The Bodyguard

by Pamela DuMond

  Where to start? Seizure last night. Brain MRI today. No message from Max. “I’m here for all the fun.”

  “Oh, that kind of day,” she says. “Got plans after this?”

  “Nope.”

  She makes her way toward the elevator. “Want some?”

  “Maybe.” I trail behind her.

  “Good,” she says and punches the button. “I’ve got a sure fire pick me up. It’s temporary, but so is everything in life. Interested?”

  “Yes.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Twenty minutes and ten blocks later, I sit next to Blue at Star Hair and Nail. The outside of the salon looks about five thousand years old. The inside dates to the 1980’s. Photos of women with big hair hang on the walls. Advertisements for eyelash extensions, waxing, and acrylic nails decorated with decals are splashed about the place.

  Blue spreads her fingers on a white towel folded on a stand. A female manicurist applies a clear base coat to her nails. Blue’s pants are rolled up thin legs, bare feet resting in a basin of water.

  I sit at the station next to her.

  “So basically, this guy you’re mooning over —”

  “I am not mooning.”

  “Semantics,” she says. “This guy has driven you all over L.A. for weeks, being sweet to you, flirting the entire time.”

  “Yes.” I squirm as a man scrubs my foot with a pumice stone.

  “And then last night he finally made this big to-do at the Grill, drove you home, and kissed you for the first time.”

  “Yes.”

  “Good kisser?”

  “Am I being interrogated?”

  “Kind of.”

  “Yes. He was a great kisser. Possibly the best.”

  “And then he just left?”

  “He was on call.” I flinch when the nail tech starts on my other foot. “Why is this supposed to make me feel better?”

  “Beautification helps a girl feel better.”

  “Aha.”

  The manicurist applies bright blue polish to her fingernails.

  “Does he know you’re in the stem cell program?”

  “No.”

  “Did you tell him you had something stem cell worthy?”

  I shake my head. “I wasn’t planning on letting him get too close—”

  “I know his type,” she says, blowing on her nails. “These guys set their sights on you and lock in like you’re the prize in a video game. I’m surprised he didn’t make some kind of a bet to win you over.”

  “Uh…”

  “I knew it! You come to L.A. for stem cell research, you hire a guy to drive you because you can’t drive, or you don’t want to. And you’re in the stem cell study because…” She narrows her eyes and peers at me. “You have an autoimmune disease. Something that makes driving difficult.”

  I swallow and nod.

  “Being that you’re not in a wheelchair,” she says, her eyes sweeping over me, “I’d say it’s in its early stages. You’re scared to drive, which is the original reason you hired this guy.”

  I inhale deeply. Quite possibly another heart cracking open moment. And I exhale. “Early onset MS.”

  “That sucks.”

  “Indeed.”

  Blue peers down as the manicurist paints pretty flowers on her big toes. “So the guy you like— ”

  “I didn’t say I like him.”

  “Of course, you like him, Ms. Sad Face, or you wouldn’t be moping. He hasn’t gotten a hold of you today?”

  I have a degenerative disease that leaves me with symptoms that appear out of nowhere, yet, she’s asking about my love life? I totally want this girl to be my friend. “No.”

  “You know what that means?”

  “Not really.” My mind skips over all the shitty possibilities. “What do you think?”

  “It means you need to get flowers on your big toes.”

  “What? Why?”

  “Because fat festive flowers on freshly pedicured feet signifies you are alive, playful, and forever flirty.”

  I gaze at Blue’s toes. She can’t even wiggle them and yet they sport fun flowers.

  “Flowers, please,” I tell my tech. “Daisies — like she has.”

  He nods and places Blue’s feet back on the chair’s foot rests.

  “What stem cell study are you in?” I ask.

  “Spinal cord injury.”

  “What happened? Don’t tell me if you don’t want.”

  “Riding accident. I was jumping a thoroughbred that I’d never ridden before. He was big and beautiful and I’d seen him with other riders. Watching people ride him was like watching a painting come to life. I wanted to be in the painting.”

  “I don’t blame you. What happened?”

  “Everything was fine at first. We were walking, then trotting. We moved into a canter. Something spooked him and out of nowhere he stopped on a dime. I wasn’t expecting it. My foot twisted and I lost my grip on the reins.”

  The moment’s memory shadows her face and my heart sinks.

  “I flew through the air and the next thing I knew I landed hard and twisted like a pretzel on the ground. Blacked out. Came to in the ICU. Couldn’t move my legs.” She blinks.

  “I’m so sorry. When?”

  “Nine months ago. My parents and my doctor lobbied their insurance and got me into the UCLA program. Apparently, stem cells work better for cord damage if your injury is fresh. That said, I know other folks who’ve been paralyzed for years and they’re still trying it.”

  “How do you deal with it? You know, emotionally. Are you pissed?”

  “Yes. I’m pissed and sad and scared that people won’t want to be with me because of this stupid chair; that people won’t love me because they’ll think I won’t fit in. My parents make me see a therapist.”

  I nod. My mom encouraged me go to a therapist after my MS diagnosis.

  “For the record, I’m not mad at the horse,” Blue says. “He’s just a horse. It still feels weird that one day I was moving at light speed and the next I was dreaming of baby steps.”

  “Here’s to baby steps,” I say.

  She lifts an imaginary glass. “Here, here.”

  I lift my imaginary glass to hers. I wonder if I could confide in her? Tell her the real reason I’m here. My phone buzzes.

  “Don’t ruin your manicure,” Blue says.

  I pluck it gingerly from my purse but the message has already gone to voicemail. I jump when I see Max’s number.

  Blue casts a knowing look. “It’s him?”

  I nod.

  She points to her feet. “Witness the power of the flower.”

  I click voicemail.

  “Maia, it’s Max. Sorry I took off like that. I apologize. Hey, it’s not really a date, but my folks are throwing a last minute BBQ tonight. Want to come? There’s only one catch. I can’t pick you up. I promised my mom I’d help her organize. Can one of your friends give you a ride? They’re welcome too. We’re at 212 Copa de Oro, about a quarter mile from the Bel Air gates. Say yes, please. Ping me back and let me know.”

  I click off. Huh. “Want to go to a BBQ tonight at his family’s house?”

  “Thanks, but no. “Interesting. He just moved from stalled to fast forward. Now you need to pick the perfect outfit.”

  “I don’t worry about that stuff.”

  “Big mistake,” Blue says and pays the shop owner.

  “Why? What do I owe?”

  “I’ve got this,” Blue says. “You can tip.”

  “Why a big mistake?”

  “Because you’re meeting the parents, girl.”

  I knock on Cole’s door and ask if he wants to attend a BBQ at Max’s house. He asks me where it’s at. When I tell him, he jumps like someone unexpectedly goosed him.

  “Yes!” he says. “I love that zip code.”

  I flip through my closet looking for something BBQ appropriate and cute in a meet-the-parents kind of way. Bingo. I spot the modest sundress in a soft colored
floral print. A T-shaped back showed a hint of skin on my shoulders. I accessorize it with low-heeled sandals and simple, small hoop earrings. I grab a cropped, cotton sweater because the weather cools in L.A. at night. I turn to the mirror. A somewhat sane and attractive girl stares back. I can work with this.

  I feed Napoleon, check my email and see one from Keim Vision Quest. It’s from Dr. Karl Keim.

  “Dear Ms. Priebe:

  * * *

  I regret we did not have a chance to further discuss your medical situation and how I, as well as The Quest, could best help you. You mentioned endorsements of The Quest on YouTube. I’ve enclosed a link to our channel. Feel free to check them out. We’ll be updating our site after the next Quest. I’m inviting you to a private gathering the day after tomorrow at The Century City Plaza Towers Hotel at noon. Hope you’ll be able to join us. Please RSVP.

  Sincerely,

  Dr. Karl Keim

  A knock on my door interrupts my thoughts.

  “Ready?” Cole asks.

  “Hang on,” I say.

  “Hurry up,” Cole says. “We do not want to keep this beautiful, Bel-Air family waiting. I bet the barbecue is catered.”

  I grab my sweater and purse and smooch Napoleon goodbye. “Who the hell has their barbecue catered?”

  Cole rubs his hands together as we make our way toward a Prius parked at the curb. “People who live on Copa de Oro in Bel-Air.”

  “I doubt this is a big deal,” I say.

  Cole laughs and opens the passenger door. “Have you ever seen photos of Bel-Air?”

  “Nope.”

  “You’re in for a surprise.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Max Levine’s last-minute family BBQ is not catered, I determine after we’re buzzed in at the Spanish-style security gates, drive down the lengthy driveway, and park behind to Max’s Jeep. There are no catering vans.

  We stand in front of the enormous Spanish-style house, ring the bell, and a short man answers. “Maia?” he asks.

  “Yes.”

  “I thought so. You’re as pretty as Max described you. Follow me, please.” He leads us though a small, side gate, past wooden, planter boxes filled with a cornucopia of green and red vegetables and fruits. We enter a massive back yard that stretches behind a large, Spanish-style, two-story house.

  “This place looks so familiar,” Cole says and fans his face.

  The lawn slopes down toward a pool. A couple of kids are goofing around in it, splashing and diving in and out of the water. A pool house sits adjacent to the tall wrought iron fence surrounding the property’s perimeter. A few families and folks of all ages chit chat around picnic tables.

  An ancient, fat, Shih Tzu with a fancy, sequined collar waddles from person to person, sniffing the ground, vacuuming up crumbs. A middle-aged man resembling a shorter, weathered version of Max and wearing a chef’s apron, lips burgers on a state-of-the-art grill. “Alida,” he says. “Where are the vegetables?”

  “In the ground,” a pretty middle-aged woman says. She walks up to him carrying a decorative ceramic platter piled high with cut vegetables.

  “What are they doing there?”

  “They’re still growing. We planted too late.”

  He smiles and kisses her tenderly on the lips. “Why’d we do that?”

  “Because you couldn’t make up your mind what kind of tomatoes you wanted.”

  The wind gusts, the BBQ smoke billows. He drops the lid down on the grill. “Another hot, dry summer.”

  “Be careful,” Alida says. “It’s fire season.”

  “No fires, my love,” he says. “Lower Bel Air isn’t canyon country.”

  Cole gazes back at the house. He clutches my arm. “This used to be Gary Cooper’s house.”

  “The movie star Gary Cooper?”

  “No, the guy who invented Mini-Coopers. Of course, the movie star.”

  “Bonita.” Max pops out of the pool house and strides toward us. He takes my hands in his and squeezes them. “You look gorgeous.” He leans down and kissed me on the lips.

  “Ahem,” Cole says.

  “Hey Cole.” Max shakes his hand. “Thanks for chaperoning my girl.” He wraps his arm around my waist, pulling me to his side. Alida watches us.

  “I can’t believe you live in Gary Cooper’s mansion” Cole says. “I need the tour.”

  “You need to talk to the lady of the house about that,” he says.

  “Where are your manners, Max?” Alida makes her way toward us. “Introduce me to your friends.”

  “This is my mom, Alida Hernandez Levine.”

  Alida nods. “I love meeting Max’s friends.”

  “Mom, this is Cole…”

  “Cole Frederick. Thank you so much for sharing a meal at your beautiful home, Mrs. Levine.” He extends his hand.

  She shakes his hand. “You’re welcome.”

  “And this gorgeous girl is Maia Priebe. I told you about her.”

  “Lovely to meet you, Mrs. Levine.” I stick out my hand.

  She draws me to her, and gives me a quick, warm hug. “Call me Alida. You’re exactly how Max described you. Come with me for a few of minutes, yes, Maia? We can get to know each other a bit and I’ll give you the tour.”

  “But…” Cole entreats.

  “Later.” Max slaps him on the back. “Let’s get you something to drink.”

  I follow Alida through French doors that lead into a living room that smells of jasmine and sage. Dark, distressed wooden planks line the floors. A massive fireplace is built into a wall. Spanish tiles in jewel colors comprise its hearth.

  “Max has been sharing bits and pieces of your adventures with me,” Alida says. “You went to Chinatown together. He wasn’t all that thrilled about the acupuncturist.”

  “I know. But he was the one who found the two for one ad in the newspaper.”

  She laughs. “I taught him well.” We make our way toward a hallway at the far end of the room. We climb a tall staircase paved in terra cotta Spanish tiles, a black, wrought iron railing lining the sides. “He says you’re visiting from Wisconsin. Are you enjoying your time in L.A.?”

  “Yes.”

  “He says you’re in summer school. That he’s driving you to healers around town for a project you’re working on with your grandmother.”

  “He’s been great. I’m not sure I could do this without him. This city’s huge, somewhat overwhelming.”

  “I remember when I first came to L.A. I felt like I landed in Oz.”

  “Exactly,” I say.

  We walk down a long hallway with closed doors.

  “Bedrooms, bathrooms,” Alida says. “You’re not missing anything. I grew up in Mexico. I didn’t come here until I was around your age.” She opens a door to a modern office. A desk is filled stacks of headshots, scripts, and books. Movie and TV posters hang on the walls. A pretty view of UCLA is visible through window. “Max’s dad is an entertainment manager. He guides the careers for screenwriters, show runners and directors.”

  “Oh.”

  “Adam’s a hard worker, down to earth, honest. His clients love him. Producers and studios trust him.” She beckons. “Come with me.”

  We exit the room and continue down the hallway. Framed photographs hang on the walls. Like the photographer isn’t scared to show someone’s beauty or another’s pain.

  She opens a door at the end of the hallway. “My studio.”

  I follow her inside a jewel of a room. French doors open onto a small balcony overlooking the back yard. Half a dozen framed photos hang on ivory walls. A dark, wooden Mission-style desk sits center of the room.

  I examine a few pictures. A photo of an orphanage in Mexico. A weathered woman wearing a nun’s habit gazes into the camera, a patient look on her worn face. Around her, kids make faces, barely holding their energy inside for the second it took for the photographer to snap the picture. The signature at the bottom reads Alida Hernandez Levine. She’s not just Max’s mom, she’s the photo
grapher with the eye for the heart of a picture.

  “These are all yours?”

  “Yes.”

  “They’re amazing. When did you start taking pictures?”

  “When I was a child in Mexico City. My mother was Spanish and a teacher. My father was American and a salesman. I had one older sister and one younger. My parents separated when I was seven. We stayed with my mother and visited my father once a year in the States. The first trip I begged my dad for a camera so I could remember all our moments, keep pieces of our stories.”

  “Your talent blossomed during a tough time.”

  She shrugs. “It was the only reality we knew. When I was fifteen, my mother remarried. Señor Perez was a nice enough man. A diplomat. My mother offered us a choice: Travel the world — which meant changing schools once a year. Or go live with our father.”

  “What did you do?”

  “My sisters stayed with my mother and explored the world. I chose my dad and came to America. I learned about Nebraskan steaks, and Iowa corn, river rafting in Utah, and picking blueberries in Michigan. When I was eighteen my dad was transferred to L.A. There were beaches and mountains. Fall colors, skiing, and deserts. And then I ran into the best part of Los Angeles.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Adam.” Alida peers out the window at Max’s dad, flipping burgers on the grill and chatting with a few folks circling around him. “I met him at Universal Studios theme park one day waiting in line for one of the rides. He was gorgeous, smart, funny. Our religions were different, our backgrounds, but we fell in love. We tied the knot in Vegas. Twenty-five years later, I have no regrets in the marriage department.”

  “That’s inspirational.” I look back up at the wall of photos. Dead center is a framed photo of a battered and crumpled SUV on the back of a flatbed tow truck. Fractured pieces of glass cling to the metal rim where the windshield once was.

  I take a step backward. “Accident? Everyone make it out?”

  “Technically yes,” she says. “I keep it up there to remind myself every day that life isn’t perfect but we continue on in spite of our fears.”