The Perfect Stranger

by Marin Montgomery

  Forgetting completely about the market and her doctor, she tosses the keys on the seat, closes the garage, and heads back inside.

  This calls for a celebration.

  Dialing her best friend’s number, she waits for Lucy to pick up the phone.

  3

  Stella

  “Oh my God, I know, you’re in not one, but two of the most-read magazines,” Lucy shrieks when she hears the news. “I can’t believe it. And that gold-colored gown that actress is wearing is flawless against the peach shade of her lips, what’s that one called?”

  “Peach begone.”

  “I love seeing SMK, my best friend Stella McKinney’s lipstick line, making its way through the throngs of Hollywood elite, a staple next to the tampons and breath mints in their Ferragamo clutches.”

  One of the things Stella loves most about Lucy Wagoner is her sense of humor. It’s dry and quick-witted. To some, it can be off-putting, but not to Stella.

  “You’re overdramatic, but I love you,” Stella groans. “Now come over and have a glass of wine with me.”

  “Did you tell the better half yet?”

  “No, you’re the first person I called.”

  “That’s so sweet, and utterly predictable, I’ve always been the favorite,” Lucy concedes, “and if you didn't like dick so much, you’d be completely in love with me.”

  “Of course ... and because Grant’s in a meeting.”

  Lucy chides, “Don’t ruin this moment between us.”

  “Okay, drama queen, get your ass over here so we can have a toast.”

  “Ugh, I can’t.”

  “What?” Stella tries not to sound wounded. “Why not?”

  “Believe me, I’d rather be at your house. Even spending time with you sounds better than spending time with him.” Lucy adds, “even his cuckoo mother would be a step up.”

  “Who, Adam?”

  “Yeah, he’s coming over to pick up the rest of his stuff.”

  Lucy and Adam separated six months ago and filed for divorced a few weeks ago. She’s still in their house while he’s close by in an apartment. Though it saddened Stella, it wasn’t a complete surprise. Lucy’s free-spirited personality had never matured, and neither had her tumultuous fights with Adam. They had been married seven years, and most were spent with frosty silence on either part or nasty back-handed comments in front of others.

  The accusations of cheating on both sides didn’t help either.

  Stella shudders, positive she will not miss the Adam and Lucy chronicles. She likes both of them individually but together, they’re oil and water. This is the type of drama Grant refers to that seems to infect the residents of California with a vengeance.

  “And you’re sure you want to be at the house when he arrives?"

  “No,” Lucy sighs, “but I don’t want to worry that he’ll decide the house needs redecorating with his fist.”

  “He would never lay a hand on you.”

  “The walls are different. Plus, he hates my artwork choices, calls them afflictions of my tortured soul,” Lucy moans. “He’s always been too uptight.”

  “Ouch, well, you do have a twisted mind.”

  “True,” Lucy agrees. “Anyways, I’d love a raincheck. How about this weekend?”

  “Well, technically, there’s nothing to celebrate yet.”

  “I thought we were celebrating the press from the magazine coverage?”

  “Yes, we are.” Stella sucks in a breath, not wanting to jinx it, “but this will constitute another night out if I get a deal.”

  “When you get a deal,” Lucy corrects her. “You always manage to get what you want.”

  “Yes, hopefully.”

  “Okay, let’s go out this weekend. Adam has the kids.” Under her breath, she mutters, “Maybe he can introduce our five-year-old to another one of his victims.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Adrian walked in on him and his date the other night.”

  “Seriously? He couldn't lock the door or wait until the kids were asleep?” Stella's shocked at his crassness. Adam's usually the responsible parent who follows strict rules.

  “...or when their mother had them,” Lucy finishes. Stella can only imagine if it had been the other way around and Adam had to hear about Lucy and another man from their child. She’d be livid too.

  “I still can’t believe you have two children.”

  “I still can't believe you’re barren.”

  “Ouch.” Stella winces. “Luckily, I’ve made peace with it.”

  Lucy quickly adds, “You can take my children and husband.”

  “No, they come from the spawn of Satan.”

  “Who, Adam?”

  “I was thinking you.”

  “Love you and congrats,” Lucy chuckles.

  “Love you too.” Stella hangs up the phone, a tad disappointed that her celebratory drink is going to have to be postponed. Maybe Grant will have a drink with her.

  She tries his office and gets his voicemail.

  Same with his cell.

  Oh well, she’ll just have to have a glass of wine by herself until Grant gets home tonight. Deciding that a nice, relaxing soak in her jetted tub is the right remedy, she heads upstairs to the master bath.

  Her phone rings.

  “Hello?”

  “Hi, this is Dr. Sabin’s office, we had you down for an appointment at four-thirty?”

  “Oh, crap, I’m sorry.” Stella puts a hand to her forehead. “I spaced the time.”

  “It’s not a problem,” his long-time secretary Ruth says, “we can reschedule you.”

  “Is he booked out for a month?”

  “No, we had a cancellation for tomorrow. Can you do nine-thirty?”

  “Sure.”

  “Great, see you then.”

  Stella feels guilty she forgot about her psychiatry appointment, especially since Grant will chastise her if he knows she didn't go. He keeps telling her she needs to keep up with her therapy and her medication.

  Sliding into the warm water, she leans back against the soft bath pillow, a just-because-I-love-you thoughtful present from Grant, who’s always so considerate.

  Gliding her fingers through the rising bubbles, she thinks back to their chance encounter a year later.

  What’s the word?

  Serendipitous.

  She was twenty-one, working as a makeup artist at a department store, when she saw a guy trudging his feet towards the counter. It was comical to watch men in the makeup and beauty section, they normally fit into one of three categories.

  Lost

  Overwhelmed

  Remorseful

  Stella’s either stopped for directions to another department or asked where another store's located in the mall.

  The other option is she’s required to sort out what kind of message the guy's trying to convey to his significant other or wife.

  Or sometimes mistress.

  This can be tricky because if it’s a new relationship, you don't want to come on too strong or be accused of hinting that they are in some way flawed, suggesting they should wear more or less makeup. Women are sensitive to that kind of recommendation.

  The typical response is remorse, because when they generously agreed to play the knight in shining armor and pick up said product, they’ve now come to the striking conclusion that there is more than one brand and definitely more than one shade of any given product. Their eyes widen when they accept they should've stopped being so resistant to picking up feminine hygiene products and will now change their course of action when they get home.

  “Can I help you?” she asks the man, who’s now shifting from one foot to the other by some gift perfume boxes, wondering if he’ll ever make it to the counter.

  “Uh, yeah, thanks, I’d actually love some help.”

  Sure you would, a voice inside her snickers, especially with that old man cardigan over a band t-shirt and those ratty sneakers.

  When he looks up, it takes
a moment before recognition hits her. His brown hair's no longer long and unkempt. It's him ... the guy from the party.

  She snaps her fingers. “I know you.”

  “Yeah.” He puts a finger to his chin. “We’ve met before, but certainly not here.”

  His sparkling brown eyes are his best feature and even though he still has the scruffy beard, the main difference is he’s lost a couple pounds and added glasses.

  “Tom and Lisa's.” She smiles. "I'm Stella McKinney.”

  “Grant Masen,” he nods, “that’s right. That party they threw what ... like a year ago? Summer, right?”

  “Something like that.” She gives him a small smile. “Why haven’t I seen you at their pool or holiday parties?”

  “I’ve been buried in work.”

  His excuse sounds lame. “Even Labor Day or their epic White Elephant party?”

  “I started dating someone, and it was new, and then it wasn’t, and then I moved to Culver City.”

  Stella whistles. “You suck at excuses.”

  “I do, don't I?” He shrugs, “I don’t like big crowds or parties. I’m not a social butterfly. Forced social interactions are awkward and make me feel like I’m on display.”

  “That’s better. Now we’re getting to the root of the problem.”

  “What about you?” he asks. "You were in school before, right? How long have you worked here for?”

  “About two years. I’m part-time during school.”

  “You still at USC?”

  “Yep, finally a senior.”

  “Congrats. What’s next?”

  “I’m still figuring out my next move.”

  “To be young again,” he grins. “You make me feel old.”

  “How old are you? You act like a forty-seven year old but I'm sure that can't be right.”

  “It’s the glasses, huh?”

  Stella laughs, "Those are more like bifocals.”

  “Whatever," he chuckles. “I'm twenty-six but yes, twenty-six going on sixty-seven.”

  “I’ve never met someone who had such a dislike of dinner parties. If you don't like Lisa’s cooking, you can tell me.”

  “Ha, nice try. She had it catered if I remember correctly."

  “Yes, no one trusts her to cook more than a can of soup.”

  “And what about you?”

  Stella jokes, “Does take-out or ramen and frozen pizza count as cooking?”

  “That’s right, you're a spoiled rich kid.”

  “Nah, just lazy, but..." Stella sniffs, "I’m still quite the lady.”

  “I never took you as a lady.”

  “Aw ... burn. That's right,” she quips, “you did have a sense of humor underneath all that scruff. Speaking of the current homeless situation, I see you still haven't learned to dress.”

  Grant's face falls, and he looks crushed.

  Automatically, she feels like an asshole. “Sorry,” she murmurs, changing the subject. “What brings you in today?”

  “I need a present.”

  “Okay, you're in luck, we do sell gifts.” Stella points to the glass counters behind her. “What kind of present?”

  “Ah, maybe perfume?”

  “Mom?” Stella’s prying but pretends it's in the interest of picking the right selection. “Aunt? Sister?”

  “Girlfriend.”

  “Oh, you met someone." Stella doesn't know why this news all of a sudden bothers her. She hasn’t set eyes on the man in over a year and he’d crossed her mind maybe once after the party.

  “Where did you meet?" Her voice comes out more high-pitched than usual. Forcing herself to lower it a notch, she casually asks, “Did Tom hook you up?”

  “No, someone I met through work. I go to a coffee shop in my neighborhood a lot to read screenplays or write, and we kept bumping into each other.”

  “Sounds lovely." Stella waves him to follow her to the section of perfume roller balls and bottles. “I don’t want to overwhelm you with the scents and the competing fragrances. Do you know what kind of perfume she wears now or what types of smells she likes - lavender, sandalwood, vanilla?”

  “I don’t think she wears perfume.”

  Stella grabs a bottle of Elizabeth Taylor off the shelf. “White Diamonds is a big seller.”

  He seems hesitant to move towards the offending bottle. Sniffing the air, he wrinkles his nose, "Yuck. That's the most offensive thing I've smelled.”

  “I doubt it.” She laughs.

  He wrinkles his nose. “What am I smelling now?"

  “I haven't sprayed this other bottle yet.”

  Leaning his head in close, she freezes, his nose near her neck. “You smell lovely. What do you wear?"

  “Huh?” Startled, she meets his eyes, and she feels something that rocks her to the core. Something she's never felt with someone of the opposite sex.

  “Sorry, I hope the sniff test wasn't inappropriate. It's just ... I like how you smell. It's like a fresh scent, not overpowering.”

  "Thank you.”

  “Can I take a bottle of what you're wearing?”

  “Actually, you can't.”

  Crestfallen, he looks like a sad puppy dog, his eyes immediately losing their luster, the brown now dull and hollow.

  She rushes to explain. "We don't sell my perfume.”

  “Oh, okay," he seems relieved. "Where can I buy it?”

  She shifts from one foot to the other.

  “Oh crap, you work on commission, don't you?” Grant slaps a palm to his forehead. “Can I buy something else for your help? I don't want you to get the shaft."

  “It's not that.” Stella gives him a big smile. "It's only that they don’t sell my perfume, here or anywhere, for that matter."

  "It's discontinued?”

  “No," she shakes her head furiously, “I make it.”

  “You make your own perfume?”

  “Yeah, it's a trial and error process. Mostly error.”

  “That's so cool.” He’s impressed. “How did you learn?”

  “I took a perfume-making class outside of Napa last summer.” Stella shrugs. “I love being involved in the beauty industry.”

  “What's your degree in?”

  “Biology, but I want to work in skincare or beauty in some form.”

  He drums his fingers on the counter. “I just can't get over you making your own perfume. That’s so cool. And you won’t let me buy a bottle?”

  “Of my signature scent?” She wiggles an eyebrow at him. “Certainly not.”

  “Yeah, it definitely belongs to you.” He shrugs. “Maybe perfume isn't the way to go.”

  “How about something everyone can use, like moisturizer or facial wash?”

  “That’s not very sexy...”

  “Is this a birthday or...” she inquires.

  “She just got into law school.”

  “Shit, then yes, she’s deserving. Where at?”

  “Pepperdine.”

  Stella lights up, “Nice, my dream is to one day live in the ‘Bu’.”

  “’’Bu?’”

  “Malibu. Or Topanga Canyon.”

  “Good luck. Get your perfume business launched and you’ll make that a reality.”

  “Thanks.” Stella bites her lip. “What about a gift card? It’s impersonal, but she might appreciate picking out something herself. You can always write a sweet card to go with it.”

  He ponders this for a moment. “Yeah, let’s do that. She can pick out her own present. I’m at a loss.”

  As Stella rings him up, she tries to make conversation, flustered that he's still unavailable. She wishes she had the guts to ask him out, but that's not her style.

  “How long have you been dating?”

  “Six months.”

  Boldly, she asks, “You getting married?”

  Perplexed, he snorts. “Not anytime soon.”

  “And why not?” She wrinkles her nose. "Are you opposed to marriage?”

  Saying nothing, he slyly winks, raises his
shopping bag, and strolls off, this time more confident than his earlier slouched position.

  A couple weeks later, she looks up from the register to find him standing at her counter.

  “Oh, hey Grant.”

  “Hi.”

  “How was the gift? Did it work?”

  “No.”

  Stella’s face falls. “She didn't like the gift card?”

  “No.”

  “It was too cheesy, huh?”

  “That’s not it.”

  She waits as he shifts nervously, tapping his untied shoe against the bottom of the counter. Worried he's going to end up kicking a glass display, she gently touches his shoulder. “What is it?” she asks.

  “I thought about what you said.”

  “What I said?” Stella tries to remember their conversation. “What did I say?” She's worried he’s going to bring up the comment about his clothes.

  “You asked me if I was going to get married.”

  “Yeah, was that too forward?”

  “No, not at all ... it just made me think.”

  “Okay.” She’s not good at guessing games, probably why she hates Pictionary and those dumb caricature ones you have to act out.

  “When you asked me if I was going to get married, it made me think about the girl I'm dating, Callie. And the thing is, I had never even considered it for a moment...”

  “That's natural, you said it's been less than a year.”

  “But it's not that. The point is, I don't see a future with her.”

  “You want to return the gift card?" She bites her lower lip. "We don't return gift cards. You should just use it on yourself.”

  “No, dammit, Stella, I’m failing miserably at this. Go figure, an inarticulate writer. But what I’m trying to say is ... I want you. When you made that comment, it made me consider what this girl means to me and where she fits in. Even now I know I would never want to be with her long-term, so what’s the point?”

  Stella’s knees go weak, and she understands every sappy love song in a way that she never could relate to before. She could swear Celine Dion came on over the loudspeaker.

  “So when can I take you out?” Grant asks, tucking a lock of hair behind his ear

  The next night they went on their first date, and two years later they were married.

  Inseparable ever since, but not without their secrets.