This One Is Mine: A Novel (24 page)

Dr. Naeby had accepted Sally as a patient and confirmed that the episode in the bridal salon was morning sickness. So Sally was carrying the ultimate accessory, a Naeby baby. Sally loved, loved,
loved
Dr. Naeby. He was so handsome and relaxed. During her appointment, he’d accidentally left the image of Sofia Coppola’s uterus up on the ultrasound monitor. So that was cool. Sally hadn’t yet shared the news of her pregnancy with Jeremy. The books said not to tell people until the second trimester, in case something happened.

She adjusted her hand on the steering wheel so the diamond looked bigger than two carats. “Woo-hoo!”

Could it be that not having to worry about money was really this transformative? Back in the days, Kurt began every morning by chanting. It was part of the Buddhism he was into where you’d chant for money. Sally didn’t think it was all that Buddhist to have your one wish in life be to get rich. But Kurt had explained he was only chanting for money so, once he had it, he could devote himself to world peace. Money first, world peace second. Sally was suspicious. Still, as a show of support for his spiritual journey, she went to Pottery Barn and bought big golden letters that spelled out the words
WISH
and
DREAM
and hung them from fishing line over his altar.

Traffic slowed as Sally passed what used to be Le Dôme. Once, when she had her convertible Rabbit, some men had pulled up alongside her and asked if she’d like to have a drink at Le Dôme. They were Seiko reps in town for a jewelry show. Over drinks, they opened a display box and offered Sally her pick of glittery watches. She chose a gold with mother-of-pearl inlay. She hadn’t had to “do anything” for it, because she told the guys she had to run home and change before meeting them back at their hotel. She slipped them a wrong phone number and never saw them again. Later that night, she told Kurt the watch had been a gift from David.

Kurt . . . Kurt . . . Now that Sally was free of his debt, she felt a pang of guilt about how psycho she’d gone when he dumped her. Was it really necessary for her to have retaliated by hacking into his e-mail program and sending a group message to his entire address book, as him, saying he liked to have sex with dogs? Now that she had some perspective, it did seem immature. Sally rounded the bend where Tower Records used to be and found herself stopped at the first red light. Right outside Mauricio’s Boot Shop. Where Kurt worked. There was a parking spot smack in front. With time left on the meter. This had to be some kind of sign. Sally glided into the space.

She entered the tiny atelier wedged between Duke’s Diner and the Whiskey. Mauricio was a quiet man who made custom cowboy boots for rock stars, socialites, and Japanese tourists. The walls of the shop were plastered with framed magazine covers, autographed pictures, even gold records given to Mauricio as thanks for his master craftsmanship. All boots were handmade to order and started at eight hundred dollars. For the truly hip, it was never a question of
if
you owned a pair of Mauricio’s but
how many
. Get some margaritas in Kurt and he’d be hi-larious about the “shit that went on.” Sally thought he should partner with Violet on a sitcom about Mauricio’s. Kurt had considered it but decided he didn’t want someone to rip off his stories and steal all the credit.

The store was empty. Part of Mauricio’s mystique was that there were no boots on display, just a wood bench that ran the length of the narrow store. Kurt would chat up the customers and determine whether they were worthy of Mauricio’s. If Kurt deemed them unhip, he’d say Mauricio was backed up for three years. Japanese tourists were preapproved because they’d pay three grand for a pair of eight-hundred-dollar boots.

Kurt emerged from the workroom carrying a box. He wore one of his vintage Hawaiian shirts and the Peter Criss cat boots Mauricio had made for the 2004 KISS reunion tour, which Kurt got to keep when Peter Criss quit the band. Kurt’s shoulder-length ringlets were as perfect as ever, just blacker. He looked up and saw Sally, but nothing registered on his face. He was always so cool, so Zen. He stepped behind the counter and shelved some bottles of leather conditioner. Sally wished she could just turn around. But she was stranded in the middle of the empty store.

“If it isn’t Sally Parry,” Kurt finally said, barely opening his mouth. “Or maybe it’s not Parry anymore?”

“Not for long.” She swatted the air with her left hand.

“Who’s the lucky guy?”

“Just a TV personality.” Sally narrowed her eyes. “How are
you?
”

“Could be better, could be worse,” he said, always the Buddhist. “How’s your brother?”

“He’s great. We were just up at his house.”

“Was he out of town?” The corners of his mouth curled.

“He was there,” snapped Sally.

“I checked out Hanging with Yoko at the Troubadour. I was going to go up and say hi to David, but the band was so derivative. I mean, give me the Velvet Underground any day.” Kurt stepped out from behind the counter to check the display. His shirt was tight around his gut. Sally, on the other hand, had maintained her figure.

“You look great,” she said.

“Flea was in here the other day. I delivered his boots because the Chili Peppers are like family. Has David ever taken you over to Flea’s house?”

“No,” Sally said.

“You should ask him to, because it’s really cool.” He used both palms to line up the bottles.

“Are you still living over on Curson?” she asked.

“Nah, I moved.”

“Are you still a Buddhist?” she asked.

“Oh yeah. I chanted this morning for forty-five minutes. You should try it. It can really transform your life.”

“I’m doing fine,” she said.

“Still, never hurts to make the world a better place.”

“I am making the world a better place,” Sally said. “I’m getting married.”

“Well, good luck.” Kurt picked up the empty box and headed to the back. “Tell David I said hey.”

“Kurt!” she said. He turned around. “I — I wanted to invite you to my wedding.” His eyebrows lifted, but just barely. She added, “It’s going to be at David and Violet’s house.”

Kurt rested the corner of the box on the counter. “Do they still live in that place near Coldwater?”

“Oh no!” Sally said with a guffaw. “They bought an important architectural house and spent two years restoring it. It’s been in all the magazines. Anonymously, of course. You’d have no way of knowing it was theirs.”

“Let me give you my new address.”

“I’ll mail the invitation here. If there’s one thing I know, it’s that you’ll always be working here.” She spun around to leave. Kurt was an ass man, and Sally wanted to make sure he saw that hers was better than ever.

CHAPTER NINE

Gilbert Osmond   
   Better and Better, Faster and Faster   
   Mayday

A
LL THAT MATTERED WAS THAT
V
IOLET GET THROUGH TODAY WITHOUT CALLING
him. The past five weeks had left her sleep deprived and shaky. But she hadn’t gone and done anything crazy. Sure, she had called Teddy a hundred times, but she had never left a message or uttered a peep when she heard his voice, Hello . . . hello . . . hello?

There were, however, other lapses. Every few days, Violet had found herself buying a present to give him today, May 1, his three-year AA birthday. There was the cell phone, the golf clubs, the 1980 Rickenbacker bass she’d had Geddy Lee sign and send her. The moment she’d purchase one of these lagniappes, hope and self-loathing would ricochet within, leaving her jumpy and demoralized. But the important thing was: she hadn’t made contact. If she could just survive today, she’d be over a significant hurdle. To ensure success, Violet had composed an itinerary, one to which she would adhere no matter what.

So far, Violet hadn’t deviated from the plan. It was 9:30 and she’d made it out of the house and into the car ahead of schedule, sans cell phone. The phone had been her most formidable adversary in her attempt to banish Teddy from her thoughts.

A week into her travail, Violet had announced to David that she wanted to change her phone number. “Why?” he asked, glancing up from his breakfast. Violet blanked. She couldn’t remember what she had just said. That’s how bad it had gotten. She’d often start a sentence and, midway through, realize she had no idea what she had just set out to say. That’s where Teddy lived, in the interstices. Between sentences, between words, between thoughts. “Never mind,” she told her husband. “I don’t care one way or another,” David said with uncharacteristic alacrity, which only served to rattle Violet further. He continued, “I’m just asking because if there’s a problem with Sprint, I’ll have Kara get on it.” “No, I was just thinking about it.” Violet knew it wasn’t an answer. But now she was trapped into keeping her phone number, a cruel reminder that Teddy had forsaken her. All she could do was change her ringer, so it wouldn’t turn her into a Pavlov dog and unleash a stampede of hope every time it rang. Last night, she had woken up at four in the morning and gone to the kitchen, where her cell phone was charging, and checked for messages. She called voice mail over and over in a sickening loop, in case Teddy had called while she was dialing. Then she’d heard a voice. “No!” it said, “No! No! No!” It was Dot, from the baby monitor. She was scolding her dolls, something she was into these days. Violet then realized it was daylight. She’d been standing there for two hours! Disgusted with herself, she walked to the garden, dug a hole, and buried her phone.

She turned south onto Beverly Glen and passed a cluster of real estate signs. She remembered: it was Tuesday. The morning rush clogged the canyon road, but Violet eschewed the quicker Benedict Canyon because that’s where she was driving when Teddy had called her after their idyll at the putting green. It was in front of the shoddy alcazar, with the flesh-colored VW bus abandoned halfway up the curb, that Teddy had made it known he’d jerked off to her the day they met. It was while she was driving by the once-proud family of deep green palms, now stiff and cappuccino colored since the cold shock a month ago, that Teddy had asked her to say, I
certainly
like doggy style. It was as she was passing the Craftsman with the sycamore trees, strange ones that grew more horizontal than vertical, that Teddy had said he would write plenty of poems for her. Because of Teddy, Benedict Canyon was now ruined. So were Wilshire, Beverly Drive, RIE class, the 405. And Sondheim. The know-nothing had even managed to ruin Sondheim!

A few weeks back, Violet had made an appointment with a shrink she’d seen on and off. But his earliest availability was two weeks away. “I can come in early one morning if it’s an emergency,” the therapist had offered. “No!” Violet answered. She hung up and decided to cut through the yackety-yak and get on some fucking meds. She called her agent — who had frequently spoken of the rainbow of pills he popped — to get the name of his psychopharmacologist. Violet was tickled to be put right through, even though she hadn’t worked in several years. “Oh God, don’t tell me it’s you, too?” the agent had said on speaker. “I’ve got a thousand former show runners who will work for nothing just to keep their houses. Don’t tell me I have to find work for the wife of a billionaire.” His laughter and that of others filled his office. Violet said she was calling to secure an item for the RIE auction, and quickly hung up. Two weeks later, she drove to the therapist’s office but never got out of her car. What would she tell him anyway? He’d never understand Teddy. There was no way to convey his laugh, what a great kisser he turned out to be, so playful, so obliging . . .