The Cinderella Pact (26 page)

It is now four thirty and I have no clue as to how long I've let Mr. Stanton wait. Nor do I know what I'll say to him in my utter embarrassment. It'll come to me, I think. Inspiration from on high. Yes, that's it. God will whisper in my ear.

OK. I check myself out in the elevator mirror and approve. My hair is done up. My lips are a nice light pink, and I am thinner than I was yesterday. Yes!

I trip over the sill as I run out of the elevator into the lobby, a million apologies on my lips.

But there is no eighty-eight-year-old man waiting for me anywhere. Clearly he got fed up and left.

'Enri is at check-in scrolling through his BlackBerry. Even in a suit coat his muscles bulge. “Uhhh. A Mr. Stanton was to see me,” I say. “I'm so sorry I'm late. I got a phone call. He didn't leave, did he?”

'Enri doesn't even look up. He just points over my shoulder. “That's him right over there.”

I spin around and face a tall man who has his back to me, his hands in his suit pockets, studying an aerial map of Los Angeles. This is not what I expected at all. “Mr. Stanton?”

He turns and for a moment looks confused. “Don't tell me you're here with Belinda.”

But there's no way I can answer because Mr. Stanton isn't Mr. Stanton.

He's Chip.

Chapter Twenty-Six

Of course, what I do is lie.

“Actually, I'm trying to sell a screenplay.” I blush easily, red running all over my body faster than fire because I am sooo mortified. Absolutely mortified. Computer Chip is actually David Stanton. He must be the publisher's son, which would explain everything, the chip off the old block, the California/ Princeton connection. The fact that Old Mr. Stanton maintained a “country home” in Princeton . . .

“A screenplay? That's awesome.” He strolls over and looks down at me with admiration. It's so weird to see him out of context or, rather, in his natural environment. He's blonder. Taller. Better than my imagination.

“Gosh, it's good to see you. You look awesome,” he's saying. “I'm sorry we never got together again. I had to rush out of town, back to L.A. right away. How's the car?”

I still can't believe I'm talking to the man formerly known as Chip. Here. In L.A. His chest a mere five inches from my own. “The car's great,” I manage. “It was so incredible of you to arrange all that. I'll never forget it.”

He shrugs. “It was a gas.” Then, as if remembering why he's here, he asks, “Listen, you haven't seen Belinda Apple around, have you? We were supposed to meet an hour ago. I think she stood me up.”

“Funny thing about that,” I improvise. “Uh, Belinda had to leave suddenly to go back to home.”

“Really?” He wrinkles his misshapen nose.

“Yes. I ran into her on the street and she mentioned that she had this hotel room all paid for and would I like to stay in it. You see, I was staying at the uh . . .” Wait. I don't know any hotels in Los Angeles. “The Holiday Inn.”

“The Holiday Inn on Sunset or Brentwood?”

“Uh, Brentwood, I think it was.”

Chip nods. “Uh-huh. Go on.”

“And it's not nearly as nice as the O.”

“Not nearly.”

“Sooo, I said sure. Apparently, Belinda had to fly back to”—can't say London because Old Stanton's there—“Ireland. Family emergency. You know, one of those Irish deathbed scenes.”

“Mother?”

“No, she's dead.” Ha! Didn't fall for that trap, did I? “This time it's her father.”

“Oh, that's too bad.”

“But Belinda did remind me to tell you to pass on her regrets. She was really looking forward to meeting you.”

“Was she? Interesting.” Wheels are clicking in his head. I catch sight of 'Enri, who is shaking his head in definite disapproval.

“Well, that's too bad. I was really looking forward to meeting her.” Chip doesn't take his eyes off me. There's a funny twist to his lips, a kind of kissable twist that I can't even contemplate since Chip is a married man, or so my mother claims. If only I could check out his hand for a wedding ring but, darn it, it's in his pocket.

“I've got a crazy idea,” he says brightly. “If you're not doing anything this evening, how about I show you L.A.? You know, I even made reservations at Gladstone's.”

“Me?” I blink innocently.

“I know, I know. It's touristy, but it's got a very fun atmosphere and they do have great seafood and it's a beautiful evening. There's a deck so you can watch the sun set. We can take a walk up the beach in Malibu, just you and me.”

Let me get this straight. Dinner with Chip at Gladstone's overlooking the Pacific Ocean. A beach in Malibu to walk on. Stars of all kinds. I am feeling lightheaded.

This is my chance to make a stellar impression, and I'm not going to blow it. I will be witty and gracious and flirtatious and so delightful that Chip will fall madly in love with me and end up begging to spend the night.

I'm sure of it.

 
There are a million questions I want to ask Chip, starting with his real name and ending with a delicate inquiry into his relationship status. But for a while he does all the talking as we pull onto Sunset Boulevard in his gorgeous olive green BMW Z4 Roadster. It is a far cry from the Toyota truck, and even though this may be very shallow of me to say, he looks far sexier in this deal.

I know as a liberated woman I'm not supposed be swayed by men with fast foreign cars, but have you ever ridden in a BMW Z4 Roadster? Better yet, have you ever ridden down the Pacific Coast Highway on a warm and sultry September evening in a BMW Z4 Roadster?

I didn't think so. Judge not lest ye be judged, missy.

Chip gives me a quick tour of the area, zipping me through the canyons and magnificent neighborhoods of Beverly Hills. The breeze is blowing back my hair, and Chip's hand frequently brushes my knee as he shifts. I am feeling sexy and daring. This is what it's like to fall in love. I must tread cautiously.

At one moment, while we are stopped outside some pink mansion that used to be owned by Fred Astaire, a helpful Beverly Hills cop strolls up and demands ever so politely to see Chip's license.

“Oh,” he says, giving the license a once-over, “it's you, Mr. Stanton. I should have recognized the plate.” Then he tips his hat and wishes him a lovely evening.

Chip tells him no problem. He even asks the cop how his wife is doing.

“I guess you live around here,” I say, trying not to pry. (Who am I kidding? Of course I'm trying to pry. All I wish is that I'd shot him up with sodium pentothal before our drive.)

“My mother lives around the corner. She moved there thirty years ago, after the divorce.” Chip starts up the Z4 again and heads back to the main strip. “I spent every summer with my dad in Princeton—that is, when I wasn't at camp. And during the school year I lived in Beverly Hills.”

“Sounds rough.”

“I suppose I could drop a fortune on a psychiatrist,” he says, taking me seriously. “But I'm not that kind of person.”

“Uh, I was being sarcastic.”

He grins. “Should have known. See, if you'd been from L.A., we would have gone off on psychiatrists for half an hour.”

“I'm from Manville, New Jersey. We don't have psychiatrists. Bowling alleys. Strip joints. Churches. Those are our therapies.”

“Now, that's interesting. Strip joints and churches. How does that work?”

“Actually, very well. You stay out at the strip joints until they close at two. Then you go to the private clubs—you know, the Polish Club, for example—until dawn and then, stumbling on your way home you stop off at Holy Ghost for sunrise Mass and ask for forgiveness of all your sins.” I am sounding like a blue-collar hick, aren't I? Oh well. “Manville is your place for one-stop sinning and repentance.”

“Brilliant. You've got to take me to Manville sometime. I'd love to do the whole routine, right down to the Hail Marys at dawn.”

All right. What does that mean? Does that mean Chip and I will have a bicoastal L.A. to Manville romance? Or is that some kind of polite, you must take me to meet your crazy relatives when I visit in next millennium line?

“Listen, Chip. I have to know something,” I say. “Why didn't you tell me sooner you're David Stanton's son?”

Chip stops the car in a parking lot by the Pacific Ocean. “Why do you think I didn't tell you?”

“Because you're married.” (OK, this has
nothing
to do with his name, but it was a way for me to ask without appearing too girly.)

“Because I'm married?” He smiles, letting me know full well that I'm not fooling him. “I'm not married.”

Score!

I go “hmph,” as though this amazing revelation is a mildly interesting fun fact, like learning that spiders have fifty-two eyes. “So, then, it goes back to what you said the night I got the Mercedes—that you didn't want me to treat you differently.”

“Exactly.” He touches me on the nose and says, “Shall we go? Or are you going to sit in the car some more? I know you're slow to move, but there's a whole beach to walk and a fantastic sunset to watch.”

Getting out of the car, I am breathless and not just because Chip is single. (It's tempting to sneak away and call Mom in victory, very tempting. Though, on second thought, she'd probably just claim I was fantasizing again.)

No, I'm breathless because I'm in one of the most beautiful spots in the world.

Behind us is the Pacific Coast Highway, a winding strip of asphalt that hugs the rocky California coast. To the north of us Malibu's dramatic cliffs fall to the ocean while in front of us looms a white beach and the magnificent Pacific, the reflection of the evening sun glistening on the water. I've seen all this in so many movies, it feels familiar. Even so, I'm all tingly realizing I am actually here.

“Wow.”

“You don't get that in Jersey, a setting sun on an ocean, do you?” Chip reaches out and takes my hand. It's strong and in control.

I have no idea what's going on here. Is this a business meeting like he arranged for Belinda? Or is this more? There are so many conflicting signals—letting his knuckles brush my knee, reaching out for my hand, taking me to the beach. Yet, he hasn't made one move.

Then again, he might just be a friendly California guy showing a girl from out of town the sights every tourist wants to see. Aggh. It's driving me insane. I have to know.

“I mean, Jersey's beaches are fine,” I hear myself saying. “I love Jersey, especially the southern part around Stone Harbor down to Cape May. But this. This is . . . awesome.”

“You wanna take a walk up the beach? I don't know if you're a celebrity watcher or anything. I guess working for
Sass!
it's part of your job description. Anyway, if you stay below the high-tide mark you can do the entire length without Demi Moore's security guard going ballistic. It's cool sometimes who you run into. Last time I was out here, Dustin Hoffman ran smack into me.”

As we stroll up the beach, my only regret is that there is not a mist and I am not wearing a dorky white turban like Barbra Streisand in
The Way We Were
. Don't get me started on Katie and Hubble. Just thinking about them makes me cry. Why oh why couldn't he love her for who she was? It was the McCarthy era, for heaven's sake. She
had
to protest blacklisting.

“You're lost in thought,” Chip says.

“Just thinking about the McCarthy era.”

“Hey, whaddya know? Me too.” And he bumps against me playfully.

It's like we're teenagers. It's odd how thrilling it is to be awkward, making small talk about the rise of a celebrity culture. As we pick up shells and duck incoming Frisbees, I update him on Deb and Nancy, about how Nancy was sexually harassed at her law firm and how Deb's husband won't compliment her on her weight loss. Which means Chip has to compliment me on
my
weight loss and so I change the subject.

Somehow we get onto Eileen and her wedding to the Jack Russell terrier, a nickname that Chip finds extremely amusing and that I assure him he wouldn't if he knew in three months Jim Russell was to become his brother-in-law.

All the while I am conscious of Chip, of how much taller he is than I am, how he turns his head to smile, the crookedness of his broken nose or the way he shakes his hair back from his forehead.

Intimacy steels these observations. If Chip and I are together—Lord, what am I saying? I'm like a girl with a crush. Anyway, if—big if—Chip somehow decided that a bicoastal relationship was the way to go, and if we got to know each other
verrry
well (and I think we all know what that means), I promise that I will try to remember the tension, how embarrassed I was stumbling over a piece of driftwood and then being hit in the head with a volleyball.

How come Barbra Streisand wasn't hit in the head with a volleyball? That's what I wanna know.

We head into Gladstone's and find that there's been a mix-up. Chip's reservation for seven thirty was put down for eight thirty. This is bad news because the place is packed, especially the deck, which is where we really want to be, though the sun is setting and I'm getting chilly.

“We could go someplace else,” he suggests.

Overhearing this, the hostess begs him off with offers of a drink for each of us on the house. I think she likes him because she keeps bending over to pick stuff up that I swear is not on the floor.

“Let's stay,” I say. Besides, I am starved! And watching the huge helpings of crab cakes (4 points), coconut shrimp (16—forget it) and even an iced seafood tower (? points) pass by, I'll be damned if I'll be denied. I haven't eaten all day.