“I’m sorry,” she said. “The pain is just very raw.”
“I can well imagine,” Erinn said, although she couldn’t imagine it at all.
“May I see the guesthouse?”
“Oh!” Erinn felt a surge of panic. “I’m sorry! It’s rented.”
“But you said it wasn’t rented.”
“Did I?” Erinn asked. How was it that she could tell lie after damning lie to her sister just an hour ago and yet couldn’t think of anything to say to this . . . shepherdess. “Oh, well, it’s potentially rented. It’s not a done deal. I’m waiting for a credit report.”
Dymphna brightened.
“Well then, you might as well show it to me,” she said. “I know all about lousy credit ratings.”
At least she has a lousy credit rating.
Erinn let out an audible sigh. She hadn’t realized she was holding her breath.
“This way,” she said, leading Dymphna around back.
They threaded their way over the cobblestones through the side yard, which was full of hot pink and white mandevilla plants. Erinn watched as Dymphna took in the beauty of the plants. This was one of Erinn’s secret tests for potential renters: Did they appreciate the artistry of the landscaping? As they entered the backyard Erinn tried to imagine how the yard and guesthouse must appear to a first-time guest. To her own eyes, the space took her breath away every time. The cobblestones continued from the side yard and cut a serpentine path up to the front door of the guesthouse, a beautifully replicated Victorian with a small porch and a varnished red door. Erinn noticed that Dymphna seemed more interested in the yard than the house.
“This yard is exquisite,” Dymphna said. “Although you seem to have some brown patches in the grass.”
“Well . . . I . . . I just can’t seem to get anything to grow in those spots this year. Believe me, I’ve tried,” Erinn said.
“It’s brown patch disease,” said Dymphna, looking sideways at Erinn. “I know what you’re thinking . . . .”
Oh, I bet you don’t.
“You’re thinking that you can’t possibly have brown patch disease because it’s Santa Monica and it’s not hot enough. But it’s unseasonably warm so I think that’s what it is . . . the ground is kind of freaked out.”
The ground isn’t the only thing that’s freaked out.
“I could cure that with cornmeal and molasses if I end up living here.”
That is never going to happen.
Erinn’s phone rang in her jacket pocket.
“Excuse me for a minute,” she said, relieved to have a respite from the Paula Deen of Landscaping. “Here is the key.”
She handed Dymphna the key and walked toward the back porch of her own house.
“Hello?”
“Erinn, hi! It’s Cary!”
Erinn sat down at her patio table with a thud. Cary was the supervising producer on the last two shows she had worked on, but it had been months since Erinn had heard from her. Maybe there was a new job. Could it be that she might have a job and a tenant by the end of the day and not have to admit to her sister that she’d been lying just to get out of housing their mother for an unforeseen amount of time? Erinn glanced up and watched Dymphna through the window of the guesthouse.
Well, maybe at least a new job.
“Hello? Erinn? Are you there?” Cary’s voice brought Erinn back around.
“Yes!” she said, a little too loudly. “Hi, Cary. It’s good to hear from you.”
“Well, I’ve been thinking about you lately. I would love to see you.”
“And I, you,” Erinn said, wincing as she remembered Suzanna’s admonishment not to say arcane things like “And I, you” instead of “Me too.”
“Well, that’s good, because I’m right around the corner!”
“On Montana?”
“No . . . the corner of your house.”
Erinn looked up to see Cary, all six feet of her, loping into the backyard. Erinn, shocked, stood up and came down the porch stairs to greet her old boss. Erinn was not a hugger by nature but she knew there was no escaping Cary’s exuberant embrace.
“I know this is crazy, but I was in the area and I just thought I’d stop in. I hope you’re not busy.”
“Oh, not at all. Not. At. All.” Erinn tried to convey in three words how desperate she was for a job.
“This place is such an oasis of calm,” Cary said grandly as she climbed onto the porch and looked around the yard. “It really is just a perfect, perfect spot.”
“I have brown patch disease,” Erinn said, not wanting her life to seem too perfect. Cary blinked in surprise, and Erinn, worried she may have overplayed her hand, added, “But I can cure it with cornmeal and molasses.”
“What in God’s name are you talking about?” Cary asked as she sat down at the patio table, suddenly looking very serious. “Erinn, we need to talk. I have a show coming up and—”
“I’ll take it,” Erinn said, sitting down across from her old—and maybe new—boss.
“You don’t even know what it’s about.”
“I don’t care!” Erinn said. “I mean . . . well, I’ve always enjoyed working with you and I’m sure this time won’t be any different.”
“It’s not me that’s the problem,” Cary said. “It’s a pilot for a reality show called Red, White, and Blu—spelled B-L-U, because it will be starring Blu Knight. Does that name ring a bell?”
This situation was exactly why Erinn didn’t like face-to-face conversations. If this discussion were taking place on the phone, like it should, she could be madly pecking away on the Internet until she found out who or what Blu Knight was and not look as out of touch as she knew she was.
“No,” Erinn admitted. “Should it?”
“She was a minor celebrity back in the day,” Cary said. “Somehow, she’s gotten one of the networks interested in doing a reality series or at least a pilot with her. She’s trying to make a comeback.”
“She’s trying to come back as a minor celebrity?”
“No, as a shoe designer. She wants to make high heels that suburban moms will wear to make them feel fabulous or some such horseshit.”
“Well,” Erinn said, “you know I’m always ready to help. All I need to do is charge the batteries for the camera.”
Cary looked down at her perfectly manicured nails and said nothing. Erinn could sense that there was more to the equation than the batteries—there had to be! Why was Cary on her back porch instead of calling Erinn’s agent, Mimi Adams, about this?
“There is one little thing,” Cary said, but then said no more.
Balzac said, “A flow of words is a sure sign of duplicity.” I wonder what he’d make of Cary’s fits and starts?
“It can’t be all that bad,” Erinn said.
“That all depends.” Cary looked at Erinn. “You see, Blu has fallen on hard times. . . .”
Who hasn’t?
“We need to shoot the pilot in Blu’s house and at the shoe factory, you know, a day-in-the-life sort of thing.”
“And let me guess,” Erinn said. “She doesn’t have a shoe factory.”
“That,” Cary said, “and she doesn’t have a house.”
“Well, with a wide-angle lens, we can make her apartment seem like a house. Leave that to me.”
“She doesn’t have an apartment, either. She’s homeless.”
All the puzzle pieces fell into place. Cary might need a good producer and camera op, but more than that, she needed a place for this Blu person to live. And how incredibly perfect that the guesthouse was currently empty. No wonder Cary was waxing poetic about Erinn’s perfect oasis! Talk about horseshit!
“I know you’re probably thinking . . . ,” Erinn started carefully.
“Don’t say anything until you meet her,” Cary said, motioning to a figure at the edge of the house.
From the shadows of the side yard appeared an awkward child in shorts and a T-shirt. As the girl got closer, Erinn could see that she wa
sn’t a child, just the size of one, only with huge breasts, a surgically induced pout, and hair extensions. Even as small as she was, she was wearing six-inch see-through platform shoes the likes of which Erinn had only seen while channel surfing (and quickly surfing past) movies in the middle of the night.
She must have hit on hard times after the plastic surgery.
Cary beamed her best showbiz smile.
“Blu!” Cary said. “I thought I asked you to stay in the car until I called you.”
“It’s hot in the car. I didn’t want to frizz.” Blu shook her red-and-blond-striped curls.
Erinn started to panic. Yes, she needed this job badly, but she could never work with this little spoiled starlet, let alone rent her the guesthouse.
A door slammed and all three women turned toward the guesthouse. They watched as Dymphna carefully locked the front door and walked toward them.
“That house is a riot!” Blu said. “It’s so small.”
Erinn bristled. What a horrid person, what a philistine not to see the beauty and detail in the miniature house.
Dymphna floated up the stairs and looked at the two newcomers.
“Hello,” she said sadly. “I guess you’ve come to look at the guesthouse, too.”
“Not hardly,” Blu said.
“We were actually thinking . . . ,” Cary said, but Erinn cut her off.
Dymphna might be an unemployed shepherdess but she knew about brown patches and cornmeal and she appreciated beauty.
“This is Dymphna,” Erinn said quickly. “My new tenant.”
Cary shook Dymphna’s hand and didn’t seem at all displeased with the turn of events, which was a relief to Erinn. Maybe the job was not lost.
“Lucky you!” Cary said.
Blu seemed completely uninterested in anything that was going on around her, and appeared ready to bolt, but Erinn wanted to seal the deal with Cary so she kept the conversation going.
“Dymphna is interested in wool. She was raising sheep until recently.”
“You were a shepherd?” Blu wrinkled her stub of a nose.
“Shepherdess, yes,” Dymphna replied. “But now I’m going to raise Angora rabbits for their fur.”
“I love Angora,” Blu said. “So . . . if you’re a shepherdess when you have sheep, what are you called when you have rabbits?”
“If you were a man we could call you Warren,” Cary said, and then when no one laughed said, “Sorry.”
Blu, surprisingly, actually did seem interested in Angora wool and started peppering Dymphna with questions. Cary steered Erinn to the side of the porch. She took a quick look back at the two waifs. If it weren’t for Cary, Erinn would feel like the largest woman in Santa Monica.
“Sorry the guesthouse was rented,” Erinn said. “If I had only known you were interested . . .”
Cary looked confused and then she laughed.
“The guesthouse . . . oh, no, Erinn, you misunderstood me! Blu could never live there! There isn’t a lens in the world that could make that place look big enough for our purposes. Blu has to look like she’s made it to the big time!”
I took on an ex-shepherdess for no reason?
“Well, then,” Erinn said, “I guess as soon as you find a house grand enough for Blu, we’ll be all set to go.”
Cary’s face fell.
Now what?
“Erinn, this pilot is important. It could mean some real money for all of us if it hits. And we’re all in need of a little career boost right now, so we all have to go the extra mile.”
“I understand,” Erinn said. “I’ll throw in my fish-eye lens, no extra charge.”
“How do I put this?” Cary said to the air. “Erinn, Blu needs to live in YOUR house for the next few weeks.”
“My house? Why? Why can’t the network buy her a house?”
“BUY her a house? Darling, we’re talking cable! Anyway, we can’t let the network know she’s homeless! They are really sensitive to criticism that these reality shows aren’t real.”
“It won’t be real. This isn’t her house!”
“Nobody needs to know that! Your house is gorgeous. It’s perfect. It will make Blu seem like she has . . . some substance.”
“I don’t think so, Cary. I’m sorry.”
“Look, whatever you made on your last job, which was a while ago if I’m not mistaken, I’ll double it. I’ll also throw in an extra gig up the coast at a winery near Cambria. A show called Budding Tastes. It will be just like Old Home Week.”
“Why will it be like Old Home Week?” Erinn asked. “I never lived in Cambria.”
“I know, darling, but you lived in Napa. You lived near wine. The shoot is this weekend, so you don’t have to be here when she moves in. I’ll spearhead everything on that end. You’ll be doing me a huge favor.”
The shoot was a “sizzle reel” as opposed to a pilot. When Erinn had first gotten started in TV production the subtleties of the jargon perplexed her. Now she knew that it all was code for how much money the production company or network was going to put into something. A “sizzle reel” was the least expensive, followed by a pilot. In this case, Blu’s pilot trumped the wine show in importance, but it was all paid employment!
But the money was a sure thing and that was enticing.
Erinn was about to say that she couldn’t go this weekend, because her mother was coming into town. But having grown up in Wine Country, if not in Cambria, there probably wasn’t a better producer for the show.
Maybe this weekend would be a perfect time to be away.
Let the dust settle and all that.
While Erinn silently weighed her options, Cary pulled a shingle that was hanging precariously off the side of the house, handed it to Erinn, and continued, “You really need to take care of this beautiful house and that takes cash.”
Erinn took the shingle.
At least I can stop lying to my sister.
CHAPTER 6
VIRGINIA
Virginia could feel her cheeks flush as she walked Piquant through the Los Angeles International Airport. He was wearing his bright blue “Emotional Support Service Dog” vest, and in Virginia’s opinion, he was not carrying it off at all. His little Chihuahua shake just added to his lack of panache. She felt ridiculous and looked around, worried that her fellow travelers would be scowling or scoffing, but this was Los Angeles, a city that prided itself on not gawking at celebrities and taking all oddities in its collective stride. Piquant sailed through the airport without a sideways glance in his blazingly blue direction.
She insisted that Suzanna meet her at the curb. Virginia was determined to establish a tone of independence. She planned on making a big show of effortlessly (a) escorting Piquant, (b) balancing his carrier, and (c) getting her own luggage off the carousel, all with the casual ease for which this city was known. The fact that she was currently only accomplishing (a) and (b) was leaving her a little anxious, since she had two very large—and overweight—bags with which to contend at the baggage claim. Looking up at the monitor to see which carousel would be depositing her luggage, she failed to notice two little hands tugging at Piquant.
“Doggy!” said the little girl as she happily twisted the Chihuahua’s ears.
God, these Los Angeles mothers! What is wrong with parents these days?
“Sweetie, you wouldn’t like it if someone were grabbing your ears, would you? Now let go of Piquant’s ears.”
The insufferably reasonable tone of the new age mother annoyed Virginia.
Just tell the kid to stop! Wait! How does this woman know my dog’s name?
As the mother bent down and tried to stop her daughter from molesting Piquant, she collided with Virginia’s forehead as she bent to rescue her dog. After clunking heads they looked at each other, and Virginia realized she was looking into her daughter’s eyes.
“Hello, Grammy!” Suzanna said, standing up and throwing her arms around Virginia. Piquant was sandwiched between them and let out a squeak. Suzann
a released her mother and patted the dog vigorously.
“So this is Piquant!” Suzanna said, scooping up Lizzy with her free hand and swirling the baby onto her hip. “I guess we both have our babies!”
Dear God, what has happened to my daughter’s mind?
“I thought you were going to meet me at the curb,” Virginia said as Suzanna started ushering the group toward the baggage area. “I know it’s hard to park here.”
“I knew it wasn’t going to be easy wrangling your bags and a dog. Besides, Eric let us off; he’ll circle back for us.”
Virginia wondered if Suzanna and Eric thought she was getting too old to get herself to the curb but decided not to explore that in any more detail. That was an avenue she found herself traveling more and more: wondering if people thought she was too old. Clearly, all that meant was she was worried she was too old. Virginia consoled herself with the knowledge that she had moved to New York City by herself at an age when most people were trying to figure out if their Social Security would last through their lifetime (not that she was above wondering that herself from time to time), and here she was on an extended trip to visit her daughters, something she had planned and executed by herself. How could anyone question her vitality? she wondered angrily before stopping to realize no one had. She looked over at Suzanna, who appeared to be getting a little winded from carrying Lizzy.
“Lizzy can walk like a big girl, can’t she?” Virginia asked, looking at Lizzy instead of Suzanna.
“Yes, Mom, Lizzy can walk like a big girl, but I don’t want her connecting with all these random germs,” Suzanna said.
Connecting with random germs? What does that even mean?
Suzanna continued, eyeing Piquant shivering in Virginia’s arms.
“Can’t Piquant walk like a big dog?” she asked.
“No, Suzanna, he can’t,” said Virginia. “He’s a Chihuahua . . . he cannot walk like a big dog. Are we in some sort of contest here?”
“Doggy!” Lizzy leaned toward Piquant, who reared back in Virginia’s arms. Virginia patted him and kissed him on his little dome of a head. Suzanna faced forward and moved determinedly with the crowd. Virginia wondered if the tension she felt was real or if she was just out of practice being around children . . . and their overprotective mothers.
Much Ado About Mother Page 5
