Dawn
Phoebe, Tatiana, and Rhule bowed their heads along with the other new recruits to the Service, the enormity of saving Vineland heavy in their hearts.
But if it meant preserving their school, the Elixir Cup Tournament, and the hilarious troublemaking pharies who tended the vines, they were prepared to accept the burden.
—Phoebe and the Secret Service of the Vines
By the time I pulled into Audrey’s driveway, my hands were slick with sweat on the steering wheel of my rented Hyundai and all I wanted was a triple vodka on the rocks.
My back hurt, I was starving, Alfie was whining to be free of the back seat, and my mind was a Tilt-A-Whirl of questions that were so distracting I couldn’t even listen to the audiobook of the second Vineland novel.
Who had written these books? Who possibly could have known all those details about my home?
I had the sense that Mom was hiding something.
The only secret between us was my father—could this be yet another missing detail about him?
Had he missed Hartley Vineyard so much that it found its way into his fiction?
Had my father wanted to be in my life all along?
I was also stressed about how in the world I was going to design Carol’s party.
It felt like I was going to have to…make her house into the one I grew up in?
Talk about stepping into a strange, new reality.
I felt a bit like Phoebe, in fact, on the other side of the vines, and not for the first time I wondered how a creator had come up with an idea like that, an idea so compelling it captured millions of imaginations for more than a decade.
Since Carol’s party was still a few weeks away, I figured I didn’t have to put her off yet with the same thing I’d texted Dennis after he invited me to the Roxie, which was that I’d had a family emergency.
He’d replied that he understood and to get in touch when I came up for air.
So. That ball was firmly on my side of the court—which brought me no relief.
Truth be told, I’d enjoyed being chased.
But I also knew I couldn’t handle it right now.
Audrey’s house was quite a task to find, set back as it was into the hills behind the Chateau Marmont.
I’d only been there one other time since she’d moved in, and I’d taken an Uber from the airport, so I hadn’t paid much attention.
But at twilight, hungry and exhausted, I drove past the shared driveway three times before finally seeing the number stamped along with five others on a locked iron mailbox nearly shrouded in ivy.
It was on a precipitously steep decline, with angular houses nestled into the hills on either side.
You’d think that after driving Spring Mountain Road my whole life, anything else would be easy.
But no. I was a puddle of sweaty anxiety by the time I finally knocked on Audrey’s door.
Her house was Greek-island white and stucco smooth, but the door was heavy dark wood and practically medieval in stature, with an enormous brass knocker, which I used to announce my presence.
While I waited, I turned and looked at the amazing view.
The bustle of West Hollywood spread out below like a David Hockney picnic blanket, and on the other side, across from the hill on which I stood, was another set of cypress-covered hills with more cream, pink, and wood-toned houses.
From the horizon line up was a Technicolor-cowboy-flick sunset of red to orange to purple sky.
Alfie panted and wagged his tail with anticipation.
“You’ve been a good and patient dog,” I told him.
It was taking Audrey a long time to get to the door; then I remembered she’d texted sometime in the last hour of the drive.
Just let yourself in. I’ll be in the studio.
And indeed the heavy door swung freely open. Alfie bounded in.
I went to the open door at the top of the stairs to Audrey’s pottery studio and called down, “Hello! I’m here! Let me just get the dog settled, and I’ll come down.”
“Great! I got him some organic meals in pouches in the fridge. And help yourself to whatever looks good, too!”
I slipped my sneakers off by the front door and felt the cool wood of the glossy parquet floors through my damp socks, then walked from the airy oak-and-white entry toward the even whiter kitchen, its brightness only broken by artful strains of pink and gray in the marble countertops and backsplash.
I was never sure how anyone lived like this, entirely clutter-free.
My old chipped tile kitchen counters had mail, sticky notes, vitamins, and other flotsam everywhere.
Even when I organized it all into attractive containers and streamlined lists, it was still on the counters.
Before Audrey had gotten sober and cleared her own counters, I used to joke that a pristine kitchen set was a surefire way to tip off an audience that a character was a serial killer.
Opening the huge fridge doors was like opening the windows of a villa on the Riviera.
And the inside of the fridge was practically as breathtaking, with its gleaming shelves and stacked glass containers of rainbow-colored fruits and vegetables.
And so much fizzy water. Audrey had come a long way from the moldy bread and open containers of jam and pickles in our college fridge.
I, on the other hand, hadn’t come nearly as far; my own fridge shelves always seemed to be stained with soy sauce and holding up a haphazard array of leftovers and aspirational juices and salads.
My eyes fell on the mason jars of kombucha. Occasionally, when my stomach was as empty as it was then, I got the tiniest buzz from kombucha. So I chose one of those and took a sip. It was cold and bright and fizzy, and it tasted like a Granny Smith apple. Delicious, but no buzz.
I got Alfie bowls of spa-like food and water; then for myself I grabbed a raw fruit-and-grain bar from Audrey’s stash of snacks and headed downstairs to greet my friend.
It got colder and colder with each step, and I shivered, rubbing my bare arms as I entered an enormous subterranean space flooded with cheerful light that approximated sunshine remarkably well.
The walls were lined with metal shelves on which were stacks of bowls, plates, cups, and vases in varying states of doneness—some white, some partially glazed, and others seemingly finished.
In the center of the room was a large butcher-block worktable, and in the far corner was a huge industrial kiln.
Beneath the only long, rectangular window lining the very top of the wall were two potter’s wheels.
Audrey sat on a stool at one of them, her bent bare legs on either side of the wheel.
She had a stiff white apron on, stained with clay and glaze, over a white T-shirt and cutoff shorts.
And even though she was working with wet clay, she also wore many delicate golden chains that glistened on her tanned chest. She’d pulled her honey-colored hair into a loose bun, and the strands that fell into her face didn’t seem to bother her.
Through the greige clay, I could see that her nails were painted red.
Effortlessly glam as always. She managed to combine Gwyneth Paltrow’s patrician beauty with the bohemian slouch of Kate Moss or Stevie Nicks.
If I didn’t love her so much, I’d hate her.
“I’d give you a hug but…” Audrey said, looking down at what appeared to be a tall jug or vase taking shape on her wheel.
“No problem.” I blew her a kiss, then took another bite of the apricoty bar.
“I just had to get my hands dirty today. I went for a run and did yoga and ate my weight in oatmeal cookie dough, too,” she said.
“That looks gorgeous,” I said.
“Thanks. I’m honestly not sure what it wants to be. I really just needed to feel the clay in my hands.”
The slick, spinning vessel in her hands did look therapeutic, and I wished I had a practice like that to keep my mind off things. Yoga almost worked. The Morning Pages I sometimes did after getting through half of The Artist’s Way almost worked.
“Listen,” Audrey went on, “I’ll be done in like fifteen minutes. Then I’ll get cleaned up and we can order something for dinner. Sound good?”
“Perfect. This bar is only taking the edge off.”
“Yeah, I’m starving, too. You remember where the guest room is? The pink room at the end of the hall upstairs.”
“Right. I’ll get cleaned up, too. I’m gross after that drive.”
Except after my shower, I couldn’t sit still in the serenely blush-colored guest room. It was nighttime in West Hollywood, and I heard the siren song of noisy restaurants and fancy cocktails.
Would I ever have fun again?
Today, sobriety felt like a prison.
Even though I knew nothing had dinged in, I checked my text messages anyway, to see if my mom had written anything about the book yet.
I guess we had just talked this morning, but…
the drive and change of scenery had put so much distance between me and our conversation, it felt like a lot longer to me.
Be patient.
Be in the moment.
I leashed Alfie and headed outside. The July night air was soft and warm on my arms. In San Francisco, I’d have to put at least three layers between my skin and the chilly summer fog.
It occurred to me that I could move down here now.
I loved the weather, Audrey was here, and most opportunities to work in the industry were down here, too.
I’d never really picked San Francisco; it picked me.
First with the job at the Opera; then I met Clark right when I was thirty-two and considering making the jump south and breaking into the industry.
Plus, it had the benefit of being a two-hour drive from Mom and everything that was familiar to me.