by Jenn Bennett
“I could drive down the beach to his house and wake him up,” Mr. Roth suggests.
Mrs. Roth’s voice interrupts. “It’s a quarter till midnight, and the man may be sick for all we know. Let him be. Porter, baby, is there a blanket there? Can you sleep okay on that sofa?”
He assures her that he’ll find something, and she says that Lana will cover for him in the surf shop tomorrow morning if he can’t get any sleep. And while they’re winding things up, I text my dad and tell him I’m safe—that’s not a lie, right?—and that I hope they’re having fun in San Francisco. His reply is immediate and includes a geeky Settlers of Catan joke, so I assume he’s in a genuinely good mood: Having a blast. We bought you a surprise today. Love you more than sheep.
I text him an equally geeky reply: Love you more than wheat.
• • •
I have no idea where Porter’s taking me that is off camera.
First he digs up a weird old-fashioned key out of a desk drawer in the security room. Then we gather up our stuff and head to the lost and found, where we score a baby blanket. Sure, it’s gross to think about using some stranger’s blanket, but whatever. It smells fine. Then he takes me all the way down to the end of Vivian’s wing. There’s a door here that’s been painted the same dark green color as the wall, and because of the lighting, it’s hard to see. I also know from memorizing the employee map that it’s not supposed to be there—as in, it shouldn’t exist.
“What is this?” I ask.
“Room one-zero-zero-one,” he says, showing me the old key, which has a tag attached to it. “Like, One Thousand and One Nights, Arabian Nights, Ali Baba, and all that.”
“There’s another room? Why isn’t this open to the public?”
He hoists his backpack higher on his shoulder and flattens his palm against the door. “Now, look. This is a huge Cavern Palace secret. You have to solemnly swear that you’ll never tell anyone what I’m about to show you on the other side of this door. Not even Gracie. Especially Gracie, because I love her, but she knows everyone, and it will fly around faster than the chicken pox virus. Swear to me, Bailey. Hold up your hand and swear.”
I hold up my hand. “I swear.”
“Okay, this is the Cave’s dirtiest secret.” He unlocks the door, flips on the lights, which take a second to flicker on, and we step inside a perfectly round room lit in soft oranges and golds. It smells a little musty, like a library that hasn’t seen a lot of action. And as Porter closes the door behind us, I look around in amazement.
Thick, star-scattered indigo curtains cover the walls. A cluster of arabesque pendant lamps hang in various lengths from the domed ceiling over a low, velvet cushion about the size of a large bed. It’s tufted and comes up to my knees, and crowning one side of it, like a half-moon, it’s surrounded by hundreds of small pillows with geometric designs that look like they came straight out of a palace in Istanbul.
“It’s beautiful,” I say. “Like a dream. I don’t understand why it’s not open. Are these pillows from the 1930s? They should be preserved.”
Porter dumps his stuff on the floor next to the velvet cushion. “Don’t you remember your Cave history? Vivian hated Jay. When their marriage fell apart, he wouldn’t give her a divorce, so she had this room constructed as big middle finger to him. Come feast your eyes on her revenge. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
He steps up to one of the starry blue curtains on the wall and lifts a golden cord to reveal a mural on the wall beneath. It’s a life-size art deco painting of Vivian Davenport dressed up as a Middle Eastern princess, with bells on her fingers and flowers in her long hair, a sheer gown flowing over her buxom, naked body. Throngs of men in suits bow down at her feet.
“Oh . . . my . . . God,” I murmur.
There are several big-eyed smiling cartoon animals looking on, like even they can’t look away from the glory that is naked Vivian.
“Is that . . . Groucho Marx?” I say, squinting to look at one of the kneeling men.
“Vivian made history come alive,” Porter answers, grinning.
“Make it stop,” I say, laughing, and he closes the curtain.
I’m scarred for life, but it was worth it. We fall on the velvet cushion together, and a small cloud of dust motes flies up. I guess the janitorial service doesn’t come back here much. Porter fake coughs and brushes off the rest of the cushion.
That’s when it hits me that this is a bed we’re sitting on. “You don’t think Vivian had crazy sex parties right here, do you?” I ask, moving my hand off the velvet. “More revenge against her husband?”
“Doubtful. But if she did, it was a hundred years ago,” he says, squinting his eyes merrily at me. “And it all ended so tragically for the both of them, what with her shooting him and killing herself, you almost hope she had some fun before it all went sideways, you know? Like maybe she actually modeled for that portrait.”
“Yeah.”
After a few moments of silence, a heavy awkwardness blooms in the space between us. Porter finally sighs, sits up, and begins stripping the radio equipment from his shoulder. My heart hammers.
He slides a sideways glance in my direction. “Look, I’m not getting naked or anything—cool your jets. How could I compete with all that wackiness on the walls, anyway? I just can’t sleep with a bunch of wires and crap attached to me. Or shoes. I’m leaving the shirt and pants on. You can leave on whatever you want. Ladies’ choice.” He winks.
His good humor puts me somewhat at ease, and I slip off my shoes next to his. He shuts off his radio and sets a timer on his phone for six thirty a.m. But when he takes off his belt, all the blood in my brain swooshes so loud, I worry I might be having an aneurism.
The belt buckle hits the Turkish-patterned rug with a dull thump. “You’re a great mystery to me, Bailey Rydell.”
“I am?”
“I can never tell if you’re scared of me, or if you’re about to jump me.”
I chuckle nervously. “I’m not sure of that myself.”
He pulls me closer and we lie down, facing each other, hands clasped between us. I can feel his heart racing against my fist. I wonder if he can feel mine.
“I’m scared,” I tell him, “of what I feel when I’m around you. I’m scared of what I want from you, and I don’t know how to ask for it.” I’m also scared that if I do, it might be terrible or not live up to my expectations, but I don’t say this, because I’m afraid it will hurt his feelings.
He kisses my forehead. “Know what I’m scared of?”
“What?”
“That I like you way too much, and I’m afraid once you get to know me, you’re going to realize that you can do lots better, and you’re going to break my heart and leave me for someone classier.”
I breathe him in deeply. “When I first came to town, there was someone else. Not Patrick,” I say, as if either of us needs that reminder.
“Your so-called other plans?” he asks.
“Yeah,” I say. “I guess you could say he’s classy, I don’t know. But just when you think you understand someone, it turns out that you didn’t really know them at all. Or maybe the real problem was that you didn’t understand something about yourself.”
“I don’t follow.”
I blow out a long breath. “It doesn’t matter. What I’m trying to say is that before I moved out here, I didn’t know I liked churros and moon muffins and Hawaiian poke and Jollof rice, and I didn’t know I would fall for you. But I did. And who wants classy when you can eat posole out of a food truck on the beach? I had no idea what I was missing.”
He slowly traces a wavy tendril near my temple with one finger. “You’ve fallen for me, huh?”
“Maybe.” I hold up my fingers and measure a small amount. “This much.”
“That’s it? Guess I’m going to have to try harder, then,” he says in a low voice against my lips, almost kissing me, but not quite. Then again. Little almost-kisses. Teasing me.
My breath quic
kens.
“Let’s take a quick quiz, why don’t we?” he murmurs. “If I put my hand here—”
His fingers slide under my shirt over my belly. It’s delicious . . . for all of two seconds. Then he’s too close to the off-limits area of my scar. And—no! He’s actually touching my scar. No way am I stopping this to explain that. I just . . . can’t. No.
He feels me tense up and immediately withdraws. “Hey. I—”
“No, no, no,” I quickly whisper. “It’s not you. It’s something else. Don’t take it personally, I . . . just, um.” I move his hand to the middle of my bare thigh, under my skirt. Talk about dangerous waters.
“Bailey,” he says. A warning.
“Quiz me,” I challenge.
He mumbles a filthy little curse, but his hand begins to climb upward, oh-so-slowly. “Okay, Rydell. If you’re locked in a museum all night with a guy you’re falling for, and he’s cool enough to show you the Cave’s dirtiest secret—God, your skin is so soft.”
“Mmphrm?” I murmur, moving around to give him better access.
“Oh,” he murmurs back cheerfully.
Hand firmly gripping my upper thigh, he kisses me, and I kiss him back, and it’s desperate and wonderful.
“Okay,” he says, sounding drugged. “Now, where was I? Oh yes, here.” Much to my delight, his hand continues its roaming ascent. Only, there’s not much farther it can go. He hesitates, chuckling to himself, and switches legs, repeating the same pattern on the other thigh.
Then stops.
I whimper. I’m genuinely frustrated.
Until he shifts a little, and I feel him pressed against my hip. No mistaking that.
“I’m having some trouble concentrating on this quiz,” he admits, smiling against my neck.
“Whatever you do, don’t you dare give me another hickey.”
He pretends to bite me, and then he shows me other things besides moon muffins and posole that I didn’t know I was missing, things two people locked in a museum overnight can do with their hands and fingers and a whole lot of ingenuity. The boy has every right to be wearing that HOT STUFF cartoon devil patch on his jacket.
Unlike our previous roll in the grass, this touching definitely is not rated PG, and when Porter offers to do the thing to me that I normally do for myself, who am I to look a gift horse in the mouth? It’s possibly the most amazing thing that’s ever, ever happened to me. I even return the favor—still pretty amazing, though much more so for him, for obvious reasons.
But wow.
All of that touching wears me out, and it’s two in the morning, which is too late for my blood. I’m wound up in him, arms and legs, and he’s the big spoon to my little spoon, and as I’m dozing off, in and out of consciousness, lights flicker. I hear voices. Not alarming voices. No one’s in the museum; we’re still alone. But he’s reached over me and wedged his laptop out of his backpack, and it’s sitting on the velvet cushion above our heads. There’s something playing on the screen.
“What’s going on?” I say, my voice sounding thick to my own ears as I tilt my head upward. I can’t quite open my eyes all the way, but I can make out shapes and moving light through my eyelids.
“Sorry, sorry,” he says in a bone-weary voice. “Is it bothering you? I can’t get to sleep without a movie or TV on.”
“S’fine,” I slur, snuggling back against him. A few seconds later, I say. “Is that Roman Holiday?”
His deep voice vibrates through my back. “It’s an indie film. They’re quoting it. Wait, you know Roman Holiday?”
“Pfft,” I say sloppily, too tired to explain my love of film. “Question is, how do you know Roman Holiday?”
“My grandma—my mom’s mother—lived with us before she died. She’d stay up late watching movies in the den, and when I was a kid, I’d fall asleep in her lap on the couch.”
How funny. That’s how he knew about Breakfast at Tiffany’s, too. “Maybe you and I have more in common than you think,” I say before I drift into dreams.
“Life does not stop and start at your convenience.”
—John Goodman, The Big Lebowski (1998)
21
* * *
Porter was right. I get out of the museum in plenty of time to beat dad home from his trip. I’m so tired, I even go back to sleep for a few more hours. When I wake a second time, it’s almost time for me to get ready for another shift at the Cave, which is crazy. I might as well just move in there. But it’s hard to be too sour about it, because I spent the night with a boy.
SPENT.
NIGHT.
BOY.
That’s right. I did that. I did some other things too, and they were all excellent. It’s a beautiful day, the sun is shining, and I don’t even care that I have to spend four hours in the Hotbox. At least I don’t have to work a full shift today.
I shower and dress before bounding downstairs just in time to run into Dad and Wanda returning from San Francisco. Talk about two exhausted people. They look happy, though. I don’t really want to know what they did all night, so I don’t pry. But they dig around in the trunk of my dad’s muscle car until they find the gifts they bought for me: a leopard-print scarf and a pair of matching sunglasses.
“To go with Baby,” my dad says, looking hopeful but unsure.
“The scarf is to cover up any future hickeys,” Wanda adds, one side of her mouth tilting up.
Oh, God. Her, too? Does everyone know? My dad tries to repress a smile. “I’m sorry, kiddo. It’s sort of funny, you have to admit.”
Wanda crosses her arms over her chest. “Own it, I say. If your dad gave me a hickey and anyone at the station gave me grief, I’d tell them where they could go. I picked out the sunglasses, by the way.”
I sigh deeply and slide them on. The lenses are dark and huge, brand-new, but very Italian retro cool. “They’re fantastic, thank you. And I hate both of you for the scarf, but it’s still awesome. Stop looking at my neck, Dad. There are no new hickeys.” I checked just to be sure.
After they give me a briefing of their day in the Bay Area, I race out the door and drive back to the Cave. I know Porter’s working, and I’m zipping and floating, high as a kite, eager to see him again. I want to know if he feels as good as I feel after last night. I also want to see Grace and tell her how crazy things were. Though this time, I don’t think I’ll be sharing so many details. Some things are meant to be private. What happens in Room 1001 stays in Room 1001.
But when I park Baby in my normal spot, I see Porter standing outside his van, which is weird. He’s typically inside the building long before I get there. It’s not just that. Something’s wrong: He’s holding his head in his hands.
I slam on the brakes and jump off the scooter, race over to him. He doesn’t acknowledge me. When I pull his hands away from his face, tears are streaming down his cheeks.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
His voice is hoarse and barely there. “Pangborn.”
“What?” I demand, my stomach dropping.
“He didn’t show up for work this morning,” he says. “It happened sometime last night in his home. There wasn’t anything we could’ve done. He lied to me about where the cancer was. It was pancreatic this time, not colon.”
“I don’t understand what you’re saying.” I’m starting to shake all over.
“He’s dead, Bailey. Pangborn’s dead.”
He gasps for a single shaky breath, and curls up against me, sobbing for a second along with me, and then goes quiet and limp in my arms.
• • •
The funeral is four days later. I think half of Coronado Cove shows up, and it doesn’t surprise me. He was probably the nicest man in town.
I sort of fell apart the first couple of days. The thought of Porter and me doing what we were doing while Pangborn was dying was a pretty heavy burden. Porter was right: There was nothing we could have done. Pangborn’s cancer was advanced. His younger sister tells Grace and me at the funeral that the doctor
had given him anywhere from a few days to a few weeks. She says when it’s at that stage, some people get diagnosed and die that week. He didn’t know when it would happen, so he kept living his life normally.
“He was stubborn that way,” she says in a feminine voice that sounds strangely familiar to his. She lives a couple of hours down the coast with her husband, in a small town near Big Sur. I’m relieved to learn that she’s adopting Daisy, Pangborn’s dog.
We leave the church and drive to the cemetery. I can’t find Grace at the graveside service, so I stand with my dad and Wanda. It’s really crowded. They’ve just played “Me and Julio Down by the School Yard” to end the service, which, it turns out, was Pangborn’s favorite song. This makes me fall apart all over again, so I’m in a weakened state, sniffling on my dad’s shoulder, when the Roths walk up: all four of them.
Well.
I’m too tired to keep this charade up, and it seems like a shame to dishonor Pangborn’s memory. So I throw caution to the wind and my arms around Porter’s torso.
Not in a casual we’re friends way either.
He hesitates for a second, and then wraps me in a tight embrace, holding me for an amount of time that’s longer than appropriate, but I just don’t care. Before he lets me go, he whispers in my ear, “You sure about this?”
I whisper back, “It’s time.”
When we pull apart, Mrs. Roth hugs my neck briefly—she’s wearing a fragrant, fresh flower tucked over one ear that tickles my cheek—and Mr. Roth surprises me by squeezing the back of my neck, which almost makes me cry again, and then I finally face my dad. I can tell by the funny look on his face that he’s tallying things up and wondering how in the hell I know this family. His gaze darts to Mr. Roth’s arm and a moment of clarity dawns.
