Annabelle had planned out the trip with such endearing precision and care that all Jeremy had to do was breathe. Annabelle said it felt like she was introducing a wonderful new friend to a favorite old friend. And she couldn’t wait for them to meet.
Nope, negativity didn’t stand a chance this weekend, not with Ms. Annabelle Eve Duran in the house. Jeremy had just recently learned her middle name and was determined to use it as often as possible. That’s because his, believe it or not, was Adam. Really, what were the odds? They joked that if they had a daughter they’d name her Eden, even though in this life a cocker spaniel was far more likely.
They were out of L.A. County within an hour, Friday morning freeway traffic proving thankfully lighter than normal. They continued up the 101, past coastal Oxnard and later, affluent Santa Barbara where Annabelle planned for their first selfie stop: the town’s vast esplanade overlooking a gorgeous beachfront on one side and the luxurious Biltmore Hotel across the way. It was all set beneath a cloudless, azure sky that lit Jeremy and Annabelle like movie stars. They sat on a low wall, the Pacific behind them, and took photos: sunglasses both on and off, taking turns in Annabelle’s floppy flowered sun hat, and doing their fair share of mugging.
“See that patio restaurant,” said Annabelle, pointing beyond the adjacent road toward the Biltmore’s plush, open-air dining area. “Gil and I celebrated our fifth anniversary there with the most fabulous Sunday brunch, preceded by a ridiculously pricey overnight in one of the hotel’s amazing cottages. I was like, ‘Honey, no, we cannot afford it,’ and he was all ‘I know, Anna B.’—he called me Anna B.—‘but you only live once.’”
“Unless you’re James Bond, then you only live twice,” Jeremy joked, realizing as the words were exiting his mouth that he was stepping on a tender recollection with some silly movie trivia.
But Annabelle, undeterred, pivoted back to the land of the living with the admission that she’d never seen a James Bond movie. “Wait, how does that compare to never seeing Casablanca?” she asked. “And how come we haven’t watched that together yet? You promised!”
“Tell you what, next weekend, a double feature: Casablanca and either Dr. No, which was the first Bond film ever or maybe Goldfinger. The early ones are the best because, y’know, Sean Connery. And the ’60s, of course.”
Annabelle: “The ’60s? We weren’t even born then.”
“Yeah, but they were cool and crazy and crammed with conflict,” said Jeremy as an attractive young family of five breezily bicycled past.
“That’s a lotta c’s, cowboy,” Annabelle noted, adjusting her sun hat. “Wait, that’s another one!”
Jeremy grinned back. “So—Bogey and Bond? Next Friday night?”
“It’s a date,” she promised, as her eyes drifted back to the site of her fifth-anniversary retreat. A faint shadow crossed her face as, Jeremy could tell, Gil’s ghost was threatening to invade her newfound island of bliss. Would he get through this time?
Annabelle sprung up from the wall, slapped on a happy face, and announced: “We’re not gonna get there by lunchtime if we sit here all day!”
Jeremy hadn’t talked to anyone, particularly Annabelle, about his fractious chat with Cassie the day before, not wanting to give it any more air than it needed. Even so, he knew he’d have to deal with finding a lawyer when he returned to L.A. Cassie was right about one thing: it was enough already.
Annabelle was circumspect about Jeremy’s dealings with Cassie, never prying and mostly just listening with concern the rare times he brought her up. But with her finely tuned emotional radar, Annabelle seemed able to tell when the divorce—or anything troubling—was on his mind and would gingerly ask what was up. Loath to draw her into his mess, especially at this early stage of their relationship, Jeremy usually sloughed off a pensive mood on his scriptwriting (“Just thinking about this scene I’m trying to fix”), which Annabelle, whether she believed him or not, would at least outwardly accept.
The irony was that he had begun to trust her judgment—and objectivity—so implicitly that her input might have been an enormous help as he floundered through the dissolution of his marriage. But there were a few other factors at work. If Jeremy were to be completely truthful with Annabelle about what went down with Cassie, it might mean revealing more of his faults than he cared to; he was still reconciling them himself. If they stayed together, Annabelle would spot them on her own soon enough, if she hadn’t already. Did that make Jeremy selfish or controlling or insecure? All of those things? Or was he just being considerate of Annabelle’s feelings, her own sense of well-being? Still, he wondered, of the two of them, who really needed protecting?
Jeremy also didn’t think complaining about the last woman in his life to the new woman in his life was exactly the coolest thing to do, especially when that new woman had lost the love of her life to an untimely death just the year before.
All this by way of explaining how, as they made their way north to the next photo opportunity—the notoriously gaudy Madonna Inn in San Luis Obispo—it didn’t surprise Jeremy when, after a patch of silence, the astute Annabelle turned down the Pandora Broadway Showtunes station (he was a fan, but she was a full-on theater geek) and said, “Okay, a penny for your thoughts.”
“Five bucks and you’re on,” Jeremy quipped, a part of him secretly hoping she’d pull out a fiver and call his bluff.
“Look, let’s get this on and off the table, alright? Our previous spouses are traveling with us this weekend whether we like it or not, so we have two choices: say what’s on our mind or let it all pile up inside of us and sit there like a brick.”
That was way better than five bucks, thought Jeremy: Honesty. Maybe they had been acting a bit too nobly for their own good. Really, who comes into a relationship, especially at their ages, without some kind of baggage? And what if, to paraphrase a lyric from the musical Rent (the rowdy “La Vie Boheme” had coincidentally—or maybe not—just streamed on Pandora), their baggage went together, was actually a strangely matched set?
“Does this mean we’re entering a new phase of our new relationship?” asked Jeremy. “The no-bricks phase?”
Before Annabelle could answer, she was diverted by something out the window. “Jeremy, look! The Pea Soup Andersen’s sign!”
“The what?” He followed her gaze, but all he saw was a billboard slipping out of sight.
She turned back to Jeremy, dark eyes sparkling. “It’s this sweet old restaurant that’s known for its pea soup. Has kind of a Danish thing going on. We ate there once, food was okay, but you don’t really go for the food.”
“What do you go for?” wondered Jeremy, whose least favorite soup was split pea. The Exorcist ruined it for him as a kid; there was no turning back.
“It’s famous!” she answered as if that was enough.
“Not that famous.” The place was news to Jeremy, though he was enthused by her enthusiasm, as always.
Annabelle poked him playfully in the side. “To answer your question: yes, we’re definitely entering our ‘no-bricks’ phase.” She studied Jeremy a moment; he was quiet. “Is that okay?”
He waited a dramatic beat and said, “Yes, on one condition.”
“What’s that?”
“We don’t have to stop at Pea Soup Corrigan’s or whatever the hell it’s called.” He broke into a smile. She returned it.
“Andersen’s! And no—you are officially spared.” She added dryly, “Even if it is a vital piece of California history.”
Jeremy leaned over, kissed her cheek and then, as they sped along the sunny, sparsely trafficked freeway toward San Luis Obispo, proceeded to unload about his last talk with Cassie. He began cautiously, in a kind of self-editing mode. But that soon gave way to a far more unvarnished take than he’d ever given Annabelle about the divorce: how he and Cassie got there, who they once were and who they’d become, and what he now faced both l
egally and financially. It was a mouthful, but Jeremy was grateful to be expunging this particular brick.
Annabelle listened quietly, occasionally glancing out her window at a passing vineyard or field. Her serene face betrayed little by way of surprise or appraisal, which encouraged Jeremy to expound. He finished up just as the last jaunty bars of “You Could Drive a Person Crazy” from Sondheim’s Company played over the Bluetooth.
“There, now, was that so difficult?” Annabelle asked with a smile, knowing just how difficult it was.
“Actually, yes,” he answered. “But you made it easier, so thank you.” He gave her a long, appreciative look, awaiting a further response. “So what’s your verdict, counselor?”
She spun back, pointing: “This is it—the exit!”
Jeremy, startled, swerved across several lanes and almost crash-landed onto the Madonna Road exit.
“Gee, thanks for the notice,” he said, straightening out the car and catching his breath.
“Sorry, sorry, it just came up so soon! But, hey—good reflexes!”
He shot her a wry look; Annabelle shrugged.
“Anyway, my verdict,” she considered. “Honestly? Same thing I thought after you gave me the abridged version when we first met.”
“Which was … what?” he asked, turning left off the exit ramp and following a sign to the Madonna Inn.
“Don’t take this the wrong way,” Annabelle began, “but I thought, ‘Wow, Gil and I were so lucky.’” She offered a cockeyed half grin and added: “Except for the he-got-sick-and-died part.”
Jeremy didn’t know how to react, she could tell. “Laugh, sweetie, it’s a joke.”
He relaxed, flashed a wistful smile.
She continued: “I also thought: ‘Why is he procrastinating on finding a lawyer? Is he not really sure he wants a divorce? Does he still …?” Annabelle let her eyes complete that sentence.
The question unnerved Jeremy. A part of him would always love Cassie, but not in the way Annabelle seemed concerned about.
“I definitely want the divorce,” he answered. “At first, I didn’t. I mean, look, I was caught totally off guard. Cassie was like ten giant steps ahead of me. But I feel like I’ve caught up.” He added, from a recess in his mind that surprised even him, “I’m not going to beg anyone to love me.” Jeremy stopped, realized: “I didn’t mean—that sounded harsh, I’m sorry.”
“Not at all. You can’t force anyone to love you any more than you can force yourself to love someone back. You either do or you don’t. I get it.” She indicated out the windshield, as the garish hotel loomed ahead: “Take a left and then a right into the driveway.”
Annabelle went on to tell Jeremy about an ex-client who was a divorce lawyer with an excellent reputation.
“Just tell me,” asked Jeremy, “is he anything like Laura Dern in Marriage Story?”
“You mean a shark in stilettos? I can’t vouch for his footwear, but I could see him being plenty tough. I mean, he’s from the Bronx.”
“So is Jennifer Lopez, but I’m not sure I’d want her defending me in a divorce,” Jeremy joked.
They took a few selfies outside the benign, almost stately looking inn and a bunch inside where the real ugly happened. Jeremy dubbed the hotel’s eye-popping, pink-and-orange-splattered décor “turn-of-the-century whorehouse.” Though his artistic side appreciated the site’s eccentric, super-kitschy appeal, he was secretly glad Annabelle’s itinerary didn’t include an overnight stay. His dreams lately were weird enough.
CHAPTER
25
Jeremy and his parents didn’t travel much when he was a kid. No summering in Europe, Christmases in Hawaii, or winter breaks in Aspen like so many of his better-off classmates and neighbors. He never thought much of it, knew that his parents’ firmly middle-class status and salary limitations—Larry worked for several chain accounting firms, Joyce comanaged a Tarzana podiatrist’s office—didn’t leave much leeway for excess luxury or financial frivolity. Jeremy once overheard Larry tell Joyce that if they didn’t have to spend so much “goddamn dough” on their son’s private school maybe they’d be able to indulge a bit more.
Once Jeremy married Cassie he realized, at least compared with his wife, how little of the world he’d seen. They began to rectify that once they had the money to do so—that being before and well after Cassie’s time-, savings-, and freedom-draining law school years. (For the record, despite the initial sacrifices, Jeremy was always on Team Cassie when it came to her decision to make the leap from paralegal to attorney. He found her drive to do so inspiring and sexy.)
But vacationing with Cassie was a far more seat-of-your-pants affair than he’d ever experienced with his parents, trekking on his own across western Canada after college, or even in the few hours he’d spent that morning on the road with Annabelle.
“I’ll take care of everything,” Cassie would announce and then proceed to do little beyond arranging their plane tickets. She took the word “vacationing” seriously. That meant no set schedule, no laundry list of must-see attractions or eateries, no maps or Fodor’s Guide tumbling around her backpack, and, perhaps most loosey-goosey of all, no hotel reservations. The latter always struck fear in Jeremy’s chicken heart, especially once Matty began to travel with them. (Would they end up sleeping with their child in some strange park?)
But Cassie, excited by the unknown, would pick a desired neighborhood (that much she’d research), tell the cab driver to take them there, yell “Stop!” when she liked the looks of a passing inn, and off they’d go. It almost always worked out and, Jeremy had to admit, they ended up in some pretty cool lodgings over the years. When Matty got older Cassie would sometimes let him shout “Stop!” and only once did she have to overrule his selection: a narrow and darkish red-brick building in the heart of Amsterdam that, if it wasn’t a drug den or a brothel, it might as well have been. Matty was drawn to its peaked roof, colorful leaded glass windows and neon sign that winked Gasthuis (guest house), but Cassie smelled a rat.
Walking past it a few days later they learned it was once a tony bed and breakfast but now served as a private assisted living facility; they’d never replaced the signage. It had been all part of the fun of traveling with Cassie who, in real life, was far more organized than the carefree explorer she became once she left L.A.
Except for a sporadic weekend away—Palm Springs, Scottsdale, Seattle to see her dying great-aunt June—Jeremy and Cassie hadn’t taken a meaningful vacation together in four or five years. They stopped even talking about going anywhere, just immersed themselves in work, Matty, and life’s day-to-day. Their relationship became like a tire with a slow leak: it gradually, imperceptibly ran out of air.
Though it was just before one when they rolled into Cambria, a fine layer of fog still hung over the coastline and a mild but persistent breeze blew in from the ocean. They made their way up Moonstone Beach Drive, a scenic stretch of tidy, low-slung hotels and motor inns on one side and a mile-long wooden boardwalk traversing scrubby, herb-scented fields on the other. It was all perched above a rugged beach that gave way to a lightly choppy swath of the Pacific. It was nothing fancy or overly dramatic, more like a mellow little slice of paradise.
Not only did Annabelle make hotel reservations—there would be no madcap shouts of “Stop here!” on her watch—but she preselected the exact room she wanted for them, no substitutes accepted. It seemed that at her favorite Cambria lodge, the snug and welcoming Hearthside Inn, the primo spots to stay were in the row of oceanfront, ground-floor rooms with, as she put it, “must-have” attached patios. Experience taught Annabelle that room 108, at the westernmost edge of the hotel, was angled in such a way that it offered the most privacy plus the best view of the Pacific, free and clear of the twisty old Monterey cypress trees that dotted the landscape. Lo and behold, 108 was available—and it was theirs.
After settling into the ro
om, which was clean, charming, and casual with a cushy, queen-sized mattress and gas fireplace that Annabelle promised would get a workout that weekend (the fireplace, not the bed, because that went without saying), Jeremy and Annabelle strolled up to the Moonstone Bar and Grill for a late, ocean-view lunch of chicken taco salads washed down with a couple of Modelos. They lingered on the patio deck, nursing their second beers, and gazing out at visitors ambling along the boardwalk as the Pacific shimmered beyond them, the gray-blue sky finally fog-free.
“Do you remember any of this from when you were here with Cassie and Matty?” asked Annabelle, hidden behind a kicky pair of vintage cat-eyed sunglasses she’d found recently on eBay.
“Little to nothing,” Jeremy admitted. “I think by the time we got here it was dark, and we left first thing in the morning.”
It occurred to Jeremy that, as usual, Cassie hadn’t planned where they would sleep that night. They could have stayed in room 108 at the Hearthside Inn for all Jeremy recalled. He texted Matty from lunch: “Do you remember where we stayed in Cambria that time we all drove up Highway 1?” Matty’s response: “Couldn’t tell you with a gun to my head.” That made two of them.
Jeremy watched Annabelle staring out at the ocean from their plum spot on the veranda as she downed the last of her beer. She looked lovely, peaceful, distant.
“Did you and Gil come here a lot?” Jeremy asked. He wouldn’t have intruded on her reverie if she hadn’t already given him permission, if not downright encouragement, to do so. And yet, it still gave him pause.
“Oh, sure, all the time. I mean, everyone does. You stay on Moonstone Beach, you end up here.” She gave him a tender smile, dark eyes aglow. “Just like us.” Then, as if she could read his mind, added, “I’m fine, Cookie. I promise I’ll tell you if I’m not. That’s the deal, right?”
He nodded yes. How could you disagree with someone who called you Cookie?
They held hands as they wandered along the narrow and curvy Moonstone Beach boardwalk, making way when joggers and dog walkers passed in the other direction, and amused by the intrepid rabbits and ground squirrels that darted over and under the wooden planks. The late afternoon sun was lush and bracing; Jeremy felt more relaxed and hopeful than he had in ages. He stopped, leaned in, and gave Annabelle a long, award-winning kiss right there in the middle of the boardwalk. People had to step around them. One whistled, another grumbled.
The Last Birthday Party Page 17
