We play catch-up over a splendid supper. First, I enjoy a grilled artichoke, and second—I decide to go Hollywood—a black truffle omelet with caviar. While I savor every heavenly bite, I tell Drea the entire story of my investigation into Juliana and how I’m trying to fill in the last few pieces of her life that will take me up to her marrying Carleton Wentworth.
“Ronnie, I remember her,” Drea says. “Long, dark hair. Seriously beautiful, kind of like Angelina Jolie. She was Drago’s star—he adored her. And then she went off and married that investor guy. There was quite a buzz when it happened.”
“How so?” I ask.
“That she really had stepped up in the world. You know, from restaurant hostess to a big life in Bel Air. After they married, they were here for a while and then moved to San Francisco fulltime, and I didn’t hear much about her anymore from Drago.”
“Drea, it’s that inscription in the book from Dragomir that makes me certain he could tell me a lot.” I sip my wine. “How do I get him to talk to me, when he’s known to be the epitome of discretion, and we’ve just met for the first time?”
“First, I already told him what a great lady you are and how far back we go. So in his eyes, you’re no longer a stranger.” Drea’s dark eyes twinkle with mischief. “Sweetie, this is the plan. We’re going to close down the restaurant, which will be easy, since we have a lot of catching up to do.”
“The highlight of being here is seeing you,” I say, adding, “definitely not my amateur detective work.” We clink glasses.
Drea continues. “Next, we’ll time it perfectly as we walk out and stop by the bar, as if we’ve just decided spur of the moment to finish our night with a Sambuca.” She swings back her hair and breaks into a deep, throaty laugh.
“Sounds great,” I say. “Then what?”
“I’ll invite Drago to have a drink with us,” Drea says. “He and I always finish the evening with a nightcap if everyone has left. You leave the rest to me, sweetie.”
“Drea, look over toward the right, fourth table down. That guy keeps staring at you. Do you know him?” I ask. “He looks familiar. Maybe New York?”
“Oh my god,” she says under her breath. “Do you remember back when we were at MTV?” I nod. “He was at HBO, and on a flight to L.A., I definitely had sex with him…”
~~~~~
It’s three hours, one dinner, and two Sambucas later, and Drea, Dragomir, and I are sitting at the bar ordering a third round as the staff resets the tables for tomorrow’s lunch crowd. It turns out that because she dines at the Café Casablanca three to four times a week, Drea and the maître d’ have become big buddies. It’s almost as if Dragomir is Drea’s older brother, and the affection is mutual.
Her phone rings, and she checks the incoming text. Then she hops up and gives me yet another warm hug. “Doll, I need to go. You stay here and finish your drink with Drago.” Drea turns to him. “Take care of my friend, Drago, and please put everything on my tab!”
I start to protest, but she stops me. “Shhh. Not another word. Ronnie, it’s so great to see you!” She hugs me again and departs with a final, “Love ya!”
I lift my glass. “A toast to Drea Dugan, the best friend a girl could have!”
Dragomir clinks my glass. “To great lady.” Is it my imagination, or is his mysterious accent sounding a little less pronounced that when I first arrived? “My dear Mrs. Lake, would you like something else from menu? This is time of evening when I eat light supper.”
“No, thank you,” I answer, “but you go ahead.” He signals the bartender. I continue, “Dragomir, we may have another friend in common.” He looks at me with curiosity. “She’s a close friend of my brother’s and happens to be back East right now. I believe she worked for you.”
“Yes?” A look sweeps over his face as if he already knows.
“Juliana Wentworth,” I say. “She and my brother Frank Rutherfurd are very close. I dare say she may even become part of our family before long.”
His eyes reflect happiness at this announcement. “Dear Juliana. I was very sad when Carleton died two years ago. She was so, so brokenhearted. This news about your brother is wonderful. I’m happy for my sweet Juliana.”
I wish I could say I’m as happy as he seems to be. “My brother has also been widowed and grief stricken.” I play with, instead of drink, my third glass of Sambuca, as I mostly did with the first two shots. I need to keep my head clear, not to mention that I’ll also be driving back to the hotel. “I met her when Frank recently brought her home to meet us in New Jersey. He lights up around her. Dragomir, he’s like a new man.”
My new friend smiles. “Yes, yes. That sounds like my wonderful Juliana.”
The bartender brings Drago an omelet and an order of toast with coffee. Displaying impeccable Continental table manners, he picks up the knife with his right hand, the fork with his left and begins to eat. “She worked here before she married Carleton. As you know, Juliana is so spectacularly beautiful, and she has such a special way with people, that of course I put her out front in restaurant.”
I smile as if in total agreement with him, and really, I don’t disagree. “She definitely has the gift of making you feel you’re the only person in the room,” I say. “She must have been wonderful with your patrons.”
“I haven’t hired anyone since who brought same magic to Café Casablanca.” Drago switches from Sambuca to his cup of coffee, and he drinks. “I thought she marry one of A-list Hollywood types who are regulars. Several pursued her.” He looks at me to see the effect of his words.
I simply smile. “Most young women would have had their heads turned with all that attention.” I keep the tone of my voice kind, not gossipy.
“Not Juliana,” Drago declares. “She had eye on education. Getting degree.” He lays his fork and knife across the top of his plate to indicate he’s finished eating.
“Look what I have!” I feign spontaneity as I dig inside my bag. “Juliana had this book, and it looked so interesting, that I also picked up a copy.” I pull out The Tender Bar and flip through the pages. “Frankly, I can’t put it down.”
Dragomir laughs—a hearty laugh. “You want to know more about your maybe-sister-in-law?” I nod enthusiastically. “I pick you up at ten in morning at your hotel, and I give you tour of Juliana’s life when she worked for me.”
The generous offer is almost more than I could have ever wished for, and I signal my acceptance.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
A silver Ferrari Coupe pulls up to the front of the Malibu Palm Hotel. That smile again. It’s almost as bright as the shiny car. Guess Mr. Suave-Slavic-Dragomir is just as Hollywood as the next guy in this West Coast car culture. He’s also punctual, cheery, and very awake for a night owl working in the restaurant business. Checking out the pricey sports car, I wonder if he’s not only the maître d’ but perhaps a partner in Café Casablanca.
Radiating my more modest version of a sparkling Hollywood grin, I hop in the passenger side of the coupe. “Dragomir, how are you on this beautiful Malibu morning!” The Ferrari purrs, and I zoom away with this twenty-first century Valentino.
Soon we’re in Westwood, and we turn onto a quiet residential street lined with small apartment buildings and multi-unit houses. Dragomir parks along the curb and turns off the motor. Then he reaches behind my seat, pulls out a thermos, and pours us each a mug of coffee. We click our cups and drink. Wow. This man knows how to make a great cup of joe.
“Oh my god, this is amazing coffee,” I gush. “Not only is it silky smooth when it goes down, but I taste blueberries.” I smell the blend and sip again. “Plus there’s something else—”
I can tell my appreciation pleases him. “That’s almonds, perhaps honey. This is one of my favorite coffees.” He smiles. “Beans grow in Ethiopia.”
“Ethiopia? Well, wherever. It’s got a great aftertaste.” I move my tongue inside my mouth savoring the flavor. “Dragomir, you talk about coffee the way some people talk
about wine.”
He nods in agreement. “Not only do I enjoy drinking this brew, but it is my business, too. You see, Café Casablanca sells private label coffee,” he says with pride.
I take another sip. “So, why are we here?”
“Mrs. Lake, look across—”
“Dragomir, I think it’s time you drop the Mrs. Lake formalities.” I laugh. “Just call me Ronnie.”
“Yes. Ronnie,” he says as if he’s getting used to the sound of my name. “See white stucco building with black roof on other side of street?”
“Did Juliana live there?” I ask, staring.
“Yes. It is residence for women college students. She could live here safely and inexpensively while finishing degree. I think Juliana saved lot of money in New York, and that helped her get started here. I remember she drove little VW to get around, and also worked part-time in small bookstore.” He drinks from his mug. “She was very, very careful about money, but she needed more.” I guess the money Juliana received from John Palmer for school wasn’t enough to cover all her living expenses, and by that time she was also financially supporting her child. “A board member of this residence is regular at Café Casablanca. She knows I was looking for hostess and sent Juliana!”
We watch as two women with small backpacks, probably students, come out the front door of the house, and he goes on. “When she arrived for interview, I knew in five minutes she was right one for job.”
“How could you know that in five minutes, Dragomir? Come on,” I say.
“First, she is gracious, and she is calm. For Juliana, it is all about you, not her, and that is secret of success in being hostess of restaurant that has exclusive clientele.” He leans forward as if to start the car, but he hesitates while finishing his explanation.
“Second, in ten minutes I know she has keen intelligence and will quickly learn, how you say, lay of land at Café Casablanca. Hostess must know all regulars and understand who should not sit close to each other. Also who wishes to be seen and who wants privacy. Juliana was brilliant in that way.”
“Sounds as though you were a good teacher, Dragomir.”
“I taught her everything I know,” he says with satisfaction. “She became master.” He turns on the engine, shifts the car into gear, and we’re off again.
It doesn’t take long before we’re cruising along Sunset Boulevard, and I enjoy the view from inside the sleek coupe, which is turning my adorable Mustang at home into a shabby distant cousin…just for the moment. I do realize that upon exiting this fabulous car, I will once again rebalance my priorities and feel gratitude for my stylish wheels parked back in Willowbrook.
In the meantime, we pass famous landmarks such as the Chateau Marmont, the celeb-favored castle on the hill hotel where John Belushi died, and then Hollywood High, where Drago drives me around the block reciting its cast of famous graduates, everyone from Lana Turner and Mickey Rooney to Sarah Jessica Parker.
We arrive at the West Gate of the exclusive Bel Air neighborhood opposite an entrance to the grounds of UCLA. When we turn off Sunset, Dragomir points out that this campus is where Juliana continued her undergraduate studies, which also confirms Will’s note in the folder about Juliana’s transcript request from Manhattan Community College to UCLA.
We glide along the residential streets, not able to see much beyond the dense foliage, hedges, walls, fencing, and gates that shield many of the expensive properties from prying eyes. Here and there we glimpse the mix of modest ranch houses and mega-mansions in this neighborhood of no sidewalks. That is, no sidewalks on purpose, to discourage nosy tourists from strolling through.
We slow down near a charming carriage house close to a gate and come to a stop. This time Dragomir idles the Ferrari instead of turning off the motor.
He gestures toward the stone gatehouse. “There. That is where Juliana moved perhaps one year after she came to work for me. One of my clients, Max Chestonville, offered it to her at very good rent, because he travels a lot. His elderly mother lived in big house further back on property, and part of arrangement was that Juliana should check on her when he was away.” The Juliana I’m getting to know was operating very true to form it seems. She had no trouble making the most of opportunities that came her way from people who trusted her to do the right thing.
“Dragomir, it’s totally charming,” I say. “It looks very English and quite cozy. She must have loved living here.”
“She did.” His fingers tap the steering wheel. “And she had little garden. When Juliana wasn’t working at café or in classes at UCLA, she would take Mrs. Chestonville—she call her Mrs. C—outside to terrace for afternoon tea, and Mrs. C taught her everything she knows about gardens. Together, they designed little garden on side of cottage, and Juliana did all planting. They adored each other, and Juliana really took interest in Mrs. C, even after she married Carleton and moved out. Juliana visited Mrs. C two times every week until old woman died.”
Amazed cannot begin to describe my reaction to Juliana at this stage of her life, in her early thirties. From California dorm living to Bel Air in less than a year. Not only is she one resourceful lady, but she seems to be a kind one at that. Perhaps I should cut her some slack and stop worrying about her intentions toward my brother. But what to do about her evil Bobby Taylor shadow? Even if he has nothing to do with my brother, was Juliana complicit in a shady episode tied to Taylor well after their Scranton Gang years?
“Dragomir, how could her life get any better than this?” I ask. “When she married, where did she live next?”
He smiles as if he himself had arranged such perfection. “Her new husband, Mr. Carleton Todd Wentworth from San Francisco, is very important investor in technology. He also has old Dolores Del Rio house in Hollywood.” He shifts the car into drive. “That’s where she moved. Now, I show you.”
“Come on, Dragomir,” I cajole. “I think you’re just looking for an excuse to drive your beautiful car around on this glorious morning. Be honest.”
“Oh, yes, yes, yes,” he laughs. “And with beautiful woman.” The skin on my face all of a sudden feels hot, and I believe I may be blushing in response to Drago’s old world charm.
Soon we’re motoring among the older Spanish-influenced architecture of houses along Outpost Drive. We arrive at the old Del Rio house where the present owner is doing an A-plus job of maintaining this lovely old villa. Once again we stop, and once again, Dragomir continues his impressive story.
“This is where Mr. Wentworth lived when he is in town. And he dined at Café Casablanca almost every evening. There he met my wonderful Juliana, and even though he much older, they fall very much in love.” He smiles. “They invite me to their wedding five years ago.” Dragomir says it as though he can hardly believe that he’s been included in the inner circle, which Juliana has now joined. “Of course, she stop working for me.”
“Of course,” I interject.
“They were so happy…” His smile goes away. “…For a short while. Then Mr. Wentworth had heart attack and died two years ago. So sudden. So unbelievable.”
“I’m sorry, Dragomir.” A tragic turn of events, indeed.
“Happy memories here for Juliana.” He looks sadly at the stucco-walled dwelling. “Not long after Mr. Wentworth died, his children sell this lovely house, and she move fulltime to San Francisco.”
We leave and drive back to my hotel. It’s quiet in the car, as we both probably think about the same woman—his devoted student at the café and my brother’s maybe-fiancé. I realize my investigation of Teresa Gonzalez’s evolution over the past quarter-century from poverty and crime into her present life as the refined Juliana Wentworth is now complete. I silently acknowledge her focus, spirit of reinvention, and a quiet integrity I’ve come to admire. But how can I reconcile the Bobby Taylor confusion I’ve witnessed in her life since she arrived in New Jersey with my brother?
“Did you and Juliana stay in touch?” I ask.
“Whenever she’s in
L.A., she come to Café Casablanca to see me. Otherwise, we speak on phone every couple of weeks.”
The car stops for a long light at a five-way intersection. We have a moment, and I cut to the chase. “Up to Carleton Wentworth’s sudden death, it sounds as though Juliana had a good life out here, and that she continued on a path where her life got constantly better and better—”
“Ronnie, she had heart of gold and is very hard worker—” His face beams with pride.
“Definitely, but didn’t she have regular problems like the rest of us?” I watch his face closely. “Any difficulties that you know of with family? Relatives?” I pause a moment. “Kids?”
That’s when I see it. A cloud of concern passes over his face. He scowls momentarily. “What?” I ask. Silence. “Come on, Dragomir. I can see something is bothering you. I’m a good listener, and I’m discreet.” The light changes, and we drive on.
“One time Juliana brought letter with her to café, and during break I saw her reading it. Also I see photograph of little girl, and Juliana crying very quietly. When she saw me standing close by her, she grabbed letter and picture and stuffed them in pocket.” He shakes his head and makes a left turn. “She said letter from aunt, and there are problems. She said nothing else. Ever. I always wonder about that child. Who she is.”
Another traffic light ahead turns red, and we stop again. “She would be wonderful mother, I know,” Drago goes on. He glances at me, tapping the steering wheel as if he’s deciding something. Then he tests the water. “But Mr. Wentworth already have grown-up kids. Three sons and one girl.” A very pregnant pause follows, and when he can’t seem to stand the quiet anymore, Drago dives in. “Mr. Wentworth worship his daughter, but she not nice person and hate Juliana.” The light changes, and we drive.
“Did something happen, Dragomir?” I ask.
“One night at restaurant, I hear Marion, that’s daughter—I hear her threaten Juliana.” My hotel is ahead, and Dragomir turns into the entrance, continuing this saga. “Marion say she will find out all of Juliana’s secrets—because everybody have secrets—and tell her father, Carleton. Marion jealous of Juliana and want to harm the marriage. Marion a vicious person.” He stops the car and waves away the valet.
Stunner Page 22
