Chapter 23 #2
“Do you like it,” I ask her quietly. “The life? The job?”
She looks up, her face familiar and yet still startling to see in my kitchen.
“I do.” Her tension eases with a real smile, her trademark scarlet lips pulling wide. “I really fucking do.”
“Well, that’s good, then.”
“Yes, it is. I didn’t bring glasses.”
“Oh, I have a ton of those.” I show her the butler’s pantry off the kitchen.
It’s a long room, surrounded on three sides by glass-fronted cabinetry displaying china, serving ware and glassware of various styles and ages.
The whole room is cream white with pale marble counters and a copper bowl sink for prep.
“Damn,” Monica murmurs. “People like me hire designers to attempt to re-create spaces like this, and here’s the real deal.”
“Oh, I don’t know.” I open a cabinet and pull down two Deco-era martini glasses.
“My grandmother was a set designer. Her job was to help people like you re-create fantasy spaces.” I glance around.
“She liked white in the house because it was restful to the eye. But for some reason, I see it painted a glossy lipstick red so the china patterns pop.”
“Oh, I like that idea. Sexy-cool. You should do it.”
Change things? Here? A flicker of disloyalty dances at the edges of my mind, but it’s pushed back by a barrage of little tweaks and fixes I picture every time I think of the house.
“Maybe I will.” Slowly, I run a hand over an upper cabinet door, imagining it cool and smooth with lacquer. “Be a hell of a job.”
“I can almost see the wheels turning,” Monica says. “You ever think of following her footsteps?”
“I inherited her love of design and the appreciation of beautiful spaces, but I’m not sure about the talent.”
“Won’t know unless you try.”
I make a noncommittal sound. “I really do wish I had your emphatic drive to do something. Whatever that might be. I envy those who know exactly what they want to do.”
We take the glasses back to the kitchen.
“I’d say both sides have their pitfalls.” Monica opens a cocktail shaker. “People like me, my man and yours? Sure, we know what we want. But on the heels of that is a relentless drive to be the best at our chosen profession and the utter terror that it might not happen.”
“Sometimes I think—” I bite my lip and grimace.
“Oh, no,” she says with a laugh. “You can’t leave that hanging.”
“It’s not anything big. I just realized it might sound disloyal to August.”
Her eyes light with approval. “Loyalty is a good thing. Now spill.”
Laughing, I slide onto a stool. “I wondered if that’s what had August climbing onto a table and making an ass of himself. Because he’s not like that usually.”
“I’m going to go out on a limb and say you’re right.
Trent worries about him because he knows all too well how much pressure they’re under.
And your man?” Glossy black hair tumbles around her shoulders as she tuts.
“He’s the number one pick. People are either desperate for him to give them everything or waiting for him to fail. Or maybe both.”
Despite all this pressure, August still makes time for his fans, for charities, for me.
He’s on the road right now. And I miss him madly.
When he’s not working, he texts or calls.
It only makes me sink deeper. I spent twenty-two years of my life without him, and I find myself wondering how I managed.
“Come on, then,” she says briskly. “Into our suits, then I’ll shake us up some liquid libation.”
“I’ll do snacks.”
“I like my snacks like I like my men. Salty and a little bit nutty.”
Fifteen minutes later, Monica and I float side by side on two white pool chaises. A floating tray connects us and holds our drinks and an assortment of nuts. It’s autumn, but here in LA the weather is warm and sunny.
A breeze stirs, catching the vibrant purple blooms of the jacaranda trees, making them rustle with a gentle shushing sound. Trumpet-shaped petals fall like soft rain.
One lands on my belly. Idly, I pick up the bloom and swirl it. A subtle honey-grape scent releases.
“I need a pool.” Monica sighs in contentment. “The previous owner wasn’t a swimmer, but if you have the means and the room, how you gonna live in LA and not have a pool?”
“I have to see this house of yours.”
She turns my way, and the mirrored aviators she has on reflect tiny images of me. “You really do. I still think you should consider adding some courses on design.”
“Maybe.” If she knew I sketched interiors to relax, she’d really be on me.
“A good designer makes a shit ton of money in this town,” she sing-songs. “I should know. I just paid one.”
Her laughter is husky and free. I find myself smiling.
“I’m guessing the competition is cutthroat fierce.”
“Isn’t everything?” She shrugs a shoulder, then brushes a petal off her white bandeau bikini top. “Besides, you’ll have a leg up in the form of your fabulously rich and well-connected friend.”
When I raise a brow, she grins. “That would be me.”
“I would never ask you to hook me up that way.”
“I know. That’s your problem.”
“Refusing to take advantage of you is a problem?”
Monica pushes the sunglasses up on her head and gives me a level look. “Your problem is in thinking that accepting help from people is taking advantage. There’s nothing wrong with networking when it comes from a place of mutual trust.”
“Let’s just say I witnessed a lot of networking disguised as friendship thrown my parents’ way while growing up. I never want to be like that.”
“Fair. But the key point here is intention. A person in my position becomes very good at spotting fakes. You’re not one. If I know of a situation where you might benefit, it gives me pleasure to see it come to fruition.”
“You sound like August.” I trail my fingers through the cool water and watch it ripple. “He wants to outright pay the taxes on this place, and I keep telling him no.”
“I gather he’s made it clear it’s not a burden to him and he wants to help because he cares for you.”
“Well, yes. But accepting his help is a stopgap, not a solution. Taxes come up every year. And wouldn’t feel right—no, more than that, it wouldn’t feel like my place if he was the one paying for it.”
She hums thoughtfully, and we fall silent. Sunlight hits the glass in Monica’s hand and the pink cocktail glows. She licks an errant drip along the rim before taking a long drink. Settling back with a sigh, she turns her attention my way.
“It occurs to me that you’re thinking about this whole money thing the wrong way.”
“How so?”
Holding up an elegantly manicured finger, she takes another sip. “Damn that’s good. I’ll tell you how. You are wealthy. You just don’t seem to realize it.”
“Please don’t tell me August’s wealth is my wealth,” I say with a sigh. “It’s just . . . not.”
Monica snorts. “The good state of California begs to differ. When you marry him, you’ll get half.
However,” she adds with another raised finger, “that’s not what I’m talking about.
Look, I hear you. Having your own money is important.
But you’re so worked up about not taking anything from August that you don’t see what’s right in front of your face. ”
“What?”
“This!” She waves her hand around at the grounds.
“But I don’t want to sell it.”
“You don’t have to.” She adjusts her pose to face me. “Doesn’t matter. You still hold ten million in equity in your hands. You don’t have to sell the house to utilize some of it. You just have to think smarter.”
Her words swell within me, and I sit back with an unsteady breath. I haven’t been thinking smart. Flutters of anticipation and anxiety war within my belly.
“You’re right.”
“I know I am.” Her teeth flash white against the red of her lipstick.
“Your grandparents gave you a wonderful gift. Generational wealth. People love to sneer at it, as though those who benefit from it are unworthy. And God knows there are assholes who are completely undeserving. But isn’t generational wealth the dream? ”
“It is?”
A strand of her wet hair slides when she shrugs.
“Work hard, make money, and build a life that leaves your children in a better place than when you started? That’s what we’re told to strive for, and yet when we get there, suddenly it’s wrong?
What the hell is that? It’s like society is setting us up to either fail or be sorry we didn’t. ”
With a flick of the wrist, she pops a cashew into her mouth and chases it with her drink.
“I don’t even want to contemplate the shit I’ve had to put up with to get where I am.
But I’m here. When I have children, you better believe they’ll have the best of everything.
Anyone who wants to talk smack about that can get fucked. ”
Laughing I take a drink, then look down into the clear water. Opaline glass tiles lining the pool catch the sunlight and glimmer softly. “I keep feeling guilty for wanting to keep this place.”
“Because you’re buying into the bullshit.” Her expression turns stern. “Your great-grandparents, they came to LA with nothing and made a name for themselves in Hollywood as screenwriters, didn’t they?”
“They did.”
“And your grandparents?”
“Pops put himself through medical school. Pegs had a leg up with her parents in the business, but she didn’t go into screenwriting. She became a set designer.”
“And their good fortune grew. Now you have the fruits of their labor. They could have sold this place. Your great-grandparents could have sold it. But they wanted you to have it. So don’t feel bad. Just think smarter.”
We fall silent. The sun warms my skin and sparkles on the surface of the water.
I can almost hear the echoes of the past, the laughter of parties my great-grandparents and grandparents threw.
The kids who played here. I learned to swim here, cut my knee open tripping on the rough limestone patio one day when I ran too fast. And Pegs sat me on her lap in one of the wrought iron chairs, cuddling me close as I cried.
“Monica?”