Claire Voyant (23 page)

“I don't know. It seems kind of gross…. People would talk.”

“So? Who gives a shit? You told me before you really loved him. Did you change your mind?”

“No.”

“Then you have to tell him, because I think if he knew, he might…give it a chance.”

“I don't understand why you're rooting for me. You just told me I'm pathetic.”

“I know. But it's not your fault. It's just because of all this shit that's happened you. Other than that, I guess you're okay. I mean, anyone who would go bare-ass naked in front of Marly is a rip.”

“Oh God. Drew told you?”

“No, she did. She was like in shock. It was so great. I wish I could have seen her little face all scrunched up.”

“It was pretty funny, actually. But what difference does it make? I don't want to be anyone's rebound girl. I've been there too many times before, and it never works out.”

“Just leave it to me, okay? If you want my brother, I'll make sure he doesn't screw this up.”

 

I know a lot of crazy, let-loose, give-the-dog-a-beer kind of people. But after partying in Hollywood for six years, mingling with celebrities, eventual celebrities, used-to-be celebrities, and my-shit-doesn't-stink-because-I work-for-celebrities, I thought I had seen just about every form of aberrant behavior there was.

So when I tell you that Delia Fabrikant turned out to be a sweet kid, but a total wack job, I think I speak with some authority. I mean, Sydney had an unpredictable, lunatic side to her, too. Enough that I used to worry about one day getting a call from the police saying that she was standing on a thirty-six-story ledge, just to find out who her friends were. But compared to Delia's let-loose antics, Sydney looked like an honor roll student at Encino Valley Middle School.

From the minute we set foot into By the C, Delia morphed into a younger, hipper Norm on
Cheers
. She was greeted by every customer, waiter, bartender, and manager, and before I could even adjust my eyes to the darkened room, she was off table-hopping, tongue-kissing, drinking, snorting, and dancing. At five-thirty in the afternoon. With her father working upstairs in his office.

After watching Delia's signature greeting to men—sticking her hand down the front of their Pavlovian pants—I realized how lucky I was to have been raised by Mr. Don't You Dare, a shrewd accountant who made me accountable for every decision I ever made.

Which made me think. If my dad had ever gotten wind of the fact that I was the neighborhood Bianca Jagger, he would have made me write a letter of apology to anyone I might have offended, and then grounded me for life.

He never would have tolerated such infantile antics. He never would have allowed me to discredit my good name. He never would have let me do anything that would disparage my reputation or make me feel unworthy.

And for that I had to raise my glass to Lenny Greene.

Y
OU KNOW WHAT THEY SAY ABOUT GETTING WHAT YOU WISH FOR.
I
WAS
thrilled when Delia invited me out for a night of fun. I finally got to wear one of those amazing Versace outfits. Met some cute guys. Pretended that it was just another night in SoBe to enjoy the heat and the beat.

So imagine my disappointment when the evening turned into a raucous booze cruise on land, and I realized that my sole function was to serve as Delia's personal hair holder when she vomited. If only I could be back at the Fabrikants', curled in Drew's bed.

It made me wonder how long I could exist in this surreal holding pattern. Unlike my formerly frenetic life, when I ran from shit job to even bigger shit job, from sea salt manicures to human hair extensions, from cocktails in Santa Monica to beach parties in Malibu, now I had no reason to get up, no place to go, no immediate plans for the future. The only thing on my “To Do” list was checking in with Grams to see how she was managing in her new place. Or so I thought.

When I headed down to the kitchen the next morning (a much easier feat the second time), instead of finding Shari, I saw Drew standing over the sink with a bagel in one hand and the newspaper in the other. How adorable he looked in his white pressed T-shirt and khaki shorts. How well behaved, too, making sure his crumbs didn't touch the floor.

It was hard to believe that he and Delia were raised by the same
people. Oh no. I also realized that this would be my first face-to-face with Drew since Delia heard my confession. She had promised not to tell, but what if she'd let it slip? And what about his breakup with Marly? Did I know about that, or was I supposed to play dumb? It was too much for my still-fragile brain to handle. Better to tiptoe back to my/his room, call Delia's cell, and find out what I could and could not say.

“Claire!” He turned around. “Hi, there. I was hoping you'd come down so we could talk. I almost gave up on you.”

Don't ever give up on me.
“Drew? Oh wow. What a surprise to see you here. I mean, not that this isn't still your house, it's just that no one was expecting you until tomorrow.”
Shut up, shut up, shut up.
“How are you?”

“Good.” He kissed my cheek. “But you look great. Amazing, actually.”

“That's not saying much. If you recall, last time you saw me, I was headed to Psycho U on full scholarship.”

“No, you weren't.” He laughed. “You were just overwhelmed and—”

“Can I ask you something? 'Cause I really need to know. Are you mad at me?”

“Why do you always ask me that?” He hoisted himself up on to the counter. “Do you have this kind of complex with everyone? No, I'm not mad at you. In fact, I'm very happy to see you.”

“Just checking. So…um…how was Bermuda? I hear it's nice this time of year.”

“You can lay off the fancy footwork. Delia told me she told you about me and Marly.”

“Oh…well, then, I just wanted to say that I'm really sorry.”

“No, you're not. You're as happy as everyone else.”

“Fine. I cannot tell a lie.”
Ha!
“I am a little happy. Now I can throw out my Marly voodoo doll.”

“You hate her that much?”

“It's not important. Um, by any chance did Delia happen to say anything else about me?”

“Yeah. She said you're staying in my room.”

Is that all?
“I know, and I am really sorry. I had this big fight with my parents before they went back to New York, and I had nowhere else to go, so your parents invited me to stay here, which was really nice, but then I was afraid to stay down in the villas alone, so your dad said it was okay to stay in your room, but I'll go get my things and move out now. I don't want to invade your—”

“No, no. You don't have to do that. Stay as long as you like…. Are those my clothes?”

I looked down at my boxers and Miami Marlins T-shirt. “Uh-oh.”

“No, it's fine. I just feel like Papa Bear. Someone's been sleeping in my bed and wearing my boxers and looking better in them than me.” He spoke in a baritone. “And I hope she's hot.”

“Oh, she's hot, all right. Especially when she's running a fever.” I laughed. “But oh my God, Drew. Your bed is so comfortable, I slept for three straight days. In fact, the whole room is great. I feel safe in there.”

“That's funny, because I always felt safe in there myself. Probably because it was the only normal room in the entire house.”

“Are you serious? You didn't like growing up here?”

“What's not to love? I was the only kid on the block with a Little Tykes Rolls-Royce.”

“That must have impressed the little girls.”

“Nah. They were so rich, their piggybanks had vice presidents.”

It was so wonderful to laugh again, and to feel relaxed. And excited. I hadn't just been imagining that Drew was wonderful. He was wonderful. Now the question was not how long could I stay in his room, but how long could I stay in his room before I begged him to join me? Just inhaling his soap scent and looking at his lean, muscular body made me weak.

But even better than getting to look at him over coffee was getting to talk to him. Most men presume that they should be the focus of conversation, but Drew was more concerned with my frame of mind and my relationship with my parents. He talked about how angry he was with Delia for wasting her life. Anything, apparently,
to avoid discussing his feelings about Marly, because I did try to go there, and the door to that subject was closed.

On the other hand, you should have seen his eyes sparkle when I asked about Abe. It didn't even faze him when I used the collective, “our grandfather.” He just smiled and shared stories about the great man's passions. And all the while I was thinking that any guy who could write song lyrics and who could share the pain of his loss was someone I could spend the rest of my life with.

It was in the midst of listening to the tales that I heard Drew say something about a poem that Pops loved so well, he'd made a copy and tucked it into his wallet. He often forgot to walk around with money, but he never left home without his tattered copy of “My Sky.”

“Wait. I think of I've heard of it,” I said. “But it's a song, not a poem. Right?”

“No. It's a poem. From the Holocaust. It was written in a concentration camp.”

“No, I'm pretty sure it's a song…. I just don't know why I know that.”

“I guess the title sounds like a song, but trust me, it's a poem. It's in this book he gave me when I was like eight or nine. He was the only grandfather I knew who didn't read fairy tales to his grandchildren. Instead he read us stories from the Holocaust, which wasn't exactly the kind of thing you should do before putting a little kid to sleep. But that was my Pops. He drilled it into our heads that life was precious, and we couldn't ever forget the six million who died.”

“Do you remember the name of the book?”

“Yeah. Absolutely. It was called
Reason to Believe.
”

“Oh. Now, that's weird. I had that book, too. I think someone gave it to me for Chanukah one year, and it was like, oh wow. Thanks so much. It's just what I wanted.”

“Yeah, well for a while he was reading it to me every night. Then my mother made him stop because she was sure it would turn me into some kind of psycho revenge killer or something. Did you ever read it?”

“I doubt it. And yet for some reason, the name ‘My Sky' rings a
bell. It's like ever since Abe died, things keep coming to me that I have no way of knowing, and I have no idea why.”

“Me either. But maybe your dad was right. We need to call in the local exorcist.”

“Very funny.”

“No, really. It's like Pops didn't die. He's still here, and he's getting through to you. Like in the hospital when you got all those messages. And before that, you said that you felt his presence a lot.”

“Yes, but I have no recollection of him telling me about this poem…but I would swear on my life that it's a song.”

“No. Believe me, if there was a recording of it, we would have had it, especially since he was so into music. When he was a kid, he was this supposed piano prodigy. His big dream was to be a composer, but then the war happened; he lost everyone and everything, somehow made it out of the concentration camps, got brought to this country with the help of an uncle, and by the time he got to America, he'd lost all desire to play—”

“Oh wait, wait, wait,” I interrupted. “I'm starting to remember something.”

Drew jumped off the counter and slung his leg around a kitchen chair. “Hit me.”

“The day we met at the airport, I was holding his wallet, remember? And you were so glad that I had it because you thought it was stolen?”

“Yeah.”

“Then you said something about a poem he kept in his wallet. You said it was like his American Express card. He never left home without it.”

“Okay.”

“And you mentioned the name. You said it was ‘My Sky'. That's where I heard it.” I clapped.

“To tell you the truth, I don't remember that. The whole day is still a blur. But did I say it was a song?”

“No.”

“And you think it's a song because…”

“I wish I could tell you. I don't know. Maybe I dreamt it.”

We sat quietly, contemplating the insanity of this conversation. Nothing was making sense, yet neither of us thought the other was crazy. It was just giving us a reason to bond. And it was nice. I liked watching Drew, deep in thought, slicking back his hair. I liked watching him stare off into space, then look at me with that dazzling, dentist-chair smile. So I don't know what possessed me to break the mood by saying something stupid.

“This is by far the strangest house I've ever been in,” I blurted.

“I agree.” He laughed. “But why do you think so?”

“I don't know. Maybe because it's so quiet? I feel like I'm the only guest in this huge hotel.”

“You are the only guest.”

“I know, but people do live here.”

“Only two. My mom and Delia. My dad pretty much moved out.”

“I heard.”

“But what the hell? The place is up for sale. Soon it will be someone else's hotel.”

“Will you miss it?”

“Maybe, maybe not. I love the walk down to the ocean. And I guess I'll miss my room.”

“Oh, I know. Look at me. I've only been here a few days, and I'll miss it, too.”

Drew jumped up.

“What is it?”

“My room. I just thought of something.”

“Tell me.”

“He did once write some music for a poem.”

“Are you serious? You mean for ‘My Sky'?”

“I'm not sure.”

“But what does that have to do with your room?”

“I remember now I had gotten this little dinky tape recorder for my birthday one year, and he asked if he could borrow it because he wrote this song, and he wanted to be able to remember it.”

“Okay.”

“So he sat down at the piano, he made the tape, and then he handed it to me and said, ‘Here. I want you to have this.'”

“That was sweet. So what was on it?”

“Who knows? I never even listened to it. But I bet it's in my desk somewhere. Which, if I know my mom, it's part of the Drew Fabrikant permanent exhibit…velvet ropes and a sign that says don't touch.”

“Your desk?”
Noooooo. Don't look in your desk. You might notice things got moved around.

“You know what?” Drew said. “Why don't we go up there and look for it?”

“Um…maybe later? It's sort of a mess.”

“Are you kidding? You think it was any different with me? Until I moved out, I had no idea what color the carpet was. C'mon. Let's go check it out. I know a shortcut.”

“A shortcut? Are you serious? You have a shortcut to your room?” I giggled. “At my house, it takes me exactly six seconds to go from the front door to my room. Ten if I stop for my mail.”

“Then I'm insanely jealous.” He grabbed my hand and ran. “If we leave now, we can get to mine before sunset.”

 

Drew wasn't joking. There really was a shortcut to his bedroom. Could you imagine living in a place so big that you had choices on how to get around? Not that I had time to think about this, for as soon as we reached his room, he closed the door.

“Are you mad at me for something?” He looked me in the eye. “I really have to know.”

“No, of course not. Why would you even say that?”

“To show you how annoying it is every time you ask me the same thing.” He stroked my hair.

“I'm sorry. I don't mean to be annoying. I just really like you, and your opinion of me means everything to me.”

“And I feel the same…which is why I have an important question for you.”

“Okay.”

“Would it be all right if I kissed you?”

Duh. Hello? Can't you hear my heart pounding?
“I think so.”

“But you're not sure?”

“Just tell me this. Am I the first girl you ever made out with up here?”

“No. Sorry.” He laughed. “There have been hundreds, maybe thousands of girls up here. I was importing them from Taiwan. But none that I cared about as much as you.”

“That's what you said to all of them.”

“No. Only one.”

“Marly?”

“Actually, no. Now that I think of it, she was never up here.”

“Are you serious? How come?”

“I don't know. I guess she never expressed much interest in my past.”

“I love your past, and I want to know everything…. So who was the one girl who mattered?”

“Oh. Um…that would be Lyssa Schneider. We were fourteen. She was amazing. Beautiful. Smart. She could make me laugh, no matter what was going on with my life. Just like you do.”