by C. S. Lakin
“Lila, dear, what else can I do for you?”
She pouted. “You could start by leaving me alone.”
“What’s bothering you, Li?” He sat on the chintz-covered seat next to her. “I think these ordinary people are delightfully refreshing. They’re so boring, so wrapped up in their mundane problems. Sure makes me appreciate the life I have with you. Never a dull moment . . .”
“Peter, shut up.”
He abruptly closed his mouth.
Lila picked at her toenails. “You think these people are harmless. You’d be surprised how much damage such mundane, boring people can do.”
“Li, come on . . .”
“Let’s just say these wonderful, boring people are responsible for who I am today. And for that—I intend to make them pay through their collective noses.”
Peter grew uneasy at the tone in her voice. He watched an undercurrent of rage ripple across her face.
“I thought you brought them here to show off your success. To gloat. Because they never thought you’d amount to anything. Isn’t that what you told me?”
“Do you always believe everything I say?” Lila snorted. “You’re a fool.”
Peter let the comment slide. It was his unstated duty to avoid taking offense. That’s why Lila had kept him on this long. No one else in his job had survived more than a few months in the wake of her verbal abuse.
“Lila, these people are harmless, even pathetic.”
“Tonight. You’ll learn the whole truth tonight, when we play a little game. Now get lost.”
Peter reached to touch her hand. She slapped it away.
He steadied himself. “What is it with you, Lila? I’ve never seen you like this before.”
“You’re trying my patience, Avon.” Lila never called him by his last name. “Push me too hard and I’ll do to you what I did to all of them. Don’t forget you’re just another leech, sucking my blood.” She kicked the wooden tray to the floor, sending the dishes flying. Peter backed away.
“Now go.” She turned to look out the huge picture window. Rain splattered against the pane. “After dinner, I throw them to the wolves.”
Quickly bypassing the guests in the living room, Peter set to work in the kitchen preparing dinner. On the center island a pot of pasta boiled, steaming the windows. Gusts rushed through the branches of madrone outside, followed by a crack of thunder. The overhead lights flickered briefly and then went dead. By the dim light of the winter sky, Peter had trouble reading the recipe for Pasta Primavera in the scant light.
“Want some help?” Cynthia carried a tray of dishes to the sink. Peter smiled. A friendly port in the storm. He didn’t want to admit to himself how good it felt.
“Sure. How ’bout holding the flashlight.” He read while she shined the light onto the page.
“Does this happen a lot?”
“What?”
“The power going out.” As she finished speaking, the lights blinked back on.
Peter shrugged. “I’ve never been here in a storm. We usually come in the summer.”
Cynthia put down the flashlight and reached for a knife.
Peter watched her delicate hands slice an onion. How refreshing to be around someone quiet and refined. He fumed over Lila’s rancorous treatment of him. How dare she call him a leech? If only she realized what he had to put up with every day. He worked hard, dammit, and deserved at least a little respect. Yes, there was definitely something going on, something very wrong. He stirred the noodles, muttering quietly.
“So, Peter—tell me. How did you stumble into this job?”
“Oh, you don’t want to hear this story.”
“Sure I do.” She urged him with her eyes.
“Okay. Well, it’s really quite simple. I was doing some catering in Laurel Canyon and Lila went crazy over my spanikopita. She told me to come home with her and be her cook. So I did.”
Cynthia laughed.
“Except, I never got to cook. It was one thing after another and pretty soon I became more of a ‘gofer’ than anything else. She’s got Jean-Louis for a chef now, but every once in a while I make the spanikopita for her. Good thing, too. It’s one of the only dishes I know how to make well.”
“But, then why were you in catering?”
“Oh, that was my partner’s thing. He was a fabulous cook. The cheesecakes alone would make you fall to your knees. I used to help him on his parties. I was trying to make it as an actor, so I’d moonlight with Andrew in between jobs.”
Cynthia finished chopping and washed her hands, tears starting to stream down her face.
Peter looked at her, questioningly. “Oh, come on, it’s not that sad a story.”
Cynthia laughed, pointing to the pile of chopped onions.
“Oh. I thought for a minute I had really moved you.”
“So, what are your plans? Are you going to stay with Lila indefinitely?”
He hesitated. Was Cynthia sensing his doubts? He shrugged and studied her with deliberation. She was so young—oh, to be that young again, with your whole life ahead of you. Peter was only in his thirties, but he already regretted so much. Every day he scrutinized the lines forming on his face and searched his hair for signs of gray. In his circle of friends, he was past his prime.
He sidestepped her question. “I’m sorry you’re having a lousy time here.”
Cynthia shrugged. “Now what?” She gestured at the meal preparations.
“Oh, you’ve done more than enough. I can finish up.”
Peter had looked forward to coming to Lila’s castle to “cater” once more, but it was unsettling to be going it alone. The last time, Andrew was already too ill to stand, so he directed Peter from the chair—talking him through the steps, nagging him so everything would be just right. A perfectionist to the end. Peter wasn’t prepared for the emotional wash of memories this weekend triggered. Two years wasn’t long enough to erode away the pain and guilt. But, maybe it was only Lila’s mood that darkened him. If only he could cheer her up.
“You know, Cynthia, I like you. You’re not contaminated by all the rotten people in the world.” He paused. “It’s great to have a big heart, but if you’re not careful you’ll be a walking target for all the losers in the world. Don’t be too trusting.”
“Oh, I don’t know. I’ve always believed that if you’re a good person, good will come to you. That’s my philosophy. And it’s worked so far.”
Peter thought of something his mother used to say to him: “Why does God waste energy on the young, instead of giving it to the old, who have the wisdom to know what to do with it?” Somehow, standing next to Cynthia, he felt unbearably old.
In the fading afternoon light, Davis clambered up a steep buttress of rock, carefully watching his footing. Twice he had slipped and scraped his knee. He knew he was foolish to climb around the island half-drunk, but when he returned earlier, he found Cynthia back at the house reading off in a corner by herself. He tried to tell her she was right about the weekend, but she brushed him off. He sat next to her, but she got up and said she was going to help in the kitchen. Rebuffed, he joined the guys and helped polish off a fifth of Jack Daniels. Then Jonathan dragged him outside again for some male bonding.
Now Jonathan panted behind him, muttering to himself. Davis smirked. He was in better shape than Jon, whom he figured never spent any time in a gym. It gave him a small sense of satisfaction to know he could hold the lead, be on top. It was petty, he had to admit it, but he still felt a twinge of anger at Jon for backstabbing him in college. Jon and Della—pretending nothing was going on between them. So Davis pushed on a little harder, leaving Jon further behind as he approached the crest of the bluff.
The wind pressed at his back as he breathed hard, getting his dizziness under control. The clouds parted to reveal a spectacular panorama. To the northwest on Orcas Island, Mt. Constitution towered into the blanket of clouds. To the south, he made out a ferry boat plying the channel, navigating the dozens of islands arr
anged like a maze.
Up there on top of the world, Davis thought about Della’s words in the ferry terminal. About how he could have made it as an actor. Maybe he should have stayed in acting, maybe he would have been a star. With his good looks, charm, and talent at persuasion, he could have been rich, and famous as well. But his father had scoffed at a career in acting and made it clear, in few words, that if Davis wanted to go to Hollywood to pursue his dream, then he’d be cut loose. No more bankrolling him like he did through school. If only his father hadn’t dangled that lucrative offer in front of his face—with all those strings attached. To inherit his father’s company, he had to do it his father’s way, meaning long, hard hours and a lot of work.
When his father died last year, amid all the grief, Davis was somewhat relieved. He didn’t have his “boss” looking over his shoulder anymore, eyeing him, evaluating his decisions. Catching his careless mistakes and not-quite-legal shortcuts. Even now, a twinge of guilt rushed through him, but he brushed it aside. In this day of cutthroat development, he would be a fool—even worse, he would risk his fortune—if he followed the old-fashioned ethics of his father. How many times had Davis been reminded that the firm was built on integrity and reputation? How many deals did his father lose from refusing to underbid, which necessitates scrimping on quality and time?
Davis thought about his Mount Tam mall project and the northern Marin subdivision. The project that was destined to make him one of the richest real estate holders in Marin. He was damned lucky that a big investor jumped aboard at the last minute and saved his ass. He had already cashed in some of Cynthia’s T-bills to cover his miscalculation of the costs. If she found out, she would be furious. He promised her he was putting her money away, where neither of them could touch it. It was slated to go for their kids’ college fund and future retirement. But he had been in a bind, until that last investor miraculously turned up. Now the condos were being built, retailers were being lured in to lease, even as Davis sat perched on the rock ledge. Not as good as fame, perhaps, but money was money. And he wanted his future kids to have everything, the best of everything. To have it easy growing up, like he’d had.
Jon pulled himself up onto the ledge and collapsed next to Davis. “You and your brilliant suggestion,” he forced out the words in between gasps. “ ‘Let’s climb to the top and watch the sunset.’ You can’t see any sunset with all these clouds. And I, for one, don’t want to try to make it back down in the dark. What is it with you—got some sort of death wish?” Jon thought for a minute and then laughed and coughed, the cold air searing his chest. “I get it. You’re paying me back for taking Della away from you in college. Okay, but don’t bother. I already paid for that mistake, that’s for damned sure.”
Davis handed Jon a small silver flask. He took a swig and winced. “Just what I need—more whiskey.”
“It’ll warm you up.”
“What—the climb didn’t? I’m sweating like a cow.” He thought about his expensive silk shirt, now probably stained at the armpits. There goes $250. Why was he killing himself climbing rocks when he should be schmoozing with Lila? He had mulled it over and over in his head. Lila had expressed excitement over his project, hadn’t she? Well, he knew she was clueless about the story idea, but he and Lila had a history and she owed him. That’s right. He fixed the thought in his head. He had directed her first show. He was the one who “discovered” Lila, who knew talent when he saw it. Lila must be tremendously grateful. There was no way she’d refuse him. Besides, the option cost him a fortune. He was taking a big chance on her gratitude. Thank God he never made fun of her to her face back in the old days. Instead, he always assured her that she was doing a great job. At least that was how he remembered it.
Davis sat quietly, admiring the view. “So, give me the gory details. What happened with you and Della?”
Jon was more than happy to oblige, now that his mood had lightened considerably. He tossed a rock and watched it ricochet and tumble to the beach below. The waves tossed violently, giving Jon a surge of vertigo. He stopped looking down.
“Well, you knew about the scholarship to USC. So, I go down to L.A. and get settled in after Della refuses to come with me. And then she calls me and says she’s coming—all cheery and friendly, like we hadn’t had a big breakup fight. She promises she’ll take care of me while I go through grad school. Iron my shirts or something. So, I decide to give her another chance. You know, I used to think she was a lot of fun. We’d stay up all night, drink, smoke pot. But then I realized what an insomniac she was. And she’d try to sleep all day. I thought she was going to go look for work, but all she’d do was waste the day in bed. And her stinking cats. She had to have them sleep in bed with us. I got all scratched up at night from their claws.”
Jonathan took another swallow from the flask. “Anyway, I tell her Hollywood’s an early town. That she’d better get it together if she wants to make it. And then she starts complaining about how sick she feels in the morning. Now, she must think I’m stupid or something, but I can tell she’s pregnant. Her breasts are swollen, her mood swings are unbearable. But, she doesn’t say anything about it. Instead, she wallows in her misery and the house is a mess and the cats are messing in the corner of the living room. So that’s it—I’ve had enough. I tell her to move out. And her reaction? Like I was dumping her on the street and never did a thing for her. The whole time she mooched off of me. I paid for everything.”
“Wow,” Davis said, searching his mind. “Was it yours or mine?”
Jonathan frowned. “Who knows? But, she clearly took care of it. So, after that I hear she’s moved into a tiny apartment in Culver City and starts sleeping around. Then I hear she gets pregnant again by some actor. And then she moves in with an A.D. who hires her as some personal assistant. And that’s where she discovers her true vocation—living through other people’s lives. And it’s one person after another until finally, once I start getting work, she calls and asks me for a job. She desperately needs to get in the union, but SAG won’t take you unless you have a job, so out of the goodness of my heart, I give her a small part. And how does she reward me? She shows up late. Am I supposed to hold up production for Miss Prima Donna? I already told you that part.
“Anyway, that’s it—the next thing I hear, she’s had it with Hollywood. She tells people the stage is her true calling and she’s going back to New York to live with her brother and make it on Broadway.”
Davis digested the story. “You shouldn’t be angry with her.”
“Why the hell not?”
“Look at her.”
“Yeah, well, she’s done her share of bad-mouthing me around town. Not that anyone would believe what she’d say.”
Jonathan could tell by the darkening sky that the sun had already dropped below the horizon. “Look, I don’t know how crazy you are, but I’m heading back. It’s going to take ten minutes just to navigate down these rocks.” Jonathan started feeling his way for footholds. “I’ll meet you back at the house.”
Davis scanned the dark horizon spreading before him. “I’m coming,”
Chapter 16
Peter hovered over the lace-covered dining table. Gold-lined plates in perfect position. Crystal drinking goblets filled with lemon water. Napkins, ironed and starched, folded into tents across the plates. Just so. Unlike the other meals, Peter prepared a sit-down affair—his attempt at ameliorating the tense atmosphere. Unfortunately, the primary target of his effort had sequestered herself in the tower, forgoing dinner. A very bad sign.
The guests fumbled with a mixture of relief and anxiety, making small talk—in Peter’s assessment—to distract themselves from the inauspicious absence of their hostess. Cynthia smiled at him, nodding in approval at his effort. As he poured wine and brought out the salad, a flash of lightning streaked through the window, followed by deafening thunder. The lights blinked and dimmed.
Davis buttered his bread with an ornate gold-trimmed knife. “What’s Lila got here
—a generator?”
“The power shouldn’t go out with a generator,” Dick said. “Unless she’s got a lot of above-ground lines.”
“Peter, come join us.” Cynthia motioned him over to the unoccupied seat beside her.
“Oh, no. I couldn’t. I have to stir the pasta.”
Apparently thinking Peter was out of earshot, Dick whispered to Jon, who sat across from him. “Now there’s an interesting relationship—Lila and Peter.”
Peter glanced back into the room. He knew the portent of Dick’s words.
Millie chewed on a piece of brioche bread. “Oh, I’m sure there’s nothing going on between Lila and Peter. He just works for her.”
“Millie, you’re such an idiot,” Dick said. “The guy’s a fag. Of course there’s nothing ‘going on.’ ” Dick mimicked Millie’s inflection.
A long silence ensued as the guests plied themselves with food. Peter came back in, aware of eyes upon him. He spooned noodles onto the plates.
Dick cleared his throat. “Okay.” He looked at Jonathan and Davis. “Did you hear the one about the psychiatrist who says he made a Freudian slip?” Dick didn’t wait for an answer. “He wanted to say, ‘please pass the butter’ to his wife, and instead said, ‘you witch, you ruined my life.’ ”
He laughed to a response of soured smiles, and urged more enthusiasm with his hands. “Come on, guys. Admit that was a great one.”
Millie put her fork down. “Why do you always have to bore people with your jokes? No one thinks they’re funny.”
“You don’t think they’re funny because you have no sense of humor.” Dick stared across the table at Millie, his eyes red and hostile.
“Hey, what the hell was that for?” He turned to Davis. “She kicked me.”
Davis shrugged and finished off his glass of wine. A lopsided smirk stretched across his face. “You asked for it. Never insult a woman wearing sharp heels.”
