by Lila Monroe
After all, there’s nothing like eating your feelings to make a girl feel better.
But even as mad as I am, I can’t stop thinking about Jake’s voice as he talked dirty to me on the plane, the look in his eyes, like he wanted to drag me off to the tiny, cramped airplane bathroom right then and there and pull my skirt up, wrapping my legs around him as he plunges deep inside me . . .
And as furious as I am right now, I know that if he had, I would have been all in.
So I should be glad he’s acting so weird, right?
At least this way, I’m feasting on fried carbs and chocolate, instead of his gorgeous body.
20
Lizzie
The next morning, I decide to forget about Jake’s weird hot-and-cold routine. I mean, it’s pretty hard to stay mad when it’s eighty degrees and sunny and everywhere you turn the air smells like jasmine. I’ve had an amazing plate of eggs benedict for breakfast and already gone for a swim in the pool. Nothing’s going to bring me down today.
Not even Mr. Down With Love himself.
Jake’s already in the car, waiting for me, a pair of Ray-Bans slapped over his eyes. “Ready to rumble?” he asks as I slide in and close the door behind me.
“Are you going to talk in Hollywood clichés for the whole trip?” I ask, putting my sunglasses on.
“Unless you can think of something better to do,” he grins, pulling out into traffic.
The drive up to Bel Air is nothing short of magical—the giant mansions with bougainvillea climbing up their elegant facades, the manicured gardens and softly rolling hills. But that’s nothing compared to Max Danforth’s estate. When we pull in, I can’t help but gasp out loud, and even Jake looks impressed.
“Whoa,” he says, taking in the huge art deco mansion, the gently trickling fountain at the center of the circular driveway, the fleet of classic cars gleaming in the sunlight. “Quite a pile of bricks Max has here.”
“You’re telling me.” I look around. “I feel like I’ve died and gone to heaven.”
Next thing I know, what I assume is a butler in a black suit escorts us inside and we’re walking through an enormous foyer, my heels clicking against the marble floors. This is incredible! The walls are lined with art deco paintings, and the living room, when we finally reach it, is full of expensive antiques. White silk curtains billow at the French doors that frame the garden and pool, and it’s so quiet that I can hear the sound of birds twittering outside.
“Wow,” I whisper, taking in the view.
“Not bad,” Jake murmurs. “Not bad at all.”
“Glad you think so,” a voice says from behind me. When I turn around, a small, white-haired man is standing in front of me, resting his weight on what looks like a rosewood cane with an elaborate gold top.
“I’m Max Danforth,” he says, extending a gnarled hand to me, and then to Jake.
“Thanks so much for letting us visit your home,” I gush. “Your collection is legendary, and I know you have reservations about loaning pieces to the museum, but I promise, everything will be treated with kid gloves. Literally!”
“You’re right, I’m not in the habit of loaning out my collection,” Danforth says. “But you both were particularly persistent.”
“Guilty as charged,” I grin. “And I’m sorry for all the calls. But I have to have your pieces for the exhibit. Your script library, the prop collection . . . From what I’ve read, you’re sitting on the collection of classic Hollywood memorabilia. I couldn’t exactly put on a show without them, it would be a pale imitation of the past!”
OK, so I’m laying it on thick, but flattery will get you everywhere.
Sure enough, Danforth looks pleased. “I suppose you’re right, I’ve often thought it the most comprehensive collection in the country.”
“Absolutely!” I agree. “Is it true you won a grand piano playing poker with Sinatra?”
Danforth laughs and then wheezes so hard I worry I’ve killed him. “Urban legend, my dear,” he says when he’s finally recovered. “It was a baby grand.”
I sigh loudly. “I would love to see the collection,” I say, and I’m not even acting.
Danforth pauses. “Well, I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to look. After all, you’ve come all this way . . .” He rings for the butler again.
“Thank you!” I take hold of Jake’s arm. “Did you hear that? He’s going to let us look!”
“I heard.” Jake looks amused. “And I’m going to need my arm back.”
“Sorry.” I drop it. “I just can’t believe it.” I drop my voice to a whisper. “We have to get his pieces, I don’t care what it takes. Use your powers of charm for good, not evil this time.”
Jake grins. “So I’m charming, huh?”
“You know what I mean.”
Danforth turns back to us, and I quickly shut up. “Shall we?” he asks, and I practically leap after him, following down a long hallway and into an elevator. We head down to the basement level, and just like that, I’m standing in the room of my dreams, surrounded by Hollywood memorabilia.
“Are you kidding me?”
I can’t even take it all in. Against the far wall are rows of glass cases—Marilyn Monroe’s famous pink gloves from Gentlemen Prefer Blondes nestled inside one, along with the rhinestone necklace she wore in the “Diamonds are a Girl’s Best Friend” number.
In another is— “Oh my god,” I squeal. “Is that . . . ?”
“Rita Hayworth’s dress from the nightclub scene in Gilda,” Jake answers for me, sounding impressed.
Swoon. There’s Grace Kelly’s white evening gown from Hitchcock’s To Catch a Thief, and speaking of Hitchcock, mechanical birds line another glass case, their beady eyes taking me in. “Do you really have the actual crows from Hitchcock’s The Birds?” I demand, scooting closer. “And is that the infamous oil painting from Laura over on the far wall?”
“You have a good eye, dear.” Danforth chuckles.
I may fall over and die right here.
In the far corner of the room, film canisters are stacked neatly on metal shelves and I walk over and take in the titles, my eyes widening as I read. It’s all here—I’m staring at original prints of nearly every significant Hollywood film from the twenties to the fifties. There’s so much crammed into the gigantic space that I don’t know where to even begin. I turn to Jake, feeling as excited as a kid in a candy store.
“There’s so much we need,” I whisper to him as I watch Max walk carefully around the enormous room. “Some of these pieces would absolutely make the show.”
He nods, and I can tell by the wonder in his eyes that he’s blown away, too.
I walk over to the painting of Gene Tierney in Laura, and stare up at her perfect face, lost in the mystery in her smile.
‘That was my wife’s favorite film,” Danforth says, and when I turn, he’s standing beside me. “She adored Tierney, who was underused as an actress in Hollywood—if you want my opinion. Lovely woman.”
“Your wife or Gene Tierney?” I joke.
“Well, I was referring to Tierney,” Danforth says with a smile, “but my wife was equally as lovey, if not more so.”
“You knew her?” I ask, incredulous. “Gene Tierney, I mean.”
“Oh, yes.” He smiles, gazing at the portrait fondly. “Quite well, in fact. She’d come over for dinner quite often in those days. So when this piece came up for auction a few years ago at Sotheby’s, I simply had to have it.”
“It’s beautiful,” I breathe, taking it in. “Laura was one of the first films that gave me an appreciation for classic Hollywood,” I say. “It was like my gateway drug.”
“We share that in common. The mystery, the glamor . . .” His voice trails off wistfully. “You know I met my late wife on the old Paramount lot? She was working in one of the sandwich bars. I used to go in every day just to see her smile. She couldn’t make a tuna melt to save her life, but it didn’t matter to me. The day she agreed to go out with me . . . I’ve never
been so happy—or terrified,” he adds with a laugh.
I can see it on his face, he’s right back there.
“Of course, in those days, I was still just an errand boy,” he adds. “Running messages for the big shots in the main office. I didn’t have two dimes to rub together, so we would sneak into matinees on the weekend and go make a coffee last all night at the diner across the street. All the stars would go after work,” he adds. “We were rubbing shoulders right there with them. A little taste of stardust, Moira would say.”
I listen, fascinated. “It must have been incredible,” I say. “History being made, all around you.”
“We didn’t realize it at the time,” he chuckles. “But yes, there was magic there, for sure. We loved the movies, it’s what brought us together. After she passed in ’73, I decided to start building this collection. So I could keep all the memories we shared, as fresh as the day she was here.”
“Oh.” I pause. From the way he’d talked, I assumed his wife died more recently, but that was almost fifty years ago! “That’s . . . lovely.”
“Now you must see this,” he says, brightening. He pulls me across the room with surprising strength. “It’s a rare copy of the original script for Casablanca, with Humphrey Bogart’s notes throughout!”
Three hours later, my head is spinning. I’ve found at least ten pieces I’d love to include in the show, but I’d settle for just about anything, really. But even though Max spent the better part of the morning gleefully showing us his treasure trove, he’s been decidedly noncommittal about whether or not we can include any of them in the exhibition.
“It was a real pleasure meeting you,” I say warmly as I shake his hand at the door. “If there’s any way we can reassure you, just ask. I’d be happy to run through the transportation protocols, or arrange a call with our team back in New York about storage and display—”
“Another time, my dear,” Danforth says. “I’m afraid I’ve over-exerted myself. It’s time for my nap.”
Jake tugs me back. “Thanks so much for allowing us to view your collection,” he says respectfully. “It was a once-in-a-lifetime experience.”
“I’m glad you enjoyed it,” Max says. He starts to close the door, and although I know I’m supposed to be polite and let the old man nap, it’s like watching the door close on that collection for good.
“Wait!” I put my foot in the doorway, holding it open. “I’m sorry, but I can’t leave without begging you one last time. I know this is an incredibly sentimental collection for you, but that’s the point of this show. It’s what I’m trying to capture. All these things: the movies, the props, they’re not just things, are they?” I demand. “I know some people don’t understand, they look at objects and just see the materials right in front of them.” I give Jake a look. “But you and I, we know, there’s more than that. It’s like you said, there’s a little stardust that lingers. The stories they tell matter, and sometimes those stories are the only things that keep us holding on. Believing in a glimpse of that magic, even when the world seems determined to prove us wrong.”
I know I’m babbling now, and basically spilling all of my own emotional issues right here on the gleaming marble floor, but maybe my desperation works, because Max pauses.
“Please,” I add again. “Your collection is to commemorate your wife, so why not share that with the world? Share your love, and everything that brought you together. Don’t just keep it in the basement, let the rest of us be inspired, too!”
Max pauses, and I can see the deliberation in his face. “You promise to take good care of them?” he asks, his watery gaze searching mine.
I nod wordlessly, too nervous to actually speak.
“All right then,” he says with a smile. “You can have your pick. As long as they’re returned to me in perfect condition. Do we have a deal?”
“Yes!” I cry, and I can’t help it, I throw my arms around him in a hug that nearly knocks us both down.
Max coughs, and detaches himself. “I’ll have the museum call tomorrow,” I tell him. “And send a list of the pieces we need. Thank you!”
“Thank you, my dear.” He smiles. “You’re right. Everyone needs a little stardust.”
21
Jake
We get back in the car and Lizzie gets straight on the phone to New York to proudly tell Morgan we’ve secured the collection.
“That’ll show her!” she gloats, hanging up. “She’s been waiting for me to fail since I started this thing, well not today, Satan!”
I chuckle. “Good job back there,” I tell her. “That ‘bigger meaning’ routine was the perfect approach. He ate it up.”
“It wasn’t a routine,” Lizzie says, but then she realizes we’re not heading back to the hotel. “Wait, where are we going?”
“You’ll see,” I tell her. I didn’t plan on taking a detour, but it’s a gorgeous day. Plus, the longer we spend outside, in public, the less likely I am to do something stupid—like fuck her in the middle of that king-sized hotel bed.
She’s driving me crazy.
I swore I’d keep things professional, but when she got all scared on the flight, I couldn’t help myself. I just meant to distract her from all the turbulence, but once I got started turning her on . . . I couldn’t stop. Those eyes of hers dilated, and her lips parted, and the way she was wriggling in her seat told me that if I’d just slipped a hand down her jeans I would have found her pussy hot and wet and waiting for me.
Goddamn, it was hot. And totally off limits. But maybe that’s why she’s got me with a permanent hard-on these days. The thrill of the chase, right? We always want what we can’t have, and with Lizzie on strike, there’s no way she’s giving it up, not for me.
But that just makes me want her more. She’s sexy, and smart, and fun, and . . .
Easy there, tiger. I stop myself. Don’t shit where you eat, remember?
Except I do remember eating Lizzie. Vividly.
I drive for a while through neighborhoods lined with palm trees, then turn up a long curving hill flanked by trees and craggy rocks. There’s even a cute little organic café at the base of the hill where joggers in spandex sit outside drinking coffee and checking their iPhones. As I’m craning my neck out the window to get a better view, I catch a sign that says Griffith Park.
“I’m not exactly dressed for hiking,” Lizzie points out. She’s wearing a vintage sundress and heels, and she looks fucking adorable.
“Sure about that?” I ask. “You could totally hike in that if you wanted to.”
“Right,” she laughs. “Just me and my heels, hitting the trail. Seriously,” she adds, looking around as we drive deeper into the woods. “Did I mention I hate nature? They have bears out here. And coyotes.”
“Patience,” I say as we drive up and up the winding road. Finally, we emerge from the trees, and just like that, there’s all of Los Angeles spread out in front of us, shimmering in the midday sun like a mirage.
“Is that the observatory from Rebel Without a Cause?” Lizzie gasps, looking up the hill. The big white dome-shaped building is propped on the hill, surrounded by lawn.
I nod. “Now, there’s a movie we can agree on.”
We park, and follow a sidewalk up to the observatory. “This is where they shot the famous fight scene,” Lizzie squeals, looking around. “James Dean and Natalie Wood were right over there, right where that girl in the blue yoga pants is standing!”
I laugh, and she blushes. “I’m a dork, I know,” she says. “But this kind of stuff really does make me unreasonably happy. And is that the planetarium over there?”
“Yup.” I smile, watching her. I had a feeling she’d like this place, and it feels good to do something to make her happy.
“Thank you for bringing me here,” she beams. “This is really cool.”
“No problem.” I act casual, but she gives me a puzzled look.
“I can’t figure you out. You sneer at me for caring about this stuff, then turn
around and do something nice like bringing me here.”
“I guess I’m a man of mystery,” I quip, trying to deflect the praise. “Anyway, congrats. You pulled it off with Danforth, I thought that guy would never agree.” I think of him, alone in that fucking tomb. “Creeps me out, the way he has that shrine to his late wife. I mean, I’m all for keeping the memory alive, but that was weird, right?”
“Weird but touching,” Lizzie says with a dopey smile.
I shake my head. “He’s living in the past, clinging onto all that stuff like it can bring her back.”
“I think it’s romantic,” she argues. “Those possessions mean something to him.”
“Romance . . .” I groan. “Are we really back there again? Wait, don’t even answer that. You’re still drinking the Kool-Aid as far as roses and chocolates are concerned.”
Lizzie pauses.
I turn, and she lets out a sigh. “I don’t know,” she says, leaning against the railing. “I’m beginning to think you might be right.”
“What?” I tease. “I didn’t quite catch that. Say it again?”
She pushes me lightly. “Don’t get used to it. It’s just, this whole strike is screwing everything up. It’s hard to know who to trust, or what anyone’s motives are,” Lizzie looks lost. “I mean, if a guy asks me out now, I’m always wondering, does he really like me? Or does he just want to try and get me into bed for some kind of power trip? I just wish I’d never posted that stupid video in the first place,” she adds. “It’s made everything so complicated.”
And horny. Don’t forget the horny.
“I thought it would at least weed out the guys who only want to get laid, but instead, it’s like waving a red flag to a bull!” she continues in despair. “You would have figured publically swearing off sex would send the assholes running in the other direction, but nope! I don’t understand.”
