California Summer

by Anita Hughes

  She eased the car into a parking space and heard a crunching sound under her wheels. The end of a surfboard was sticking out under her car, like the Wicked Witch’s red shoes in The Wizard of Oz.

  “Oh my god!” she gasped, jumping out of the car. “I ran over a surfboard.”

  “My surfboard.” A man of about thirty appeared in front of her. He had white-blond hair that curled over his ears. He wore black board shorts and his legs were covered in sand.

  “I was watching the sunset.” Rosie looked down in horror. “I’m so sorry.”

  The man leaned down to inspect the board. His shoulders were muscular and his back was smooth and brown.

  “Don’t worry about it.” He stood up and smiled. He was a head taller than Rosie, with blue eyes and a dimple on his chin. “It’s just a ding.”

  “I’ll p-pay to get it fixed!” Rosie stammered.

  “I shouldn’t have left it on the ground.” The man shrugged. “But the beach usually empties out at sunset; just us diehards left, catching the last perfect wave.”

  “I feel like an idiot.” Rosie thought she was about to burst into tears.

  “I’m Josh.” He put out his hand. “Come and have some chips and salsa. My friends and I are terrible company, ten minutes with us and you’ll stop feeling guilty.”

  Rosie followed him onto the sand. She didn’t feel like making conversation, but she’d feel worse driving off, as if she had committed a hit and run. Josh loped ahead. He had long legs and knobby knees covered in scrapes.

  “I’m guessing you’re not a native.” He passed her a bag of chips and a plastic container of salsa.

  “I’m staying with friends for the summer,” Rosie replied. She shielded her eyes and watched the sun melt into the sea. The pastel colors were prettier than any painting, and the water was a sheet of glass.

  “You picked the right time of day to arrive.” Josh scooped salsa onto a handful of chips. “Butterfly Beach at sunset is like finding the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow.”

  “It’s so peaceful.” Rosie breathed deeply. “I haven’t been anywhere this peaceful.”

  “I’d introduce you, but I don’t know your name.” Josh moved towards the circle of surfers.

  “Rosie Keller,” Rosie answered. “I better go. I’m supposed to arrive for dinner.”

  “Where are you staying?” Josh asked.

  “My friend’s parents have an estate in Montecito.” She ate a chip. “I’m hiding out in their guest cottage for the summer.”

  “You don’t look like a killer.” Josh frowned, handing her a can of Coke.

  “Movie producer, actually.” Rosie sipped her Coke. She hadn’t had a soda in years. She and Ben drank lattes or smoothies in the morning and a bottle of white or red wine with dinner. Sometimes she’d have a martini or a glass of champagne at a cocktail party or a movie premiere.

  “Ah, the Los Angeles hamster wheel.” Josh nodded. “Montecito is full of Hollywood refugees, but they always go back. Some kind of magnetic pull from Ferraris and Rolexes.”

  “Are you sure I can’t pay to fix your board?” Rosie asked.

  “You could come watch us surf sometime, when you’re not hiding out,” he offered.

  “I’ll think about it.” Rosie blushed. “I better go. Thank you for the chips and soda.”

  “Be careful driving,” Josh said and smiled. “There are some crazy drivers out there. They’ll run over anything.”

  * * *

  Rosie backed out of the parking space and took the road through town. She drove past Italian trattorias and French cafes. It was Saturday night and couples were strolling along the sidewalk, choosing where to dine. She watched them consult wine lists and study menus.

  It reminded her of a dinner they had in Hollywood after they returned from Sundance. Ben was all wound up. For a week straight he had been eating in the kitchen standing up, reading the paper while pacing the living room. They even made love in the shower, because Rosie couldn’t drag him into bed.

  Rosie and Ben met Angelica and Matthew at Spago’s. It was expensive and old guard, but Ben wanted to make a statement. Ben was flattered when the hostess led them to a front booth, and speechless when Matt Damon walked over and shook Ben’s hand.

  “Matt Damon,” Ben murmured after Matt returned to his table. “If God struck me down, I’d die happy.”

  “He’s been this dramatic all week,” Rosie giggled to Angelica. “You’d think he parted the Red Sea instead of winning an award at Sundance.”

  “It’s our town,” Ben said earnestly. “I have three offers to direct: MGM, Universal, and Sony.”

  “I got a call from Nicole Kidman,” Angelica chimed in. She wore a black wig and a gold snake around her neck. “She’s thinking of remaking Cleopatra.”

  “I was wondering why you’re wearing a reptile.” Rosie laughed. They had split a bottle of champagne and she felt light-headed and silly.

  “A year ago, I couldn’t get Nicole’s third assistant on the phone,” Angelica gushed. “I owe everything to Ben and Rosie.”

  “To Ben and Rosie.” Ben refilled their champagne flutes. “May we never see the inside of a Domino’s Pizza carton again.”

  “May our names go up above the Hollywood sign.” Angelica raised her glass.

  “May Angelica make enough money so I can retire,” Matthew piped in.

  “Admit you dig being an accountant.” Ben punched Matthew’s shoulder good-naturedly. “It’s okay to be boring.”

  “Not everyone can be a creative genius like you and Angelica,” Rosie protested.

  “I love you Rosie Keller.” Ben kissed Rosie sloppily on the lips. “Without you I’d be nobody.”

  * * *

  Rosie drove towards the mountains. The estates were so vast; each one took up its own block. She pressed the button on a tall wrought iron gate and waited. The gate swung inward and she drove inside, feeling like she was being swallowed up, like the world would keep turning without her.

  “There you are.” A tall figure stood on the porch. Estelle’s white-blond hair fell softly to her shoulders. She wore a navy silk dress with a Peter Pan collar. A strand of pink pearls hung around her neck. “I told Oscar I was waiting ten minutes and then I’d call the Coast Guard. I thought we might have to fish you out of the ocean.”

  “I’m sorry, I stopped at the beach to see the sunset.” Rosie stepped out of the car and Estelle kissed her on both cheeks, holding her chin as if to make sure she wasn’t broken.

  “Then all is forgiven,” Estelle said brightly. “Nothing is more glorious than the beach at sunset. If I could move this house, I’d place it right on the sand.”

  “But it’s so beautiful here.” Rosie stood on the porch, listening to the frogs. She could see the outline of the lake and the giant oak trees bending over the lawn. The house was lit by strings of fairy lights and the curtains blew through open windows.

  “You’re right. I’d never move a hair of this house.” Estelle opened the front door. “I’m going to be buried in the garden next to Daisy. She was my first Irish setter, when I was a little girl.”

  “You’ve lived here since you were a child?” Rosie followed Estelle inside. She forgot how large the entry was. The ceiling soared above her and an arch led to the hallway. She could hear her footsteps on the wood, and her words echoed in the hall.

  “Everyone thinks Oscar bought the house with all that music money.” Estelle led Rosie into the dining room. “But my grandfather built it for his wife. He imported teas and spices from Asia. He installed a telescope on the top floor so she could see when his ship returned from China.”

  “That’s a lovely story.” Rosie sighed, admiring the long cherry table and glass chandelier.

  “I’m famished,” Estelle announced. “We’ll tinkle the bell and let Oscar know you’re here.”

  The table was set with crystal wineglasses and sterling silver flatware. There was a purple orchid and candles flickered in gold candelabras.
Platters held bunches of grapes and baskets were heaped with freshly baked bread.

  “I hope you didn’t go to this trouble for me,” Rosie said uncomfortably, sitting in a high-backed velvet chair.

  “I know young people like to eat takeout in front of a television.” Estelle rang a silver bell. “But I much prefer a beautifully set table.”

  Oscar had thick sandy-colored hair and blue eyes. He wore a white V-neck sweater and pleated slacks and carried a scotch glass in one hand.

  “My wife is thrilled Angelica sent you,” he said in a deep voice like an opera singer’s. “Now she has someone to share her roses with.”

  “My roses are going to be so happy to have a young person around,” Estelle agreed. She had large brown eyes rimmed by thick lashes. Only the lines around her mouth hinted at her age.

  “I should be jealous,” Oscar said affectionately. “Her roses get more attention than I do.”

  “Everyone must have a passion,” Estelle insisted, popping grapes in her mouth. “I’m lucky to have three: my husband, my children, and my roses. Tell us about yourself, Rosie. What do you love?”

  Rosie tried to swallow. A month ago the list would have rolled off her tongue: fresh hot cinnamon buns, movies at the foreign cinema in West LA, eating at the salad bar at Whole Foods. And doing anything with Ben. Solving the Sunday crossword puzzle in bed together, fishing off the Santa Monica Pier, climbing to the top of Dodger Stadium.

  “I love to read, and sometimes I like to cook,” Rosie said finally.

  “We’ll have to introduce you to new things. On Sundays we have tennis parties, and on Monday evenings our neighbors join us for bridge and a swim. Tuesdays, Oscar has the men over for cigars. And we have pool parties almost every day, nothing planned, people seem to just show up.” Estelle beamed.

  Estelle paused as a man wearing gray slacks and a white shirt brought out plates of sirloin tips, scalloped potatoes, and baby peas and onions.

  “Morris, this is Rosie, a friend of Angelica’s,” Oscar introduced them. “Morris was part of a boy band I brought over from England years ago. He hated being onstage, and he’s been our butler ever since.”

  “Pleased to meet you.” Morris nodded. He had straight black hair and small black eyes. When he smiled he revealed slightly crooked teeth.

  “Did you bring a tennis racket?” Estelle inquired. “If you didn’t, I’ll rustle up one of Angelica’s.”

  “I don’t actually play.” Rosie sipped a glass of water, her mind reeling. It was too much: British butlers, tennis courts, swim parties. She glanced down at her cotton shirt and cutoff shorts and felt embarrassingly underdressed.

  “We have all summer to teach you.” Estelle scooped potatoes with her spoon. “It’s a shame Angelica’s brother, Sam, isn’t here. He’s an excellent player and terrifically handsome. We’ll send over Hans from the club. He looks quite striking in his tennis whites.”

  “Estelle, dear,” Oscar said over his glass of wine. “Rosie might like to relax.”

  “Angelica told me about Ben.” Estelle turned to Rosie. “I thought you’d like to meet new people. We’re actually quite boring in June. It’s just neighbors and old people like us. July Fourth is when Oscar has his big ‘music’ party.”

  “Estelle believes every marriage should be a fairy tale.” Oscar squeezed Estelle’s hand. “We’ve been married for thirty-five years.”

  Rosie pushed the potatoes around her plate and listened to Estelle reel off the amenities of the house: a billiard table in the library, backgammon and chess in the morning room, a vegetable garden, and an orchard where Rosie could pick her own oranges.

  “Give them to Morris and he’ll make your orange juice and bring it to the guest cottage.” Estelle put her napkin on her plate.

  “It all sounds wonderful.” Rosie sighed. “I’ve been up for so long, I’d really like to go to bed.”

  “But we haven’t had dessert,” Estelle protested. “We have pavlova, with fresh strawberries and kiwi.”

  “Estelle, dear.” Oscar squeezed his wife’s hand. “The pavlova will keep till tomorrow. Why don’t you show Rosie the guest cottage?”

  “Of course.” Estelle stood up, smoothing her skirt. “I’m being rude. You must be exhausted. I’ll tell Morris to bring your bags from the car.”

  Estelle disappeared into the kitchen and Rosie was left at the table with Oscar. She tried to think of something to talk about: the state of the record industry, Oscar’s recent trip to South America. But her head felt heavy and her eyes started to close.

  “Please don’t mind Estelle.” Oscar smiled. His face was lined and very tan. “She wants everyone to love this house as much as she does.”

  “It’s quite amazing,” Rosie replied, struggling to keep her eyes open.

  “I have a very special wife.” Oscar nodded. “But she needs to let people move at their own pace. Take your time getting your bearings; we’re here when you need us.”

  Rosie blinked and looked at her plate. She hadn’t imagined the estate would be so grand, or Angelica’s parents would be so welcoming. She felt like she had left the frantic rush of Hollywood and stepped into a storybook.

  Rosie wanted to tell Oscar how glad she was to be here. She wanted to say she had never visited such a quaint village or stayed in such a gracious home. But all she could think was how desperately she wanted to be in their apartment in Santa Monica, folding laundry and doing dishes. She wanted to listen to Ben sing in the shower, knowing when she climbed into bed, he’d run his hands down her spine and pull her against him.

  Three

  When Rosie woke in the morning, she couldn’t remember going to bed. She recalled Estelle’s singsong voice instructing her on towels and sheets, but she didn’t remember climbing under the covers. The whole day was a blur. If she closed her eyes, she might be back in Santa Monica. She pictured jumping out of bed, grabbing the remains of Ben’s strawberry smoothie, and rushing to the studio.

  There was a knock on the door and Rosie pulled on her robe. Sun streamed through the French doors and Rosie glanced at herself in the mirror. Her face was free of makeup and her hair was frizzy from the humidity. She opened the door and found Morris carrying a silver tray and a folded newspaper.

  “Mrs. Pullman thought you might be hungry.” Morris placed poached eggs, a stack of toast, and a glass of orange juice on the table. There was a yellow rose in a crystal vase and sterling silver flatware wrapped in a linen napkin.

  “I, um,” Rosie mumbled.

  “I can ask Peg to make scrambled eggs if you prefer,” Morris suggested.

  “Peg?” Rosie asked, rubbing her eyes.

  “The cook. Her eggs are works of art,” Morris replied. He had a soft, buttery accent and pale, papery skin.

  “I’m sure they’re great.” Rosie looked around the room for the first time. The floor was covered in a floral rug and the windows were hung with white tulle curtains. There was a love seat upholstered in a bright floral pattern and a rolltop desk in the corner. “I feel like I’m in a remake of Arthur.”

  “The Pullmans like the finer things, but they’re generous people.” Morris smiled.

  “I’ve never had a butler,” Rosie said awkwardly.

  “Try the eggs with a little ketchup.” Morris unfolded the napkin. He popped open the ketchup and buttered the top slice of toast.

  “Thank you,” Rosie replied, inhaling the scent of butter and fresh bread. “And thank Peg and Estelle.”

  “You can thank Mrs. Pullman.” Morris picked up the empty tray. “She’s in the rose garden.”

  * * *

  Rosie took the plate of eggs and toast and sat in the middle of the bed. Through the window she could see rolling green lawns and hear the buzz of a lawn mower. The bed was heaped with pillows and the comforter was soft as cotton candy.

  The first bite of eggs melted on her tongue; Rosie closed her eyes and imagined she was staying in a luxury resort. Any minute, Ben would return from the spa and they
’d take a bath together. She pictured soaping his back, feeling his hands searching for her under the bubbles. He would kiss her and neither of them would want to get out.

  Rosie’s phone rang and she started, pulled from her fantasy.

  “I tried calling last night, but my mother said you were asleep,” Angelica’s voice came over the line.

  “You didn’t tell me your parents live like this.” Rosie sat back against the pillows.

  “Has my mother been boring you with her roses?” Angelica asked.

  “Butlers and cooks and sterling silver flatware at breakfast,” Rosie continued, buttering another slice of toast.

  “Morris is a rocker who didn’t want to go home,” Angelica replied. “His parents were going to force him to become a chemist. Peg has been the cook since I was born, she’s part of the family.”

  “Angelica, no one lives like this,” Rosie protested, noticing the Tiffany lamp on the bedside table.

  “My parents do, and so do all their neighbors in Montecito,” Angelica assured her. “You need to heal. Let them take care of you.”

  “I’m not an invalid,” Rosie mumbled and slumped deeper into the pillows.

  “Take a bubble bath, catch up on your reading,” Angelica said.

  “Do I have a choice?” Rosie sighed, glancing at the paperback books on the bookshelf.

  “It’s one summer,” Angelica retorted. “I’ll come up next weekend. I’ll bring hummus from Whole Foods and all the Hollywood gossip.”

  “Have you heard from Ben?” Rosie hesitated. For some reason she sucked in her breath and her hands turned clammy.

  “I have to go.” Angelica ignored her question. “I’m having my first costume fitting for The Philadelphia Story tomorrow and I have to wash my hair. As Katharine Hepburn would say: chin up.”

  “I’m so glad I’m best friends with Katharine Hepburn.” Rosie put the toast on the plate. “I’ll see you next Friday.”

  Rosie finished her breakfast and glanced around the cottage. There was a Seurat painting above the fireplace: all pale pinks and blues. She imagined waking every morning and sitting at the rolltop desk, sipping tea, and gazing at the lawn. She’d wear the yellow fluffy robe she found in the closet and her skin would be smooth from a night facial mask.