by Liza Palmer
“That would be great,” he says.
I tell him to look out for Santa Monica Boulevard, and we finally make the turn into the parking lot. Daniel maneuvers through cell-phone-talking patrons and security guards to find a space.
“Where are we?” He absorbs the urban parking lot. The main focus of the shopping center is the Whole Foods Market. There’s also your usual manicure salon, florist, and tanning salon. But over in the corner—that’s why we came here today.
“Follow me, please.” I am giddy.
We walk through the parking lot past a girl dressed up as Wonder Woman—a slutty Wonder Woman, of course (though I wonder if a slutty Wonder Woman isn’t redundant)—and a man dressed up as Malcolm MacDowell in A Clockwork Orange. Daniel looks each of them up and down and makes a face at me. I stop and look at him. He’s already smiling. The wafting smells have hit us both.
“This is a whole lot better than that cheese. No offense,” Daniel says as he motions for me to go in ahead of him.
The Stolichnaya Bakery is on the corner of Fairfax and Santa Monica Boulevard. It’s one of the great hidden treasures of Los Angeles. Usually, I’m the youngest customer there by about fifty years. On one side of the bakery, a refrigerator of spinning perfectly frosted cakes tempts you. On the other side, rack after rack of cookies, breads, mandel breads, and other, more obscure Russian delicacies await.
“May I chelp you?” the woman behind the counter asks Daniel. She is outfitted in a hot-pink-and-black-polka-dotted apron and speaks in a thick Russian accent. Her hair is bottle-blond, and her orange lipstick is so thick you can barely see her thin lips underneath. Daniel looks at me and panics. He’s overwhelmed. In a good way.
“I’d like an assortment, please,” I say, stepping in front of Daniel.
The woman behind the counter is obviously disappointed.
“We sell by pound,” she advises.
I look at the case. I can’t decide. I quickly turn to Daniel. The woman is growing impatient. “What looks good?” I ask.
Daniel breathes a sigh of relief and laughs. “Everything. Just get one of everything.” He puts his hand on the small of my back. Oh. Okay. If there were ever a moment when a decision was more solidified, it would be this one. I am definitely on the right track. I tell the woman we want one of each. Yes, the black-and-white cookie. Yes, one of every mandel bread. Yes. Yes. Yes. The woman behind the counter begins putting one of each cookie in a tiny bag and then in a much larger bag.
Daniel pays the woman and takes the bags from her. He brings the bag to his nose, takes a huge whiff, and stuffs a jam-filled cookie into his mouth.
“You’ve got a little something . . .” I motion all over my body, hoping he gets the hint that he’s covered in cookie crumbs.
Daniel laughs and shoots cookie crumbs at me. “They’re so good,” he says with his mouth full, trying to wipe off the crumbs. I wipe myself off and dig in the bag for my own cookie. My mind races through many scenarios of the fling I’ll have with Daniel. Only the setting varies: my apartment, the backseat of his Yukon, or even the cookie case at the Stolichnaya Bakery with the smell of cheap Russian perfume and mandel breads wafting during our torrid lovemaking. Maybe I’d be wearing a hot-pink-and-black-polka-dotted apron.
We sit in the SUV for another half hour. I’ve made myself completely sick from the cookies. Daniel reaches into the backseat and pulls a bottle of water from a maroon backpack. He offers it to me, and I take a long drink. Then he takes a long drink. Something about this touches me.
“What are you up to tonight, then?” Daniel buckles his seat belt and begins to pull out of the parking space. He puts his long arm around my seat as he looks back to make sure it’s all clear.
“My brother might be coming into town, so I’ve got that,” I say. Please don’t ask me his name. Please don’t ask me his name. I really don’t want to wind through the whole Dostoyevsky/Crime and Punishment reference right now.
“That sounds fun,” he says. I never allow myself to get excited about seeing Rascal; he’s never been that worried about such trifles as being on time and showing up for appointments. I’m still of the mind that I’ll believe it when I see it. Daniel looks in the rearview mirror quickly. The sun is directly in his eyes. They’re a deep buttercream-icing blue. Soft. I just want to hold his face right there. It’s so fleeting, you almost have to look directly into his eyes to get the full effect of the color. There . . . stop looking around . . . just stare right into that sun for a full minute, is that so much to ask?
“What about you? What are you doing tonight?” I ask. My voice is rough and fast. My need to see the full impact of his eyes has made me act like I’m on the defensive in some paintball tournament—all twitchy and dodgy.
“We’re having a BBQ at the head coach’s house before everyone goes on to other, probably better things. Then I’ll head on home and pass out candy.” Daniel smiles. God, that was totally what I was going to do. You know, except for the barbecue and the whole “other people” thing.
We pull up right in front of Beverly. Daniel puts the SUV in park and turns the engine off. He keeps his seat belt buckled, although he started to reach across his chest when we pulled up. He brought his hand back quickly. I am sitting straight ahead.
“It was nice meeting you, Elisabeth. I hope I didn’t make your job too hard,” Daniel says.
“Oh, well, not a problem, but you do know that this is a series, right?” I blurt out. With all of my mental ranting on and on about flings, it all boils down to this moment: I find myself simply wanting to see him again.
“What?” Daniel unbuckles his seat belt now.
“A series. The uh . . . The first part of this lesson was the evaluation we did today. From there we decide how many classes you’re entitled to. The gift certificate said ‘series,’ ” I say, my hand on the door handle.
“A series? Oh . . .” Daniel trails off.
“I think you’d really benefit from it,” I press. I try not to look at him.
“Does next Sunday work for you? I have a meeting with the other coaches that morning, but what about one?” Daniel asks. He’s leaning on the emergency brake, his shoulder tilted toward me. A nice cool breeze blows through the open windows. I tuck my hair back behind my ear. Daniel’s cowlicks are sprouting with abandon.
“Sunday at one.” I smile, opening the door and climbing out. Daniel watches me get into my car safely and waves as I pull out from the curb. I have never honored the “series” thing. Most people want only the one class. But hopefully, he’ll want more.
Chapter Seventeen
With a stupid grin on my face, I scroll through the e-mail messages that have come in on my BlackBerry. I’m going to see Daniel again. The e-mails break through my reverie. They represent a veritable Who’s Who of everyone in my life. Julie. Chef Canet. George, the sommelier. Mom. Even one from Rascal. I open that one first.
To: Elisabeth
From: R.P.
House of Pies. 6:00 tonight.
See you there, Ras.
Ever since the time change, the days have been getting shorter and shorter. Dusk is about two hours away. I quickly check my watch. I have just enough time to go home and get ready before meeting Rascal.
After taking a short shower, I walk over to my closet and shift the clothes left and right, left and right. I relive the day as I dress. I find myself still thinking about Daniel. Thinking about him instead of thinking about . . . Will. Fuuuck. I curl my eyelashes. When I go in close, my face loses all of its definition. My features blur into one another, the tiniest of eyelashes garnering all of my focus.
I sweep on some blusher and think about how it was just me today. No Ben Page. No Rascal Page. No thirty-year history. No barking orders and maniacal French chefs. I was free of the baggage I usually travel with. I was naked. And he liked me. Well, I think he did. But more important, I liked myself.
“You came dressed as Jack Kerouac?” I say, hugging Rascal in the foyer of the
House of Pies in Silver Lake. He is wearing jeans and a white T-shirt. He’s holding his black jacket in his hand. It’s almost cold enough.
“What?” he says. His face is tanned. The beard is gone, and his hair is cut a bit shorter—the curls are still there, thankfully. Rascal really wouldn’t be Rascal without that mop of curly dark hair. Obviously, the drive he spoke of was to somewhere that boasted a lot of sun—and a barber.
“Halloween? Costumes? The world just keeps turning, turning, turning?” I say, gesturing to the hostess that we’ll be two tonight. She grabs two menus, and we follow her through the restaurant. A restaurant that looks exactly like you’d think a place called “House of Pies” would look. A lot of vinyl. A lot of regulars. And yes, a lot of pies.
“Fuck you,” Rascal says lightly. A trio of teeny-bopper hipster girls dressed up in their best and sluttiest Halloween garb turns our way to see who’s using such offensive language tonight. The ensuing double take is reminiscent of a Bugs Bunny cartoon. One of the girls notices it’s the Rascal Page she saw in People while she was getting her nails done. She tugs on the shirt of another girl, commenting that Rascal looks taller in person. Like his father before him, Rascal has achieved a certain level of fame not usually reserved for writers. And the novels are only the half of it. It’s the lifestyle that continues to intrigue people.
Rascal walks through the restaurant and back to the booth where the hostess has stopped. She puts our menus on the table. Our waitress approaches us with two waters, saying she’ll be back to take our order. We assure her we don’t need the time and quickly order our pie, forgoing dinner. We fall back into conversation—film rights, another book deal, the restaurant. The waitress returns with our pie.
“So what are you thinking about all this?” I ask, digging into my cherry pie (heated) à la mode. God, it’s good. The crust is perfect—crumbly and light. Probably made with eight pounds of lard. This is what I was going for with the clafouti—the comfort of a well-made pie, no apologies.
“Of all the gin joints.” The hairs bristle on the back of my neck. I can smell him. Will. I turn around and take a long, deep breath. He’s back. His swipe of yellow hair is a bit longer, and he’s trying to grow a beard, just like Rascal. I shift over in the booth. Rascal nods a hello.
“A wordsmith by trade, and that’s the best you could come up with? A cheap Casablanca reference? What are you going to say when you leave, ‘I’ll be back’?” Rascal teases in his best Schwarzenegger impersonation. Will’s face softens despite Rascal’s mocking. The three teeny-bopper girls approach our booth and ask Rascal for an autograph.
“Happy Halloween. I missed you,” Will whispers into my ear as the girls wait patiently for their autographs. A wave of anger quickly washes over me. Yeah, I missed you, too, motherfucker. Every second of every day. But that doesn’t make you come back any sooner or not leave any quicker for your next assignment. What was it this time? Vanity Fair and Baghdad? Esquire and Darfur? The Washington Post and Afghanistan? I turn my head and feel Will put his hand on my leg under the table. His fingers brush my skin. Every brush, every movement of intimacy, breaks me—melts me—but I make sure the frost follows. Don’t get used to it, I tell myself. My breathing deepens as my body reacts to Will. I make a point of looking directly into his eyes. They’re that same surreally bright, almost ice blue, open to the public. I think about Daniel in that second. The darkest of blues visible only to those lucky enough to have a private invitation.
The girls ask Rascal if they can take a picture with him. He takes the napkin from his lap, places it carefully on the table, and slides out of the booth. The girls wrangle a waitress and ask if she’ll take a couple of shots. All of the girls pass over their cameras and/or cell phones. They wrap their arms around him. Surrounding him. Rascal’s expression is that of someone waiting in line at the DMV.
Will and I continue talking. “You’re really doing the beard thing?” I say, tugging at it slightly.
“Mom’s back in rehab,” he announces, casually looking at Rascal and his adoring fans.
“Where?” I say, refocusing.
“In Aspen. Some kind of outpatient thing,” Will says, leaning his head back a little, taking me in.
“How do you feel about that?” I ask, not knowing what else to say. For Anne Houghton, maybe the seventh time will be a charm. But for Will, every pronouncement of sobriety seems to harden him a bit more than the last.
“She wants me to be there. At the Aspen house,” Will says. I wait, letting him talk. He continues, “I think . . . I think I’d rather be in Darfur.” He forces a laugh, his eyes on his lap, his voice quiet.
“What are you going to do?” I ask, not wanting to tell him to go, not wanting to set him up for more heartache, but at the same time hoping that he has the capacity to be there for his mom—for someone. Will looks up and looks me in the eye, asking for some kind of guarantee that he won’t get hurt again. That when he goes there, she’ll really try this time. That they can be a normal family. That he can have his mom back. I don’t know what to say. I take his face in my hands. And for those seconds, I feel the beauty of a love that has the capacity to streak through the night sky and leave people talking about it for the next seventy-four years, three hundred sixty-four days, twenty-three hours, and fifty-nine minutes.
“I’ll go,” he finally says, taking my hands in his.
“You guys done? Elisabeth? Jesus Christ Superstar?” Rascal says, standing over us. The girls have gone back to their booth with photographic proof that they met one of People’s fifty most beautiful people.
“Yeah, yeah,” I say, bringing my hands back and straightening up a bit. Will picks up a menu and begins skimming the lard-filled fare.
“Because there are a whole lot of other places you guys could have chosen to have your little moment where I didn’t have to be such an active audience member,” Rascal says. The waitress comes over to the table, apologizes to Rascal, and hands Will a glass of water. He orders a Caesar salad and a sparkling water. Rascal asks if he’d like a penis with his order.
As the evening wears on, the warmth of Will next to me almost makes me ask if he needs me to go with him to Aspen, even if it’s just for my days off. But I know he has to do this alone. His mom needs him and only him. I set my fork down. I’ve lost my appetite.
“You okay?” Rascal almost whispers as we make our way out of the restaurant.
“I don’t know. You?” I volley the concern right back at him.
“Touché, young Page,” Rascal says. Will is already standing outside, lighting up a cigarette.
“Are you in town for a while?” I cautiously ask Rascal.
“Definitely through Christmas. Why?” he answers. A nice breeze of cool fall air brushes my face. The Silver Lake traffic zooms past. The street is thick with people out for an evening of depravity made even more corrupt by the presence of a mask and costume. Will takes a long pull on his cigarette.
“Do you want to get together in the morning sometime soon? Breakfast? Coffee?” I ask.
“Why, so you and Will can cradle each other’s faces while I watch again?” Rascal asks, taking out his pack of Pall Malls.
“I’m serious,” I say.
“You have to be at work at . . .” He trails off. Will leans over and lights Rascal’s cigarette.
“Eleven-thirty,” I say decisively.
Rascal blows out a shaft of smoke. “How about Thursday around ten?” he asks.
“Eight,” I correct.
“In the morning?” Rascal whines.
“Breakfast is customarily in the morning, yes,” I say.
Rascal exhales. “Fine. Fine. Eight o’clock in the motherfucking morning, you big baby.”
“Doughboys?” I suggest.
“Parking is such a bitch there,” Rascal complains.
“Parking’s a bitch everywhere,” Will says, stamping out his cigarette on the sidewalk.
“But not everywhere has giant cupcakes,” I say
.
“Fine. See you then,” Rascal says.
“Up high,” Rascal says, holding his hand high in the air for Will. He’s been doing this to the poor boy for years. Will slaps the hand up high.
“Down low,” Rascal challenges, positioning his hand low. Will looks at the hand he’s never been able to slap fast enough. The words “too slow” always taunt him as Rascal pulls his hand away just before Will gets there. As they’ve gotten older, Will has tried several psychological gymnastics to try to deal with this seemingly straightforward offer. He’s tried simply walking away from the “down low.” He’s attempted to slap the hand before Rascal can pull it away, always to no avail. And at one particularly memorable Easter brunch several years back, Will actually punched Rascal in the gut, asking whether or not he was “too slow now, motherfucker?” Rascal waits, his hand tauntingly down low.
“I’m going to get on the road,” Will announces. Rascal eyes Will the way Mr. Miyagi proudly gazed upon the Karate Kid when he finally learned the true lesson of “wax on, wax off.” Rascal waves goodbye, takes a long pull on his cigarette, and walks to his waiting sleek BMW, leaving Will and me alone.
“Drive safely,” I say, pulling my purse tighter on my shoulder.
“I will,” Will says. He leans in and kisses me gently.
“I’d ask you to come, but . . .” Will trails off. There’s nothing to say. I’m running through everything I’ve said before. He knows it all, and I know not to jinx it. Instead, we stand there in silence.
