Straight from the Hart

by Tracie Banister

  Parking my car in the driveway that encircles a three-tiered fountain in front of the house, I step out onto the antique cobble pavers and head straight for the porch stairs, being careful not to get my heels caught in the spaces between stones. Once I’m at the top of the stairs, I cross through the white columns supporting the porch roof, which brings me to the large charcoal gray door. I raise my hand to knock, but before my knuckles hit the wood, the door is pulled open.

  “Ramona!” I greet my grandmother’s longtime housekeeper with a hug. It’s strange that I’m a full head taller than her now as it seems like it was just yesterday that my eyes were on the same level as her apron. Drawing back, I say, “I brought you a little something,” then reach into my purse and extract a black box tied with a pretty gold ribbon.

  Recognizing the box, she exclaims, “Truffles!” with delight and eagerly accepts the gift.

  “I asked Monsieur Henri to make a special batch of white chocolate raspberry just for you.”

  “You are too good to me, Miss Vanessa.”

  I know Ramona has a sweet tooth (she ate just as much of my Halloween candy every year as I did!) and I’m always happy to put a smile on the face of the woman who helped raised me. “You deserve it,” I assure her. “Viv texted a little while ago and said she had a life-altering decision to make that she needed my assistance with. Any idea what that’s about?”

  I was speculating up a storm on the way over. Is my grandmother finally going to retire from acting? Buy a tricked out RV and travel the country? Write her memoir? Try improv? Go on Celebrity Big Brother? Get a tattoo? She’s threatened to do all of those things at one time or another.

  “Your grandmother’s got one of her wild hairs. I already told her I think it’s a mistake, but she never listens to me. Hopefully, you can talk her out of it.”

  Well, now I’m really intrigued. Also exhausted as I worked a nine-hour day and still have to finish up a presentation for one client and go through an event checklist for another once I get back to my apartment. It’s going to be a late night.

  “Is she upstairs?” I gesture wearily at the grand curving staircase with its silver vein wrought iron balusters and lilac-colored carpet runner. The whole house, including six bedrooms and eight bathrooms, is decorated in Viv’s favorite color scheme of cream, silver/gray, and lilac. It’s very feminine, elegant, and retro and makes you feel like you’re on the set of a movie from the Golden Age of Hollywood, which is a time my grandmother loved even though she missed being a part of it by a few years. I half-expect to see Joan Crawford descending the stairs in a dressing gown with football player-sized shoulder pads or Bette Davis lounging in the living room with a long cigarette holder in one hand and a martini glass in the other.

  “She’s in her dressing room and she’s not alone.” Ramona rolls her eyes and walks away before I can ask her to elaborate.

  Okay, then . . .

  I start up the steps, holding on to the railing as I climb up and up the twisting staircase, which I took an unfortunate tumble down when I was five. Lesson learned: don’t chase a dog down a steep flight of stairs. I ended up with a broken arm, but Viv managed to make it fun by telling the doctor to give me a rainbow-colored cast. I loved that cast so much I didn’t want to take it off when the six weeks was up and my arm had healed.

  Upon reaching the second floor, I veer to the left where the master suite is located—the rooms my mother and I occupied when we lived here are down the corridor on the right. My grandmother’s bedroom is as luxe as you would imagine with Turkish rugs and silk bedding in gray along with a million throw pillows stacked up against a large tufted headboard in lilac, plus a glittering crystal chandelier hanging overhead that puts The Phantom of the Opera’s to shame. And there are mirrors of varying sizes and shapes everywhere because well, Viv’s an actress and she likes to look at herself. She can also do plenty of that in her dressing room (renamed her “glam room” a few years back when that became a thing for celebrities), which I have to walk through her cavernous closet to get to.

  “Viv, it’s Vanessa. May I come in?” I shout at the glam room door. It’s ajar, but I don’t want to bust in unannounced. I made that mistake once when I was thirteen and walked in on Viv getting a “treatment” from her hairstylist, and I’m not talking about a deep conditioning. All these years later I can’t remember the hairstylist’s name, just that he was Italian, a good two decades younger than my grandmother, and very well-equipped for the job of boy toy. That little dalliance took place sometime between husbands number four and five for Viv. Her divorce from number six, a sculptor named Ivan, was finalized last month.

  “Entrez, ma petite-fille!” Viv sings out. She’s been peppering her speech with French words and phrases since returning from Paris a few weeks ago where she went to eat-pray-love post-divorce. From what she told me she did consume her fair share of Bordeaux, baguettes, and Brie while there, visited Notre-Dame, which I suppose counts as the praying part of her escapade, and bedded down with a handsome art restorer named Etienne (I would have preferred fewer details about this, but my grandmother is a sharer).

  I push open the door and enter a world of chaos. Discarded clothing and shoes litter the glossy tiled floor while a vast array of cosmetics and hair products are strewn across the white marble countertop that sits beneath a mirror covering the entire length of the wall. There are dirty makeup sponges and tissues with different-colored lipstick kiss marks in the sink while a silver champagne bucket that was being used as a vase for some purple delphinium has been knocked over and the water inside is dripping down onto the floor.

  “What happened in here?” I wonder as I right the champagne bucket and use my hands to sweep the water on the countertop into the sink.

  Viv glances up from the cellphone she’s been staring at along with Antony, her current hair guru who’s just as good-looking as his predecessors, but also very clearly a lover of men. So I don’t have to worry that this mess in my grandmother’s glam room is the result of some overly enthusiastic sex.

  “Hey, doll!” Antony leaves Viv’s side long enough to give me a two-cheek kiss. “Looking gorge, as always. This color slays me every time I see it.” With great reverence, he lifts a chunk of my copper hair to examine the strands with squinted eyes. “I still can’t believe it’s natural.”

  “That striking hair color is a trademark of the Hart women,” Viv says proudly. “Alas, it only lasts until our early forties, which is when it turns white practically overnight.”

  “So you’re saying I only have ten good years left?” I query with a smirk as I lean down to wrap an arm around Viv’s neck and give her a hug. She’s sitting in a gray leather styling chair, wearing a long, lavender-colored robe that has ostrich feather cuffs on the sleeves and some matching peekaboo mules from Agent Provocateur—a gift from one of her many admirers, I believe.

  “Not at all.” Her brown eyes meet my blue in the mirror. “In my experience, life gets better with each decade. There’s just a lot more upkeep after a certain age. Speaking of which, I’ve decided I want a new look—hair, makeup, wardrobe, the works.”

  “Oooookay . . .” I opt not to comment on the change in her makeup, which is now heavy on the bronzer (not good on her porcelain skin), sparkly, peach-colored shadow on the lid and a cat eye done with a felt tip liner (interesting), and a glossy, cherry red lip (way too dark—it looks like her face is all mouth!). “So you’re getting rid of all this?” I gesture around the messy room at the dresses, blouses, scarves, and trousers that appear to be out of favor.

  “Yes. I’ll donate them to some old people’s home. They’re all too mature and boring for me. I need to be wearing clothing that’s more representative of my youthful spirit. You know, skinny jeans, and animal prints, and maybe one of those leather motorcycle jackets.”

  “You could totally pull that off, Viv.” Antony is much more sure of this than I am. My grandmother is a beautiful woman who’s still got a great figure, but skinny jea
ns? I don’t even like wearing them because they’re so tight and uncomfortable!

  “What I can’t make up my mind about is my hair. I want to do something really fabulous and daring with it. Helen gets so much attention every time she dyes her hair pink.”

  She’s talking about her friend, Helen Mirren, who’s always been a bit of a rebel. Those two got into all kinds of trouble together when they filmed a movie on the island of Cyprus back in the day. According to my mother, the madcap duo almost caused “an international incident” and Viv has often said that it’s a good thing social media wasn’t around in the ‘70s.

  “Here’s what I’ve got it narrowed down to.” Viv scrolls through some photos on her phone, stopping when she finds the one she wants and holding it up so that I can see. “What’s the name of this color, Antony?”

  “Intense Plum.”

  “Intense is the word for it,” I say with a grimace. Why don’t they just call the shade what it is—purple?

  “The plum has a red tone, so I think it would be super flattering on you, Viv, plus it’s really punk rock, which is fun.”

  A punk rock seventy three-year-old? Oh, dear.

  “You said there were other options?”

  “Yes, there’s . . .” She slides her finger across her phone screen a few times. “. . . this one, fire ombré.”

  “Wow!” I reflexively take a step back because the colors of this model’s hair are so bright they’re cornea-searing.

  “You start with a deep red at the roots and work your way down to warm blond at the tips,” Antony explains.

  That sounds like it would be pretty, but in actuality, the colors are very unnatural shades that make me think of orange and yellow crayons.

  Pointing at the model’s waist-length hair, I say, “Your hair’s not long enough for all the gradations of color in this one.” Viv’s currently sporting a lob, aka a long bob, that touches the bottom of her neck.

  “That’s what extensions are for!” she enthuses, and Antony nods his head in agreement. He’s probably hearing ka-ching, ka-ching in his head because he can charge Viv a pretty price for a headful of human hair extensions.

  “But do you really want to deal with all of that Lady Godiva hair? It’ll be so heavy and hot in the summer, and you have such delicate bone structure in your face . . . it would be a shame to overpower that with too much hair.”

  “Hmmmmmm . . .” Viv studies her reflection in the mirror for a moment, placing a hand on her cheekbone, then her jawline, and turning from one side to the other in order to view her profile. “You’re right,” she finally decides. “I don’t want to distract from my face, which is my most important tool in acting. Scratch the extensions, Antony!”

  His shoulders slump with disappointment. “What about the color? Are we going to stick with your usual—spicy ginger?”

  “No! I told you, we’re thinking outside the box today. Let me show Vanessa one more . . .” Viv peruses the photo gallery on her phone again. “How about this?” She hands me the device. “It’s called sunset hair.”

  I can see why since it’s streaks of purple, burnt orange, yellow, pink, and red. The shifts in color are subtle though and blended together in a harmonious way that’s quite artistic.

  With a smile, I say, “This is definitely the one. It’s funky and on-trend, but not too over-the-top. You’ll be Insta-worthy with this look. Hashtag Viv’s still got it.”

  She chuckles and takes back her phone while Antony excitedly sets about mixing up all the colors that will be required. “You know I don’t give a hoot about Instagram. I just want to catch the eye of a certain someone at the theater. He’s been treating me like I’m some grande dame he has to bow and scrape to, which was all well and good at first, but I’d really prefer him to think of me as a fun and vibrant woman he might actually have a chance with.”

  I should have known my grandmother was doing all of this for a guy. The woman has a serious addiction to love. Or I should say, falling in love. She gets bored and antsy if she stays with a man for too long—hence her many divorces. She entered every one of those marriages, thinking it was forever and she’d found her soulmate, only to dump him a year or two later for a variety of reasons, some valid (number one was a cheater and four was a heavy drinker), some not (number two wouldn’t stop wearing old socks that had holes in them, which drove Viv nuts—she claimed it was unsightly and unsanitary, but I think the real reason it bothered her so much was because it reminded her of her impoverished childhood). The romantic in me keeps hoping Viv will fall for a man who has actual staying power. At this stage of her life, it would be nice if she had a partner who doted on her, shared her interests, and made her feel secure and loved.

  Moving some cosmetics aside so that I can perch on the edge of the counter, I ask, “Is it your leading man?” She mentioned the theater, and Viv just began rehearsals on a new play at the Santa Monica Playhouse, so I assume the object of her affections is a fellow actor.

  “I should hope not!” Viv exclaims in an offended tone. “Treat Williams is a happily married man, and you know how I feel about adultery.”

  “The director?”

  “Our director is a woman, so no. The gentleman I’m interested in is a part of the production crew.”

  Well, that’s different. To my knowledge, my grandfather, the aforementioned holey sock wearer who was a cameraman on one of Viv’s films, was the last behind-the-scenes guy she took a liking to. “So he’s the prop master or lighting tech?”

  “No, much better. Holt is a master carpenter,” she reveals, “so he’s responsible for the construction and rigging of the scenery. Men who work with their hands are soooo sexy.”

  This thinking is what led her to marry Ivan, the sculptor she got frustrated with because he spent too much of his time in the studio, using his “sexy” hands on blocks of clay rather than her.

  “Does he wear a tool belt?” Antony wants to know as he sections off a chunk of Viv’s hair at the crown, then slices it in half with the tail of his comb and sticks a piece of foil beneath it. “I’ve had a thing for men in tool belts since the first time I saw a Village People video. Men who do construction are soooo hot.” Antony fans himself with the hand that’s holding the comb.

  “I haven’t noticed a tool belt because I can’t drag my eyes away from Holt’s upper body,” Viv admits. “He’s very well-built and he always wears these tight T-shirts he looks like he’s going to burst out of. Also he has this tattoo on his right arm that peeks out of his shirt sleeve, and I am dying to find out what the design is.”

  A ripped body and tattoos? This does not sound like a man in my grandmother’s age group. Frowning at her, I ask, “Exactly how old is this Holt?”

  She shrugs. “When I’m interested in a man, I don’t get bogged down in the minutiae.”

  In other words, she refuses to let a little thing like a massive age difference deter her. Sigh. These May-December romances of hers never end well.

  “Which is fine for a fling, but you just had one of those in France. You’re back home now and past any angst over the divorce. Wouldn’t you like to find someone who’s age-appropriate and interested in a committed relationship? What about Mr. Grimshaw? He’s been sweet on you for years.”

  “Stanley?” Viv’s so aghast you would think I’d just suggested she give the My Pillow guy a shot. “I could never be interested romantically in Stanley.”

  “I don’t see why not. He’s got that whole silver fox thing going on, plus he’s successful, works in the entertainment industry like you, and has already proven to be a devoted, long-term partner.” Mr. Grimshaw is a widower who lost his wife shortly after they celebrated their thirtieth anniversary a few years back.

  “He’s my lawyer, Vanessa—all buttoned-up and left-brained, which, as you very well know, is not my type.”

  “People can be multi-faceted. Maybe he’s got an artistic side you’re not aware of.”

  She snorts with amusement. “Stanley Gri
mshaw doesn’t have the passion or imagination to do anything creative. The man eats, sleeps, and breathes the law. His idea of fun is rewording clauses in a talent contract. Now would you please stop trying to play matchmaker for me and hand me a nail polish?” She points to the corner of the counter where several bottles are sitting.

  “Which color?” There are some very vivid shades here that are a far cry from the peachy pink she normally wears.

  “I’m not sure. Which one do you think will best convey my interest to Holt: Queen of Tarts or Blindfold Me Blue?”

  Heaven, help me! And this poor carpenter because he doesn’t stand a chance.

  CHAPTER 5

  “So we’re all set for next Thursday,” I reiterate the date Astra picked for her Vegas-themed proposal as I open the door of my office so that the two of us can exit into the hallway. “Are you sure you wouldn’t like to have a car sent for Xander? That would convey the message that the night you have planned is special and give him a chance to relax and have a cocktail on the drive over to Trousdale Estates. We don’t want him getting stressed out in traffic.”

  “Eh.” She shrugs. “He’s used to driving in LA and doesn’t really mind the traffic. He says he gets a lot of work done in the car where there aren’t as many interruptions. And since I don’t know if he’ll be in or out of the office at the end of the day on Thursday, it’s probably smarter for me to just give Xander the address and tell him when to be there.”

  “Everything will be ready and waiting for him when he arrives then, including you.”

  “If I can make up my mind about which dress to wear. Why did my stylist have to give me two options that are equally slammin’?” She makes a pouty face. “Which one would you choose? And give it to me straight. No more of that BS about how I should wear whichever one I feel best in. We both know that what’s important is looks, not comfort.”