Chapter 6 1964 #2
“They got the furniture from fire sales after Wall Street crashed in the 1920s, bought out entire households of once-rich Californians. So no two rooms are the same and, depending on your perspective, they’ve been designed by an antiquarian with a sense of mischief or are good examples of haunted-attic chic. ”
Adele actually laughs. We’re in the kitchen now, which is more ordinary than the hallway and living room—besides the Black Forest executioner’s clock on the wall where a woman gets her head cut off every hour.
“Do you want grilled cheese?” I open the fridge. “French Cooking in Thirty Minutes says you need three cheeses, bread, and butter. Hopefully grilled cheese won’t take thirty minutes. And you’ve got French Brie, cheddar, and mozzarella. I’m sure that’ll work.”
When I emerge from the fridge, Adele is staring at me. “Haven’t you ever made grilled cheese before?”
“Nope. Schwab’s won’t let me into their kitchen.
” I wink, then explain. “My aunt doesn’t have a single pot or pan in her suite.
The fridge is rusted shut. This”—I look around the kitchen contentedly—“is the first time I’ve ever cooked anything.
So you’re either very lucky or very unlucky, depending on how it turns out. ”
She’s so completely gobsmacked that she flops onto a stool and watches as I spread butter on the bread, cover it with cheddar, thin slices of mozzarella, and thick ones of Brie. I pull the skillet out of the drawer, toss in a spoonful of butter.
“How do you know where everything is?” she asks.
“The second year I was here, I neglected my turret school in favor of a year of Marmont school. I spent a couple of months with Jupiter, who showed me how to change a tire and fix a motor. I studied on Lambos and Ferraris, so don’t ask me how to change a tire on a Chevrolet.
Then I spent a month with Jilly on the switchboard and now I can plug a wire into a socket faster than Jupiter can park a Ferrari.
Another month with the gardener and I can graft a scion to a rootstock three different ways.
A few weeks with the handyman and I can tune the piano to either encourage or discourage early morning serenades, as well as crack your safe when you’ve drunk too many margaritas to remember the code.
A couple of months with Maisie, who gave me a tour of every room, means I can show you where you shouldn’t hide the things you don’t want anyone to find. ”
“I bet that will come in handy.”
Adele lets out a little scream and I jump, neither of us having heard Win come in.
I turn my attention to the grilled cheese, hoping he didn’t hear everything.
Not that it was bad—but it was revealing.
And my aunt’s words still hold true: you don’t let anyone see your soul unless you’re prepared to lose it.
I scoop the sandwiches onto plates, pass Adele hers, take a bite of mine in spite of how hot it is, and can’t hold back the grin.
“I really am a genius,” I say through a mouthful of melted Brie, waving a hand in front of my mouth in a useless attempt to stop my tongue burning.
Then I start making another, figuring I’ll eat it if Win doesn’t.
“How was your day?” he asks Adele in the interrogatory tone of a school principal.
“Better than any I’ve had lately,” she says tartly.
I throw more butter into the pan so the sizzle fills the subsequent silence, then ask, searching for safe ground for all of us, “Did you find your guitar?”
He nods, takes out sodas, passes one to Adele—who refuses—one to me, one for himself: the first rock star I’ve met who isn’t clutching whiskey the way a baby clutches a bottle.
I offer him the last grilled cheese. “Further proof of my genius.”
“I think that after tonight’s summary of your abilities, the evidence I really need is that you’re not teaching Adele how to be Bonnie or Clyde.”
“I’d never teach her to be the woman who dies at the end,” I tell him.
Both Adele and her father laugh and the mood finally relaxes. Thank god. If it’s going to be like this every night, Adele and I might have to eat dinner in the turret.
From the pool comes the sound of screaming, but I’ve heard enough screams to know it’s just an attention-seeking yelp.
Still, Win moves toward the balcony and Adele follows, her eyes never leaving his face, like she’s trying to make him see her rather than hold her at arm’s length like a sweater he thinks doesn’t suit him.
I wash my plate and the fry pan, put everything away, and turn from the sink to find Win standing on the other side of the counter.
“You didn’t come outside,” he says.
“I thought I’d leave you to it.”
“Neither Adele nor I like being left to it.”
I contemplate not saying the next words. It’s not my place. But I don’t know where my place is, only know that I haven’t found it yet. “Don’t treat her like a puzzle you’re trying to solve. And don’t be…” I pause, certain he’ll bite my head off. “Don’t be scared of her.”
His expression turns to anger and I brace. He notices the way I rear back and shock crosses his face.
“The balcony,” he says, pointing the way with his soda bottle.
The view from there is impressive. It’s hard to see much of the grounds; the gardens are lit by only the smallest embers of light.
The pool is a mere ripple of blue, and it’s not until you look beyond the boundaries of the Marmont and across to the city that you see the lights.
Hollywood glows so brightly you can’t see that there’s a universe of light above us.
“Hollywood,” Adele breathes. “If you can’t be happy in Hollywood, where can you be happy?”
Happy, I think when I leave. I just cooked my first meal.
I didn’t take a bus somewhere like Calliope wants me to, but it’s still a step toward my house by the sea.
I have money. A job. The rent is taken care of.
Adele is safe. And maybe this time I know enough to avoid what lies in wait for those who think they’re happy.
Then why does the dream come again at midnight, of the voice from the past saying, I will never forgive you.