Say You Love Her, An L.A. Love Story (17 page)

“No.” It came out a little too high-pitched to sound true.
 

Daisy raised her eyebrows. “Okay.” She rose to her feet. “Don’t leave anything on that plate, young lady.”

Angelina forced herself to smile. “I won’t.”

A few hours later, Angelina lay on her bed staring out the window. She couldn’t lie there all day nurturing the broken heart that she refused to acknowledge. There was too much to do. She accidentally yanked her hair as she tried to get up. “Ouch,” she hissed and massaged the crook in her neck. So the first thing she did was call Mrs. Arlene Edwards, the beautician, to make an appointment for Tuesday. Mrs. Edwards wouldn’t hear of making her wait until then, being that it was the day before the funeral.
 

“Come on down,” Mrs. Edwards said. “I’ll be here.”

 
Angelina dug an old pair of cut-off denim shorts out of the lower dresser drawer that she kept in the closet. It was her “one day I’ll be able to wear this here” drawer. She pulled on the shorts and a faded Papas and Beer T-shirt from that trip to Mexico in 2002. “Ah,” she sighed, basking in the freedom. For the life of her, Angelina would never be able to understand why her mother wanted her to be a doctor who wore stringy panties, pretty dresses, and at least a two-inch heel and not a world-class dancer who felt comfortable in vintage denim and over-washed T-shirts. It made no sense whatsoever and being a respectful daughter, she’d never challenged Josephine on the issue.
 

Angelina called for Daisy when she made it downstairs, but neither she nor Jack was home. She retrieved her car from the garage and drove into town finally to do what she’d wanted done since she was ten years old.

“I want it short,” Angelina said after Arlene got her situated in the styling chair.

Arlene balked as though Angelina had asked to be punched in the face. “Your Madame Beauchamp would roll over in her grave twice if she knew I cut your hair.”

“Well, she isn’t in the grave yet,” Angelina said. She immediately regretted saying it.

Arlene twisted her mouth, contemplating as she studied Angelina’s face.
 

“You know your hair is going to grow right on back.”

“Then I’ll just have to keep cutting it, Mrs. Edwards.”

“Baby, you want to look your best, don’t you?”

For a second she wondered what Charlie would like. She wasn’t in the habit of saying that she cared about how she looked out loud. The truth was that sometimes she did—normally whenever she was in a lousy relationship, like her last one with the notoriously arrogant Donald Light. What a horse’s ass he turned out to be. He had wandering eyes to go with his massive ego and thought she should’ve felt privileged that he chose to be with her. That’s why she stopped taking his phone calls, figuring he wouldn’t miss her if she just quietly forgot he ever existed.

“It’s just hair, Mrs. Edwards. It doesn’t make you look your best or your worst. Can you cut it or not?” She had gotten testy, and she knew better. “I apologize if I’m rude, but could you please just cut my damn hair.”

Arlene sighed, giving up. “How about I cut you some shorter layers and we’ll keep going until both of us are satisfied.”

Angelina took the deal, and when they arrived at the final result she released a gasp of delight. The woman she always wanted to be was staring back at her through the mirror. Her hair was a few inches below her shoulders and full of natural easy waves.
 

Upon returning home she ran into Daisy, who was roaming the property, taking pictures with her cell phone. After gushing over Angelina’s new ‘do, Daisy said she had spent the better part of the morning with Karina, who told her all about the artists who live in the area. Karina had taken her to visit Ms. Marie, Mr. Douglas Plume, and Ms. Sally. They had given Daisy permission to write an article about their lives and the neighborhood.

“I haven’t mentioned this new project to Belmont yet,” Daisy disclosed with a woeful sigh. “He and Jacques went to New Orleans to handle the details of the will. Your mother left everything to you, of course, but they’re making sure the will doesn’t get stuck in probate and so forth.”

Later on they sat on the porch and drank lemon tea and ate tuna sandwiches. Daisy’s eyes danced the foxtrot as she recounted the affairs between Karina and Lynnette and then Lynnette and Miss Julia’s first husband, Terry, who ran off with Miss Julia’s maid, Lisbeth. She described the neighborhood as being exquisitely irreverent.
 

Just before sundown Angelina went next door to see to the details of the repast. Karina and her husband Leon were planning a big “home-going” celebration for her mother. They ended up sitting around the table reminiscing about all the hit songs her mother had recorded. She also learned why her mother believed she could never marry her father.
 

“Cecile, that voodoo bitch, read those goddamn cat bones and told her that if she continued to love Jacques that she would die and if she marries him, then he would too,” Karina said.

Angelina’s mouth fell open. She couldn’t believe what she had heard. “I don’t believe that stuff,” she said.
 

“Me neither, but your mother did. That’s why she never went to the hospital for treatment. If you ask me, I think she savored the idea of such a theatrical ending.”

Angelina was speechless. She knew her mother refused chemotherapy, even after they caught the cancer in the second stage. She thought it was because she would’ve rather died than lose her hair. She thought vanity had claimed her life, not love, not dramatic passion.

“I apologize, I probably shouldn’t have said that in front of you,” Karina said.

“No.” Angelina reached out and put her hand on top of Karina’s. “I needed to hear it.”

“That’s why I always say don’t mess with them voodoo bitches,” Leon said.

She drank a glass of bourbon in remembrance of Madame Josephine Beauchamp as more friends joined them. They retold stories of how her mother always kept her doors open to traveling musicians while maintaining a discriminating eye.

“Remember when Jo-Jo went by there trying to get in,” Lynette said, cackling.

“She shot at that bugger’s feet with a .22!” Leon banged his fist on the table and laughed.

Even Angelina laughed because she remembered it vividly. Her mother had said, “He wasn’t nothing but a crook.” She wanted to give him an incentive never to get the inkling to show up on her porch ever again.
 

Angelina would’ve stayed longer, but Daisy was alone and Belmont had been worrying because she had been cramping a lot lately. As soon as she walked into the house, Daisy told her that Charlie had called. She used Daisy’s cell phone to ring him back. They spoke. She said she would call him when things had cooled down some.

That was Monday. It was Wednesday. The funeral was over. The service was exceptional. Throughout the service, the album that Charlie and she had driven all the way to New Orleans to pick up played lightly in the background. Hearing her mother croon ever so softly, Angelina couldn’t stop crying from the beginning until the end of service. As she sat at the table, wearing black, she acknowledged who held her captive in a state of indifference as she pursued life aimlessly. At the moment, she was definitely free—and that made her so very sad. The repast party at Karina’s was in full swing and she was at home sitting at the table. Daisy, who had been sticking close to her since the day started, got too caught up in the music, the dancing, and fun at Karina’s to notice that Angelina sneaked away. She found herself haunted by the sound of the casket being lowered into the ground. She wondered why in the world she’d stuck around for that part. Madame Josephine Beauchamp would never walk the Earth again. Her mother had wanted the big party, but Angelina didn’t feel like celebrating her mother’s absence. She thought whoever came up with the notion that death should be a time of celebration was a fool. Death was solemn, heartbreaking, and final. And so Angelina bent over her forearm, opened her mouth, and wailed loudly. She cried until her sobs become soundless and her throat and her stomach ached. With a face drenched by snot and tears she dragged herself upstairs. That was it, Angelina determined. She would cry no more. She went into the bathroom to dry her face and blow her nose and then curled up on her bed and slept through the festivities.

Daisy stayed with her after Belmont flew to Tokyo on business on Friday. It wasn’t easy for him to leave Daisy, but he had been spending a lot of time with Jacques. Angelina knew her father had something to do with Belmont choosing to cut the cord.
 

The weekend flew by. Daisy helped her clean out her mother’s closets and donate clothes, shoes, accessories, and some of her mother’s keepsakes to charity—per her mother’s request. They cooked meals together and sat on the porch to eat and talk, catching up on the years of sisterly conversations that they had never had.
 

“Are you excited about having a baby?” Angelina asked. She couldn’t tell if Daisy was or not.

“Am I excited about having a human being who’s only going to be a baby for a very short period of her life?” Daisy asked.

“That’s an accurate rephrase—are you?”

Daisy looked thoughtfully across the yard. “I’m not excited, but I am content. I never wanted to raise children. It’s a job in itself”—she rubbed her belly—“but fate had other plans for me.”

“I never want to have children either. That’s something else we have in common.”

Daisy chuckled. “I told Belmont that I want to name her Hillary, like Hillary Clinton. I want her to be strong, resilient, and overly ambitious.”

Angelina snorted. “You sound like my mother.” The moment she said that a pinch of sadness stabbed her in the heart.

“I want a lot of things for the human being in my belly, but I’ll wait until she shows me who she is and who she wants to become and then I’ll guide her from there.”

“Wow, Daisy, could you please be my mother?” Angelina joked.

They shared a laugh and continued talking until they couldn’t keep their eyes open. On Tuesday night they had the most life- changing conversation ever. Angelina had told Daisy what Karina said about her mother and the voodoo woman.
 

Daisy let out a facetious laugh. “Well, she shouldn’t have wasted her guilt. Do
not
cry for Heloise Krantz, she had her share of affairs as well. Neither one of them was faithful to the other. They had no real passion in their marriage. As soon as Jacques’ one and only son died, he stopped being lazy and finally filed for a divorce. And he gave me some serious daddy issues, which is why I stayed with that asshole Adrian longer than I should’ve.”

One look at Daisy and Angelina could see the blood still dripping from unhealed wounds. But what Daisy did unknowingly for her in that moment was remarkable. Angelina no longer had to share in her mother’s guilt of being the “other woman.”
 

“Now about Charlie. Are you ready to elaborate?” Daisy asked.

“We made love. It was wonderful.”

Daisy nodded contemplatively. “Charlie is the kind of person who’s better defined by his present. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

Angelina smiled and nodded. “Yes, I do.”

“Then give him a chance, but yes, remain cautious until you don’t have to anymore. You’ll know when that time comes.”
 

“Oh, what a joy it is to have a prettier, wiser older sister,” Angelina said.

“I don’t know about prettier, and the wiser part is yet to be determined.”

They shared another laugh, but Angelina felt better about offering herself to Charlie. So when Daisy flew back to L.A. the next day, Angelina went with her. After all, she had to officially move out of her apartment in downtown Long Beach. At least that was her main excuse for choosing to fly back to L.A. at the last minute.

Daisy’s chauffeur drove them to the lot to pick up her car. Charlie wasn’t in the trailer, and Pearl, who happened to be in the office, said he was on location in Arrowhead for the week. She gave Angelina the address for where he was staying.
 

Angelina didn’t drive up to the mountains right away. First she returned to Long Beach to pack up the rest of her apartment. Once she got everything in boxes, she arranged to have a company pick up her things and ship them to Louisiana. She didn’t plan on staying in Louisiana or L.A. long. New York was her final destination, and a couple of her friends were awaiting her arrival.
 

However—deep down Angelina knew that she wouldn’t leave the City of Angels if Charlie asked her to stay and be with him, at least until they figured out where they should go from there. Perhaps back to New Orleans. She could see herself living there with him from now until forever.

Chapter 12

A Hand in the Cookie Jar

Shane sinks his hand into the ice shavings. “The fake snow is sticking to the ground pretty well,” he says. He had his doubts being that it’s May in California.
 

In this shot stunt doubles are skiing down the side of the mountain and an avalanche chases them, but Juan La Costa will save Clara Richardson’s life. The next scene will be their first sexual encounter.
 

It’s quiet on the set. Shane raises the bullhorn to his mouth. “Action!”
 

Down the mountain they go. I yawn as the scene plays out. The skiers look frantically over their shoulders. The tumbling snow will be added to the video later, but they are pretending as though they see it coming. Shane does five more goddamn takes of this same scene, which takes at least thirty minutes to set up. He wants to do a sixth, but Nate, Pearl’s eyes and ears on the set today, warns him that “takes are time and time is money.” So Shane picks up from the point where the stuntmen narrowly make it to the bottom of the mountain. They switch places with Monroe and James Carlisle. This takes another twenty fucking minutes. I’m losing more patience.

Finally Shane calls, “Action!”

 
Juan saves Clara; Mandy and James make out in the snow. And I actually owe James a lot for keeping Mandy off my ass. She hasn’t tried to grab my nuts since the second day of production. It’s been a different story with Monroe. For instance, last night she sat next to me at dinner and massaged my dick under the table. I rose to the occasion, and she reveled in the fact that she made me horny.