by Melody Mayer
“I love the ocean,” Kiley said softly.
“Yeah.” He kissed her forehead. “And that's good. So if it's just going underwater that's bugging you … well, that we can work on.”
We. He had said we. That, and the look in his eyes, filled her with the most wonderful confidence.
“I love my mom,” she said. “So much. But …I guess I don't have to be her daughter in every way.”
The pilot's words came back to her:
The winds will welcome me with softness
The sun will hold me in her warm hands
I will fly high and well
And God will join me in my laughter
And set me gently back down
Into the loving arms of Mother Earth.
She wrapped her arms around Tom's neck and kissed him with all the passion and love in her heart. It was a kiss, Kiley thought, worthy of flying.
“Thank you,” she told him.
“You're welcome.”
Kiley leaned forward and tapped Grandpa Willie on the shoulder. Startled, he turned and took off the headphones. “You two still got your clothes on?”
Kiley laughed. “Yeah, sorry to disappoint you. Is there any law about the passengers not popping the champagne until they're on the ground?”
He got a gleam in his eye and opened the cooler. Out came a bottle of Korbel—not the expensive Moët & Chandon that Platinum loved, but to Kiley it mattered not at all. “Last time I heard, California Highway Patrol is earthbound, little missy. Party on.”
He handed the champagne to Tom, who opened it with a flourish and held the bottle high. “To flying high and well.”
“I'll drink to that,” Kiley agreed, and they did.
While Tom and Kiley were soaring high over the San Gabriel Valley, Esme was awakened from a deep slumber by a strange, rhythmic thump-thump outside her bedroom window. She scrunched deeper into her feather pillow to try to block out the sound. It was no use. Thump-thump. Thump-thump. Thump-thump.
Shit. She opened her eyes, turned onto her back, and listened. Thump-thump. Thump-thump. What the hell was that?
She pulled on an old pair of gym shorts and an even older navy blue T-shirt, and padded barefoot through the guest-house. She was relieved to see that Tarshea's door was closed tightly. It meant she was still asleep, and not at the house whipping up breakfast for the girls, the staff, and probably the Dodgers, too. For once, Esme could do her job. Maybe it would restore some of Diane's faith in her.
As the erratic noise outside the guesthouse continued unabated, she followed the sound outside. It was Jonathan, shirtless in cutoff jeans and Chuck Taylors. As she watched unnoticed, he picked up the dribble of the basketball in his hands and spun to his left, narrating his own play-by-play loudly enough for Esme to hear every word.
“Lakers down by two, two seconds left! Kobe with the ball, looking to get free! Still guarded by Ginobili! Kobe at the three-point line whirls and fires!”
With that, Jonathan spun and took a jump shot over his invisible opponent. Esme watched the ball arc high and then clang off the rim. His tanned, taut torso gleamed with a thin veil of sweat. Damn, he looked good.
“And the Lakers lose again!”
Usually Esme was charmed by Jonathan's boyish enthusiasm for sports. Not today. There were too many unanswered questions.
“You gotta make that shot,” she advised.
The ball had rebounded out to the left and rolled to a stop against one of the orange trees. As he retrieved it, he shrugged. “It's hard, with Manu guarding me.”
“Well, do it quietly. Tarshea is still asleep.” Esme cocked her chin toward the guesthouse.
“Nope.” Jonathan dribbled the ball toward her. “Diane took her and the twins to LAX for her final interview. Something about how Ann Marie wanted to observe Tarshea with the children.”
Esme slid onto the wooden bench under the fragrant jas-mine bush just outside the front door. “The airport? That doesn't make any sense.”
Jonathan hooked one last shot. “She's flying to San Francisco for the morning for a meeting with Levi Strauss. This was her only free time slot.” He sat next to Esme and casually slung an arm around her. “It's good to see you. This movie is gonna kick my ass.”
She eyed him coolly. “Unless I kick it first.”
He swiped a forearm across his sweaty forehead. “You're pissed that I didn't call you back right away? Is that it?”
“Partly.”
He shook his head humbly. “You haven't spent enough time on a movie set. There's no privacy. Sometimes there's no cell coverage.”
“Do I look like I got stupid all of a sudden?” Esme queried. “You had a lot of options and we both know it.”
“What, you think I was deliberately dissing you?”
“Were you?”
He draped an arm across the back of the bench and touched her shoulder lightly. “This director, Laszlo—the guy is deeply strange. Like for example, he collects all the cell phones on the set.”
“Oh please. Beverly Baylor would never give up her phone. Or Mischa?”
“Oh yeah they would,” Jonathan said. “And did. The guy's a genius and everyone knows it. You want to work with a genius, you put up with insanity.”
Esme was still skeptical. “Maybe.”
“Definitely,” Jonathan insisted. “We all did. That is, until he got fired last night.”
“What? How does a director get fired?”
Esme's father had recently hung a hummingbird feeder just outside the entrance to the guesthouse and filled it with reddened sugar water to attract the maximum number of birds. Before Jonathan could answer Esme's question, a pair of ruby-throated beauties buzzed down from the sky and hovered at the feeder, taking turns sucking the nectar with their long beaks and tongues.
He gestured toward the tiny, whirring birds. “See how they're cooperating? Laszlo is the opposite. I mean, yeah, sure the guy has a rep. But this time he went too far. Like rewriting the script without telling Sara—she's the executive producer—”
“The nice one. I met her,” Esme reminded him.
“Yeah, so anyway, she blew a gasket and dumped him last night. I think Bobby Roth is coming in to replace him. We're way behind our shooting schedule, improvising shit to try to cut pages. It's just been totally insane.”
Esme was still dubious about Jonathan's too-busy-to-make-a-phone-call thing, but she moved on anyway. “You know I did Beverly's tattoo the other night?”
“Yup. She's been showing everyone on the set. Gotta wonder about a woman in her forties who tattoos a cowboy on her inner thigh, huh?” His hand found the back of her neck and caressed it gently. “You did an amazing job, though. I hope you charged her a mint. She gave your number to lots of people.”
Esme hesitated. Jonathan was acting as if nothing was wrong, as if he had nothing to hide.
Well, she'd see about that.
“Beverly told me that Mackenzie is working wardrobe. I wanted to know if you got her the job.”
“ That's what this is about?”
She swatted his arm. “Wipe that stupid smile off your face!”
“Oh my God, Esme. You've got to be kidding.” He started to laugh. “Who do you think I am? My father on one of his shows? My stepmother with one of her charity parties? That I can tell people on a movie production team to jump and they'll ask how high? God, Esme. I got hired two days before they started shooting. I don't have that kind of power!”
Esme felt blood rush to her face. “You had nothing to do with it.”
“Esme. If I had wanted Mackenzie to be a wardrobe assistant, do you think I would have invited you to the set?”
“Guys have been known to do such things, Jonathan.” She shook her long dark hair off her face. “Who hired her, then?”
“The line producer hires the wardrobe chick, and the wardrobe chick—that would be Helen Walley—hires her crew. Mackenzie has worked for her before. Jesus, Esme. I hardly ever even see her, she's in the goddamn trai
ler all day.”
“But Beverly said that Mackenzie said that—”
Inside the guesthouse, the phone rang. Esme rose and hurried to her door. “I've got to get this, it might be about the kids.”
“Mackenzie said what?” Jonathan called.
That you two were still together. “Esme Castaneda, Goldhagen residence.” Ignoring Jonathan's query, she answered the phone.
“Esme, it's Ann Marie, calling from my jet. Have Tarshea and Diane returned?”
“Not yet,” Esme reported.
“When they do please have Tarshea call my cell after ten o'clock. I'll be available then. And no need to hold back good news. Tell her the job is hers. She can start tomorrow morning.”
“Oh, that's great!” Esme exclaimed.
She got Ann Marie's number, assured her that Tarshea would call immediately, and danced back out the door to Jonathan. “Tarshea just got a nanny job!”
She plopped down in his lap, happy for Tarshea and thrilled for herself. Once Tarshea moved out, they could still be friends. Maybe even good friends.
“Excellent.” Jonathan kissed her lightly. He wrapped his arms around her and held her against his bare chest. “Does this mean you forgive me?”
“No,” Esme said, but she kissed him again as she said it. “Next time text me, or something.”
“Tough girl,” he teased, one hand slipping under her T-shirt to caress her back.
She twisted around and gave him a smoldering kiss in return. Just as she was getting thoroughly lost in the moment, he pushed her away.
“Wha—?”
Then she saw what he did: Tarshea was running down the redbrick path from the main house with the twins in tow, and Diane was bringing up the rear.
Shit. Diane's rules expressly forbade Esme from being alone with Jonathan on the Goldhagen property.
“Did she see us?” she whispered.
“Doubtful,” Jonathan replied. He grabbed the basketball and held it over his lap to cover his anatomical reaction to Esme's kiss. She stifled a laugh.
As usual, when the twins saw their older brother, they screamed with joy and dashed into his arms. They adored Jonathan, and as yet had none of the too-cool-to-show-it of so many other Hollywood kids even their young age.
“ Yon-o-tin!” Easton squealed, hugging him tight. “Can we see película?”
“That means—” Esme began.
“Movie,” Tarshea filled in as Diane joined them. Esme noticed her employer beaming at the Jamaican girl. Then Diane looked from Esme to Jonathan and back to Esme again, clearly unhappy to see them alone in the same location.
“Jonathan,” she said curtly, nodding at her stepson.
“I just stopped by to say hello,” Jonathan explained.
“I'm sure,” Diane said dryly.
Tarshea knelt down to the twins. “We can't see Jonathan's movie yet,” she told them. “No está lista todavía.”
“Exactly. I guess.” Jonathan scooped up the girls, much to their squealing delight, one under each arm. “How about I make you big ice cream sundaes for breakfast?”
“Yay!” the girls cheered.
“Not too big, Jonathan,” Diane cautioned.
“Oh, definitely not,” Jonathan agreed, but winked at the twins. When he carried the girls past their mother and on up toward the main house, it left Esme alone with Tarshea and Diane.
“We've got news,” Diane announced.
Okay, that was good. If Diane was going to say anything about finding Esme and Jonathan together, she wasn't going to do it now.
“Great news. Really great,” Tarshea added, grinning at Diane.
“I think I'm up to speed,” Esme responded. “Ann Marie called. It really is great. Congratulations. I hope you love working for her.”
Tarshea looked puzzled. “She offered me the job? When?”
“Just a few minutes ago. She called. I figured she called you on your cell.”
Tarshea shook her head.
“Well, it's nice to be wanted.” Diane looped her arm around Tarshea's narrow waist. “Not that it will make any difference. Right?”
What were they talking about?
“No problem,” Tarshea assured Diane.
“Well, that's a relief,” Diane said. “Tarshea, you'll just have to telephone Ann Marie and tell her that you appreciate her generous offer but are graciously declining. I'll get her involved in FAB next summer, there will be no hard feelings.”
“Yes, ma'am, I'll do that,” Tarshea agreed.
Esme held up her hand. “Um, excuse me. You're turning down the job you wanted?”
“You didn't talk to her, Tarshea?” Diane was surprised.
“Not until I was certain, ma'am.”
“Well then!” Her boss spread her arms wide. “I felt it was only fair to let Tarshea do this interview and make her own decision. I've offered her a job, and she's accepted. We're going to be a two-nanny family. You don't mind sharing your guest-house, do you, Esme?”
“Oh, no,” Esme said, careful to keep her voice neutral. “Not at all.”
“So this works out really well,” Diane concluded. “It'll be perfect when you start school, Esme. Tarshea can stay with the children during the day, and you can take them in the evenings and on weekends. Fall is charity event season, so I'll be extremely busy.”
Esme was in a state of mild shock. Yes, there were plenty of families at the country club with two nannies. They alternated shifts, or one worked during the week and the other did nights and weekends. Occasionally, she'd heard of the whole entourage—parents, kids, and double nannies—jetting off for a vacation together.
Tarshea gave Esme a warm hug. “It's going to be great. You are the best friend I could ever have.”
“Well then, that's settled. I've got my masseuse coming in a half hour. I'm going to go up to the main house and shower. Oh, could one of you make sure Cleo gets to the groomer this afternoon? Their mobile unit is on the fritz. I want her bow aqua this month and her nails painted aqua with little white flowers.”
“No problem, ma'am,” Tarshea said. She pulled a small notebook out of her purse and jotted down a few notes.
“Oh sweetie, I'll get you a Palm Pilot. You two girls sit down and work out a schedule for the next two weeks,” Diane continued. “I want the twins covered from seven in the morning to nine at night, seven days a week. Of course there will be times when neither of you will be needed, and sometimes both of you. I'll give a day's warning, how'll that be?”
“No problem, ma'am,” Tarshea said again.
“Tarshea?” Diane raised her eyebrows.
“Yes, ma'am?”
“You're going to have to start calling me Diane. After all, now … this is home.” She turned and headed up the path for the main house.
“You are okay with this, Esme? You helped me so much.” Tarshea's eyes oozed gratitude.
“I thought you wanted your own job, your own place to live.”
“I love the twins and I love you, Esme. You've been good to me. You are a good person. I even wear your clothes and you didn't say anything because you know I am just a poor Jamaican girl tryin’ to make my way here in America. You think I didn't notice that? 'Nuff respect, Esme. 'Nuff respect.”
Esme sighed. There was really no choice but to make the best of it. Unless she wanted to quit and do tattoos, that is. “Let's go plan our schedule, then.” She headed into the guest-house, with Tarshea right behind her.
“Jonathan Goldhagen is mighty tighty whitey, you know,” Tarshea mused.
Esme flopped onto the living room couch. “Which means?”
“One fine white boy.” Tarshea sat in the wing chair and took out her notebook again. “That's what the girls who work at the resorts in Jamaica say about the cute white male tourists. Are you in love with him?”
“Why do you ask?”
Tarshea shrugged. “Just wondered. The white American boys, when they come to Jamaica, they think the Jamaican girls are very exotic.�
�� Then she laughed. “Maybe he think that about you.”
“Did you hook up with some white American guy in Jamaica?” Esme asked.
“Me? Oh, no. I am still a good church-girl, as my mudda would say.” Tarshea nibbled on the end of her pen. “I'm not in Jamaica anymore, though. So this is why I asked if you love the boy.”
“Because if I don't love him you'll move in on him?” Esme asked sharply.
Tarshea gave Esme a wide-eyed look. “But you do love him, sister. So no problem.”
They went on to create a schedule for the next week, but Esme couldn't get Tarshea's words out of her mind. Somehow, when Tarshea said “no problem,” the feeling Esme got was just the opposite.
“Where are we going again?” Martina was so excited that she was bouncing against the seat belt in the back of Kat's black BMW 323i.
“Easy, sweet pea,” Lydia cautioned. “It's my first time driving this car.”
Before they'd departed the estate, Kat had given Lydia a lecture. The 323i, originally manufactured in 1978, had been lovingly restored to pristine condition by a former BMW engineer now living in San Diego. There were no more being made. Translation: Be careful. No dents.
“Remember, you just got your learner's permit,” Aunt Kat had admonished before turning over the car keys.
“X will be with me,” Lydia had assured her aunt.
X was the moms’ driver. Seriously skinny, with short spiky blond hair and cheekbones that would make a model envious, he and Lydia had become great friends. In fact, he'd escorted Lydia on her first major shopping spree when she'd arrived in Los Angeles, a sort of “Queer Eye for the Straight Girl” outing to Rodeo Drive. Though X was one hundred percent gay, Billy had been his best friend since their childhood together in Redondo Beach.
X was smart, funny, and very much in the Hollywood-know. His friendship meant a lot to Lydia. She shuddered to think what it would do to that friendship if and when he found out how she'd betrayed Billy. He surely would find out, too. Why wouldn't Billy mention it to him? They were the kind of guy friends who really talked to each other.
Ugh. How did everything get so complicated?
The look on Billy's face last night with Luis. She'd expected Billy to rush down the hallway and punch his lights out. She would have been happy to do it herself. He didn't. Instead, he'd just closed the door and quietly asked, “Is that true?”
