Chapter 39 1961
On Aria’s eighteenth birthday, she orders French toast and an ice cream sundae from Schwab’s. She puts out the Limoges china she stole from the penthouse, lace napkins too. A crystal glass.
When the food arrives, she eats it washed down with half a bottle of French champagne. Then she stands up, smooths down her dress, goes downstairs, and steps outside. With French champagne courage, she’ll do it. She really will.
But there’s rain and wind today. Water so thick she can’t see the showgirl’s face, can only see the silver dollar teetering as a gust of wind slams into it.
She hurries back inside.
The hotel is so quiet. So she knocks on the doors of the few guests who have children staying with them in house, offers to take the children off their hands, ends up entertaining six children in the lobby with the baby grand piano.
By the time evening’s come around, she’s earned one hundred dollars.
That was okay, Aria tells herself later when she’s tucked up in the turret, writing in her journal. When she’s at the beach, in the place where Aria finally belongs, she’ll be all by herself. So she might as well get used to it.
Won’t you be lonely? The echo of Calliope’s voice.
“If I’m by myself, no one can ever hurt me.” Aria says it aloud to the empty room. The walls of the Marmont toss one word back at her: Hurt. Hurt. Hurt.
She puts her hands over her ears.
If only there was a hand she could put over her heart. Because that’s where the pain is, the pain she can’t look at because she’s afraid it might be the color and shape of loneliness.