Chapter 5
CJ
After she finished swimming her laps the next morning, CJ Moore flip-flopped across the YMCA locker room, listening to the old ladies from the water aerobics class chatter about “polyps” and “Pedro Pascal’s posterior.
” In the shower stall, she stripped off her swimsuit, which made her think of Frank.
Not that nakedness reminded her of her elderly boss.
No, but he’d given her the far-too-expensive designer one-piece a few birthdays ago, along with a note insisting that she swim laps at the Y pool every morning instead of coming to work so early.
He would’ve preferred that she use his pool, but she didn’t like mooching off him too much.
Also, despite the size of the mansion, Frank’s pool was a bit small for laps.
He claimed that she’d earned job flexibility after years of managing his house, his music, his prescriptions, and his money.
And for tolerating—though he’d never say this aloud—his wife.
She’d accepted the gift and secretly worked the extra hours anyway. He needed the help. And she adored him. She’d started working for him directly out of college and he’d grown to become her mentor and friend and, yeah, a father figure.
By the time she was dressed, most of the old ladies were gone—though not Mrs. B.
For reasons CJ didn’t understand, Mrs. B didn’t like towels at the Y.
She preferred to use the hair dryer to wick water from her body.
Her loose skin fluttered in the breeze like fleshy prayer flags.
Maybe not the most beautiful sight, but there was something liberating about an old lady who simply didn’t give a crap.
After Mrs. B shrugged her bra onto her bony shoulders, she peered around the locker room looking for help. She eyed the remaining two older women before she turned to CJ and tutted. “You didn’t have to wait for me!”
“I’m not sure Santa Barbara can handle you unleashed.”
“Ha! True!” Mrs. B turned around. “Be a dear, won’t you?”
CJ straightened the straps and worked the clasp. “There you go.”
“I am decent once more,” Mrs. B announced. “How tedious decency is. Don’t you find it boring?”
“Hm. Not real decency, no.”
“Feh! I bet you preheat your oven.”
“Of course I preheat my oven. Who doesn’t?”
“This is your mission, my dear. See what happens if you don’t.”
“I know what’ll happen, Mrs. B. My cakes will be raw.”
“You don’t know that, you only suspect. What’s that old saying? Life is short, eat dessert raw.”
“Eat dessert first,” CJ corrected.
“Oh! Oh, yes, that makes more sense. Well, now that’s settled, is everything still set for tonight? With Sophie at the party?”
“You can stop worrying. Nothing changed since last night.”
Mrs. B huffed at her, then said, “I don’t know why they call it development. It’s just a fancy way of saying fundraising. Trying to make it sound more professional than a bake sale. Not that Sophie can cook. Well, she makes a fine shortbread, but that is all.”
“I hope she preheats.”
“Ha!” Mrs. B slipped her purple caftan over her head. “Mark my words, young lady. One must eat the raw cookie dough of life.”
“Who said that, Aristotle?”
“That’s why you and Ocean get along so well. You both like mocking old ladies. Now Sophie, on the other hand, is sweet. And her new job is all about connections, so…”
“You’re hoping she’ll connect with Frank?”
“To the tune of thousands of dollars!” Mrs. B’s eyes sparkled. “Is he interested in the theatre?”
“Not really,” CJ told her. “He’s more about music.”
“Well, Sophie’s office is in the same building as the symphony.” Mrs. B shut her locker. “So that’s settled. Oh, except, can she bring a friend?”
“You’re always welcome.”
“Not me. There’s no telling what I might say. Nicholas.”
“Which one is he?”
“Sophie’s boyfriend. He’s not quite my stepson, which is a pity because I’d fancy myself as the wicked stepmother. Why are they so reviled? It’s typical, don’t you think, that nobody blames the father? What were you saying? Oh! Yes, Nicholas.”
“Is he looking for connections, too?”
“No, no, he works for the city. When I was a girl, there was no higher dream.”
CJ slipped into her navy linen button-up over knit pants. Frank’s wife liked her to wear dark blue when she was working, to make clear that she was an employee. She’d once shown up in an exuberantly tacky sundress just to watch Karina side-eye her all day.
“I’m sure it’s fine,” she said, “but I’ll check and text Ocean.”
Mrs. B rattled off her number, then said, “Oh, I must fly! For some reason, Ocean gets cranky if I make her wait. She doesn’t mind if it’s a minute or two but after half an hour she starts chewing nails and spitting horseshoes.”
“Baffling,” CJ agreed, as Mrs. B wafted from the locker room.
She considered running outside to say hello—that’s where she’d first spotted Ocean after all, during pickup after swim.
She looked a mess though, and didn’t want to be struck by passing horseshoes, so she went to the mirror instead.
She applied elaborate eyeliner and fuchsia lipstick.
They were the only things that kept her from looking middle-aged in her dumb navy blue outfits.
Also, she knew they pissed off Karina as much as they amused Frank, and what was life without a little pettiness?
Twenty minutes later, she parked in her usual spot outside Frank’s mansion on Charity Lane. Hope Ranch, Charity Lane. Some developer had really enjoyed themselves. At least there wasn’t Do-Gooder Drive or Saintly Street.
She let herself through the side door, then sorted the mail at the kitchen desk.
Largely into recycling, because after a ten-year battle she’d finally established most of Frank’s accounts online.
She checked in with the gardeners and confirmed an appointment with the cardiologist, then slunk around the house until she spotted Frank in his office in the west wing.
She smiled, but didn’t disturb him.
Instead she continued past, then checked the clock on the double Viking range, which squatted like a spaceship in the otherwise-retro kitchen.
Frank had bought the mansion in the late 1970s and to his wife’s dismay he hadn’t done much updating.
Even his music production gear never advanced past the 1990s: He still adored his Roland synth and Cheetah sampler, unless it was the other way around. CJ never could remember.
She shifted Karina’s unused, two-thousand-dollar health-shake mixer aside to reveal the ornate brass Italian espresso maker, then put her college-era barista training to the test. Soon steam hissed over Frank’s double cappuccino, a treat that neither she nor Frank mentioned to Karina.
Frank didn’t have many pleasures left.
At ten-thirty on the dot, she poured the espresso over the foam in the navy and gold Wedgwood cup and headed for Frank’s office. He’d insisted that it wasn’t her job to wait on him, but she insisted that it was her pleasure. The old man had put up a good fight, but she’d won that one.
The curtains were closed and Frank lounged on a leather couch listening to Stevie Wonder on his old turntable.
His eyes half-closed, his skinny frame a little tense.
For the past few years, he never seemed completely comfortable, like his body didn’t know how to fully relax anymore.
And he’d been shutting himself in and listening to vinyl more often recently: Bach and Mozart and the disco and funk bands he’d produced in the 1970s and 80s.
As she set his saucer on the coffee table, he focused on her and sang along with the record: “You are the apple of my eye…”
She gave him a look. “I’m glad we’re not listening to Sir Mix-a-Lot this morning.”
Frank’s laugh turned into a coughing fit, which made her nervous until he caught his breath.
He was declining again, and she didn’t think he had one more rebound in him.
At least his mind was still sharp. Sharpish.
And he enjoyed his caffeine in the morning, and his two or three cocktails in the evening.
CJ had come to work for him back when he’d been a spry sixty-seven.
She’d graduated from UC Santa Barbara with a degree in sociology, so she had found herself burned out on food-service work when she had met Frank at a long-closed French bistro that served perfect quiche and baguettes.
When she’d handed Frank his third glass of wine, he’d handed her his card. “Come work for me. I’ll pay you better than this.”
At the time, she hadn’t realized how sketchy the offer had sounded. Especially after he offered an impressive salary and a free place to live in one of the most beautiful corners of the world, a mansion in Hope Ranch perched over the ocean cliffs.
In retrospect, in a shocking violation of every story about an old music producer and an innocent young girl, he’d treated her like family from day one.
And she’d returned the favor. She’d coordinated his spending with his accountant, arranged regular medical care, updated his haircut, and organized his vinyl records so logically that he’d almost fired her.
She’d even encouraged him to donate a fat sum to World of Goods after a big tsunami.
As a tax incentive, she’d said, though they’d both known he’d needed to feel like he was still contributing to the world despite retirement.
And part of that, she realized years later, was helping her.
She didn’t have parents worth the name, so he’d become a rock in her life.
Whatever happened, she knew he’d support her. She’d never had that before.
Then Karina entered the picture and changed things.
After Frank caught his breath, he said, “You’re going to be the death of me.”
“At least you’ll die with a smile on your face,” she told him.
“That’s the dream.” He sipped his coffee. “Go out on a high note.”
She talked him through his day as she tidied the room then parted the drapes. “Oh, Sunny’s here. On the patio with Karina.”
“I should count my blessings he ever leaves,” Frank grumbled. “That freeloader.”
“Yeah, you hate him hanging around.”
Sunny’s real name was Jonathan Wheeler, and he was Frank’s oldest friend.
They’d grown up together in the Fairfax neighborhood of Los Angeles, then both retired rich in Santa Barbara.
CJ didn’t quite understand what Sunny did for a living.
He invested, he said, but he never explained in what, and Frank just said that Sunny made money make money.
She was browsing through the events page of the Independent, trying to convince Frank to visit the gorgeous grounds and cactus gardens of Lotusland by listing the less attractive options first, when the office door opened.
“Are you holed up in here again?” Karina asked, stepping inside wearing a shapeless white linen dress.
CJ appreciated that Karina was an unlikely wife for a retired music mogul.
No fake boobs or Pilates body. She looked like a normal, attractive woman in her early sixties with no desire for nips or tucks, despite years of sun worshiping.
CJ admired that. If only Karina didn’t have such a terrible personality.
Yet Frank loved her. CJ watched his eyes soften as she entered the room and swung the heavy velvet drapes open.
Sunny shuffled in behind Karina, wearing a green button-down over navy board shorts, with age spots on his bald dome, gold chains on his turkey neck, and flip-flops on his regrettable feet.
“It’s gorgeous outside, Frank, you need sunshine.” Karina made a bowling gesture. “Come play bocce.”
“Are you and CJ plotting against me? She’s trying to trick me into visiting Lotusland.”
Karina tsked. “Honestly, CJ. Lotusland? What are you thinking?”
“That it’s gorgeous outside and Frank needs sunshine.”
Karina’s gaze sharpened on the Wedgwood cup. “Is that decaf?”
“Of course.”
“I should hope so.” Karina sat beside Frank. “Sunny wants you to get a transfusion. There’s a new procedure that boosts muscle regeneration and, um, neuron growth?”
“Young blood!” Sunny rasped, lowering his sunglasses. “I’m telling you, Frankie, this is like parabiosis two-point-oh. Even the goddamn Mayo Clinic is admitting that sweet young plasma will rejuvenate you. You’ll be a new man in no time. Bouncing Karina off the California king like the old days.”
Karina rolled her eyes. “You should look into this, Frank. I know Sunny is Sunny, but he showed me some articles.”
“I’m finally getting used to being an old man,” Frank said. “Now I want to be young again?”
“Do it for me! You know I want you to live forever.”
“That sounds exhausting.”
Karina took his hand. “Please?”
“Well, I…” His voice turned watery. “For you, anything.”
“I’ll make an appointment! Oh, and don’t forget our massages later. We’ll have them by the pool, after lunch.”
“Would you like to add that transfusion appointment to the schedule?” CJ asked Karina, keeping her voice bland and professional. “The cardiologist called to confirm, but the rheumatologist is still playing hard to get. There’s Pax’s massages, and do you want the nutritionist to stop back in?”
“Yes,” Karina said. “As I mentioned several times.”
“So we’ll need to schedule this around her. Hm. Isn’t the urologist also on the list? Why don’t I email you the schedule and you can add the transfusion people?”
“Why don’t you make the appointment?” Karina said. “As that’s your job.”
“Oh.” CJ attempted to look unhappy. “Yes, of course.”
She didn’t glance at Frank again, but she knew there’d be a flash of appreciation in his eyes.
Now she could delay the transfusion appointment forever, without him having to hurt Karina’s feelings with a refusal.
Karina really did love him and really did want him to live forever.
Frank loved her, too, for whatever reasons.
But in private he’d admitted to CJ that he was tired, sore, and ready for a long sleep.