by Diane Capri
Cass started barking and the knocking grew louder. Uh-oh.
“Just a minute,” I yelled at the door and then hissed at Cass, “Stop, stop, shhh!”
“This is the manager. Open up the door! Do you have a dog in there?”
I tried to sound as innocent as possible. “No. No. It’s just the TV.”
“Open this door, or I will call the cops!”
I closed my eyes and cringed. This was not looking good.
“Cass, get down,” I whispered. “Down.” She growled. Not at me, but at the door. I got her off the bed and locked her in the bathroom. I cracked the door open and there stood the manager—ugly, overweight, spectacled, and in a wife beater with his paunch exposed and hanging over ill-fitting sweats. Lovely.
“Hi!” I put on my best fake smile. “Is there a problem?”
He crossed his arms. “You have a dog here.” A statement, not a question. Crap.
“No. It’s the TV, Animal Planet.”
“We don’t get that channel. And the dog you don’t have is scratching on the bathroom door. I’m not deaf. You need to get out.”
“What?”
“No dogs. No cats. No birds. No lizards. No pets! Get.”
“Now?”
“Did I stutter?”
The beginnings of panic unfurled in my chest, “I-I can put her in the van for the night.”
“Nope. Get. Out. Bye-bye.” He wiggled his pudgy fingers at me, and then accidentally dropped his keys. I bent down at the same time he did to grab them and my fingers grazed his. I yanked my hand back but it was too late. I saw the manager in a car with a tiny little girl. He looked much younger, a lot less weight on him, and he was happy. They were singing “Raindrops Keep Falling On My Head.” Rain splattered against the windshield, and in an instant, something hit the car. It went black and then I saw the manager crying over the child. “No, Sara! No!” She was covered in blood and very still. I pulled my fingers back and stood up.
“You got ten minutes,” he said.
“I’m sorry.” It was all I could say.
He frowned. “I was going to charge you for the night as well and keep the cleaning deposit. I can’t rent the room until it’s fully cleaned and fumigated. Pets have fleas and I am running a nice place here. I can’t allow someone to stay in this room after a dog has been in it.”
“My dog does not have fleas.” She probably did. I have, in fact, seen one or two on her, but seriously, this guy was not running the Ritz-Carlton by any stretch of the imagination. Motel 6 was a five-star by comparison.
“I said I was going to charge you, but you seem a bit down and out, so I won’t. You still gotta go, though.”
I nodded and shut the door softly. I knew if I had not touched him and saw what I had, he would have definitely charged me. In some ways it would have been worth it, even though I didn’t have much left. It is not easy to see the suffering of others, especially when it involves the loss of a child. It’s why I’m usually so careful not to touch people. Damn. But hopefully his pain had been eased some.
I sighed, and took Cass out of the bathroom. I quickly threw my things into my suitcase and we left the motel without a clue as to where we would go.
We drove around for thirty minutes with me in a daze and Cass curled up in the back seat. I finally decided the best idea would be to park in a residential area and get up early in the morning and move. I found a quiet, well-lit street, parked, and climbed in back with my dog. Was this how people wound up on the streets? I couldn’t go back home. Not considering all the faith Betty had in me, and I didn’t want to prove to my daddy I couldn’t make it on my own. I also didn’t want to wind up panhandling with Cass, looking sad and desperate. I could ask Nick for more money. I could ask him if I could work the day shift, but I knew that wouldn’t work either. Nick ran the day shift, and it was rare that many patrons came in during the day. I knew Nick did not have the money to pay me more. I also knew I didn’t want to give up singing. It was all I had, besides Cass, and she counted on me.
I put a blanket over the two of us and eventually slept, only to be woken by the early morning sun and the droning of a nearby lawn mower. Who mows their lawn at seven in the morning? It didn’t matter. I needed to move before the neighbors wondered about the beat-up van with the homeless lady and her dog inside. Reality hit me then that we were living out of my van. Reality also hit that I needed a shower. I was determined today was the day I got a second job and found a new place for Cass and me.
I washed up and put on some war paint inside a McDonald’s restroom after getting a couple of Egg McMuffins. I put an old U2 cassette into my tape player. I needed to upgrade my sound system to an iPod, but the tape player still worked. I sang all the lyrics to “Beautiful Day” at the top of my lungs, and Cass howled along with me.
I had a full stomach, was sort of clean, and received an attitude adjustment from none other than Bono himself. I was ready to take on the day. Little did I know what was in store for me.
At eleven o’ clock I received a phone call from Nordstrom. They needed a new MAC girl. For the record, MAC appears to be the best makeup in the world. Or maybe they just have the best marketing in the world. Because it seems everyone who is anyone wears MAC. I don’t, because I can’t afford it, but I thank my lucky stars Mama took such great pride in teaching me how to make up my face, hers, and everyone else’s in Brady. This job had my name written all over it. I was going to get it if it killed me. I almost got the VW up to sixty on the freeway. It was shaking.
I walked in, trying to be as sophisticated as possible in my all-black ensemble, and do you know what? They hired me! That night I celebrated at Nick’s with a glass of cheap Merlot and a hamburger.
Nick toasted me. “You’re on your way, kid! And speaking of, I know a producer, one of the best, coming in next week to hear you.”
“Really? Who?”
“Can’t say, but I can tell you he’s the man, and I told him you were terrific. He’s excited to meet you.”
“Great,” I said, but wondered why Nick wouldn’t tell me who the guy was. Why all the mystery? But that was Nick. Sort of a mystery himself.
Nick held up his beer and hollered, “Everyone…” Everyone consisted of Mumbles, Candace, and three other people I didn’t know, “… cheers to Evie! She got a new job today, and she’s going to be the next music sensation!”
Mumbles stood up and mumbled, “Evie, good deal, girl!”
“To Evie!” the others cheered.
Maybe this was the City of Angels of after all.
Cass and I offered to lock up that night, and although it felt sneaky, we slept in one of the booths inside the bar and I got ready for my first day of work the next morning in the bathroom. I knew Nick wouldn’t open until ten, so I had time to get ready and get out. The problem was, I had no idea what to do with Cass. I decided to leave her in the van, parked in a shady spot, and crack the windows. I’d check on her at lunch.
So I started my new job at the Nordstrom on La Cienega at The Beverly Center. I liked it. I really did. But I was exhausted by the third day. Here I was, sleeping with my dog in a booth at Nick’s every night, closing the bar for him, and trying hard to get out of there in the mornings before he came in. I checked on Cass during my breaks and took her out for quick walks. I hated leaving her in the van all day. I was still trying to find a place, but my hours at MAC and then at Nick’s weren’t too conducive to apartment hunting. I thought about asking Nick if Cass could stay with him during the day. But I didn’t really want to impose, and then he’d know I was in need of a place. And honestly, I didn’t want that.
At the end of the week, I was at my wit’s end. Thankful I had only two more days until my day off. I was determined to take the first apartment I could find. Now that I had two steady jobs, I felt reasonably comfortable I could make it work.
I was finishing up for the day. The store would be closing in thirty minutes, which meant I would be running from the store t
o Nick’s.
A young woman approached the counter. “Hi. I need a new look. I’m tired of being called cute. What can you do for me?”
“Well, we are getting ready to close.” I really did not want to do a makeover. I always had to be careful about touching skin. Experiencing random people’s traumas had a tendency to bring me down, so I exercised caution and did my best to use only tools to apply makeup for makeovers. I just wanted to get out of there, take care of Cass, and eat something before I set up at Nick’s.
“I understand. But this is important. I want to look fabulous for a big party tonight.” The young woman stared at me hopefully.
I eyed my boss who was watching from the behind the cash register and smiled. “Of course I can help.”
Thirty minutes later, the young woman, named Brenda, looked like a movie star. Even my boss said she couldn’t have done better. I gave Brenda a smoky look around the eyes to bring out the blue in them, and a dusting of soft pink across the cheeks, with just the right peachy-pink gloss on her lips for a pouty, kissable look. What I did not know as I rushed out the door, was that Brenda’s new look would change my life and my lifestyle in less than twenty-four hours.
Next day while behind the counter, a guy approached me (scared me half to death, too, because he was all decked out in black, with slicked back hair, dark eyes—very Godfather-esque). He cleared his throat. “Are you Evie Preston?”
What I wanted to say was, “Who wants to know?” But I figured that wouldn’t go over too well with my manager, so instead I replied, “Yes, how can I help you?”
He handed me a card with the name “Simone” written on it. I looked down at the card and then back up at him. “Simone?” Mafia Man nodded and replied, “Yes. I’m Dwight Jenkins, and I represent Simone. You know, Simone, the singer?”
I took a step back, glancing around me. “Am I on one of those TV shows where y’all have hidden cameras? Do you mean the Simone?”
“No hidden cameras, I assure you. Yes, I’m referring to the pop star, Simone.”
My head started spinning. Had she heard me playing at Nick’s? Maybe Nick really did know people in high places, and maybe the producer guy who was coming to listen to me next week was her producer. Oh wow, would Betty LaRue be so proud, and my mama and daddy! How had I missed seeing Simone at Nick’s? She had to have been in disguise. That’s how those celebs do it when they want to go out—they go incognito.
“You made up her sister, Brenda, yesterday,” Jenkins prompted.
“Brenda is Simone’s sister?”
He nodded. “Simone was so impressed at how great Brenda looked, she wanted to meet you.”
“Okay,” I stuttered. “I have to sing tonight at this place called Nick’s. I’m off tomorrow.”
“I don’t think you understand,” he cut in. “She’d like to meet you now.”
“I have a job here! I can’t just leave.”
Dwight Jenkins called my boss, Tish, over. “Miss Preston has a job interview with Simone. She’s going with me.”
“Wait a minute,” I said. “I can’t do that.” And then his words made their way through the filters in my brain. “A job interview?”
“Simone would like you to be her personal makeup artist. The pay will be a bit more than what you’re currently making here.” He cocked an eyebrow.
“What? Is this for real?”
Tish came around the counter and put her arm around me. “You have to go. Something like this is a once in a lifetime opportunity. Do it, girl!”
I hugged her goodbye and followed Jenkins. He escorted me to a limo where I found Simone and Brenda waiting inside.
I was speechless as I sat down across from them. Jenkins climbed in the front with the chauffeur, and the car purred to life, smoothly pulling away from the mall. Simone smiled. “Thank you for coming.”
As if I had a choice, right? I studied her in awe. She was a true beauty—long, blonde hair, big, blue eyes, a body men would love to ravish and women would kill for, and a voice that had venues around the country sold out months in advance. She was a cross between a younger Madonna and Mariah Carey, with a dash of Britney Spears. To be sitting across from her was mind blowing, and my stomach did this swirly, feel-like-I’m-gonna-puke thing that always happens to me when I get nervous.
“You are so genius,” Simone said. She took Brenda’s face in her hands and squeezed, bunching it up so she looked like a fat goldfish trying to breathe. “The hottest guy at this party last night hooked up with my sister. He wanted her, not me! And I was so working it, too. He didn’t even look my way. Usually she looks kind of dorky. Cute, but dorky.” She let go of Brenda’s face and patted her cheeks gently.
Brenda rubbed her face. “Gee, thanks Sis.”
“I asked her who did her face and she told me this chick at the MAC counter at Nordy’s. I’m like, I so have to meet this woman! And, well, here we are. Is it your fucking lucky day or what?” Simone smiled, shiny, bleach-white teeth gleaming in the darkened limo.
“Well, thank you for the compliment.” I wasn’t sure what else to say. I mean, what do you say to someone with a planet-sized ego who has graced the covers of Vogue, Rolling Stone, and Vanity Fair, won a handful of Grammy’s, and talks like a truck driver? I almost had to pinch myself to be sure I wasn’t dreaming, but then the car made a quick turn and Simone spilled her glass of champagne in my lap.
Without an apology, she said, “I need a new makeup assistant. That last one was the shits. Oh, check this out…” She rolled down the privacy glass between us and the driver. “Harvey, take us over to Blake’s place so I can show…” She glanced at me. “Hon, what the fuck is your name?”
“Evie.”
“Right.” She looked back at the driver. “So I can show Evie her new digs.” She rolled the window back up.
“I’m confused. I thought this was a job interview,” I said. Brenda poured me a glass of champagne, handing it to me. “Thanks, but I don’t drink and definitely not before noon.”
“First, confusion around my sister happens a lot,” Brenda said.
Simone punched Brenda lightly in the arm. “Ha, ha, little sis thinks she’s soooo fucking funny.”
Brenda nodded. “And two…” She held up two fingers, “If you’re hanging with us, which you will be, because big sis doesn’t go far without her makeup and the one who puts it on her, you are going to have to learn to party like a rock star.”
“Drink up.” Simone clinked my glass. “Cheers. Here’s to your new home.”
I looked out the window and my jaw dropped. Literally. We’d pulled up to a large gate with a long, winding drive. I sucked back the champagne to calm my nerves. This simply could not be happening. “What do you mean?”
“Well, Edie,” Simone started. “I’m pretty sure you don’t live in a place like this…”
“It’s Evie.”
She waved a hand in my face. “My buddy Blake, this big producer guy, is in Europe for, like, a year or something, and he needs a house sitter. I volunteered Brenda, but she says she’s afraid of the house and won’t do it.”
“Place is creepy.” Brenda poured herself another glass of champagne.
“Shut up,” Simone said. “So if you come on board as my makeup chick, you get to live in luxury, baby. This place is way cool.”
I had to agree with her. Palm trees and an iron gate, with a retro, Spanish mission look going on and, from what I could tell, a view to die for. But what was the catch? I mean, was she serious? I could actually live here?
“Can I bring my dog?”
“You can bring fifty fucking dogs for all I care. What do you say, Edie? You in?”
Evie, Edie, makeup chick, whatever—I didn’t give a damn what she wanted to call me. I was definitely in.
CHAPTER SIX
THREE WEEKS LATER, and I was kind of inclined to agree with Brenda regarding the house (mansion, villa, whatever it was). Blake’s place was a little creepy. And any time I asked about Blake,
the owner, I got the brushoff. The only thing Brenda had added one day when I was prepping to do Simone’s makeup (Brenda was busy looting her sister’s closet while Simone soaked in a tub of goat’s milk and tuberose petals … don’t get me started) was that she’d heard the place was haunted.
“Haunted? Really? By who?” I asked.
Brenda shrugged. And then Simone walked in wearing a plush pink robe.
“What are you doing?!” She snatched a silky-looking shirt out of Brenda’s hands. “Get the hell out of my fucking closet. Go buy your own clothes and leave Edie alone. And no more shit about her place being haunted.” She turned to me, an exasperated look on her face. “You don’t believe in that shit, do you?”
Here’s the thing: I sort of do. When I was a kid, I saw a ghost. Or at least I think I did. I remember waking one night from a deep sleep to see a little girl, pale and, well, ghostly, pad silently past my open bedroom door. She held a candle, and the flame was the only thing with any kind of real color to it—a faint, yellow glow. She turned to face me and, with a smile, brought her free hand up to her face and shushed me with her finger. I wasn’t scared, just surprised. I remembered wanting to talk to my mother about it, but never did. Fact is, ghosts and things that go bump in the night weren’t exactly embraced with open arms in my household. And then, as I got older, a part of me began to wonder if maybe it had all been a dream.
Simone was looking at me expectantly. “Please tell me you don’t believe in that crap. Brenda also thinks we’re descended from space aliens.” She walked past her sister and smacked her lightly on the top of her head. Brenda rolled her eyes.
“Um, no … not really,” I stuttered.
Well, what did you expect me to say? Oh yes, Simone! Not only do I believe in ghosts, but I can also touch people, get a glimpse of their psychological baggage, and help them heal!
Speaking of Simone, when I did, on occasion, touch her face … there was nothing overly traumatic about her past that jumped out at me (aside from her fixation on an old magazine article that mentioned her slight weight gain). The only thing I did pick up from her was a deep, aching loneliness—surprising, because she was constantly surrounded by people. Nevertheless, it allowed me to feel some empathy for her, even though she was often incredibly obnoxious.
