Pieces of Happily Ever After

by Irene Zutell

  “You should have seen the place the other night,” Nancy says. “It was bursting with single guys trying to get a peak at Ceel in her spandex. I think she collected quite a lot of phone numbers. She’s having a blast.”

  “Guess I lost a babysitter.”

  “Sorry about that,” Nancy says as she hands me a frothy concoction. “Margarita.”

  I smile and take a sip. “Delicious.” I survey the bar. “Look at this place. You’re doing great.”

  “Thanks to you. This was a brilliant idea, Ally. And you promoted the hell out of it. We framed the blurb that ran in the L.A. Times.”

  She points to the spot behind the bar by the cash register. I’d called up a contact at the Valley section of the L.A. Times and there it is:

  MOMMY BEEREST: The Giggling Gull will host the first of what promises to be weekly moms only nights this evening, featuring food, drink, a manicurist, a psychic comic, and a screening of Four Weddings and a Funeral in the back room.

  “You deserve a crowd. It’s a great bar,” I say.

  It is. Nancy and her husband Mark grew up along the coast of Maine and moved here so Mark could pursue his acting career. When it didn’t work out, they both took jobs for one company or another, but hated working for other people. They imagined one day moving back to Bar Harbor to open a rustic bar right near the beach. They’d call it The Giggling Gull. But they decided they couldn’t leave their friends, change their kids’ schools, and most importantly, cope with the harsh Maine winters. Instead, they brought the Maine coast to a San Fernando Valley strip mall. With its worn wooden tables, sawdusty floor, and lobster traps and buoys dangling from the ceiling, the bar resembles many of the places along the eastern coast. You can practically smell the salt water and hear the crashing waves.

  Someone gently taps my shoulder. I turn around. It’s Ruth. She looks like she’s been crying.

  “What’s wrong? Are you okay?”

  She wipes her eyes with the tip of her index finger, nods her head and smiles wide. “I’m better than okay. I’m wonderful. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.” She hugs me hard and twirls me around.

  I giggle. “Ruth, what are you talking about? What’s going on?”

  “Well, I had a visitor today. Guess who it was?”

  I shrug my shoulders. “I have no idea.”

  She looks like she’s about to burst. “Bob Stone! And he brought me a present—all the master copies of my movies. Every single one of them. It’s like he was a different person. He apologized for being such a prick. He actually said he’d help me any way he could to make sure my little boy never has to see any of my movies. He’s having his staff call all their retailers and contacts to retrieve every DVD and video out there. He’s taking my images off the Internet, too. He’s a changed man. It’s like he saw God or something.”

  She eyes me. “Somehow I feel you had something to do with it. You’re like my angel.”

  I laugh. “Me? An angel?”

  My eyes land on Faye, standing alone nursing a cranberry cocktail. She waves at me. I know she’s little, but out of her element, she looks downright microscopic. She’s dressed in white linen pants with flared legs and a long button-down white linen shirt, which I’m sure she must have purchased in the children’s department somewhere.

  “Excuse me,” I say to Ruth. I head to Faye.

  “Okay. ’Fess up, Faye.”

  “What?” She widens her eyes and puts her hands on her chest. Who me?

  “So, how did you do it?” It feels strange looking down into her eyes. I feel like she should tower over me.

  She bites her cheeks. “Excuse me?”

  “How did you get B.S. to return the movies?”

  She arches her brows.

  “What did you do, Faye?”

  “Are you suggesting I discuss my clients with you, Alice? That would be highly unethical.”

  “Faye . . .”

  She clears her throat. “Let’s just say I predicted a bleak demise for him if he didn’t return those master copies. I had a vision. It may have involved dismemberment.”

  I burst out laughing. “Faye, you devil.”

  “Maybe it wasn’t too far of a stretch. You aren’t someone I’d want to mess with, Alice.”

  I wrap my arms around her. “Oh, Faye. Thank you for whatever you did,” I say. “You changed that woman’s life. I’ve never seen her look so happy. She’s beaming. I can’t thank you enough. Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

  Faye squints her eyes and points a finger at my chest. “It’s you, Alice. You are blessed. And I’m not talking as a psychic, but as an observer. I’ve been watching you tonight. A person who has so many people grateful to her is truly, truly blessed.”

  I give her a confused look.

  She gives me a stern look. “Don’t be so hard on yourself, Alice. Appreciate yourself more.”

  My eyes tear. “Thanks,” I choke out.

  “By the way, I don’t think I’m going to perform tonight. I have a premonition that I’ll bomb,” Faye says.

  “No you won’t,” I say.

  She puts her hands on my shoulders. I instinctively look up. Then I shift my eyes downward.

  “Alice, I have to go. I’m seeing too much for one psychic to handle. There’s a lot of drama in the Valley. You have no idea. Your problems seem pretty mild compared to some of the visions I’m having right now.”

  I nod. We hug. Then she holds my shoulders and stares at me.

  “Now, put all the past sadness behind you.”

  “I am,” I say, smiling too widely.

  She appears to be lost in thought for a few seconds. “Yes and no,” she finally says. “You are still letting the stuff from the past control who you are. Are you really completely living in the present?” She puts her hand on my hand. “Call that photographer guy with the cute bottom.”

  “But . . .”

  “But nothing. Tell him you want to see his latest photographs. Meet him for coffee and ask to look at his portfolio. Anything.”

  “Why? Do you see something I don’t?”

  She squints. I lean in. She shakes her head.

  “What I see is someone who is not making any effort. And without an effort, there’s no future to predict. You don’t have to fall in love. Have a fling, a one-night stand, a quickie in the back of your car. And if he does turn out to be sleazy, well, the sleazy ones are usually great in the sack.”

  I laugh. “Faye!”

  She smiles and then turns solemn. “Just make an effort. He already did. Maybe that’s what he’s waiting for.”

  “Maybe it isn’t. Maybe I misunderstood. Maybe he’s not interested in me at all.”

  “Why,” Faye asks. “Look at you. You’re beautiful, Ally. You have no idea how beautiful you are and that makes you even more beautiful. Now, move forward.”

  “Okay,” I sigh out, just as a woman in her early twenties hesitantly approaches.

  “Hi,” she says. “My name’s Deirdre Sarlow. I’m with the L.A. Daily News. We want to run a piece on this event.”

  “Great.” We shake hands. “But you should really be talking to my friend, Nancy. She owns the bar.”

  Faye clears her throat. “You should talk to both of them. This was Ally’s brainchild.”

  “Well.” Deirdre fidgets with her pen as she speaks. “I pretty much have all the information on the event. It’s really a great idea and I’m going to tell all the older ladies at work about it. They’d love it here.”

  “Okay,” I say. Older ladies, you little bitch!

  Deirdre looks down at her notebook as if she’s trying to find a question there. “But, um, well, my editors just had a few questions they wanted me to ask you.”

  “Me?” I suddenly know where this is going. Faye is about to walk away, so I grab her by the arm.

  “Um, they just wanted to know what it was, um, like, um, to have your husband leave you for Rose Maris.”

  I gulp hard and turn to Faye. “Move forw
ard? Do you really think it’s possible?”

  8

  Life Is Sweet

  Mom hasn’t eaten anything in at least a week. She’s too weak to get out of bed, so she lays there, her body barely making a bump underneath the covers. Trinity and I have been holding vigil for days while Gabby is in school. We feed her ice chips, which she sucks on with a vengeance. When we bring her food, she clamps her lips.

  “Maybe you should talk to him and tell him it is okay to go,” Trinity says. “Tell him you are a big girl and you will miss him, but you will be okay without your mommy. He is holding on for you. You must let go and then your mommy can.”

  Why can’t I do this? After all this time, all this preparation, why can’t I let her go? Instead, I say, “Please, Mommy, just eat a little bit.”

  My mom tilts her head up at me, narrows her eyes, and growls.

  Trinity laughs softly as she rubs Mom’s face with a wet cloth. “It’s okay, Mary. It’s okay. That’s just Alice, your daughter. He loves you very, very much.”

  Trinity turns to me sternly. “You go out for a while, missus. You’ve been here day and night. You need a break from your mommy.”

  “But . . .”

  “And your mommy need a break from you.”

  “But . . .”

  She puts her arms on my shoulders and turns me toward the door. “Go out for the afternoon. Please. You will be more useful when you come back.”

  I shower and dress. Then I get in my car and drive, but I don’t know where to go. I run some errands. A few things from the grocery store. Shirts from the dry cleaners that have been there so long some of them are Alex’s. Money from an ATM even though I never use cash. But what next?

  I hear Faye’s voice. It’s been more than a week since moms’ night out at The Giggling Gull. And despite the fact that the Daily News billed it as a “Whatever happened to Alice Hirsh?” event, the night had been a success. But I still hadn’t heeded Faye’s advice. If she asked me about it, I would say I’ve been busy with Mom and Gabby and life. I know how she would reply.

  “How long does it take to have a cup of coffee, Ally? A half hour? Go. Have a little fun, please!”

  I have Johnny’s number in my wallet. He had taped a business card to the back of his photograph. I had pulled it off and carried it around, just in case I ever got the nerve.

  It’s not so much that I suddenly have the nerve. I haven’t slept in days so I’m not thinking clearly. I just call him up. My palms sweat and my heart pounds. When his voice mail picks up, I sigh, relieved.

  “Hi, it’s Alice Hirsh,” I say. “I have a lot of empty space in my house and I’m in the market for artwork. So, anyway, if you’re around, I’d love to see more of your photographs. I’m actually heading to that coffee shop, so if you feel like stopping by with your portfolio, I’ll be there in, oh, about an hour. Or, if you’re busy, maybe some other time.”

  Why did I say an hour? The coffee shop is down the street, but now I can’t go there for an hour. I think about other errands to run, but come up blank. So I go to the bookstore at the mall. I haven’t bought a novel in a long time. I know there’s a bunch of books I’ve wanted to read, but I can’t remember the names of any of them. So I peruse the shelves, hoping something will sound interesting. After a few minutes of this aimlessness, I go to the magazine racks.

  Alex stares at me from the Star.

  RX: TROUBLE, the headline blares. I grab the tabloid and turn to the story. My heart goes nuts and I can’t catch my breath. There’s a two-page spread featuring photos of Xander and Rose. They don’t look happy.

  It’s hard to believe that just a few months ago, Rose Maris and Xander Hirsh couldn’t get enough of each other, but sources close to the couple say that it looks like there’s trouble in paradise.

  “This relationship is pretty much over,” says a friend. “They realize that despite their intense physical attraction, they really don’t have much in common.”

  According to friends, Maris has been seeking solace in her old boyfriend, Finn Mooney, frontman for Hardfax. They were recently spotted canoodling at Bar Marmont.

  As a former publicist, I know Star isn’t the paradigm of truth. Yet I believe the story wholeheartedly. I can’t help but smile. Karma’s a bitch, Alex.

  I head to the coffee shop, convinced Johnny won’t show up. Doesn’t everyone have their cell phone with them all the time? So he probably got my message. If he was the slightest bit interested in me, he would have called back to say he was on his way. But he most likely heard my message and decided it was better to ignore it. I wish I’d bought a book to have something to read at the table. I scan the car for reading material. All I have is Star with Alex’s photo on the cover. I leave that buried in the backseat.

  But Johnny is there, sitting at a booth, sipping coffee. He grins wide at me. Then he stands and kisses me on the cheek.

  “It took you this long to come up with the let-me-look-at-your-portfolio bit? Like I haven’t heard that one a million times already.”

  “And here I thought I was being original.”

  He smiles at me and I see that his nose is slightly crocked. He must have broken it somehow. Maybe a car accident. Or a sports injury. Or a bar fight. Or maybe a celebrity punched him when he took nude photos of him or his wife or his child.

  What was I thinking? It’s not like me to be serendipitous. I know nothing about this man, except for what I Googled. And I hadn’t liked what I Googled. He’d been arrested a bunch of times for trespassing on the lawns of one celebrity or another. He’d snuck into weddings and hospitals and funerals. He hid in parking lots at nursery and elementary schools. He took photos with a zoom lens of many naked celebrities and has been sued a gazillion times. His photos made him rich and lawsuits made him poor. Angelina Jolie, George Clooney, and Lindsay Lohan all have been quoted saying how much they hate him.

  I know nothing else. I don’t know if he’s been married or has children or dogs, cats, or pot-bellied pigs. Is he a native Los Angelino or is he from somewhere else? Is he a vegan? Is he a ladies’ man? Does he like jazz? Country music? Rock and roll? Heavy metal? Rap? If I ran into an ex, would she tell me to stay away, he’s bad news? I know if I banged into Angelina Jolie, she’d tell me to run.

  What does it matter? Can’t I just relax and have fun? I don’t need love or commitment or Angelina’s seal of approval. I just need a diversion. A cup of coffee with another adult.

  We order coffees. He asks how I am and I say fine. I decide not to mention that my mother is about to die.

  “What is it?”

  “Nothing,” I say. “So, where’s your portfolio?”

  He chuckles. “Actually, I don’t have it with me. I was already here setting up my new coffee shop exhibit when you called.”

  “And three of them have already sold,” Debbie announces as she slams down the coffees.

  “Yeah, to Deb,” Johnny says. “She’s my best customer.”

  I look at the walls. Hanging there are black-and-whites of abandoned farms and dilapidated country homes, and children running in fields, and cows, horses, and pigs.

  “I took a trip through some back roads in Gold Country a few weeks ago to clear my head.”

  I stare at the photos for a while. “They’re great,” I say. I don’t know what else to stay, so I just keep staring.

  I feel him studying me. “So what are you looking for, Alice?”

  I know from the smirk on his face that he’s no longer talking about his photos. His eyes tug at my soul. I’m usually an expert at the witty retort. But I come up blank. Do I keep up the conversation about his portfolio or do I go deeper?

  “I have no idea,” I finally say.

  Johnny’s face doesn’t change expression as he stares at me for what seems like minutes. “You know, I just turned forty,” he says. “And I’ve never been married.” He pauses.

  “So?” I say.

  “Well, lots of people think that’s weird. Like, if you hav
en’t been married by then, it’s because you’re too damaged or something.”

  I don’t know what to say, so I shrug like it’s no big deal to me; like I have no interest in his personal life.

  “It’s just that maybe after doing what I’ve done and seeing it all, I don’t even believe in marriage. I made most of my money photographing the ugly side of it. The fights. The breakups. I’ve seen the horrible things people can do when love goes bad.”

  I flash on that day. There’s Gabby in her filthy Cinderella gown and matted down hair, holding her magic wand as she sings while running across the lawn, away from me. I see the anonymous photographers greedily clicking away. Johnny is one of them—ravenous and detached—until Gabby bangs into him.

  I bristle. “I can imagine,” I say flatly.

  “Yeah,” he says, shaking his head. “I know what you’re thinking.”

  Do you, I wonder.

  “That time, well, it was the same old story on another day at another address. But there was something about you that was different. Maybe part of it was the love you had for your daughter. Maybe part of it was your deep, deep sadness. But I’d never been so ashamed of what I did before.”

  I shrug. Yeah, you should be.

  “You’re not the first person who’s mouthed off at me. Over the years, I’ve developed quite a Teflon coating. But, I dunno, you made me want to be something more than I was. You made me feel, well, embarrassed of my life.”

  He rakes his fingers through his hair. I see it’s slightly receding in front. “And then when you liked my photos, well . . .”

  How did his photos end up here? Right next to my house, I wonder. He seems to guess what I’m thinking.

  He tells me that when he left my house that day, he stopped here for a cup of coffee.

  “I sat at this table, thinking about you and what I did for a living. And then I noticed the walls. They were bare. Walls should never be bare. So I got to talking to Deb. I showed her some of my photos and she liked them. So I told her she should put them on the walls here and try to sell them. She said okay. I thought that was as good as any first step.”