“Hi, I’m Meg Barnes.”
The woman bobs her head and steps aside. “Please,” she says, her voice barely a whisper. She closes the door and scuttles down the hall toward the kitchen. I peer into the hushed twilight of the vast living room. A chill hangs in the air despite dozens of flickering candles and a fire blazing on a raised hearth. Hello, Hollywood—the roaring inferno competes with frigid blasts from an air conditioner.
“There you are,” Carol says, sweeping in through the patio doors. She’s wearing silk print evening pajamas with regulation Manolo Blahniks. “I thought I heard your car. Did Olinda let you in? She’s the most darling Portuguese. I just got them. Her husband, Guillermo, is pouring drinks.”
“I thought you said casual.” We brush cheeks with kisses.
“I meant no tiaras.”
“I’m in blue jeans.”
“I see that. Well, never mind. It’s just the four of us. Do you want to freshen up a bit?”
“I’m feeling pretty fresh. Do I look bad?”
Carol laughs. “Don’t get so touchy. I just thought we could have a minute to ourselves. You want to come upstairs?”
“Sure. Jack’s not here yet?”
“He just arrived a couple of minutes ago. Sid’s showing him his new hybrid SUV. Honestly, such a savings in fuel. C’mon up.”
I follow Carol up the dark-oak stairway and along the balcony with its lavishly carved minstrels’ gallery overlooking the living room. For larger gatherings, Carol usually hires musicians. She likes gypsy violinists. Sometimes she has harp or flute music to entertain her guests during cocktails. We continue down a long passageway to the master bedroom, actually a suite of rooms that occupies an entire wing of the house. Carol’s sitting room, in an alcove next to her dressing room, has a tiny Juliette balcony with a view of her rose garden. It’s my favorite corner of the house. But it’s a long trek, and I wish I’d asked for a glass of wine before we’d set out on our journey.
Carol plumps herself down on a velvet settee. She curls her legs under her and shakes her blonde hair onto her shoulders. “It’s been ages since we’ve had a good natter,” she says, her voice cozy. I realize immediately that I’m in for a heart-to-heart. Whenever Carol’s anxieties get the better of her, I’m the lucky recipient of the overflow. Sorting me out calms her.
“Ages,” I agree, wondering what perceived inadequacies in herself she’s about to transfer to me. I perch on the window seat, making myself as comfortable as possible. Below me, I watch Guillermo in the thatched-roof bar pouring martinis and carrying the tray toward the garage. I’m not really a martini person, but facing one of Carol’s tête-à-têtes has made me suddenly thirsty.
“Water?” Carol reaches into a faux-painted bamboo cabinet stocked with miniature bottles of Evian. “You can’t drink too much water.” She smiles again and hands me a bottle.
“Thanks. But won’t the guys wonder where we are?”
“No rush. We’ve got the whole evening together. Besides, I think Sid wants to talk some business with Jack. So, what do you think of him?”
“Since the last time you asked me? Frankly, I know nothing about him, except that he knows damn near everything about me. Otherwise, he seems nice enough.”
“Meg, he’s more than just nice. He’s a widower, for God’s sake. No alimony, nothing. I mean, how many available guys do you think are out there, anyway?”
“Well, figuring your pool guy is a no-go, let’s see—”
“Oh, boy. You know, this is what I want to talk to you about.” She smiles, her voice seeking a soothing register. “You just seem sort of edgy lately. I know you went through some hard times last year, but that’s behind you now. Things are looking up. You’ve got a job, for heaven’s sake. You should be on top of the world. Instead, I get the feeling you’re still carrying around a chip on your shoulder. Sometimes bad things happen to good people. You have to move on, Meg. Get out more. Socialize.”
I nod, keeping my mouth shut so I won’t scream.
Carol nods and smiles. “Sometimes these things just need to be said. I mean, how long have we known each other?”
Too long? “A long time, Carol.” I look around the room, hoping this is the end of the sermon before supper. I need a drink. Now. If this were my little sitting room, I would have installed a wet bar long ago.
“A long time.” She mouths the words slowly, her head nodding. I nod, too, wondering where this is leading.
“It’s not easy to bring these things up,” she says, “but I don’t know anyone who knows you better than I do. We’re friends, and I hope you feel you can say anything to me. Anything at all.”
Should I risk it? “I could really go for a glass of wine, Carol.”
“I know you could,” she says. “That’s another thing. Do you think you might be drinking just a bit too much these days?”
“No. I don’t. I’m not drinking nearly enough.” A firm tone is required here, because I can already see where this is going. Carol has decided she is drinking too much, which means I’m to be penalized. At least she’s not vegan this week, which bodes well for tonight’s menu.
“Hey, you don’t need to get pissy with me, okay? I’m just trying to help. I would more than appreciate a little suggestion like that from you, if you thought I needed it. That’s what good friends do for each other.”
“Sorry, but I don’t need an intervention, Carol. I’d just like a glass of wine.”
“Fine. We’ll get you one. All in good time. You know, I think all of us drink too much. I don’t have a single girlfriend who doesn’t think she drinks too much. We should all cut down.” She waves a hand, and I detect an unsteadiness that indicates she’s already hit the Chardonnay. “Anyway, that’s not what I wanted to get into.”
She picks up a sheaf of papers laying facedown on a side table and turns them over. I see a zodiac pie, and my heart sinks.
“Believe me, this is far more important. I’ve updated your chart, and I’m telling you, I have never witnessed such an amazing convergence. Uranus has changed direction and is sitting right on your Seventh House, along with the Sun and Venus. On top of that, your moon has just entered Libra, and whenever the moon enters a new sign it stays there for a couple of years. This places a lot of emphasis on relationships. Your Venus has progressed to the top of your chart, and that portends love, maybe marriage. With all this power, this could be a critical time for you. I see big changes in store for you.”
Carol’s eyes glitter and her voice is hushed, so this must be good news, but I have no idea what she’s talking about.
“I could use big changes, but do we have to go into this now?”
“Yes! Absolutely!” she says, her face fierce. “I see a huge relationship break in which you sever ties with the past. Get this, Pluto is even more powerful in your chart right now. Pluto represents the phoenix bird, reborn from its ashes. Something has to die for new growth, right? But you have to play your cards right. I can only think that this somehow involves Jack. I mean, who else? I think he’s really, really key here.”
I see only one way out of this, and that’s sincerity. If I can fake that, as they say, I’ll get my drink. “You’re right, Carol. With Pluto in the picture, I get it.”
“Well, it’s just so logical. Sid says Jack turned up at this crucial time when Paul got himself kidnapped—”
“Sid called him. He turned up because Sid called him.”
“Is that what he said? That’s strange.” She blinks, and time stops. “Well, I suppose that’s the case. I knew they’d been in touch. But, whatever, right? I mean, it speaks to me of more than just chance. Sid was the means, you see?”
“The means for what?”
“For getting the two of you together.”
“Right. Kismet. I understand totally. I mean, out of all the FBI men out there, Sid’s got a buddy—”
She nods vigorously. “This could really turn things around for you. And just between us, who knows how long he
’ll be with the FBI, you know?” She winks and covers her lips with her fingertips as though smothering a burp. I long to ignore the bait but can’t resist.
“So, how long?”
“I can’t really say. Sid told me it was confidential, so don’t say anything, okay? Anyway, just remember your critical dates, the twenty-second and twenty-third of this month. Focus, okay? It’s there for you if you let it happen.”
“Okay, got it. Thanks, Carol. I really, really appreciate this.”
“I know you do. And I really, really care about you.”
She smiles, and I smile. The truth is, she really does care, and I feel bad not fully confiding in her, but I just can’t. Carol would want to do something to help, and I’d want to strangle her. So we smile at each other, conveying care and understanding. Maybe even love, but certainly not truth. What a blessing we can’t read each other’s minds.
“The thing is,” she says, her voice distant, “I sometimes wonder if you aren’t still carrying the torch for Paul.”
“What!” My laugh is stopped short by her frozen look. “Sorry, but that’s such a funny expression.”
“You think it’s funny?” she asks, ice clinging to her words. “Because sometimes I think you do, and that would be a mistake. I’m saying this for your own good.”
“I can assure you—”
“Excellent. Because life’s short. We’re heading into our September years, my friend. You’ve got to grab your chance when it comes along.” Carol sighs, and I know she feels better now. She unfolds her legs and stands up. “Here, I’ve written it all down for you. Tuck it in your bag.”
I dutifully stuff the pages in my shoulder bag as I move, with some speed, toward the door. I have no intention of looking at this horoscope and haven’t a clue what I would do any differently on those critical days. Wash my car? Refold my sweaters?
I stop at the door while Carol tops up her lip gloss. “So when did Jack lose his wife?”
She smacks her lips together and gives me a sidelong look. “See, you are interested.”
“You brought it up. If it’s recent, I just don’t want to say something thoughtless. Forget I asked.”
“God, you are so touchy. Anyway, from what I understand, she passed away a couple of years ago. Long enough that there’s not a big grief thing going on. And forget what I said about leaving the FBI. Sid would kill me if he knew I told you.” We head down the stairs into the living room. The air is still chilled, the fire blazing in the hearth. “But what do guys know, anyway? They just go for the bottom line without appreciating any of the intricacies of getting there.”
Perhaps my masculine side is asserting itself, but I could go for more bottom line and fewer intricacies. Should I just strip away the niceties and ask Sid straight out: “Hey, who was that redhead in the lime green jacket I saw you having coffee with?” Is that intricate enough?
I can’t make myself do it. I’m probably not going to ask Jack how his wife died or when he’s leaving the FBI, either. But Carol, who loves to roil things up, must smell blood in the water; shark-like, she glides onto the patio.
I breathe in the sweet-smelling jasmine clinging to ye olde arches. Paul and Jack are sitting at a candlelit table stationed in front of the little rough-hewn Elizabethan pub, a neighbor’s palm tree rising incongruously above its thatched roof. My eyes focus on Jack, leaning back in his chair, wearing a white open-neck oxford shirt with a suede jacket and jeans. A small thump in my chest tells me I’m glad to see him, despite all my protests.
As we approach, Jack stands, smiling. I note a look of relief on his face. Maybe he thought I wouldn’t show up. Or maybe Sid’s been feeding him the same kind of buildup I’ve been getting from Carol. The Baskins have perfected the tag team to an art. This evening smacks of being well plotted. I sail up to the table, the wind in my face.
“Sorry. Just girl talk,” Carol says. Sid, martini in hand, stands and wraps his arms around me.
“Hey, kitten. Glad you could make time for us.”
I give him a hug. “I always have time for you, Sid.”
“What’ll you have?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe just some white wine.”
I turn to Jack, aware that both Sid and Carol are watching us.
“Hey there. Good to see you again, Jack.”
“Hi, Meg.”
Instead of shaking my hand, he grasps it between his. It’s an unexpected gesture, and I’m not inclined to pull away. His eyes crinkle, and in their warmth, I see that he’s also picked up on the Baskins’ attention.
“How’s the filming going?” he asks.
“Great. I’m still hoping to beat the rap. I think the government’s got a shaky case.” Everyone laughs, a cue to sit. Carol busies herself with a plate of hors d’oeuvres, while Guillermo serves my wine. “Thanks. Cheers, everyone.”
“Cheers yourself,” Jack says. “If anyone can pull it off, I’m sure that would be you.”
“You can never tell about a jury, though,” Sid says. “They’ll fool you.”
“I know. I’m afraid I’m being painted as the black widow. The women may side with my husband.”
“He was an absolute son of a bitch,” Carol says blithely, biting into a canapé. “He fooled everyone—including Sid.” Startled by her own comment, she freezes, endive slathered with blue cheese protruding from her lips like a lumpy green tongue. She blinks, and shoves the rest in her mouth. “Oh, sorry,” she says, her eyes big. “What were we talking about?”
“Leave it to you, Carol,” Sid says.
I smile. “The eight-hundred-pound gorilla has joined us.” Under the circumstances, I feel justified in swilling my wine. I take a big gulp. “Don’t worry about it. It’s not a secret—certainly not from Jack.”
“I know, but—” She turns to Jack. “I’m telling you, if he ever showed his face around here again, he’d be lynched. I would personally string him up after what he did to us—I mean, Meg. But we all felt it.” She dabs a napkin on her lips, regaining her composure. “How could he get away with it, that’s what I’d like to know?”
“So would everyone else,” Sid says. “Let’s stop talking about him, okay?” He slaps his hands on the table and shrugs. “Jack, another drink? I could use a refill.” He nods to Guillermo.
“Fine. But just let me say, as bad as things got for Meg—and let’s face it, this town can be incredibly cruel, as if some people, and I won’t mention names, don’t have their own scandals to live down. I mean, the stuff Sid tells me that never even gets in the papers, like—”
“Carol, is there a point to this?” Sid holds up his hand and looks toward Guillermo, who arrives at the table with fresh martinis and wine. “Thank you, Guillermo.”
His warning clear, Sid waits until the drinks are served and Guillermo has retreated before saying, “There’s a reason some things don’t get in the papers, Carol. You don’t talk in front of help.”
“He barely speaks English, Sid. I’m only saying that poor Meg had to endure all of this publicly, when even more salacious, truly unbelievable, not to say criminal, things go on, like—what’s that case you got a call about today?”
“You’re pushing it, Carol. When’s dinner?”
I glance at Jack, wondering if he’s enjoying the Sid and Carol Show, a novelty act they’ve worked up over the course of their marriage. Jack’s mouth is curled in a smile, but his eyes are alert. Does he really think anything significant will be revealed? I’ll be disappointed in him if he does. Carol revels in elevating the danger quotient with provocative teasers, hoping to loosen tongues. I take another swallow of wine. No one is ever safe with Carol, whose agenda is never quite clear.
“Whenever you’re ready, Sid, we can go to the table.” She takes a large sip of wine, then turns to Jack. “Seriously, I just wanted to say, I really admired Meg’s courage through all that.”
“Carol, please!” I say, throwing her a look she purposely doesn’t catch. “I didn’t take a bullet
. Just some bad PR.”
“Sorry, this has gotta be said.” Undeterred, she looks Jack in the eye, dropping her fingertips lightly on the back of his hand. “Look, Miss Grace Under Fire here could have parlayed this thing into a book deal, maybe a TV movie, and done her career some good. All the biggies wanted one-on-ones, right, Meg?”
“Right. Lots of fruit baskets. Floral displays.”
“She was a ‘get’ for almost a week. Katie, Diane, Meredith, Greta, whoever—they wanted her. Sid fielded a lot of calls.”
“Carol, you forget, Jack was around during all of that—”
“And you handled yourself very well, Meg,” Jack says.
“With the FBI or Access Hollywood?” I quip.
“Both.” Jack’s eyes barely flicker. His voice is light despite my dig. “We were the ones without the fruit and flower budget.”
“It’s the thought that counts.” I smile. “Believe me, whatever I knew was never worth the price of a fruit basket, right, Sid?”
“Right, kid. But when the celebrity thing kicks in, all bets are off. Everyone wants to see a public face get smeared. You did well to hightail it out of town and let it blow over. The guy’s dead, as far as I’m concerned. Forget him.”
“Right, forget him. He’s dead,” Carol says, her voice slurring a bit. “Dead, dead, dead.”
“That’s not exactly what I said,” Sid mutters. “But never mind…”
The terrain has turned bumpy for everyone, not least Carol and Sid, who eye each other in stony silence. I glance at Jack. His eyes are guarded. I long to see them crinkle again. In an effort to lift the pall hanging over the table, I laugh and raise my glass.
“So, that’s it? Well, so much for the movie-of-the-week deal and my fifteen minutes with the Sob Sisters. Maybe I should just make up a story and cash in. Who’d doubt me?”
His eyes don’t crinkle. “No bouquet is worth it.”
I haul in a deep breath and change course. “So, how was your day, Jack? Were you in court, too?”
“Me?” He looks confused, then smiles. “No, nothing as exciting as your day. Let’s hope you beat the rap.”
Down and Out in Beverly Heels Page 14
