“I’d never want to be accused of being a poor host,” said Sylvia.
“But I’m not a guest,” said Bridget.
“Sure you are,” said Sylvia.
Bridget pondered the situation. “Why didn’t Mr. Craddock just have you watch the kids?” she asked.
“Are you kidding?” Sylvia scoffed. “I’m the maid, not the nanny. I don’t do kids.”
“But it’s just a few hours, and…”
“Look,” Sylvia cut Bridget off. “I’ll do his laundry and cook his meals, but I’m sure as hell not going to wipe the shit out of his kids’ behinds. Besides, I don’t want to be setting no precedents.”
“Huh,” said Bridget, as Lydia waddled over and grabbed one of her fingers. Bridget filled the sippy cup with lemonade, screwed on the top and handed it to the toddler. “I’m surprised you can get away with that,” She continued.
“With what?” asked Sylvia.
“Laying down the law like that to Mr. Craddock. You must be one tough woman.”
“Oh, come on, please. Craddock is the biggest pansy in the world. If you want to know who rules this roost, you’re looking at her.”
“Are you two?...” said Bridget.
“Oh no, don’t go jumping to any conclusions there.”
“I’m sorry,” said Bridget. “It’s just; this is all a bit much for me.”
“Mr. Craddock’s not a bad guy to work for, really, as long as you know not to put up with any of his crap.”
“How long have you been with him?” Bridget asked as Lydia plopped down to the ground at her feet, happily sucking on her drink. Nathan continued pushing his truck around the yard making “Vrooom, vroom” sounds.
“Seven years,” said Sylvia.
“Then you knew his ex-wife?” Bridget had read all about the couple and their acrimonious split a few years earlier.
“Yeah. Nice lady. Pretty, too.”
“Why did she marry him?” Bridget asked. “The money?”
“No, the money was hers. Old family money.”
“What about this house? And the cars, and all the rest?”
“All from her family. His lawyer pried out every dollar he could get.”
“But what about his films? He’s a producer.”
“Whose money do you think he used to get into that racket? I suppose he’s made a little back out, but not much. He’s never had a big hit.”
Bridget reached down and lifted Lydia into the air. She put her lips on the baby’s stomach and blew until the child began to giggle. Bridget sat the girl on her lap. “This conversation has been quite illuminating.”
“Like I said, he’s not a bad guy to work for, despite his obvious faults.”
Bridget bounced little Lydia up and down on her legs. “Is it true what they say about him, you know, and impressionable young girls?”
“Some of it.”
“So he is kind of a lout then? A womanizer?”
“He’s human. Mostly he just goes out with that one girl. That Jessica. He’s crazy over her.”
“Jessica Turnbull?”
“Yeah, she’s the one.”
“Really?” said Bridget, surprised by this bit of gossip. It was the first she’d heard of it.
“She plays him for a fool, though,” Sylvia said. “But he’s blind as a bat.”
“And you don’t tell him?”
“That’s none of my business. I am just the maid after all, no matter what airs I might put on. I still know my limits.”
Bridget’s nose twitched as she caught a telltale scent and took a peek into Lydia’s diaper. “Can you keep an eye on Nathan for a minute? I’ve got to go earn my two hundred dollars,” she said.
“Knock yourself out,” answered Sylvia.
Bridget stood and carried her little charge inside, marveling at the luxury. This was her first real taste of what having money actually meant. Returning to her one-room apartment after this was going to be no easy feat.
Chapter Twenty
Warren stood on the boulevard, playing his saxophone for spare change. He had a few days worth of un-cashed vouchers in his pocket, but he’d save those for later. Here on the street he’d hoped to earn enough to buy a nice bouquet of flowers for Bridget, but on this evening his take seemed surprisingly robust. It must have been the clothes. He was wearing a suit again, borrowed from wardrobe. He stopped playing to check the tally in his hat; twelve dollars and thirty two cents. He looked at his watch. Not bad for an hour’s work. Warren pocketed the money, put his fedora on his head, and walked off with a lightness in his step.
At the shelter, Warren checked in and was assigned a cot. He stashed his sax underneath and then washed his face in the bathroom and combed his hair. On the way to Bridget’s place he stopped at a liquor store and picked out the nicest bouquet of flowers that twelve dollars could buy. He continued on until he arrived at her building, moving through the courtyard until he stood at her door. When he knocked there was no answer, but he knew he was a little early. He went back past the fountain and crossed the street where he found a set of steps to sit and wait under the late afternoon sun.
Driving through the streets of Hollywood in a convertible Maserati left Bridget feeling a strange mix of exhilaration and embarrassment. It was exciting to be in a car that rumbled with such raw power under the hood. It was embarrassing to be eyed by so many passers-by eagerly hoping to spot a movie star, only to be disappointed. At least Craddock hadn’t expected her to walk home, though she was still somewhat skeptical of his overall character. “Why don’t you take your kids along when you go to visit your mother?” she asked.
“It’s a little hard on the kids,” said Craddock humbly. “And on my mother.”
“Why is that?” Bridget persisted.
“She doesn’t know who they are,” Craddock answered.
“Maybe if you took them to see her more often she would,” said Bridget.
“No, it’s not like that.”
“Have you tried?” said Bridget, beginning to sound self-righteous.
“She has Alzheimer’s,” said Craddock sadly. “Most of the time she doesn’t even recognize me, let alone my kids.”
“Oh,” answered Bridget, her heart sinking. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s not your fault,” said Craddock.
They drove in silence for a while, Bridget sinking a little lower in her seat, unable to think of anything redemptive to say.
“Look, I appreciate your doing me this favor,” Craddock continued. “I’m sorry if I bullied you into it.”
“Honestly, I didn’t mind. You have some very nice kids.”
“You think so?” Craddock brightened.
“Absolutely,” Bridget answered, trying in part to make up for her callousness moments before.
“I know Los Angeles probably isn’t the best place to raise them.”
“They seem very well adjusted to me,” Bridget said. Craddock smiled to himself. He cared about his kids. He seemed to be a good dad, even. Like Sylvia had said, he
was
human after all. Bridget’s assessment of the man eased. Maybe he wasn’t so bad. She directed him where to turn and they roared up the street toward her apartment building. “That’s it there.” Bridget pointed.
Craddock slammed on his breaks and came to a stop. “Here you are, then. Door to door service,” he said.
“Thanks,” she laughed. “See you around.” She opened the door and climbed out, carrying her wardrobe coat on one arm. She waved a quick goodbye with her other hand as he drove off. As Bridget walked on in, her thoughts turned to Warren August. He’d be arriving before long. She ought to have just enough time for a quick bite to eat first.
Across the street, Warren sat dumbfounded. Bridget with the producer? He could hardly believe it, yet he’d seen it himself; the pair of them, in a fancy sports car no less. He froze in place, unable to move. How could he have been so wrong about her? How could he have thought she was interested, in him? He remembered her kiss from the night before. At the time it held such promise, but now he wondered. A quick peck, that’s all it was. A way to say goodnight. He looked at the bouquet in his hand. At least she hadn’t spotted him here with flowers; the evidence of his intent. His face flushed red. If she was involved with Craddock, then Warren could never compete. Not with the money and the prestige and the power to make Bridget’s dreams come true. Warren stayed where he was a few moments longer, considering his prospects. Finally he stood and moved down the walk toward the street. When he got to the curb he lifted the lid on a garbage bin and dropped the flowers inside before returning the way he had come, head hung low in shame.
Chapter Twenty-One
Bridget stood at her refrigerator in black stocking feet, with holes showing through in the heels and toes. Holding the door open with one hand, she peered inside at the contents of the fridge to see if there was anything she could make for dinner. With her other hand, she picked up a half-empty bottle of pasta sauce and shook it back and forth. How long had this been here? She wasn’t sure. She knew that she should either eat it or throw it away. Instead she put it back on the shelf. There was always salad. It was only three days since she’d been to the farmer’s market. Bridget opened the salad drawer and began pulling out lettuce, carrots, radishes, scallions and any other vegetables she could find. She laid them on the counter by the sink and then took a strainer from her drying rack. She was rinsing her lettuce when the doorbell rang. Bridget looked at a clock on her oven. Was he here already? After drying her hands on a dishtowel, Bridget took the few steps from the kitchen to the front door. She opened it to find Warren standing outside. “Hi there,” she said. “Come on in. I’m just making a salad. Would you like some?”
“No, but thanks anyway.”
“I hope you don’t mind if I eat in front of you.”
“I don’t mind.” Warren followed her inside. It was a small, one-room studio with a kitchenette along the back wall. A counter extended out from one wall and divided the kitchen area from the rest of the living space. Two tall stools were tucked up underneath. “Mind if I sit?”
“By all means, make yourself at home.”
Warren pulled out one of the stools and sat down before looking around the room more carefully. There was one bed pushed against a wall with a few items of clothing scattered across it, along with a small laptop computer. A dresser beside the bed had a few knick-knacks arranged on top. He saw a round wooden box, with an intricate design carved on the lid. Beside that was a three-inch tall replica of the Eiffel Tower. A snow globe with the Gateway Arch inside read “Welcome to St. Louis” along the bottom. A bedside table was piled with magazines and a few paperback books. “You like to read?” he asked.
“Well, I don’t have a TV, so that’s pretty much my entertainment around here, aside from the computer.” In a far corner was a large wicker chair that seemed too big for the room. On the wall behind it was a framed poster with a leather-clad tough guy holding the hand of a pretty young girl in a white dress.
West Side Story, Live at the Center City Stage
, read the text. Bridget followed his gaze. “That was my first big show. My first real paycheck,” she said.
“Did you have a good part?”
“I played Graziella, Riff’s girlfriend.” Bridget saw that this meant nothing to Warren. “It was exciting, anyway,” she added. “I was definitely hooked after that.” Bridget opened the fridge. “I can offer you some wine if you’d like.”
“I won’t say no to that,” he conceded.
Bridget pulled out a half-full bottle of Sauvignon Blanc, one day old with the cork stuck back in the top. “I hope you don’t mind, but this is all I’ve got.” She closed the refrigerator door with her hip. “I would have stopped somewhere, but I ran out of time.”
“That’s fine,” he said. “I should have brought something.”
Bridget paused to give him a curious look. Something was off. He definitely wasn’t his normal, irreverent self. There was something peculiar about his manner. Bridget found two glasses in a cabinet above her head. She placed them on the counter and uncorked the wine. “Are you all right?” she asked him, with a hint of skepticism in her voice.
“Sure. Why?”
“I don’t know. You just seem a little… somber.”
“I’m fine.”
Bridget eyed him for a few seconds longer, not satisfied with his answer, but then went back to pouring the wine. With two full glasses there were still a few ounces left in the bottle. She pushed the cork back in the top, returned the bottle to the refrigerator, and handed Warren his glass. This reticent manner wasn’t what she’d expected from him; not after the way things had gone between them the night before. Was there something wrong, or was he just playing it cool? She had no way to know. “Did everything go all right on the set today?” she asked.
“They seemed satisfied.” He took a sip of wine and placed his glass on the counter.
“How about you? Were you nervous?”
Warren shrugged. “I guess so, at first. I got over it. Mostly.”
Bridget nodded. She went back to her salad, rinsing and peeling a carrot. She put it on a cutting board and began carefully chopping it into pieces. “So maybe you don’t need these acting lessons after all, then, huh?”
“Is that what you think?” Apprehension showed in his voice.
“I don’t know, it sounds like you’re doing so well on your own.”
“If you don’t want to give me the lessons, that’s up to you.”
“That’s not what I’m saying,” she countered.
“Then what are you saying?”
Bridget stopped cutting and tilted her head back. “The whole point of the lessons was to give you confidence so that you can relax and do your job.” She turned and looked at him directly. “Maybe you’ve solved that problem on your own.”
Warren turned away, sure that his disappointment would show. He lifted his wine off the counter and quaffed half the glass.
“You’re sure nothing happened today that you want to tell me about?” she asked.
“No. Nothing.”
Bridget went back to her salad. “Of course I can still give you lessons if you want.”
“Don’t do me any favors,” he said.
Again she stopped cutting. This time she put the knife down and crossed her arms as she faced him. “What is it with you today?!” she raised her voice a notch.