by Julia Dumont
One: Second Acts is your second act. You’ve come a long way——from Dad’s death, to Stanford, to a Pepperdine MBA, to a successful career as a marketing executive at two major Hollywood studios, to death and rebirth by downsizing, to this exciting reinvention. You can’t let Max or anyone else screw it up. Two: Sick and Tired is as much your salvation as you are hers. Three: Max. Four: Max. Five: Max, Max, Max, Max, Max. Six: Have you lost your mind? You must not see Max under any circumstances. Seven: But this is MAX we’re talking about! Eight: Begin again.
She decided that this might be a good time to call her mother back. Ear buds in. Speed dial #1. Ringing…
“Hello!” Her mom always yelled to be heard over the yapping of her three neurotic Shih Tzus.
“Hi, Mom!”
Yap! Yap! Yap!
“Why are you yelling?!” she yelled.
“One guess, Mom!”
Yap! Yap! Yap! Yap!
“So, what does it take to get one’s daughter on the phone?!”
“Mom, we’re on the phone.”
Yap! Yap! Yap!
“Yes, but it’s too late! I don’t even remember why I called now!”
“Oh, well, that’s good then…whatever the problem was has resolved itself.”
“Who said anything about a problem?!”
Yap! Yap!
Plink. Text from Max. Actually, no text…just a photo. Cynthia squinted…the sun was hitting the phone’s screen and it was hard to make out.
“What is that?” she said to herself, but out loud.
“What is what?!” asked Cynthia’s mother. Yap! Yap! Yap! Yap! “You think I just sit around all day inventing problems to bother you about?!” Yap! Yap! Yap!
“No…not at all,” said Cynthia, even though she was pretty sure her mother invented most of her problems. She also knew that she could not take the yapping or this conversation…especially the conversation. “Listen, Mom, you’re dropping out. I’m in the canyon. Let me call you back. No, in just a minute or two. Okay, bye. Okay, okay. Bye. Okay. Good. Bye.” Click.
Once Second Acts really got going, she would find a man for her mother—someone willing to fill in for her at least part of the time.
The traffic had come to a complete halt and Cynthia grabbed the phone. Max had sent a photograph of his hand, his left hand…no ring. His fingers were touching the raised numerals on a white door…the number 14. Simple, but as was always the case with Max, perfectly composed and considered. Fourteen was the room they’d shared at Shutters. She would never forget because they ended up staying for fourteen days. In addition to his other considerable talents, he was a master of long-distance foreplay. He was reaching through the phone, touching Cynthia exactly the way she wanted to be touched. She felt a little dizzy. The photo was like a portal to their past and she was instantly transported back to that first night.
She remembered losing her sandals in the sand in the dark—one of her favorite pairs ever, but she didn’t care. At all. They sang soft harmony together, winding their way up the path, weaving through the maze of hallways, and every time they realized they’d taken a wrong turn, they stopped to whisper and kiss. He traveled slowly from lips to neck to collarbone to breasts and southward, taking unpredictable, circuitous side trips, making her shiver…making her weak in the knees. The sun, the surf, the drinks, and her slightly sunburned skin——not painful, but ultra-sensitive——created a sweet, tingling, coconut-flavored sensory overload. With each new corridor, more zippers unzipped and buttons unbuttoned. It took a while to find the right room and by the time they arrived, they were unhooked, untied, unfastened, and utterly unraveled—their clothes more off than on. Along the way, he made her laugh by sliding the key suggestively into lock after incorrect lock, before finally easing gently into number fourteen and, at last, mercilessly consummating the evening and shaking her to her core.
Plink: Another photo, interior, room fourteen, fresh bouquet. When Max wanted something, he never, ever, ever gave up.
BZZZZZ: Walter calling. Sorry, Mr. Bubble Wrap. Beep: straight to voicemail.
Plink: Chocolate on pillow.
HONKKKK! BMW behind Cynthia leaned on his horn. Traffic moving again.
Plink!
She eased her foot off the brake, studied the curving road ahead, and glanced down at Max’s newest photo: A wider shot of the California King comforter—pure white, thread count off the charts, glowing like a cumulus cloud. Cynthia felt herself falling into it. This was the kind of soft-focus flashback she thought only occurred in the sappiest of Hollywood scenarios—movies that she didn’t particularly like watching. But being in one was a whole different matter.
She looked up and slammed on the brakes, stopping an inch from the bumper in front.
She put the phone in her purse and threw it onto the back seat.
Chapter 3
Cynthia recognized her client immediately. A beautiful redhead, mid-forties, sexy, overdressed for Peet’s Coffee and extremely overdressed for a dog groomer…but this was Beverly Hills. She was sitting at an outside table, sandwiched between a Great Dane and an Irish Wolfhound, together probably four hundred and fifty pounds of dog. They were dominating the entire patio.
“Sick and Tired, I presume?”
“Second Acts?”
“Cynthia for short. Let me grab a coffee.” She bought a latte and pulled up a chair between the towering canines, which were immaculately coifed with colorful ribbons around their massive necks. “So,” continued Cynthia, “I assume most people don’t call you Sick and Tired.”
“I’m Lolita,” she said with a nod. “My parents had a weird sense of humor. When I was young it was tantamount to child abuse. In my twenties it was a blessing and a curse. Now people usually think I’m kidding. When they realize I’m not, they assume all kinds of things about me. Granted, some of those things are true. I’ve thought about changing it, but it’s a little late for that now.”
“I like the name,” said Cynthia. “Definitely an attention grabber.”
The Great Dane nonchalantly ate two huge croissants from Lolita’s plate. She made no attempt to stop him. In fact, she whispered to him, nuzzled him with her nose, and then put her ear to his mouth, as if listening for some kind of reply. Weirdly, the Dane growled softly, right on cue, with a degree of vocal modulation that seemed eerily human. No actual words, but party-trick-wise, certainly YouTube-worthy.
“So, the dog talks,” said Cynthia.
“Definitely,” replied Lolita. “King said that almond croissants are his absolute favorite.” She looked over at the Wolfhound. “Max is less talkative. More of a strong, silent type. And he prefers the lemon poppy seed cake. He had a slice with his salad nicoise.”
“The dog’s name is Max?” asked Cynthia. She didn’t believe in signs, but this was a sign.
“Yes, why?”
“No reason, I’ve just always loved the name.” Max, Max, Max, Max. She had an earworm going.
“Yeah, me too, but I named him after Maximilian Schell. I had an affair with him when he was living up on Mulholland in the eighties. He was fifty, I was twenty. It was during my punk rock phase and the only movie I’d seen him in was Judgment at Nuremburg. I think I got some kind of perverse thrill from screwing a Nazi. Well, a fake Nazi. Real screwing though. He was making a documentary about Marlene Dietrich at the time, so I met her. Had dinner at her house once. She got a little drunk and sang Lili Marlene to me…but Lolita Marlene instead.”
“That’s incredible,” said Cynthia, pulling out a folder and handing it to Lolita. “I want to date you.”
Lolita smiled. “At another time in my life, I would have taken you up on that.”
Cynthia blushed. Note to self: Do not under any circumstances introduce or even mention Lolita to Max. “Okay,” she said, “the way this works is really quite different from your ordinary run-of-the-mill dating service. It costs a little more, but, believe me, it’s well worth it. I have a list of 100%-guaranteed-appealing males.
No strangers. They’re all personal connections of mine or referred by friends or colleagues who I deeply trust. I’ve met each and every one, done extensive in-person interviews, and I personally vouch for them. One of my rules is that I don’t add any man to my list who I wouldn’t be thrilled to see naked. If being stranded on a desert island with him doesn’t sound wonderful, he’s absolutely, positively not on my ship. If I can’t fathom him kissing me here, there, and everywhere, he’s gone. Period. And each has written a statement that is so personal and honest, it removes a lot of the guesswork. In some ways, I’m much more like an old-time matchmaker … but without the old-time morality. I assume you’re in this for the lust and the love of it, after all. I want you to take these guys home and spend some quality time with them. Roll them around on your tongue. Then, just call me with your top five and we’ll get started.”
“No photographs?” asked Lolita, thumbing through the pages.
Plink. Since their conversation began, Cynthia had been aware that her phone was buzzing and plinking almost nonstop inside her purse.
Lolita noticed too. “It seems a lot of desperate clients are trying to reach you.”
“Yes, well, Second Acts is booming. There are a lot of women and men looking for love out there.” She knew that, in reality, most if not all of the action inside that bag was Max. It was pulsating with mojo. It was like his virtual hard-on was pounding against the inside of the bag, trying to slam its way through the leather to find her. A rocket in her pocketbook. A heat-seeking missile. She pictured him lounging in a hotel robe, snapping pictures and concocting messages designed to tease and tantalize her. As important as this meeting with Lolita was, Cynthia was longing to look at her phone, dying to see what kind of mischief Max was making in there. She imagined her purse overflowing with suggestive, illicit, downright filthy communiqués by now.
“I’ll email you photos of your top five,” she said to Lolita, lifting the phone and sneaking a peek at Max’s most recent digital dispatch: a bottle of Dom Pérignon on a table on a balcony…sand and surf stretching to infinity. She did a double take and almost burst out laughing. He’d placed two blood oranges near the base of the bottle. From anyone else, she might have believed that the hilariously phallic still life was a happy accident, but she knew Max and this was plenty happy, but no accident. God, he was nuts in a good way.
“But I’m telling you right now,” Cynthia continued, raising her eyes to Lolita’s again, “there are no dogs on this list. Dog lovers, but no dogs. On the contrary, I am beyond confident that you will not be disappointed.”
“Good,” said Lolita. “I hate disappointment.”
“Me too,” replied Cynthia. “And unless you have any questions, I think we’re done here.”
“Also good,” said Lolita. “I’ve got bow-wows backed up to the 405.”
“Great. Call me tomorrow?”
“No way…I’m calling you tonight.”
Cynthia smiled. Maybe this was going to work.
“Perfect,” she said, standing and reaching out to shake hands. Lolita also rose, leaning forward as she pushed back, causing her collar to dip, and revealing a generous bit of lovely cleavage. Cynthia noticed a tiny tattoo on the inside of her right breast: a purple heart with a question mark within it. Understated but devastating. This customer really was in the market for something and Cynthia was sure she could satisfy her. They clasped hands and kissed cheeks. Cynthia patted the heads of the Dane and Wolfhound. “Adios, big boys. I’ve got another meeting to get to.”
She hopped into the car, put the top down, and sped west on Wilshire. Uncharacteristically smooth sailing, no traffic…all signals go. The universe seemed to be green-lighting her desire and destiny. On this particular Monday morning, if there were going to be a roadblock between Cynthia and reckless abandon, she would have to construct it herself. But she was in the mood for making something else.
The wind was roaring, wrecking her two-hundred-dollar hairdo, but she obviously didn’t care. Even though she had left the heat of the valley behind and cool westside air now enveloped her, she felt the warm rush of blood to her cheeks and other places. Her body never could keep a secret. By the time she arrived at the hotel every square inch of her would be on fire. Max would see it. Even the valet would see it. It would be visible from space. She never ignited so quickly, burned with such intensity, nor melted with anyone like she did with Max. She caught air over the hill at 26th Street and suddenly smelled the ocean.
Chapter 4
Meanwhile, it was hot in the valley. Margie Amas, Cynthia’s ever-loving long-suffering mother, suddenly stopped in her tracks. Tou-tou, Fifi, and Fred, her three Shih Tzus, strained against their rhinestone-studded leashes—together as forceful as one real dog. They scuttled over the curb, first toward the crosswalk, then off to the right, almost pulling Margie into a car pulling up to the red light on Ventura Boulevard. She yanked back hard and dragged all three darling demon dogs back up onto the sidewalk.
Margie remembered something: the reason she had called her daughter this morning. She had just seen Dr. Willowby for the fourth time in a month and was absolutely positive that he was the man for Cynthia. He was the kind of doctor who makes you want to be sick. Makes you scour yourself for symptoms. Hell, invent symptoms. After her husband died——the rock of her life——she couldn’t look at another man for decades. She had finally moved beyond it, but she still hadn’t found someone she wanted to grow old with. Well, grow older with. She did still dream about that. But in the meantime, Margie savored almost any attention from men——from the handshakes of casual acquaintances, to the smiles of bag boys at the market, to the kind of intimate encounter that Dr. Willowby had unwittingly provided.
“Hmm. I don’t know, Mrs. Amas,” he’d said, gently circling his fingertips around her right breast, along the bottom at the ribcage, then up and in, deeper into the flesh, his other hand resting tenderly on her shoulder, “Still can’t find that lump.”
“First of all,” she’d replied, suspecting he was on to her, but not caring, “Call me Margie. But, wait, did I say right? I think maybe it was the left one.”
“I’ve already examined both, Margie. Twice. You get dressed and I’ll be right back.”
Earlier in her life, Margie never would have pulled shenanigans like this, but she had officially entered the WTF stage. She wasn’t interested in subtlety anymore. No time for niceties. She was grabbing for all the gusto she could get and if eliciting cheap thrills from a handsome unmarried gynecologist was her greatest sin, she was still going to heaven. Provided there was one. That was yet another dream she was losing faith in. Another reason she yearned for a tiny bit of heaven now. On the odd chance that she did ever see her husband Harold again, she was pretty sure he would forgive her. God knows he’d done worse while he was alive.
But even her lavish fantasy life was not powerful enough to make her believe that Dr. Willowby would ever be interested in her. Sure, she looked good for sixty-four, but Cynthia was her carbon copy, except twenty years younger. And prettier. And smarter. And a whole lot less falling apart at the seams.
Margie was always trying to fix up Cynthia. In fact, she was a little offended that she hadn’t given her credit for being the inspiration for her new business. As far as she was concerned, her matchmaking talents far surpassed her daughter’s. She wouldn’t mind a new career herself. Perhaps a partnership. She had mentioned it to Cynthia on the phone a few weeks before, but it had not gone over well.
“Well, sweetie,” she’d said, except she’d shouted it over the yapping of the dogs, “I think we both know that I taught you all there is to know about the art of matchmaking.”
Cynthia didn’t say a word for at least five seconds, picturing the long line of losers her mother had paraded before her over the years, and then cut her to the quick with a joke that she always made when she suspected her mother was losing her marbles: “So, should I install you in a home now?” Margie dreaded the inevitable
day when she wouldn’t realize that Cynthia wasn’t making a joke.
Back to business. How was she going to get Cynthia to meet Dr. Willowby? She struggled to keep the canines under control, the leashes wrapped tightly around her wrist, and she punched in the doctor’s phone number with the thumb of her other hand.
“Hello, doctor’s office,” said the ridiculously young and perky receptionist.
Margie hated young and perky.
“Hello,” she said, trying hard to convey an air of importance that was being severely compromised by the guttural growls of the Shih Tzus, who had suddenly taken offense to the two handsome policemen entering Jerry’s Delicatessen. “Hold on…sorry officers. They’re good dogs, they just don’t like uniforms. But I do.”
“Hello?” said Young and Perky again. “Is someone there?”
“Yes,” said Margie, yanking hard on the leashes and waving goodbye to the policemen. “This is Mrs. Amas. How are you, missy?”
There was a pause and then the girl said, “I’m fine,” with an unmistakable edge in her little-girl voice. “Listen, Mrs. Amas, you can’t keep calling to talk to the doctor. He has other patients, you know.”
“Listen you neonatal nutcase,” said Margie. “I’m not calling to talk to the doctor, even though it’s well within my rights to do so. I’m calling to make an appointment…for my daughter.”
“Oh, okay,” said the girl, “let me see what’s available.”
“Thank you,” said Margie. “I wouldn’t want to have to talk to your superior. Which could technically be anyone on Earth.” She said that last sentence with her hand over the phone, but she knew there was a good chance the girl had heard. And of course she didn’t care.
Chapter 5
When Cynthia descended onto the private road that connected Ocean Boulevard to the horseshoe driveway of Shutters at the Beach, she felt a rush of emotion, like she was coming home. Only a whole lot better. She breathed in the ocean air and imagined the aroma of mojito and Max.
