Say You Love Her, An L.A. Love Story (6 page)

“Not on purpose,” I say. Now I’m on the defensive.
 

“I’m not judging you. I like who you are. And you smell good too.” She winks and returns to packing away a stack of silky and lacy panties.

“Shit, that’s all you wear?” I ask before I can stop myself.
 

Angelina raises her eyebrows as though I just confused the hell out of her. Then she looks down into her suitcase. “My panties?”
 

I’ve been embarrassed into silence. I’m usually a lot more composed than I have been lately. “They’re sexy, that’s all.”

She laughs. “It’s one of the many superficial lessons that my mother taught me. Ladies should go to bed and wake up in sexy underwear or nothing at all. I have a lot of shit wrong with me. I’ve tried to deprogram myself, but I fail every time.”

Suddenly this tiny space is closing in on us. The most significant thing in the room is the bed. I want to be on top of it with Angelina in my arms. I want to hear more about what she thinks of me. I want to hear her run down all the shit that she thinks is wrong with herself.
 

“Oh well, such is life,” she says, and ducks back into the closet.

I try to keep my dick from expanding as she talks about having to return in a week to pack up the rest of her things and mail them to her mother’s house in a parish called New Iberia, not far from Baton Rouge. She folds more clothes and another pair of shoes into the suitcase and then zips it.
 

I carry her luggage to the car and put it in the trunk. The freeway is jammed. Usually I boil over with frustration when traffic is this stop-and-go, but Angelina talks about how insane the producer was on her last job. She didn’t want to work on
The Great Dame
either because she had had enough of Hollywood.

“I thought you guys were going to be just as difficult to work with as the rest of them. I was shocked at how cooperative you and Monroe were. I got a feeling that you two are together.”

Panic sets in. “Together? We’re not together.”

“Oh,” she says dismissively. “If you were, then I would say congratulations. She’s pretty.”

Angelina has a way of jabbing me right in the heart by subtly telling me that she’s not interested. “We’re not a couple, but we just started hanging out,” I say.

She’s looking at me. When I glance at her, she raises her eyebrows and smirks. “You mean you’re having sex?”

I shrug. Shit. Why did I say that?
 

“I knew it,” she says. “You left the house last night. Did you go see her?”

“You heard me leave?”

She wraps her arms around the armrest as she sighs. “I couldn’t sleep.”

Her tits are sitting straight up, and it’s distracting. “You never answered my question,” I say.

“What question is that?”

“Do you have another gig lined up?”

“Oh. No. This one paid good enough for me to leave on a high note. And may I say thank you.” She flexes her eyebrows—that was cute.
 
“I’m not really a writer, you know. I just know how to do it because…” I’m disappointed when she puts her arms down and sighs. The things I’m going to do to those tits when she lets me have them.

“Because?” She has me curious now.

“Long story. I’ll tell you about it one day.”

I want to tell her that she has the perfect pair of tits. “I respect that,” I say instead.
 

I wonder what it means when she smiles at me that way. I would’ve asked her if she was into me a long time ago if our circumstances weren’t so delicate. If I ask and she isn’t into me, then I’m sure she’ll mention my indiscretion to Jack or Daisy. They would probably think I hit on her because of some latent feelings I may have toward Daisy.
 

“Could you stick around for a while?” I ask.

“Stick around where?”

“Production. I want to hire you as a production consultant.”

She snickers. “I don’t think so. I really don’t like sets or studios or producers. Like I told you, I’m over it.” She releases a long breath. “I was thinking about going back to New York after getting through this with my mother.”

“What are you going to do in New York?” I ask. Just the thought of her being that far away doesn’t sit well with me.

“Dance,” she says.
 

All kinds of crazy shit goes through my mind before she can clarify.
 

“I’m a trained dancer. I graduated from Julliard. I was already two years into MIT before they accepted me.”

I’m relieved that she didn’t allude to being a stripper, but holy shit. “The Massachusetts Institute of Technology? How the hell do you go from MIT to Julliard?”

“Very quietly.”

I laugh my ass off. “You didn’t tell anyone.”

I glance at her. She shakes her head. “My mother doesn’t even know I can dance, especially good enough to be accepted to Julliard. When I was eight there were these ladies who moved into the house next to ours. Lynnette, who used to dance in New York, and Karina, who used to dance in the Russian ballet.”

“They were two women?”

“Yes.”

“Lesbians?”

“Sometimes yes, other times no. Every weekend they would have these parties on their front lawn, and they would really dance, and I mean
really
dance. They would
relevé
, revoltade,
plié
, attitude, and then abandon the formal dancing for spirals and laterals and just plain old shaking their ass and getting down.” There’s a faraway look in her eyes as she says, “There was lots of sensuality and sexuality, especially as the night wore on.”

For a moment, I’m captivated by her tale of passion. I swallow whatever the hell kind of emotion is stuck in my throat. “And your mom let you go to those parties when you were eight?”

“My mother traveled a lot, and Lynette and Karina did a lot of babysitting. While they were dancing, I would just get in there, you know?”

I’m taken aback. “And join the orgy?”

“No, Charlie.” She chuckles. “There was nothing perverted going on. But they would encourage me to dance from my heart. I was never encouraged to do anything from my heart before they came along. My mother would only encourage me to study from my head, you know?”

She watches me intensely. I notice she does that, waits for a response whenever she ends a phrase with
you know
.
 

“I know,” I say.
 

“My mother just wanted me to get good grades so that I could become a doctor one day.”

“But instead your neighbors taught you how to dance?”

“They did more than teach me. They trained me.”

“Are they still your neighbors?”

“Only Karina.”

“What happened to Lynette?”

“She married Louis Copeland. He played the saxophone.”

“A guy?”

“I told you they were fluid.”

We laugh. I don’t know why that’s so goddamn funny. I think it’s because Angelina hasn’t stopped surprising me since Monday. The most surprising thing is that she seems so damn familiar.

We make it to the airport and take off right on schedule. We talk more during the flight. Angelina studied biology at MIT. She refers to her mom as “mother,” and her mother thinks she’s in medical school in L.A. When she first came to L.A, being Jacques Blanchard’s daughter made it easy for her to get a job in the entertainment industry. She started as a writer’s assistant, and before she knew it, she was doing story editing and making enough money to pay her bills and to stop asking her mother or father for financial help. I even revealed some crazy shit about myself that I’ve never told anyone. Like the day my dad caught me in the basement playing guitar. He took it from me and smashed it on the ground.
 

“He said if he saw me playing it again, he’d do the same to me.”

“Wow,” she says and takes my hand and squeezes it. I look down at my hand in hers. It becomes plainly clear that I want Angelina Beauchamp, and I won’t stop until I get her.

I rented a car at the Baton Rouge airport and now we’re driving through the thickets of Louisiana. Angelina hasn’t said much other than directing me to take a left onto a tiny road that I would’ve missed otherwise. She’s shaking her leg and looking out the window. Her nervousness is contagious.
 

I glance at her. “How are you doing?”

She sighs sharply. “I just can’t believe Madame Josephine Beauchamp still refuses to go to the hospital. Do you know that she has never undergone chemotherapy? Too damn vain to risking losing her hair,” she mumbles.

The trees are the sad kind, the kind that look as though they’re bawling. They’re closing in on the road. It’s eighty-three degrees, and the air is denser than it is in L.A. It isn’t a bad thing. Technically speaking this is a jungle, a swamp—the bayous.

“Some people just don’t like hospitals,” I say. I don’t.

She shifts forward and grabs the dashboard. “Slow down or you’ll miss the turn. It’s coming up on the right.”

I follow her instruction. “Just relax. Things are going to be fine.”
 

I glance over just in time to catch sight of her uncertain smile. “But, Charlie, thanks for coming. Just being around you is making this easier.” She settles back into her seat.

I take her hand. Her palm is hot and sweaty even with the air conditioner on. I stop the car in the middle of the unpaved road. “Hey, let’s take a moment to breathe.”

Watching me, she inhales deeply through her nose. Why don’t I kiss her? Jack would’ve gone in for one by now. He wouldn’t ask. He’d just do it.
 

“Better,” she whispers.

I give my heart a second to slow down before driving onwards. I cross a stone bridge. The tree coverage is thinning out. There’s a muddy lake on my side of the road. It’s large, and the knees of cypress trees stick out of it. It’s the kind of lake you only take a dip in on a dare. A white wooden gate is open. As soon as I drive through the entrance, things change abruptly. The lawns are trimmed and are as green as it gets. The trees—cypress and maple, oak and cedar—are pruned and tamed. Perfectly shaped hedges run along the antebellum, colonial-styled house complete with the Roman columns, wraparound verandas, and tall windows with burgundy shutters. I’m expecting Scarlett O’Hara to run out onto the porch of the mini-mansion, fling herself across the banister, and wave.

I park beside a classic Mustang under a carport at the side of the house.

“Humph,” Angelina says. “That’s odd. She has company.”

“Why is it odd? Given her condition.”

“When I told you she’s vain, I meant it. She’s vain to the extreme. She’s been in hiding for the past year. I barely get to see her.”

“It gets lonely after a year of solitude.”
 

She suddenly wraps her fingers around my wrist. “Wait. It’s Ms. Dorothy, the nursemaid.”

I’m struck by what feels like an energy surge. Angelina quickly removes her hand. We look into each other’s eyes. “The nursemaid?” I whisper.

“Yes,” she says, her voice as quiet as mine, and looks away to unbuckle her seatbelt.

The moment is over. I step out of the car and into a perfect day. Living things are chirping and buzzing. The sound is faint, but it’s music to my ears.
 

“You grew up here?” I ask, trying to spark up conversation as we walk. I get a sense that she’s still nervous.

Angelina leaps in front of me, and I take her by the arms to keep from colliding with her. “How do I look?” she asks.

“Nice.” It comes out as a croak. She caught me off guard.

“Do I look pretty, feminine, and slightly sexy?”

I study her curves, and my mouth waters. “Yes, yes, and more than yes.”

She rolls her eyes. “I know it’s a stupid question, but my normal jeans and T-shirts don’t fly around Madame Beauchamp. She wants me to own my sexuality, but then she doesn’t want me to use it. She’s the mistress of contradictions. Wait.” She uncoils her hair and teases it with her fingers. “She made me promise never to cut it.”

“Your mom is really invested in the way you look.”

“And it has been my cross to bear.”
 

This is the part where we’re supposed to kiss, but she’s not mine to kiss.
 

“I had mine too,” I say to make her feel better.

“Your father,” she says.

“Yeah.”

We stand together in the silence. “Charlie, could I ask you something?”

I step closer to her. “You can ask me anything.”

“You don’t have to answer.”

“I’ll answer.”

She releases a long breath, purging herself of anxiety. “Are you relieved?”

“Relieved about what?”

“That you don’t have that cross to bear anymore? Because, I’ve been thinking, I love my mother, but it would be so nice to be… free, not of her but then, yes, of her.” Angelina says that as if it were the hardest thing she had ever confessed.

I open my arms. “Give it to me,” I say, inviting her in for a hug.

Then her soft body is against me. This feels right. I kiss the top of her head and her cheek. She rests her forehead against my chest. Did I go too far?
 

“I should be ashamed of myself, shouldn’t I?”

She has to be able to feel my dick. There’s no putting it away. I’m hard as hell.

“No, you shouldn’t be ashamed. Some parents put all these fucking demands on you and try to control every part of your life. You walk around free but you’re not.”

I don’t want to let her go because I might not get a chance to do this again.
 

She lets go of me but takes my hand. “I’m ready.”
 

We walk right in. The floors are wood, the ceilings high, and the furniture antique. There are portraits of a beautiful Creole woman hanging on every wall. I would have thought nothing of it if Angelina hadn’t primed me about her mother’s vanity.

“So to answer your question. Yes, this is where I grew up. And on the walls you can see why Madame Beauchamp has been the center of my universe for twenty-nine years.”

We snicker at the absurdity.
 

I scan the portraits again. Madame Beauchamp has a perfect smile and beautiful bright eyes. “At least she’s not scary,” I say.