Chapter 4
Britain
Britain
Just got to the hotel, and wow! This place is amazing.
Jess
I know ?? Kelly Wearstler designed it.
That means nothing to me.
Not true, but I like to mess with Jess. I mean I do subscribe to Architectural Digest.
For someone whose whole job has been design, you are completely ignorant when it comes to clothes and interiors.
Web and app design is very different from fashion and interiors. And I’m not completely ignorant to interiors! I’ll broaden my horizons, k?
That’s all I can ask.
Did the chatty Cathy ever end up shutting up?
I had texted Jess from the flight about my seat neighbor. I’ve since learned “Cathy’s” life story, and a bit of her previous life story, too.
NO
Should’ve flown private….
No way, so bad for the environment AND I definitely don’t have a high enough level of self importance to do that.
Ugh, maybe, but at least there’s no chatty Cathy’s to bug you.
Any chance you’ll head down to the hotel bar for a little fun???
No. I need to wash away the plane grime and recalibrate to being in this state again.
Does it feel weird being there?
Yeah.
K, sorry girl, but you got this. Also, be on the lookout. I have a courier dropping something off for you. Call me later if you want, gotta go do bath time.
Sounds good. Give Eden all the smooches from auntie Brit. Love you both.
I set my duffle on the bed and roll my suitcase over to the small table and chairs by the window that faces out to the city. It’s cloudy out today, which of course it is. It's San Francisco. The hotel itself is gorgeous. The design is impeccable, but I’m already ready to leave. This quick overnight stay is only prolonging the inevitable which is waiting for me a couple hundred miles to the south, but I have to at least stop by Aunt Rose’s. Not only would she murder me for being in the state and not coming to see her, but she also has a box of my mother’s personal effects, which belong to me.
While I didn't attend Georgia’s funeral, I was present for the reading of the will, via Zoom, of course. My mother left basically everything to Alexander, the house and ten acres, everything in her bank account and her 401k. To me, she left a box of personal items. I never felt I deserved more than what she wanted me to have, so I wasn’t the least bit pissed off that Alexander got the majority of her estate. The box would be entrusted to my Aunt Rose until I was able to take possession. I’m sure my mother thought I’d never step foot in that town again and took that into consideration when drawing up her will. Thanks, Mom, but you’ll never believe it — I’m coming home.
It’s then I start to feel the shame wash over me. I do regret not seeing her before she passed. We had come into a slightly better relationship over the last few years of her life. She liked to FaceTime with the girls, sometimes spending hours on the line with them while they did crafts or baked. Her and I would talk for either the first few minutes, or the last, of their calls, mostly catching up on superficial topics. We’d chat about the weather, the girls’ sports and extracurriculars. She’d always ask if I was cooking anything special for an upcoming holiday, but she never came out to visit, and I never came back to her.
A knock pulls me out of my depressing thoughts. I open the door to see the concierge has brought me a large white gift box, topped with a thick, black satin bow.
“A delivery for Ms. Scott?” The concierge asks.
“Yep, that’s me,” I say as I take the package from him. “Thank you.”
“My pleasure,” and he turns around and leaves.
I plop down on the bed, box in hand and pull the ribbon ends to release the bow. The contents of the box are wrapped perfectly in pink tissue paper and smell like eucalyptus and sage, and I already know what one of the items will be. A card sits atop it all, so I open that first.
Love, here’s a couple things to help you enjoy your trip. You’re doing the hard work, but you should still ENJOY being there. Enjoy yourself and remember, you are a hot, bad-ass bitch. Xoxo, Jess (and Tommy)
P.S. He made me put his name, too.
I let out a small laugh then smile. I may be shit in the romantic relationship department, but befriending Jess and Tommy may be the crowning achievement of my adult relationship life. I flip back the overlapping pieces of tissue paper to find two, drawstring bags. One is labeled “To Be Enjoyed Together” and the other is labeled “To Enjoy Alone.”
For obvious reasons, I decide to open the “alone” bag first. I pull out the contents, one by one. First, my favorite Sydney Hale candle. Next, a bag stuffed with lots of Korean candies, a container of CBD gummies, and last, but certainly not least, based on its size, a vibrator. Of course. I smile.
I pause for a moment, trying to decide if I should open the other bag. There's a 99.9% chance I won’t be enjoying anything with a partner over the next six weeks. I decide to just open it anyways. I might as well get it out of the way. First thing out is a cute makeup bag, clear with little cherries printed on it and a bright red zipper…and stuffed to the brim with condoms. Condoms of all different sizes and types. Magnum and ribbed and lubricated, oh my. Next out is a silk negligee in the most beautiful shade of pink. The bra cups are trimmed in ivory lace, with silk string ties at the shoulders. The back is non existent and would likely sit just at the top of my bum. I appreciate Jess’s confidence in my body positivity. From the bottom of the bag, I pull out long, black, satin restraints and a bottle of strawberry flavored lube. Cool.
For a second, I let myself try to imagine meeting someone here, but stop. I honestly can't imagine meeting someone here. How am I going to dream up, and about, someone new, when I can’t even get over him? And that was 17 years ago! I flop back on the bed and pull out my phone.
Britain
Thanks babe (and Tommy!) I’ll try to enjoy myself.
Jess
Just a reminder, you can also enjoy that vibrator with a partner too. ;)
Yup, of course I can.
I take a deep breath and make my way to the shower. I just have to get through tonight, then I can be on my way. I tell myself, as the nervous energy starts flowing through me. Just get through the night.
After an abominable night's sleep, I decided the only remedy was a good breakfast and a strong coffee, and the hotel restaurant did not disappoint. It was the best huevos rancheros I’ve ever had in my life. I’m finishing up getting ready in my room, and doing a mental checklist for the day.
First, see Aunt Rose and acquire the box. Second, drive to Spearhead Lake. Wait, stop for In-N-Out on the drive to Spearhead. Oh, and pitstop at Broken Ridge Ranch, which I had never even heard of before Jess mentioned it. I can’t imagine how much has changed in the last couple of decades. What businesses have shuddered and closed up? What new places have replaced them? It may not even remotely resemble the place I used to know, and maybe that’s for the best.
I do a visual inventory of myself before packing up to go. I’m wearing my favorite pair of Mother Denim jeans, a boyfriend style, v-neck, cashmere sweater in a camel color, and a brown pair of Hermes sandals that were part of my new wardrobe Jess picked out. She’d probably be disappointed that I didn’t opt for something dressier or something off her list of approved and styled outfits, but I just want to be comfortable. I’ll be spending most of the day in the car, and then when I get to the lake, it’ll be about 20 degrees cooler than anywhere else I’m going today.
My makeup turned out great, and my hair is behaving well today. I may not be supermodel gorgeous, but I know I’m beautiful. I’m attractive. And even though I feel like I’m a hundred years old, I think I could pass for my late 20's. Maybe. Probably. Okay, early 30’s. I can hear Jess now, “You’d look younger if you stopped dressing like a grandma,” making me laugh to myself. She has a point, but not today. Today I’m doing comfort over style.
“Are you sure this is the vehicle for London Scott?” I ask the valet for the fifth time now.
“Yes ma'am, I assure you. I have the record of delivery right here. It was ordered by a Mr. Damian Scott for Ms. London Scott.” Poor guy’s getting frustrated with me. I can’t blame him, there’s a line starting to form behind me.
“Okay, um, can I just leave the car there for a minute while I make a call?”
“Yes, of course. Not a problem, but here are the keys for when you’re ready.” I stare at the keys for a moment before reluctantly taking them from him. I nod my head in thanks and move to the side for my quick call. Pulling out my phone, I hit the call button.
“Morning, Britain,” Damian greets me.
“So umm, what’s this?” I ask
“What’s what?” He sounds amused.
“You know what. Why is my rental car a Porsche 911, and why did you order it?”
“It’s my treat, Britain. Okay?”
“No, not okay. A treat is when you buy someone a cupcake. What? Were they out of Lamborghinis or something?”
He laughs. “No, they weren’t out. I just remember you telling me about how your mom’s boss used to have a Porsche 911 and you thought it was the nicest car in the world, and well, I’m trying to bridge the gap here, okay? I know I’ve done some crap things, and I’m trying to make up for it.”
“Hmm…oookay?” My words are laced with suspicion.
“Look,” he sighs, “I really appreciate you being open to the girls meeting Summer, and I thought, I was trying to do something nice for you in return.” Ahh, so there’s the real reason.
“Mmkay, well, in the future you don’t need to return that kind of favor, okay?” I pause, “but, I do appreciate it and I’m really excited to drive it, now that I know it’s not a prank.”
“Ha!” He bursts out in a laugh. “Not a prank, darling. Promise.”
“Umm, think you could text me the score and/or highlights of Caroline’s game this weekend?”
“You got it. Just a heads up, I can’t make it to her game on May 6th, but my dad’s going to be there, so we’ll have to rope him into a group chat for the highlight reel.”
“Sounds good. I should probably get going. And, uh, thanks again.”
“No, thank you,” he says. Wow, he must really love Summer.
“Uh huh, bye.”
“Bye,” and the call ends.
Time to figure out how I’m going to fit two suitcases in this thing.
Rose’s street is quintessential Berkley. The houses are mostly small Spanish style bungalows, with a few modern boxes in between. Of the casitas, most are painted in bold colors and adorned with traditional, brightly colored Spanish tiles. Nearly all of the houses are elevated from the street and have gardens with colorful flowers and shrubs that spill out and over, trailing down the sides of terracotta steps. I’d only been here a couple of times growing up, Rose mostly came to visit us.
I’d texted her my ETA, so when I pull down the alley, she’s outside her garage, waving me down joyfully. It brings a smile to my lips. Even with the windows rolled up, I can hear her exclaiming, “Miha! Miha!”
I pull the car into the drive and make my way over to her.
“Ooh, look who’s fancy now, with her porsch-ah,” she says mockingly to me in her heavy accent.
“Hi, Rose,” I say, embracing her tightly.
“Miha, it’s been too long.” And when I pull back, she has tears in her warm eyes. Rose hasn’t changed much over the years, except for the deep laugh lines that frame her bright smile. She still rocks long hair that she braids into one long plait and her fingers are covered in turquoise jewelry, dressed ever the bohemian in a long flowing skirt and peasant-style blouse. Rose isn’t my mom’s sister, or even my dad’s. She’s just a really good friend of my mom’s. Well, she was. But as long as I’ve known her, she’s always been Aunt Rose, or tía.
“Come in, come in.” She ushers me to the back door that leads straight to the kitchen. I inhale; it smells exactly the same way it did all those years ago, like fresh corn tortillas and cinnamon. It looks exactly the same, too. Her kitchen is old, so old, it’s nearly come back around to style again. Her cabinets are a sage green, with glazed tile counters. The floor is laid with large hexagonal terracotta tiles that look like they could be a century old, with another century's worth of life still in them. Her range is old, and French, and hanging from the center of the kitchen ceiling are tons of copper pots and pans, all with the perfect amount of patina. She leads me to the small bay window to her worn oak table, surrounded by mismatched bistro chairs. On the table is a tortilla warmer and a hand-painted bowl filled with butter.
“Oh my gawsh, did you make homemade tortillas this morning?” I ask Rose, my mouth salivating already.
“Of course I did, miha! You think I forget you only ate flour tortillas the whole year you were eight?” We both laugh. Who could forget that? I think my mom was scared I’d end up with scurvy because I was such a hermit, and never ate vegetables or fruit.
Rose ushers me to sit at the bench in the bay window while she grabs me a plate.
“I’ll be right back, help yourself,” she says, then winks.
“Thank you, tía.”
I know I just ate a huge breakfast, but you only live once, so I grab a warm flour tortilla. I spread a heaping knife full of butter on my plate, then tear off a chunk of the thick tortilla and wipe it along the plate, gathering the salty butter up. The minute it hits my lips, the nostalgia washes over me in waves and I close my eyes to savor it all up. I’m pretty sure I moaned in food ecstasy just as Rose reappears in the walkway.
“That good, miha? Or has it just been that long?”
“Both?” I say through a mouth full of tortilla, and I don’t know if she’s talking about the food or sex, but we both laugh. My heart melts and my eyes fill with tears because it feels so good. It feels so warm and comforting to be here, with Rose. She sees the tears and reaches for my hand, giving it a good squeeze. It’s then that I notice she’s set a box down on the chair opposite hers in order to do so.
I look over to the box, and shrug my shoulder towards it. “So that’s it, huh?”
“Yep, that’s it,” Rose replies.
“Do you know what’s in it?” I ask.
Rose hesitates before answering. “I know some of what’s in there, but it’s for you to find out. It’s what Georgia wanted.” Rose’s voice is like honey.
“Rose, you should really record sleep stories for a living.”
She laughs. “Oh miha, nobody wants to hear an old lady talk nonsense to help them fall asleep.”
“Agree to disagree. And you’re not old,” I tell her.
“Mi amor, when you’ve lived as many lifetimes as me, it doesn’t matter your age, or what you look like, I can’t help but feel old. It’s a weight, those lives. I carry it in my bones. That’s what makes me feel old.” She pauses for a brief moment, “Do you understand?”
“I think I’m beginning to understand all too well what you mean.” It’s a weight…in my bones.
Rose and I spend the next hour and a half talking, and laughing, and sometimes crying, when my phone pings with a new message. It’s probably time for me to go anyways, and when I look up to Rose, she nods in agreement.
We say our goodbyes, and I promise to not go another 17 years without seeing her again.
Rose’s laugh is deep, and she replies, “Thank god, miha! I may not be here in another 17 years!” From any other person, at any other time, it may have been a dark statement, but with her, now, it’s the perfect sentiment and reminder.
I slip into my car, setting the ziplock bag of warm tortillas in the passenger seat, then pull up my messages. It’s a group text from Caroline and Elodie.
Caroline
We made you a playlist for your drive today. Hope it’s sunny there! Love you!
Elodie
Britain’s California Dreamin’ Playlist, Drive safe, loveeee yoooouuuuu!
My eyes fill with tears, because deep down, I feel like I don’t deserve the love my family’s given me.
Britain
Thanks girls, playing it now. Love you. XoXo