer test didn't bode well, either. Unless his midnight cravings included lemon sorbet and Healthy Choice chicken enchiladas.

There were other signs that Marly was calling the shots. Exquisitely framed photos of the happy couple were perched on every available surface. And here was a big surprise: Those famous needlework pillows of hers were casually adorned on all the couches and chairs.

My favorites designs were stitched in splashes of peach, turquoise, and yellow. Miami-flavored ice cream on cozy little canvases. It was the inscriptions that made me want to puke.

Duty makes you do things well, but loves makes you do them beautifully
(translated: Why screw your secretary when you can have me?).
Thy friendship be forever true
(translated: You cheat on me again, you're dead meat). Which was lovingly situated next to
Marly and Drew together forever
(translated: Or this time my lawyer will eat your prenup for breakfast).