Chapter 2
On the drive home that afternoon, Sadie led them away from the rows of unremarkable suburban homes, up the twisting route into the mountains, and to the high crest that marked the beginning of their descent into a pocket paradise: the secluded community of Topanga Canyon.
The two-lane road, a century-old thread sewn between the hot San Fernando Valley and the cool Pacific Ocean, channeled them through green-and-brown hills speckled with sagebrush, chaparral, and alder.
Even after four years of living in Topanga, the drive back from the city still felt like a slow, soft passage into another world, about as different from Calabasas and Woodland Hills and the rest of Los Angeles as Oz was from Kansas.
“That woman this morning,” Sadie said abruptly as she turned down the road that led to their houses. “She used to be a friend of yours?”
It was the first time either of them had brought up Brenda since they’d left Purple Poppy. “I don’t know that ‘friend’ is the right word. But, yes. I knew her socially.”
Back when Anne had known everyone socially.
After James came out and they’d separated, all that had ended, as if the women Anne knew were afraid her humiliation and degradation might be contagious.
She’d left them, too, though; with the exception of Conserve Malibu, Anne had abandoned all her fundraising and organizing commitments after moving, too disgusted by her own vulnerability to be around people who knew.
“Brenda was the kind of woman who never smiled,” she continued. “Just pulled back her lips.”
Sadie took that in. Then, “You used to be a little like that, didn’t you? Like Brenda.”
“I was her,” Anne said quietly. She didn’t like to admit it. “Before you.”
“Hmm.” It was the sound Sadie made when she was still forming an opinion. “I wonder.”
In some ways, Anne had never been anything like Brenda: never that tasteless or tacky, never that obvious, never that uncultured.
She’d played the perfect wife for James as his talent agency became an industry empire, throwing lavish parties and fundraisers.
The source of everyone’s intimidation; the object of everyone’s desire.
But four years ago, Brenda’s cruelty would’ve been right at home in Anne’s mouth.
She’d built herself up with the people she’d torn down.
These days, though, Anne’s sharpness had gentled a little. Somehow, when Sadie was around, the mean, hard impulse to lash out rarely rose inside Anne.
Unless it was in Sadie’s defense, apparently.
They pulled into Sadie’s driveway, her cottage waiting prettily at the end of it.
It was a cozy two-bedroom Spanish-style casita named Hedge Nettle House for the pink flowers that grew like weeds in the adjacent meadow.
Sadie had bought Hedge Nettle with her ex-husband Fred when they’d moved to LA seven years earlier.
In the divorce, Fred had given Sadie everything she hadn’t asked for—the house, the furniture, generous alimony payments—and taken away the only thing she’d really wanted: him.
It was a typical April afternoon in Los Angeles, warm and dry with a slight crisp breeze that carried the sweet scent of chaparral.
Perfect for a nice cold glass of wine and conversation on Hedge Nettle’s front porch before Anne retired to her own house for the evening.
Or it seemed perfect until ten minutes in, when Sadie took a small sip from her mostly-full glass, placed it on the table between them, and said, without preamble or context, “So what’s your future? ”
Anne blinked. “Come again?”
“Brenda’s your past, you said. What’s ahead for you?”
The wine was good, angular and crisp. Anne had been thinking about it for hours, craving its cold, rich slide down her throat, the immediate relief that came with her first swallow. “Do we really have to talk about this? I’m satisfied with my life as it is.”
She was—mostly. Over the last four years, Anne’s busy, full existence had slowed to a crawl after she’d brutally pruned away most of its obligations.
For a good, long while, she’d been grateful to leave behind the life she associated with her disgrace.
Lately, though, leisure had started to feel a little more like an idle itch.
“Well,” Sadie said, “I’ve just conducted a flash poll, and fifty percent of the people sitting on this porch would very much like to have this conversation.”
Anne stared out at the small grove of ancient oaks that dotted the edge of Sadie’s property by the road. “Not everything has to be discussed to death, you know.”
“No,” Sadie agreed, leaning back in the lounge chair. “But not everything has to be stamped out like a potential wildfire either, sunshine.” She steepled her fingers. “You’re sixty on Saturday. A milestone birthday.”
“I’m very aware. We just cleaned out an entire aisle at Bonjour Fête to mark the occasion.”
“Let’s tally the facts of your present, shall we?
Divorced from a man you never wanted to be married to in the first place.
” Sadie began to count on her left hand.
“Enough guilt-induced alimony to keep you in Badgley Mischka heels without having to earn a dollar for the rest of your life. Chairing the Board of Directors for Conserve Malibu. The occasional lunch with what’s-her-face from C.M.
—Genevieve. Pilates four days a week. Monthly shopping trips to Celine and The Row.
A handful of mediocre dates with men who can’t seem to hold a candle to your inferno.
And the occasional visit with those grandbabies of yours. Have I forgotten anything?”
When Sadie put it like that, Anne’s life sounded pretty empty. But one very important detail was missing from that list. “You forgot yourself.”
Sadie grinned.
I put that grin there. Maybe it was the wine that felt like a glow inside Anne, and maybe not.
“You need to commit yourself to something bigger, dollface,” Sadie announced firmly. “You need goals.”
“I wasn’t aware that was mandatory.” Anne felt increasingly uncomfortable.
“You’ve got approximately four decades left—”
“—I don’t know where you got this idea that we’re both living that long—”
”—and without any goals, you might wake up on your hundredth birthday just overflowing with regrets.”
“I’ll be impressed if I wake up on my hundredth birthday at all,” Anne muttered.
Sadie turned toward Anne. Her gaze was sharp and focused.
“Is anyone or anything besides Malibu’s ecosystem ever going to benefit from the mechanics of that brilliant mind?
Don’t misunderstand me; I’m very much in favor of the survival of the Guadalupe fur seal, but all that intellect and ruthless tenacity needs more than one narrow pipeline.
Same with your talent for organizing, or those leadership skills. I repeat: what’s your future?”
You.
The thought pierced through Anne’s brain—a hot, sharp spear that wouldn’t be denied—and she managed to swallow a gasp.
Where the hell had that come from? Yes, she was closer to Sadie than any friend she’d ever had, but even a best friend couldn’t be your future.
That just wasn’t how sensible people thought about their lives.
Truthfully, Anne couldn’t come up with a real answer to Sadie’s question.
Since the divorce, on the rare occasions Anne had tried to look at the expanse of years ahead, her vision had always blurred, refusing to focus again.
Which was fine. Wasn’t it? At this point in her life, did she really need a purpose?
Sadie continued to watch her.
Eventually, Anne said, “I don’t really think about the future. You know, beyond”—she gestured between Sadie and herself, aiming for a casual effect—“this. Us living next door to each other, me in my ranch, you in your cottage, bothering each other into decrepitude.”
A strange shadow crossed Sadie’s face before she busied her mouth with another swig of wine. “I do love being neighbors,” she said after swallowing. “Incredible how something like our friendship could flower in the muck of the worst thing that’s ever happened to me.”
Although Anne had heard plenty about Fred over the years, Sadie rarely alluded with any specificity to the ending of her marriage. Anne wasn’t even sure what had happened, exactly, but she knew Sadie hadn’t wanted the divorce. “Small mercies, I suppose.”
“Small? Try again.” Sadie’s tone was light, airy.
“There’s nothing small about a woman who went on a four-day eBay bidding war just so she could surprise me with the mod-patterned Schiaparelli silk scarf I’d been trying to find since my thirties.
Let’s face it. If Fred had to leave for you to come into my life, well, then.
Divorce me, untie, or break that knot again. ”
She was joking, obviously. Any other interpretation would be ludicrous. “That sounds suspiciously like you’re quoting something.”
“My favorite John Donne.” The shadow on Sadie’s sunny face—had it been the memory of Fred that put it there?
—was gone now. Instead, a dreamy, familiar gleam shone in her eyes, the look she always got when she quoted poetry.
“Take me to you, imprison me, for I, except you enthrall me, never shall be free, nor—”
She cut off abruptly.
“Well?” Anne asked after a moment. She’d never liked poetry—yes, it was deeply ironic that the best friend she’d ever had was a poet—but she hated unfinished things.
Sadie crossed her legs, took a deep breath.
“Nor ever chaste,” she said quietly, “except you ravish me.”
The grove of oaks in front of Sadie’s house seemed to tremble and slant slightly. The word ravish echoed, that last syllable sliding through the air. Ravish. Ravish.
Anne gripped the wineglass tightly in her hand and sat very, very still, only because there was no reason whatsoever to squirm.