I remembered being with Mark. The terrible dangerousness of it all.
I decided dying of thirst was better than being part of that scene. I snuck back up the stairs.
The next morning I left at the crack of dawn, writing a letter of thanks on a cocktail napkin for Colleen. I was momentarily stumped by the deadbolt. I could open it from the inside, but then I wouldn’t be able to relock the door. My answer was to climb out a window in the kitchen, which was through a door behind the bar. I slammed the window shut behind me and walked to my car through the sharp, unforgiving light.
I felt like hell. As I started the engine, I considered my drunken day with Black Mark. Had anything positive gotten accomplished? I sat in the growing heat of the morning, smelling dust and the faint leathery scent of the Explorer’s interior. Maybe something had gotten accomplished: I knew I was totally cured of Black Mark. I’d suspected it before; been glad I’d run from the disaster of his life. But I was completely, utterly sure now. Mark McGruder was a piece of my history, much like Charlie and Larry. If I saw them on the street I’d say hello; if they passed without seeing me, too far out of range to holler to, I wouldn’t care.
Progress.
I searched all over my car for my Altoids, finally settling for a group of little red Tic Tacs that were hiding in a corner of my door pocket.
“God,” I said, tentatively sticking them in my mouth. Their cinnamon flavor instantly masked the leftover whiskey, beer, and whatever else which made my mouth taste so godawful. Somewhere in the evening I recalled eating french fries, potato chips and some deep fried vegetable that I suspect may have come from another planet.
“And here you were worried about the whipped cream,” I muttered, heading up the freeway to Santa Monica.
The Ginny Blue All-Carb diet.
I made it almost all the way up the 405 to Santa Monica in nearly two hours of seventy-miles-per-hour driving before traffic slowed me down. And the reason traffic slowed me down was that it had started to rain. And in southern California a) it never rains; b) when it rains it runs like gushing rivulets through parched, hard land and pours onto the freeways and causes all the drivers to freak out, slam on their brakes, skid wildly, then creep along at less than ten miles per hour.
So, I drummed my fingers on the steering wheel and fumed. Glancing around at the nearby cars, I wistfully longed for the couple who’d engaged in car-bouncing sex. It would have been a nice diversion. And a diversion I needed, as I was feeling a little odd. Say what you will, Mark and Colleen had that sexual thing going—something I hadn’t felt in a long while—something I wasn’t getting with Will. Was sex really something I had to work on with Will? That’s not the way it was with Mark, or even with Don, for that matter.
And even if I got there, I doubted I could sustain a long-term relationship and a happening sex life. Colleen and Mark could, albeit in a dysfunctional, edge-of-violence kind of way. I easily recalled that feeling: fight to your last breath, no holds barred, then collapse into bed and make love as if you could bring the dead back to life.
My cell phone started chiming. Since I was at a dead stop I took both hands off the wheel to dig into my purse. I found it, clicked the green button and said, “Hello,” while the neighbor on my left lit a cigarette and the one on my right began applying eyeliner in the rearview mirror. As this was a man, I gave him a second look. He glanced my way and smiled. Dyed black hair. Pale skin. Very Gothic. Not the usual LA look.
“Virginia?”
Oh, Christ. Don. “Sorry, I haven’t called. Although I am sober now.”
“I’m heading out today. I was hoping I could see you before I left, but since you took off for San Diego ...”
“I’m back in Santa Monica. Well, nearly. I’m getting off the 405 to the 10 as soon as the traffic moves. Rain,” I added.
“Oh.” He thought that over.
“Is my mom around?”
“She’s getting ready to leave, too.”
“What? Is she still there?”
“Here ...” He handed off the phone and mom came on, “Hi, Virginia. I hate to leave without seeing you.”
“I’ll be there in a few minutes. Don’t leave yet.”
“I’ll be here for a few more minutes. I’ve got to get back to work.”
“Are you ready? How are the eyes?”
“Oh, no change since yesterday. Ugly as sin. Dark and battered. Thank God for sunglasses. I bought a new purse. On Montana. A really great shop. I love Montana.”
I nodded, though she couldn’t see me. Montana was the street in Santa Monica for boutiques with the most outrageous price tags. Cool stuff, but scary to shop there if you’re on any kind of budget. I was glad I didn’t know what my mother paid for her latest big-ass purse.
“I have time for lunch if you can get here. Then can I catch a ride to the airport?”
“Sure.” I felt a pang. I was going to miss my mother. I hadn’t spent enough time with her because of Don. I wished she would stay and Don would go.
I managed to squeak past a few cars and was actually on the off ramp when my phone chirped again. This time I wasn’t taking my eyes off the rain-slicked pavement and I kept my left hand firmly clamped on the steering wheel as I dug blindly through my purse for the phone I had just put back in there. I snatched it up on about the fifth ring and said somewhat impatiently, “Yeah?”
“Hi, Ginny. It’s Jackson.”
I dropped the phone. It slipped out of nerveless fingers and found its way somewhere near my feet, wedging under the accelerator. “Fuck,” I said through gritted teeth. “Jackson!” I yelled. “I dropped the phone! Call me back in ten minutes!”
It actually took me nearly twenty minutes to get on the 10 and then off at Cloverfield, my exit. I swore the whole way. Worse than a truck driver. By the time I got my hand on my phone I was on Olympic and nearly home. Jackson had not called back.
I pulled into my underground lot and dejectedly watched Schematic Man slide past me as the gate opened. I knew my disappointment was way out of line for the circumstances. If I hadn’t been so disappointed I would have berated myself for acting like an idiot. What was it with Jackson Wright?
But then my brain started whirling. Why was he calling me? How did he get my number? Did he
have
my number? Did he ask someone for it? Why, why, why didn’t he call back!
My Caller ID couldn’t pick up his number so I was stuck. I entered my condo, lost in thought. Mom and Don were in the kitchen, chatting away about my mother’s favorite topic: real estate.
“Oh, Ginny,” she said. “There you are. I’ve gotta run. I just called and got an earlier flight. The Samuelsons are buying that house on Lake Chinook. It’s that dilapidated monstrosity on that beautiful piece of property.”
“Okay.”
“And if this deal goes through, we’re getting a proposal together for this condo. Your landlord called, by the way. Mr. Norell? I told him you were interested in buying.”
“Mom ...”
“He’s one of those,” she said with a shake of her head. “Thinks it’s worth tons more than it is. I think I straightened him out.”
“Mom ... .”
“What do you think it’s worth?” Don asked my mother curiously.
“A lot more than Oregon prices, that’s for sure. It’s mind-boggling, really,” she said, sounding as if it wasn’t at all. In the world of real estate, possibilities were endless.
“I can’t afford it,” I said.
She smiled sweetly, deaf to my words. “Would you get my bag?” she asked Don, and he sprinted off to do her bidding. Fifteen minutes later we were all in my Explorer, heading to LAX. I knew Don had joined so he could have that talk with me.
I lingered at the departure point until my mother practically yanked her bag away from me and waved good-bye. Her dull, mustard-yellow purse was nearly as large as her one piece of roller luggage.
“Alone at last,” Don said.
I gave him a look as I climbed behind the wheel and maneuvered my way back to the 405. “Okay, hit me,” I said as we merged onto the freeway. Traffic wasn’t too bad for a Sunday afternoon.
“Don’t worry,” Don said, chiding me. “I know you want me out of here. I’m going. I’m not interested in starting up something between us again.”
“I didn’t say you were.”
“You thought it.” He sniffed in amusement. “Thanks for putting up with me for so long. Oh, and I called your friend Bradley Knowles.”
“You got hold of Brad?” I have to admit, I was kind of bugged at Don for his sudden “you had me all wrong, Virginia, I was never interested in starting up with you again” act. Call me egotistical, but it seemed a little false. Or maybe that was just me, trying to make myself better than I am.
“It’s Bradley,” Don informed me.
His teaching tone scraped my nerves, reminding me of all the reasons I was glad he wanted NOTHING TO DO WITH ME. I snorted. “Since when.”
“It’s what his receptionist said when I asked for Brad Knowles.”
“Well ... great. Did he take your case?”
“I haven’t talked to him directly yet. I’ll let you know.”
“Do that,” I said, not meaning it.
“I left the card you gave me with his number on the kitchen counter.”
“Thanks.”
We returned to the condo and Don, who’d already packed up, added, “One thing about the rain, huh? It’ll dampen things up.”
I nodded. Rain was a natural deterrent to the Santa Ana winds that fanned the slightest ember in the tinder-dry southern California hills and created firestorms. Though it was November, everything was bone dry.
“Good-bye ... Ginny,” Don said with a smile.
We hugged and I felt a pang. This was new for me. Don, though he wasn’t for me, was a decent guy. I watched him walk to his car from my living room window. He’d parked on the street, having to remember to move his car every Monday morning for the street cleaners. Parking was a battle out there. Don hadn’t complained or expected special treatment.
I wondered how Will would fare if he were to come visit me.
I felt kind of down. Maybe going through the Ex-Files wasn’t good for my psyche; I seemed to be feeling oddly vulnerable and alone. And this feeling had progressed from Nate to Charlie to Larry to Don and through Mark. I only had Kane, Lang, and Brad
ley
Knowles left. And then what? Something new with Will?
“Damn,” I muttered softly.
I sure as hell wished I hadn’t missed Jackson’s call.
Chapter
18
T
he following Thursday I stared at myself in the Cheval mirror of the ultracool dressing room at Charisma, THE wedding store on Montana. I said through the wall to Daphne who was in the room next to me, “I thought black would save me but I look like a zombie.”
“Shhh! Jill will hear you.”
“Bridesmaid dresses? These are Vegas cocktail gowns. My thighs are scary.”
“Mine’s too short, too.”
“Is CeeCee here yet?”
“I don’t think so.”
“We need her to be our spokesperson.”
“Don’t you think Jill will notice herself? She doesn’t want her bridesmaids looking like streetwalkers.”
I examined my thighs critically, turning from side to side. Not good. And Jill? Who knew what she would do. She was as unstable as I’d ever seen her. Planning a wedding had killed her sense of humor, such as it was. I was hoping to pull her aside and try to jolly her out of it a bit, but I was actually a bit preoccupied.
Tonight we were all going to “Getting Able with Kane.”
“We still haven’t had our drink, just you and me,” Daphne reminded.
“You’re the one that’s busy,” I said. “Tomorrow’s the shoot?”
She sighed heavily. “I just wish the commercial weren’t about vaginal itching. It was hard to tell my mother. She was thrilled until she found out what it was about. She actually hung up on me. Made an excuse to change the subject, then she was gone.”
“Hard to have bragging rights over a vaginal itchy commercial.”
CeeCee said, loudly, from another cubicle. “What are these things? Shirts?”
“Shhhh!” Daphne shushed. “Jill’s in the store.”
“Glad you’re here,” I called. “We need someone to explain the situation to Jill. She’s kind of—wound up.”
“I could use some Soft & Soothing for the pain in my ass caused by these stupid dresses.”
Daphne groaned and I pointed out, “Not exactly the right part of the anatomy,” I said. “Close, though.”
“Damn it ...” Daphne said in frustration. I heard a little scream, a rending of material, then silence.
“Dare I ask what happened?” I said after a few moments of silence.
“No.”
“Is the dress still in one piece?” CeeCee asked.
“... no ...”
“Is it fixable?” I waited, frozen, glad Jill was still apparently out of earshot, lost in a plethora of wedding dresses, veils, and doodads in another part of the store.
“The fabric’s ruined! It just tore! Right in the center of the bodice. No seam or anything! What do you think?”
“Are you guys in here?” Jill’s voice yelled from outside the dressing room cells.
I jumped and listened hard. There was ominous silence from Daphne’s room.
“We’re here,” CeeCee answered.
“Come out and model,” Jill ordered.
Like hell. I wriggled out of my minigown and threw on my jeans and black tee. Unlatching the lock on my door, I stepped into the hallway and beheld CeeCee just exiting her cubicle. Her hair was cropped and bleached white. She’d also pulled on her own clothes: a wife-beater in khaki and olive camouflage and a pair of cargo pants whose pockets bulged with items that looked like hard pieces of plastic. She pulled out these treasures, which resolved into a cell phone, iPod, Game Boy, and little discs and widgets whose purpose I could only guess at.
Jill demanded, “Why aren’t you in your dresses?”
“Mine needs a little altering,” I said, still aware of the silence of Daphne’s tomblike room.
“Yeah. It needs a SKIRT.” Still holding her bits of gear, CeeCee hitched a thumb toward the dressing room she’d just exited. “I’m not wearing it.”
“They’re too short?” Jill looked anxious enough to cry. “Daphne? Have you still got yours on.”
“Sort of ...”
“Open the door. Let me see.”
CeeCee and I gave each other a look. I glanced momentarily at the paraphernalia in her hands. “Been hanging out with a gamer,” she explained.
Daphne opened her door. The black sheath had a rip in the center. The material frayed around an opening, which revealed Daphne’s belly button. An inny. She actually looked rather good.
Jill suddenly burst into tears. None of us moved. “I didn’t mean to,” Daphne said.
“Oh, fuck,” Jill muttered around tears. She walked out of the dressing room and right out of the store. Daphne looked as if she might cry, too, so I helped her out of the disaster of a dress and we all vamoosed as quickly as possible. The salesgirl looked shell-shocked. I felt for her. I’d seen the prices on the would-be bridesmaid dresses.
There was no talking to Jill. She’d swiped away the tears and was angry in that deep, hurt, miserable way. We tried to be supportive about the dresses but she slapped a hand in the air. “It’s all just a mess,” she declared. “I’ll see you tonight.” She ran across the street to where her car was parked.
Daphne whispered, “It’s all my fault.”
“Oh, it is not,” I said, annoyed. “There’s something going on.”
“I wouldn’t count on this wedding taking place,” CeeCee muttered, pulling out a cigarette.
We all tacitly agreed. Daphne left us, but I stuck around while CeeCee lit up.
“Do weddings have to make you crazy?” she asked, exhaling blue smoke from the side of her mouth.
“Yes,” I said.
We pondered this fact in silence for a few moments, then I said, “So, I get it that you and the boss are totally done.”
She shrugged. “He went back to his wife. I got pissed. Thought about sleeping with Cheese-Dick for about a nanosecond, just to make him as pissed. Found a better way to get even.”
“I don’t think I want to know.”
“Demanded more money.”
“Oh.” I was pleasantly surprised. “Way to capitalize.”
“Talked him into letting his son work at the station.”
“His son?”
“A cool kid.”
“The gamer?” I asked, my heart sinking with dread.
“We’re not doing it,” she said calmly. “He’s eighteen, so legally we could, but that’s not it. It just scares Gerald that we’re friends. He thinks I might talk.”
“Be careful,” I warned.
“Uh-huh.”
A terrible thought crossed my mind. “The son isn’t in that picture on his desk, is he?”
CeeCee cocked her head thoughtfully. “He might be. What do you think that means?”
“Nothing good,” I stated firmly.
“Blue, the kid’s just my friend. And if it drives a knife in Gerald’s heart, all the better. I cared about that asshole.” She swallowed hard and narrowed her eyes against the smoke.
CeeCee being hurt was a new one on me. I thought briefly about Will. My little fling seemed unimportant and uninteresting next to her heartbreak. I said, “I slept with Will Torrance. And then Rhianna showed up and threw a
Fargo
snow globe at me. I haven’t slept with him since.”
“A
Fargo
snow globe? Did it break?”
“Uh-huh.”
CeeCee shook her head at the waste of it all. “Are you going to sleep with him again?”
“No,” I said.
A rawhide-thin woman with a snazzy, small blue case hurried past us to the door of Charisma. She stopped at the last moment. “Are you here for the fitting?”
We gazed at her, not sure how to answer. She took our hesitation as a yes and held the door, practically shooing us inside. CeeCee stubbed out her cigarette and frowned. I said, “Ummmm ... we may have to delay.”
“I don’t have time.” She stood at the door.
CeeCee and I shared a look. With a shrug CeeCee headed inside and I followed dutifully. The salesgirl’s mouth dropped open.
“Where’s Jill?” the woman asked impatiently. I realized she was the designer as she set her blue case on the counter and opened it. It was full of sewing supplies—a veritable torture chamber of needles, scissors, pins, and unidentifiable tiny little pieces of hardware that looked as if it could become a part of a Stephen King book in short order.
CeeCee said, “She had to leave.”
The designer’s nostrils flared so wide I marveled at the elasticity of human skin. “We had an appointment.”
“There may be problems with the wedding,” I offered cautiously. I didn’t know what was going on, but I sensed this woman better be alerted
tout suite
that the dresses were probably not going to work.
“I need to get the dresses fitted,” she insisted.
“Well, you can stand here and wait,” CeeCee said. “But Jill’s not coming back and one of your gowns has a rip right down the center and all of them don’t have enough material to cover our asses.”
It was a good exit line. And exiting seemed like a good idea as the designer’s expression turned thunderous. I said, breathlessly, as CeeCee and I skedaddled, “I’m going to find Jill and see what’s going on.”
“I’ll see you tonight.”
I jumped into the Explorer and grabbed my cell phone. It rang in my hand. Impatiently I checked the Caller ID. I didn’t want to talk to anyone but Jill. Surprised, I realized it
was
Jill.
“Hey,” I answered. “Where are you?”
“The Coffee Bean on Wilshire.”
“I’ll be right there.”
I grimaced as I clicked off. She sounded miserable. I prayed to the parking gods that I would find a nearby spot and was rewarded. As I walked past the open fire pit in the front courtyard I spotted Jill sitting dispiritedly at a small table for two. I sat down across from her. She looked like death. No expression. Hollow eyes. Sunken cheeks. Pasty skin. The works.
“What?” I asked quietly.
“He called it off.” She drew a breath, her lips quivering faintly. “It’s over.”
“Ian called the wedding off?” I repeated, trying to hide my shock. Things were worse than I’d imagined. Further along than I’d imagined.
“He called everything off. He thinks I’m sick. He wants out. It’s over. Over.”
She closed her eyes and looked about to pass out. Gently I reached across and clasped her hand. For a few moments neither of us said anything then she inhaled shakily and said, “the
fucking
bastard.”
I nodded in silent agreement. My heart went out to her. No more Jill-Ian? I couldn’t wrap my brain around it.
Tears starred her lashes but her pugnacious jaw was set hard. I said, “Is it selfish of me to be relieved my thighs won’t be wedged into that black dress?”
“Yes.” But something softened in her expression.
“It’s always about me, you know.”
“They were too short anyway.”
“You gonna be okay?” I searched her face.
Her chin trembled. She tried to hang onto her hard jaw and couldn’t. “I don’t want to talk about it,” she said in a teary voice. “I want to go to your thing tonight.”
“Getting Able?”
She nodded.
“Jill, for pete’s sake ...”
“No, I’m going. I’m not thinking about this. I want to think about your problems, not mine. How are you doing on the Ex-Files? I haven’t asked in a while.”
“Fine.”
“How many are left?”
“Ummm ... three, I guess. I haven’t quite dealt with Lang. And there’s Kane, of course. And Knowles-It-All.”
“You’re done with Charlie and that hairy guy?” Jill’s brow was furrowed. She seemed to be putting a ton of energy into this task.
“Hairy Larry,” I agreed.
“And Don the Devout?”
“Done with Don.”
“And the next one?”
“Black Mark,” I said. “Done with him, too.”
“Tonight’s Kane.”
“Looks like it.”
She drew a long, shuddering breath. “How long does it take, Blue? To get over them?”
She wanted answers. She wanted to know when she would be as frightfully well adjusted as I was supposed to be. I shook my head. “Eons,” I said depressingly.
Too late I realized that sounded a lot like “Ians.”
I am so not good at commiserating ... unless maybe alcohol is involved.
To say that the nixed wedding plans affected our mood as we dutifully headed to the Kane Reynolds extravaganza was putting it mildly indeed. I expected Jill to change her mind and beg off, but she was determined to go to the motivational session. This didn’t mean she was a barrel of laughs. She was so silent and removed that we all felt unsettled. Daphne and I chattered away to fill the gaps and CeeCee just lowered the Explorer’s window and smoked. Jill, always so vocal, opinionated, and tough was the proverbial shadow of her former self. The
fucking
bastard had really done her in.