Comedy of Erinn

Books by Celia Bonaduce

 

CELIA BONADUCE

 

 

 

 

 

eKensington

KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.

All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

Table of Contents

To my mother-in-law, Fionna
Who never, never, never gave up

A job in cable TV does give a person lots of ideas for a book.

Robb Weller and Gary Grossman, thank you for years of employment, understanding, and the chance to be part of Weller-Grossman Productions. Alessandra Ascoli, Laura Chambers, Sergio Coronado, Geoff Coyle, Jolene Dodson, Lisa Ely, Michelle Hobird, Christine Jagolino, Peter Karlin, Cassie Lambert, Monica Lloyd, Jane Manfolk, Kelly Mooney, Renato Moore, Clare O'Donohue, Lorelei Plotczyk, Steve Rice, Gilmore Rizzo, Riley Ray Robbins, Jill Roozenboom, Stephanie Rose, Suzie Segal, Dave Shikiar, Lisa Sichi, Jorge Suarez, George Sylak, Duane Tudahl, Andrew Wollman,—the list goes on—thanks to all of you for rocking my world and for just being so damn entertaining.

To Tara Sandler, Jennifer Davidson, Drew Hallmann, Robbie White, and my new cohorts at Pietown Productions, thanks for keeping the adventure going.

To my friend and mentor, Jodi Thomas, who guided me so lovingly into this series, a huge thank-you, and to Jodi's Pioneers, who cheered me on. There were many days when I wrote just so I wouldn't disappoint you.

To Jim Lara, who lived through many versions of this story over the years—you are a treasure.

Thanks, Mom, for withholding your judgment on everything but my writing—you have always been my first and bravest editor. To my agent, Sharon Bowers, and my editor, Martin Biro; it's still a thrill to just type your names. Thank you always.

 

To my brilliant family, both by blood and by marriage; I am grateful to be part of such a tribe. And finally, to my husband, Billy—I hope to be the person you see when you look at me through that lens of yours.

E
rinn Elizabeth Wolf leaned on the fence that kept visitors from sliding down the bluff into the ocean. She glowered at the young couple snuggling on
her
bench—in
her
park. The young man and woman occasionally looked at the water, but spent most of their time sinking into each other's eyes.

The sun was just dipping into the water. The world was suddenly filled with coral, russet, violet, periwinkle, and cornflower. Erinn was getting impatient, very impatient. She decided to take matters into her own hands.

She joined the couple on the bench. Nudging the young woman aside with her hip, she heaved her oversized bag onto the bench and hunkered down.

“Look at that sunset,” Erinn heard the young woman sigh softly. “God's masterpiece.”

Erinn snorted.

“God wouldn't have a prayer creating a sunset like that,” she said. “This is a masterpiece only city smog could produce.”

The couple ignored her. It was obvious Erinn was going to have to crank up the annoyance factor. She studied the couple. Gauging that they were liberal arts students from one of the local universities, Erinn formulated a plan. With a quick prayer, asking forgiveness from her beloved Democratic Party, Erinn said, “Since he's now out of office, I think Dick Cheney is really coming into his own, don't you?”

The couple left their spot on the bench—he frowning, she beaming with politically correct good will.

Erinn glanced at the rapidly advancing sunset and realized she had not a moment to spare. She reached into her bag and pulled out a battered, hand-held video camera. She quickly and expertly adjusted her settings and started panning steadily over the horizon. She was getting pretty good at her camera work—if she did say so herself.

The view at Palisades Park in Santa Monica, California, was the billion-dollar vista featured in movies since cinema's golden era. Although Erinn had lived in Santa Monica for nine years, she never got used to the incredible beauty the park offered.

Whenever Erinn was shooting, she was nimble—and confident in her movements. But as soon as she shut the camera off, a transformation took place. She suddenly appeared heavier and slower, as if gravity had taken hold of her—as if she were rooted to the earth. When the sun had gone, Erinn stowed her camera and made her way home. She didn't walk far, as she was the owner of another masterpiece—one of the few remaining Victorian houses on Santa Monica's main drag.

While Erinn would never be mistaken for the stuff of fairy tales, the courtyard of her house looked like something out of
Beauty and the Beast
. The old climbing roses that crawled up the lacy wooden pillars also disguised layers of peeling paint on the porch. An uneven walkway curled quaintly toward the side yard.

She retrieved a large silver key from a keychain that looked like a medieval jailer's and fitted it into the front door lock. The door squeaked open, and Erinn was home.

She shrugged off her coat, hung it on an old-fashioned hall tree, and carefully put her camera aside. She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror and rearranged a few bobby pins, hoping to control her wild, coarse hair. Even with her hair pulled back in a severe ponytail, corkscrew tendrils tended to escape. Her hair was still mostly pepper, but now with a sprinkling of salt. Erinn had made no attempt to halt the aging process, which she knew was practically a sacrilege in Southern California—but she stood firm against useless vanity. Even so, without the weight of the camera bag on her shoulders, hints of the graceful young woman she used to be were still evident in her posture and the way she moved. Almost miraculously she had remained an extremely attractive woman.

Not that she cared.

Not that anybody cared.

The doorbell rang. She peered out. A man in ripped jeans, a tight T-shirt, and carrying a skateboard was trying to open the gate. Erinn instinctively stepped out of sight, but kept her eye on the man. He managed to get the latch open and headed up Erinn's path. He marched up to the porch and knocked.

It suddenly occurred to Erinn that this must be someone who wanted to rent the guesthouse.

“Damn it, Suzanna,” she cursed under her breath.

Her younger sister, Suzanna, was worried that Erinn would lose the house if she didn't generate some income. She had placed a rental ad on craigslist without Erinn's knowledge or consent. Erinn balked when she heard about it, but promised her sister she'd keep an open mind and at least meet with a few people.

The man, in wraparound sunglasses, knocked on the door again.

She yanked open the heavy wood-beamed door.

“Hey there, how you doing?” asked the young man, as he removed his glasses. He put out his hand by way of introduction. “Craigslist.”

He had the casual gait of a man—Erinn would put him at about twenty-eight—at ease with himself. He was also extremely well built, with biceps peeking out from under the sleeve of his snug T-shirt.

“That's an interesting mode of transportation,” Erinn said, indicating the skateboard.

“Yeah,” he said. “It's a pain in the ass sometimes, but it's a real chick magnet.”

“Pardon?”

“The babes really go for a guy on a skateboard.”

“
I
don't.”

“Well, you're not a . . .”

He propped his skateboard against the house and stepped inside, without invitation. Erinn followed him. He walked around, whistling appreciatively.

“Wow, this place is awesome,” he said.

He walked into the living room and started to pull open the curtains.

“Dude! You have an ocean view . . . why do you have the curtains shut?”

“If you must know, I like to keep to myself. I like the privacy,” Erinn said. “Besides, I find Southern Californians vastly overestimate sunshine.”

“Well, it's a cool place anyway,” he said as Erinn closed the curtains. He squinted in the darkness. “You could do a spread in
Better Caves and Gardens
.”

The cat rubbed against the young man's legs.

“Sweet! I love animals,” he said, scooping up the cat. “Whoa! This is one fat cat!”

Erinn reached out and patted the cat, a large, flat-faced, silver point Himalayan.

“His name is Caro,” she said.

“Hello, Car-ro,” he said, pronouncing two
r
's.

“It's pronounced with one
r
,” Erinn said. “Car-o. It's Italian for ‘dear one.' ”

“Isn't that what I said?”

“No . . . you said ‘
Car
-ro' . . . that's Spanish for ‘truck.' ”

“Well, no offense, dude, but Truck's a much better name for this guy,” said the young man as he put the cat down and headed toward the kitchen.

Erinn kept her face impassive. This boy was not winning her over. “And my name, in case you're interested, is Erinn.”

“Wow, nice kitchen, Er . . . Do you mind if I call you ‘Er'?”

“Massively,” said Erinn.

“What about Rinn? Or Rin Tin Tin?”

“Why would you call me Rin Tin Tin?”

“Just shortening the process, dude. That's how nicknames are made. You start out with something that makes sense, like Rinn, and pretty soon you're Rin Tin Tin. It's totally random.”

“I didn't catch
your
name,” Erinn said.

“Jude . . . Raphael.”

“Ah!” she said. “As in the artist!”

“As in the turtle,” Jude said. “Hey, let's go check out my guesthouse!”

He stood and followed a stormy Erinn into the backyard.

If love could have kept the place up, Erinn would have had no worries. But like everything else about the Wolf residence, the yard was looking a little down-at-the-heels. The one-room guesthouse was nestled in a patch of large fig trees. It was a miniature Victorian, complete with a tiny porch and hanging swing. Its bright red door stood out from the greenish tone of the rest of the exterior, and its window boxes overflowed with geraniums.

“This is it,” she said, trying to hide the pride she felt in the place.

Jude stood back and looked the building over.

“Huh.”

Erinn turned on him.

“Is there a problem?” she asked.

“Nah,” he said. “I'm just not really big on these gingerbready kind of places, ya know? They're kinda gay.”

“Gay?”

“I mean . . . not in a bad way. Like . . . not even in a gay way, you know?”

“Shall we go inside?” asked Erinn, since she hadn't the faintest idea.

She clicked on the light but didn't step inside. Her eyes scanned the room lovingly. Jude stood on the porch, looking in over Erinn's head. The room had an open floor plan, and every inch of space counted. A small kitchen was fitted into one corner and a bathroom was tucked discreetly into another. There was a wrought-iron daybed that functioned as a seating area as well as a bed and a tiny, mosaic-tiled café table and chair set. Even in this small space, there was an entire wall of bookcases. Erinn turned to Jude.

“Is this gay as well?” she asked as she walked into the room, Jude at her heels.

“Hey! If you're gay, I don't care. Really,” Jude said. “I'm, personally, not gay. I'm, you know, metro/hetero. But whatever floats your boat, I say.”

“Thank you. I was so worried it might be offensive to you somehow, if I were gay.”

“Whatever, Erinn. I mean . . . gay is as gay does, right?”

“Well, obviously, that's true,” Erinn said. “But I don't do as gay does, because I'm not gay.”

“Whoa . . . you know that old saying . . . something about . . . you're protesting a shitload.”

“Are you perhaps thinking of ‘The lady doth protest too much?' from
Hamlet
?”

“Moving on, Erinn,” Jude said. “Your sexuality isn't the only thing in the world, right? There's food, the beach, the theater . . .”

Erinn winced and walked around the room, trying to ignore the cretin who was taking up much too much space—and oxygen—in her little sanctuary. She started opening blinds to make the room seem somehow bigger.

“I don't go to the theater,” Erinn said.

“What do you mean?” asked Jude, trying out the daybed. “Erinn Elizabeth Wolf, the famous New York playwright, doesn't go to the theater? That's crazy!”

Erinn almost choked, she was so surprised by this comment. Any use of her full name by someone other than her mother usually meant she was being recognized. Jude had his back to her and was studying a line of books in the bookcase. He turned to look at her.

“Did you realize your initials are E.E.W.? EEEEEEwwwwwwww.”

Erinn tried to ignore Jude's inept attempt at winning her over with a nickname. But she definitely wasn't finished with the conversation.

“You . . . you've heard of me?” she asked.

“Sure. I was a theater major. You're in the history books.”

Erinn tried—and failed—to hide her dismay. She was surprised to hear that, at forty-three, she was already considered a relic and consigned to history. She tried not to let on that Jude had delivered a verbal slap.

“Not the
history
books, exactly . . . but . . .” he said.

“But . . . like . . . you know,” offered Erinn, who could see he did not mean to hurt her feelings.

“Well, yeah.”

Erinn sat down at the mosaic table. Jude continued to look around the room and stopped to admire a photograph. It was a close-up of a wrinkled old man playing checkers.

“This is cool,” Jude said.

Erinn studied the picture, lost in thought, remembering the first time she saw Oscar sitting in the little park across from her loft in Manhattan. He was always so focused on his game. That was nearly twenty years ago . . . by now, he was probably dead, or just another lost New York memory.

“I took that years ago,” she said.

“You took that? Awesome.”

Erinn warmed to the praise.

“Well, I've always been interested in the visual arts. I'm actually learning how to shoot an HD camera and I'm thinking of trying my hand at editing, too. I like to keep up on those sort of things.”

“Hmmm,” Jude said. “That's pretty cool for somebody . . . uh . . . not totally young . . . to be into that stuff.”

“Let's talk about you, shall we?” Erinn asked as her good will ebbed away.

“Sure,” said Jude, grabbing the chair opposite her. “Well, let's see . . . I'm in the business . . . television mostly. I mean, in this town, isn't everybody?”

Erinn looked at Jude thoughtfully. What could Suzanna have possibly been thinking? She'd been hoping to rent to a fellow artist, but everyone who applied seemed to be from
television.
Erinn realized that her mind had wandered, and she tried to tune back in to whatever it was Jude might be saying.

“. . . but, you know, until I can produce my own work, I pick up assignments wherever I can.”

Erinn watched Jude as he picked up the rental agreement on the table.

“Well, I don't think you really need to read that just yet. . . .” she said, trying to grab the document that would have damned her to her own personal hell should he sign it.

Jude picked up a pen from the table. Erinn watched in silence as he lost interest in the document and started doing curls with the pen, watching his bicep rise and fall with the motion. He was mesmerized. Erinn coughed, hoping to get his attention. Jude looked up and smiled sheepishly.