by Anita Hughes
“You’re going to eat all that?” Rosie frowned.
“Surfers are always starving,” Josh admitted, wiping his mouth with a napkin.
“Are you Oscar’s assistant?” Rosie asked curiously.
“I’d be a lousy assistant.” Josh shook his head. “I’m a terrible typist and I don’t have all the latest apps on my phone. I take care of his classic car collection.”
“Classic cars?” Rosie sat down opposite him.
“You haven’t seen Mr. Pullman’s collection?” Josh put down the glass of milk. “He’s got a few cars that Jay Leno would drool over. He just bought a mint-green ’56 MG that purrs like a kitten.”
“Angelica told me about Estelle’s rose garden, but she didn’t mention classic cars.”
“Mr. Pullman doesn’t collect so he can brag at cocktail parties,” Josh said, buttering a loaf of sourdough. “He really loves cars. If he wasn’t so busy with his bands he’d be in the garage with me, tinkering with a Fiat or an Alpha Romeo Spider.”
“Driving in a convertible looks so exhilarating. I loved Grace Kelly in To Catch a Thief.” Rosie sighed. “She zipped through Monte Carlo in a gorgeous European sports car and it seemed so romantic.”
“That was a ’53 Sunbeam Alpine Mark I.” Josh nodded. “It’s in a car museum in Paris. Mr. Pullman tried to buy it a few years ago but he was outbid.”
“You’re a walking car encyclopedia.” She grinned.
“I’ve been rebuilding classic cars since I was fourteen.” He shrugged. “The more love you give them, the more they gleam. If you’re a movie producer”—Josh looked at her thoughtfully—“why are you hiding out in the Pullmans’ guest cottage?”
“You remembered.” Rosie pictured the pink-and-orange sunset at Butterfly Beach.
“I have a memory like an elephant.” Josh finished the lasagna and took the plate to the sink. “It’s a curse.”
“Sometimes I think I forgot everything I studied in college.” Rosie sighed.
“I remember the first time I rode a surfboard, I was ten years old. I was at the beach with my sister. She was eight, with her own wet suit and foam board. She convinced me to try it and I paddled out—it seemed forever, though it must have been fifty feet. The ocean was pale blue and so calm I felt like I had slipped into another world. Then this big wave appeared and tipped over my board. I was so scared I inhaled a gallon of seawater. By the time I swam to shore, I was shivering and covered with seaweed. I didn’t go back in the ocean until I was twelve.”
“Bad experiences help you grow,” Rosie replied.
“That’s existential babble.” Josh took a plate of brownies from the fridge. “I had a philosophy class where the professor insisted if you hadn’t felt pain you weren’t fully alive. I’ve had my toe almost ripped off, fifteen stitches in my leg, and my heart broken twice. I’d be fine without any of those experiences.”
“Where did you go to college?”
“UC Santa Barbara.” Josh ate a wedge of brownie, the crumbs falling onto the counter. “Four years of World History and surfing. I lived two blocks from the beach and surfed every day. I liked learning about the human condition, but I realized I never wanted to wear a suit or sit at a desk.”
“At least you’re earning a living doing what you love,” Rosie replied.
“I work at the Classic Car Showroom in town and I take care of a few private collections on the side. Mr. Pullman’s collection is my favorite. He just got a 1953 Rolls-Royce Phantom that’s a gem. Can I show it to you?”
Rosie glanced at her onions and avocados and tomatoes. “I was about to make guacamole.”
“The garage is right out back.” Josh sliced another brownie. “You’ve never seen an interior like this. It’s like the inside of a British drawing room, with a humidor for cigars.”
Josh led Rosie down a cobblestoned path to the garage. She followed him into a dark space and waited while he fumbled with the light switch.
Rosie blinked under the suddenly bright light. The room was bigger than a hotel ballroom. The floors and walls were a pristine white. Every inch of space was filled with cars. The cars were colors Rosie had never seen: burnt orange, sapphire blue, powder pink, and emerald green. Chrome bumpers twinkled like diamonds, and polished leather made the room smell like lemons. There were convertibles with wide runners, station wagons with wood sides, a vintage Ford with red seats and a gold-plated steering wheel.
“Here she is.” Josh led Rosie to a silver Rolls-Royce with a creamy white interior. “She’s a replica of the car Queen Elizabeth drove through London after her coronation. They only made eighteen of them.”
Rosie sat in the backseat, admiring the gleaming wood and the supple white leather. The bucket seats curved around her body and the windows were covered in gauze curtains.
“It’s gorgeous,” Rosie murmured, leaning back against the headrest.
“Some people think cars are all about speed: Ferraris and Maseratis and Lamborghinis.” Josh climbed in next to her. “But they each have their own personality. The Rolls-Royce Phantom is a grand duchess. The backseat is big enough to have afternoon tea.”
“It looks like it was built yesterday.” Rosie ran her hands over the soft white upholstery.
“I spent the last week making her shine.” Josh hopped out and opened Rosie’s door.
“I like this one.” Rosie walked over to a bright orange two-seater with oversized oval headlamps.
“A 1961 MG.” Josh nodded. “I’m restoring one at home. She has the most beautiful curves. I fell in love with her at a car auction.”
“You sound like you’re describing a woman,” Rosie giggled.
“A car is easy, it can’t break your heart.” Josh frowned. “I stay away from women. I’m a confirmed bachelor.”
“The only confirmed bachelors I know of are Zac Efron and Leonardo DiCaprio,” Rosie said. “Even most movie stars get married or are in serious relationships. Everyone needs love.”
“I wake up every morning and run to the ocean: water calm as glass, sun hovering over the horizon.” Josh rubbed the steering wheel. “I love women in the abstract. I love their shape and their hair, but they don’t make me happy.”
“There are lots of happy couples,” Rosie protested. “Look at Oscar and Estelle.”
“Once in a while two special people find each other,” Josh admitted grudgingly. “But they’re the exception. I studied history and women are the root of most problems: Helen and the Trojan War, Antony and Cleopatra, Napoleon and Josephine, Romeo and Juliet.”
“Women wouldn’t be the problem if men didn’t spend so much time obsessing over them,” Rosie corrected. “And Romeo and Juliet weren’t real, it was a play by Shakespeare.”
“The outcome is the same.” Josh shook his head. “Most love affairs at best cause heartache and at worst start wars.”
“What about children?” she wondered aloud.
“My sister will have children and I’ll be the coolest uncle. I’ll take the kid surfing and let him sit in the driver’s seat of a ’67 Mustang.”
“I can’t imagine not wanting to get married and have children,” she said earnestly.
“Everyone’s different,” Josh responded. “If you’re a movie producer, why aren’t you in Hollywood producing?”
Rosie blushed and walked to a wooden station wagon with bench seats. “This belongs in one of those old surfing movies like Endless Summer.”
Josh opened the driver’s door so Rosie could peek inside. “Why are you hiding in the Pullmans’ guest cottage? Did you kill someone on the set?”
Rosie looked at Josh. His face was tan and unlined. His nose was slightly crooked, and his eyes seemed to dance. “I found out my boyfriend had another woman in our bed. At first he tried to lie about it but when he got caught he said it didn’t mean anything.” She took a deep breath. “Then we started arguing and Ben thought we should take a break. He is the director.” Her voice wobbled. “Angelica suggested I get out of town
and stay in Montecito with her parents for the summer.”
“I’m sorry,” Josh said.
“Ben got sidetracked.” Rosie gulped, tears springing to her eyes. “We’ve been together for ten years. We both needed time to rethink the relationship. He’s going to come up in July and we’re going to see where things are headed.”
“You sound like one of those relationship therapy workshops,” Josh mused. “I like to keep life simple.”
“How would you know what it feels like to be cheated on?” Rosie fumed. How dare Josh analyze her reactions; they barely knew each other. She opened the garage door and darted across the lawn. Ducks bobbed on the lake, and she ran until she reached the cottage. From now on she would keep her worries to herself. She went inside, closed the curtains, and buried her face in the pillows.
Five
Rosie stood in the Pullmans’ kitchen and tasted the guacamole. The last two days she had spent blending and mixing. There was no Hawaiian sea salt so she substituted a coarse salt from Mexico. But it didn’t add the same sweet and tangy flavor. The guacamole was creamy: light and fluffy from two scoops of cottage cheese, but it lacked the zing that made it special.
The end of her little finger had a spot of guacamole and she tried it again. Diced onions and chopped tomatoes were arranged neatly on the marble counter. Two mixing bowls stood side by side. Rosie wore a light cotton dress and had an apron tied around her waist.
After Josh showed her Oscar’s car collection she lay awake for hours. Josh’s words stung and she ruminated about the tragic love affairs in cinema: Doctor Zhivago, Casablanca, and An Affair to Remember. She thought of the heartbreaking novels she read: Madame Bovary and Anna Karenina and Love Story. She wanted to call Ben, just to hear his voice, but she knew if he answered she would start crying.
She finally fell asleep and when she woke it was late afternoon. People splashed in the pool, and she could hear Estelle’s voice asking for lemonade, Oscar calling for more ice. She sat up and saw Morris crossing the lawn carrying a tray of sandwiches.
Her robe lay on the bed and she pulled it on and stood by the window, watching Oscar and Estelle greet their guests. Estelle wore a green cotton caftan and Oscar wore navy swimming trunks and a white polo shirt. They linked arms; their heads pressed together, their laughter wafting across the lawn.
“That’s going to be Ben and me,” Rosie said aloud. She rummaged through her bag and found a cotton dress that was not too crumpled. She brushed her hair, dabbed bronzer on her cheeks, and walked briskly to the kitchen.
Since then she had stopped only to walk around the grounds in the evening. She loved the sound of the crickets at dusk, and the frogs croaking in the grass. Last night she sat by the lake, throwing bread crumbs to the ducks, humming Ben’s favorite Coldplay songs.
“How’s the chef?” Morris put a laundry basket full of shirts on the table. “Ready for your cooking show debut?”
“Hardly.” Rosie grinned, wiping her hands on her apron. “I need Hawaiian sea salt, it doesn’t taste the same without it.”
“May I?” Morris put a spoon into the mixing bowl.
“Angelica and Matthew are coming up for the weekend.” Rosie waited for Morris’ verdict. “I want to make dinner, and I want it to be delicious.”
“You mean you want to impress Angelica so she tells Ben you’ve become an incredible chef, and you look beautiful and tan and he should hightail it up here and claim you.” Morris put down the spoon.
“I want to prepare gourmet food Ben will be proud of,” Rosie corrected. “Then we can host intimate dinners and invite A-list actors like Ryan Reynolds and Blake Lively.”
“So you think I should have worked harder to keep Neil,” Morris chided. “If only I had done my butt exercises every day and worked on my tan, he may have picked me over Amber.”
“I’m not doing this just for Ben,” Rosie insisted. “I like to cook. It keeps me occupied.”
“It’s Peg’s day off and Mr. Pullman wants salmon for dinner. I’ve got a pile of shirts to iron and shoes to shine.” Morris picked up the laundry basket. “Would you mind going into the village and picking up some fish?”
“I’d love to.” Rosie placed the mixing bowls in the fridge. “I’ll see if I can find Hawaiian sea salt.”
* * *
Rosie parked at the end of Coast Village Road and grabbed her purse. The sidewalk was packed with tourists wearing Montecito t-shirts and licking ice cream cones. Rosie stopped in front of a shoe store and admired red and black Gucci sandals in the window.
“Come in,” the salesgirl beckoned at the door. She wore a white crocheted dress and silver sandals.
“I’m just looking.” Rosie shook her head. She had never indulged in designer footwear. Her shoe collection consisted of flip-flops, Keds, and a few pairs of presentable sandals and pumps.
“We just got a shipment from Milan,” the saleswoman purred. “The Manolo Blahniks would look stunning with your coloring.”
Rosie hesitated and followed her inside. The shop was like the inside of a jewelry box. The carpet was purple and the walls were covered in silver wallpaper. There were Bottega Veneta wedges in brilliant colors, Christian Louboutin stilettos, Chanel flats, and Tod’s loafers in orange and green.
“Are you visiting?” the salesgirl asked.
“I live in LA.” Rosie nodded, admiring Prada pumps. Even when she was made associate producer she stayed away from designer shoes the other female executives wore. They were gorgeous, but they cost as much as her student loan payments.
“Everyone in Hollywood wants this shoe.” The salesgirl brought out a box of Manolos. “They already sold out at Neiman’s.”
The sandals were gold with red and green jewels embedded in the leather. Rosie slipped them on, feeling like she belonged on a yacht in the Greek Islands.
“They’re beautiful.” Rosie walked gingerly around the store.
“Very sophisticated.” The salesgirl nodded. “They dress up a pair of jeans or look stunning with a gold lamé dress and a Dior clutch.”
Rosie stood in front of the mirror. She looked taller, sleeker, the jewels shimmering like a magic carpet. Even her eyes looked greener. She reached into her purse and froze. Did she really need a pair of Manolos, and when would she wear them? Then she glanced at the mirror again and took a deep breath.
“I’ll take them.” She handed the salesgirl the credit card she shared with Ben.
“Would you like the evening bag?” the salesgirl asked casually.
“No, thank you,” Rosie replied, trying to make the pit in her stomach go away. She had never spent so much on shoes. She waited while the salesgirl slid her card, imagining Mary Beth Chase’s shoe closet: racks of Versace pumps and Roger Vivier sky-high wedges. Mary Beth probably arranged her shoes by color and had separate shelves for her athletic shoes and winter boots.
Rosie ran out of the store before she could change her mind. She hugged the box to her chest, inching through the crowd. She stopped in front of a jewelry store that displayed gold earrings and diamond bracelets.
“I don’t need any jewelry,” Rosie said aloud. “But maybe a really beautiful dress.”
Rosie kept walking until she found a dress boutique. She sifted through satin evening gowns and dresses with poufy skirts. There were cocktail dresses in every color and long sheaths with silver belts. Rosie spied a red silk dress with a heart-shaped bust and a flared skirt.
Rosie pictured wearing it to an intimate dinner at Adam’s house. Ben would have on a white shirt and tan linen slacks. He’d wear Italian loafers and a Rolex Oyster watch. She took it to the dressing room and tried it on in front of the three-way mirror. She took the Manolos out of the box and slipped them on her feet.
“That dress is divine.” The saleswoman appeared behind her. “Perfect for a cocktail party or a quiet dinner.”
“I love the way it feels against my skin.” Rosie stroked the fabric. “Like the wings of a butterfly.”
&
nbsp; “It’s a great color on you.” The woman nodded. “Not many people can wear that color.”
Rosie flashed on Mary Beth’s pale blond hair and creamy white skin. Mary Beth would look like a vampire in the red dress. She turned and smiled at the saleswoman.
“I’ll take it.” She nodded. “I’ll wear it, actually, break it in.”
Rosie breathed deeply, trying not to think what Ben would say when he saw the bill. She remembered the dozens of times they watched Breakfast at Tiffany’s. Ben loved the scenes when Holly Golightly slipped on a black cocktail dress and a big white hat.
“Blake Edwards knew how to direct a woman,” Ben would say, stroking Rosie’s leg. “Most directors treat women like accessories, but he made them goddesses. Audrey Hepburn was a sprightly Aphrodite. You look like her, you know; you both have the same wide eyes and upturned nose.”
Now Rosie walked briskly, swinging her bag against her hip. She passed a card store, an antiques store, and a florist with a window box bursting with chrysanthemums. She stopped in front of a chocolate shop with a chocolate treasure chest in the window.
“You look like you won the lottery.” Rachel appeared at the doorway. “Or found a dreamy new boyfriend who showers you with riches.”
“I was coming to say hi.” Rosie grinned. “And try some peanut butter brittle.”
“Did you find Butterfly Beach?” Rachel asked.
“It was the most beautiful sunset I’ve ever seen.” Rosie nodded. “It was like a painter’s palette left out in the rain.”
“Come and see my shop.” Rachel waved her inside. “It’s not very big, but I love it.”
The shop reminded Rosie of Miss Havisham’s room in Great Expectations. An oriental rug covered the floor and oak shelves lined the walls. Every surface was covered with chocolates. There were tins of chocolate mints, jars of chocolate coins, boxes of truffles, and plates of nougats and marzipan. A chocolate dollhouse stood in the corner with miniature chocolate tables and chairs.
“I need a dessert for a dinner party.” Rosie peered at a selection of cakes under the glass.
