Tall Cool One (7 page)
“One never knows.”
One never knows?
Her parents could barely have a civil conversation, but evidently they’d found other ways to communicate. God, the irony. Back in middle school Anna had spent hours trying to figure out the perfect scheme that would bring her parents back together and make them live in peace.
If only she had realized then that all it required was a daughter getting out of rehab, a crystal pitcher of dry Tanqueray martinis, and a flimsy excuse of some sort or another.
“Dee and Poppy have bonded in cosmic heaven,” Sam told Anna, stopping long enough to sip her fresh-squeezed pineapple-papaya juice. “Poppy wants Dee to be Ruby’s role model. It borders on the unbearable. The poor kid is going to have nightmares. It’s a girl, by the way. Did I tell you that they’re naming her Ruby Hummingbird? I plan to call her the Hummer.”
They were at Marcos Fresh, one of the many open-air restaurants found in the labyrinth that was the Farmers’ Market in Hancock Park. Recently renovated after decades of decay, the market featured dozens of outdoor shops that sold succulent fresh produce, designer foods from around the world, exotic flowers, and upscale tourist trinkets. Interspersed with the shops were the restaurants. To the east of the market was an office complex and one of Los Angeles’ best multiplex theaters, the ArcLight. It frequently featured world premieres of big-budget films that drew crowds of star-gazing gawkers.
Anna chuckled, then lifted her glass of Italian mineral water to propose a toast. “Here’s to dysfunctional families. You’re not alone. I think my divorced parents hooked up last night.”
“As in, rekindled a love flame? Or as in, fuck-buddy?”
Anna winced. “Please, you’re talking about my parents. My father wouldn’t say. I asked him if they were getting back together and he gave me this cryptic response. But trust me, world peace will come before Percy family reintegration.”
“It can’t be as bad as dear old dad and the Pop-Tart because—oh, great.” Sam stopped mid-sentence and gazed over Anna’s shoulder. Then she groaned. “Guess who’s heading this way?”
Anna craned around; Dee and Cammie were snaking through the crowded tables, Cammie’s arms laden with shopping bags.
“How did they even know we were here?”
“I mentioned it to Dee,” Sam admitted. “But I told you, she and Poppy were in drop cloth heaven. I never figured she’d show.”
Sam stood to greet her friends. After the mandatory air kisses, Dee and Cammie slid into the two empty chairs. Dee held a massive bunch of scarlet roses, wrapped in red-and-white tissue paper. “They’re for Poppy,” she explained.
“Right,” Sam agreed, her voice deadpan. “Because red resonates for her and for the Hummer.”
“The Hummer.” Dee looked thoughtful. “That’s kind of a cute nickname. Unless Ruby turns out to have a weight problem. Then it would be kind of mean. Oh, wait. I didn’t mean that she’d have a weight problem because it runs in your family or something. I mean if anything, she only has half of your genes. I mean—”
“Let’s stick with Ruby,” Cammie interrupted, shaking her curls off her face. “I’m really glad we could join you for lunch. I’ve been missing you, Sam.”
“Yeah, me too,” Sam admitted.
Anna kept her face neutral. She didn’t trust Cammie’s sudden burst of apparent sincerity. She’d learned from experience that Cammie Sheppard was out for Cammie Sheppard. Cammie had tried to ruin Anna more than once—she’d even tried to get her fired from her internship on
Hermosa Beach
before Anna decided to quit. She was certain that if Sam bought into Cammie’s Glenda the Good Witch routine, it would only be a matter of time before the Wicked Witch of the West would emerge again. And while Sam had perhaps a dozen pairs of ruby red slippers—from Prada open-toed to Moschino snakeskin—none of them could keep her safe from Cammie’s malice.
Cammie smiled. “So. Anna. How are you?”
“Fine,” Anna responded cautiously but politely.
“Adam sends his regards,” Cammie told her. “We had breakfast together today. Then we went to build houses for Habitat for Humanity, but thank God he had the day wrong. Then we went to Venice Beach before he had to go play basketball.”
“That’s nice,” Anna said noncommittally.
“It was great.” Cammie lifted her hair and fanned the nape of her neck, then dropped the heavy curls back in place. “Actually, I’m more than great. Much more.”
Asking why Cammie was more than great would be an exercise in futility. Cammie was obviously setting something up, because Cammie always had an agenda. So Anna patiently waited for the other Ferragamo to drop.
“I’ve been spending a lot of time with him,” Cammie went on. “Last night we went to this party in Malibu—some movie-wrap thing. Then we ditched the bad food and boring company and went down to the beach.” She leaned in close, eyes half closed. “The boy is
amazing.
”
Amazing, as in . . . well, it was obvious what she meant. So, Cammie and Adam were having sex. Making love. No, it couldn’t be love. Sweet, smart, good-guy Adam and Cammie the viper? Anna knew she had nothing to say about it. She’d dropped Adam. At the time things had been so mixed up with Ben: They were together, then they weren’t, then they were. She had to tell Adam the truth. He was the last guy on the planet who deserved to have a girl cause him pain. But why had she lusted after the bad boy instead of the good guy? Why was nature so perverse? Now she wasn’t with either Ben
or
Adam. So if Adam wanted Cammie, well, Cammie probably couldn’t hurt him any more than Anna herself had hurt him. She really hated that.
“So Anna,” Cammie continued. “You know all about Adam, in every way. Right?”
The question hung as the waitress brought Anna her prawn-and-avocado salad and Sam a fruit platter. Cammie and Dee ordered without even looking at the menu—a spinach salad for Cammie, a bowl of the restaurant’s signature squash soup for Dee.
“Not really,” Anna replied when the waitress had moved off. The truth was, she and Adam hadn’t shared more than a kiss or two.
Cammie smiled. “Take my word for it.
Insatiable.
Want to know why sandpaper is made out of sand? Check out my butt.”
Anna wondered if it was National Oversharing Day and someone had forgotten to send her the memo.
“I’m happy for you,” Anna said evenly, forking a bite of shrimp into her mouth.
Cammie laughed. “Honestly, Anna. You sound like a woman who has cobwebs growing—”
“Cammie.
Enough,
” Sam warned. “Don’t be so bitchy.”
“It wasn’t bitchy,” Cammie insisted, then stretched languidly. “It was an honest assessment of a condition that I hope changes as soon as possible. For Anna’s peace of mind and happiness. Anyway, a girl can’t be as happy as I am and be bitchy. Who has the energy?” She fixed her gaze back on Anna. “Honestly, you quit on him too soon. You can’t imagine what you were missing.”
You can’t imagine what you were missing.
As Anna parked her Lexus in front of her father’s house, she wondered why Cammie’s words bothered her so much. She didn’t want Adam back. And if he was happy with Cammie and they were having sand-blasting sex together, fine. So be it.
Anna glanced toward Django’s guesthouse and wondered if he was home. She could use some of his southern charm right about now. But what about the girl, what was her name? Lisa. Was Lisa still there? Were they together, doing what everyone in the world—Cammie and Adam, Danny and the redhead, even her mother and father—except Anna seemed to be doing?
She decided to let discretion rule and opened the enormous black door to the main house. The first thing she saw was a note tucked under the Ming vase in the foyer.
Anna—
Your mother and I took a drive up the coast to San Simeon. Please think about doing the Las Casitas trip for me, if only to keep an eye on my associate. You’ll miss only a few days of school because of the conference on Friday. You could use a break.
—Love, Dad
So what was this, then? What were her parents doing? Did her father want her to go to Mexico just so he and her mother could be alone?
She lay down on her oak canopy bed and stroked the pink silk quilt that had been handmade by a seamstress in Kentucky. It was beautiful. The whole room was beautiful: hardwood floors dotted with museum-quality, hand-knotted tapestry rugs, antique oak furniture, carefully preserved. In fact, the whole house was as lovely as this room. But none of it seemed to make her father happy. Not happy in the way he’d looked that morning on the couch.
Maybe there were some people you could never get out of your heart, not completely. It wasn’t love; it was . . . what? Something she just didn’t understand. Like how she felt about Ben.
Anna did have his number at Princeton. Before she could think herself out of it, she impulsively picked up the phone and dialed the number. One ring. Two. Three. She was glad that he wasn’t picking up. This way she could leave a message. Something casual that still left open the possibilities for—
“Hello?”
Holy shit. He’d answered.
“Hello?” he said again.
Anna couldn’t speak.
“Hel-lo?” Louder now, and irritated.
Anna quietly hung up the phone and lay back on her bed. Of all the infantile things to do. She was acting like she was in fifth grade or some crazy stalker out of Lifetime TV. If she didn’t want to talk to him, she shouldn’t have called him. What the hell was
wrong
with her?
Maybe in her heart of hearts, it wasn’t talk she was after. Maybe she was after something more . . . carnal. In which case, she didn’t really need Ben.
Lust could just be with
s
omeone you didn’t know and would never see again.
Anna sat bolt upright, almost smiling as a truly daring notion raced through her chronically overactive mind. That
someone
sounded like someone she might meet at a highly upscale, all-inclusive Mexican resort.
S
am spent the first part of Sunday night lying on her bed, reading William Goldman’s
Adventures in the Screen Trade.
She was preparing for the big time. After already making a few student films, now she was ready for the real thing. Few fantasies were sweeter than the one where every thin, blond, perfect girl at Beverly Hills High was groveling to be in a Sam Sharpe movie.
“Sam?” Svetlana was standing at the open door to her room, arms folded across her black housekeeper’s uniform.
“Yes?”
“Friend said to tell you she has moved into room down hall.”
“Fine, great . . .” Sam mumbled, too deep into her reading to care. But something told her to rewind and play back. “Wait. What are you talking about? What friend?”
“Small one,” Svetlana replied.
“What small—?”
Sam never finished the sentence. Instead she jumped up from her bed, tossed William Goldman on her pillow, and bolted past Svetlana and down the hall to the last room in the wing. There was barefoot Dee, in size-zero Earl Jeans and a pink Zac Posen ribbed tank top that could have fit a twelve-year-old, sitting on the floor next to an open and brimful Louis Vuitton suitcase. She was in a lotus position, her eyes closed. It took a moment for Sam to take in all of this, because the room was lit only by two fat votive candles; their vanilla scent overpowered the room.
“Dee? What are you doing?” Sam flipped on the overhead lights.
Dee opened her eyes. “Oh. Hi, Sam. Can you turn off the lights? I have seasonal affective disorder. My life coach says I need a certain lamp from Light Bulbs Plus in Sherman Oaks, or I’ll get really depressed. Poppy said she’d have one delivered tomorrow. Isn’t that sweet?”
“Diabetic,” Sam opined.
“The lights?” Dee prompted.
“Focus here for me, Dee. Please. Did you just become our houseguest?”
Dee nodded. “I changed my mind and accepted Poppy’s offer. Isn’t it great?”
“Great” wasn’t the first word that came to mind. Sam wasn’t just bothered that Dee had shown up with a suitcase. After all, she and Dee were still friends. But this bedroom was special, reserved for family members only. Like when Sam’s favorite cousins came three times a year from New York. Or her grandparents on her dad’s side—in December and for the month of August. In fact, there were two dresser drawers full of her grandparents’ clothes and personal items so that they could travel to visit without lugging suitcases.
The Sharpe estate was big enough to have a guest room reserved for family. For everyone else who might be asked to spend the night, there were three guesthouses out behind the main building: a whitewashed three-bedroom cottage near the winter heated pool and twin two-bedroom log cabins down the path from the tennis court.
“Why aren’t you staying in one of the guesthouses?” Sam asked.
“I
could
move into one of them, I guess,” Dee had agreed. “But I thought this would be more like a pajama party.”
Sam had to admit that would be fun. She and Dee had had many memorable slumber parties when they were younger.
“Did you know that Poppy never had slumber parties when she was little? She shared her bedroom with two sisters, and there was no room for her friends. Isn’t that sad?”
“No,” Sam retorted. “She had
sisters.
”
“She really misses them,” Dee went on. “That’s why she wants Ruby to have a sister so much. You know, me.”
“What am I, a blow-up doll?”
Dee did her patented wide-eyed look. “I just thought we could share.”
Sam waved a hand in the air. “Share away.”
Dee pulled her knees up to her chest and circled them with her arms. “I had the most amazing dream last night. I heard a baby cry, and I wandered all through this house—
your
house—trying to find her. Finally I found her in one of the log cabins.
She looked just like Marilyn Monroe.
Only with a baby’s body. Isn’t that amazing?”
“More like bizarre. Can we get back to the moving-in thing?”
“It’s simple. I decided that I didn’t want to be home alone.” Dee’s round blue eyes grew huge. “I think our house is haunted, seriously. My dad says that Marilyn slept there with Bobby Kennedy, you know.”