by Julia Dumont
And that was why, when she checked her voicemail while anointing Jack Stone’s unbelievably beautiful powder room——after first being driven up a wall by most of her mother’s rambling——she was truly flabbergasted by fourteen simple words embedded within that verbal wasteland: Did you know that Pete Blatt is back in town . . . and that he’s single?
What? You’ve got to be kidding. What kind of crazy coincidence is that? What did he even look like now?
She imagined two versions: fat Pete versus fit Pete. Which way had he gone? She’d heard he’d moved to the Midwest——maybe Wisconsin?——at one point. What had he done with his life? What did he do for a living? And are we talking single-single or divorced-single? Are there dozens of Pete and Patricia Juniors running around? Not that it matters that much. Just wondering.
Bzzzz. Cynthia looked down at her phone: Lolita. What the hell, I’ll pick up.
“Just checking up on me, Lo? Jesus, you’re worse than my mother.”
“Damn straight. I’m way worse than your mother. Okay, I need an update. Are you still there?”
“As a matter of fact, I’m in his bathroom at this very moment.”
“No way. You are perched upon Jack Stone’s throne? That is awesome. Please, do something for me: don’t ever wash that bottom. Good god, can you at least grab me a souvenir? A washcloth or a guest towel or something?”
“Lolita,” she whispered, turning on the tap and picking up a luxurious bar of soap that looked like it had been handcrafted by angels, “I don’t really think burglary is the recommended course of action while cultivating client relations. My god, this soap smells good.”
“Come on! At least tell me how it’s going.”
“Oh, it’s going fine.” She lifted her sudsy hands to her face. “This soap is divine.”
“Cynthia! Enough with the soap! Give me something. Details. Something. I’m sitting here surrounded by dogs and covered with fur. Throw me a freaking bone. What is he looking for in a girl? Give me a list of requirements. I’ll dye my hair. I’ll change my personality. I’ll shave, bleach, or rejuvenate anything. Breast surgery——augmentation or reduction——is not out of the question.”
“Calm down, Lolita. He actually seems like a really normal guy. We’re sort of hitting it off. I kinda like ‘im.” She sort of slurred that last part--the bourbon had infiltrated her consonants.
“Cynthia, have you been drinking? Are you nuts? What do you mean you kind of like him? How can you kind of like Jack Stone? He’s Jack freaking Stone.”
“I don’t know,” she said, now a little defensive about the drinking comment and also about how she was supposed to be so in awe of a movie star. Granted, he was wonderful in person, but Lolita didn’t know that. “It’s weird, but I think he likes me.”
That stopped Lolita in her tracks. Cynthia thought the call had dropped.
“Hello? Lolita? Did you hear what I said? I think he might actually like me.”
“I heard you the first time!” she exclaimed, clearly irritated. “I don’t think that’s remotely possible, but, yes I did hear you.”
“Oh, really?” Now Cynthia was pissed.
“Don’t take it so personally, Miss Amas. I think you just might be slightly deluded, that’s all. It would be easy for that to happen . . . you know, being with someone like that. It could kind of go to your head. But mostly I’m wondering. Aren’t you supposed to be looking for a match for me, after all?”
“Oh, Lolita, dear?” she said in the sweetest voice she could muster under the circumstances.
“Yes, Cynthia, dear?”
Cynthia didn’t actually know what she wanted to do about Jack Stone yet. She was pretty confident she could have him if she wanted to . . . at least for the afternoon. Beyond that, she wasn’t so sure. In any case, although she obviously didn’t know him that well, she was quite sure that Lolita was exactly what he wasn’t looking for.
She waited a beat, then quietly, but firmly, said, “I’m sure I can find someone for you too, Lo. But, for now, I’d better get back to my Jack. So long. This. Conversation. Is. Over.” She hung up, switched off her phone, and laughed, covering her mouth with her fingers.
Cynthia dried her hands and inspected herself in the mirror. She reapplied lip-gloss. She leaned in closer to her reflection. She remembered the scene in Five Easy Pieces, when Jack Nicholson, on a highway to nowhere, gazes introspectively into a gas station restroom mirror. He looks hard at himself. At first he studies his features, seemingly struggling to recognize the man staring back at him. But then he peers past the surface into his brain and down deeper into his heart and soul——and makes a decision.
Cynthia also made a decision. In terms of jeopardizing her life and livelihood, freefalling into Stone’s arms would be way more destructive than even her on-again, off-again hot fling with Max, her longtime, maddeningly addictive sometime lover. Stone was like Max on fame steroids. She could totally imagine spending four or five divine hours or days in Jack’s bed, but once his urge to merge subsided, she’d likely be dumped down an emotional laundry chute before sunrise.
It’s so odd, but sometimes you actually require a mirror. You need to literally look at yourself.
She’d found that to be true so many times. She consulted with mirrors like some people read horoscopes. When her marriage was crashing and burning it was her conversation with her reflection that clarified life. Same with the decision to drop out of the corporate studio world and start Second Acts in the first place. A mirror the restroom of the Standard Hotel told her everything she needed to know.
She returned to the living room, but Jack Stone was gone. Then she heard the diving board and looked up to see his body in midair, tight charcoal grey swimsuit, arcing up——a picture-perfect display of bona fide screen-idol magic——and over, plunging deep into the blue. She moved through the sliding doors and onto the patio, walking to the far end of the pool.
Stone emerged, planted his palms, and lifted himself effortlessly to a posture-perfect standing position——suddenly right there, close, the pool-reflected sunlight dancing on his sculpted physique. What had seemed like a movie-magazine photo spread during the dive had now materialized by her side in the flesh.
He leaned over, lifted a towel off a chaise, and dried himself. He looked into her eyes and tenderly touched her face with his fingertips, following eyebrow, to cheekbone, to jaw, to chin, to lips.
Cynthia couldn’t help it. She did what any red-blooded girl would do. She kissed his hand.
“Cynthia,” he said in a tone that was not overtly seductive, just low and matter-of-fact, like he was saying something obvious, something she would clearly agree with, “I have a feeling we don’t need your dating service to find each other.” The corner of his mouth turned up just slightly, as if to say I’m serious, I mean this, I want you.
She was surprised how much it made her shiver, because as unlikely and dreamlike this turn of events would have seemed a couple of hours ago, now was a whole other story. She had been expecting it. But no matter how much you see it coming, when someone like Jack Stone makes a move on you, it bothers you to your core. She felt his touch simultaneously on her skin and deep within like he had perfected some kind of sensual sonar. This was not merely a gorgeous man. This was a gorgeous man plus an entire fantasy-fueled catalog of films and characters and romanticized narratives. It was bearing down on her . . . a delirious dream magnified exponentially by the awesome power of the big screen. She hadn‘t forgotten the silly rumor about his size either. In fact, presently, as he moved close, wrapping his arms around her and completely eliminating the space between their bodies, his wet suit barely contained his growing enthusiasm and it didn’t feel silly at all. It felt very real. His heat had already taken the chill out of the suit. The rumor was no rumor. She thought of Lolita, who had said, in reference to her fling with Maximillian Schell, “Until you’ve tried it, you can never know just how good it feels to get made love to by a big movie star in a
big beautiful mansion on a hill.” Well, here he was. She felt the blood in her cheeks. She knew they were burning bright. Her skin, her lips, her entire body was straining against the decision her mind had already made.
“Jack,” she said softly in his ear, “I’m flattered. I mean very flattered. And I’m really sorry. Sorry I kissed your hand or did anything else to lead you on. I like you. I can totally imagine falling for you. Falling hard for you. In fact, at the moment I’m feverish from head to toe. In a good way. But I’m involved with someone else and I simply cannot do this to him.” This was of course a lie. Even as she said it, she doubted her sanity. Who in her right mind says no to Jack Stone, to this particular here and now? Cynthia Amas, apparently.
Stone released and backed away slightly, just far enough to look into her eyes.
“Wow,” he said, smiling sweetly, not offended, or at least hiding it well. “Refreshing. I was not expecting that. No problem, though. If things change, let me know. That is one lucky man you’ve got.”
One lucky man. Right. She was of course referring to Pete Blatt, someone she hadn’t seen in twenty years, who, for all she knew, could have a beer belly the size of Milwaukee. But more than that she was considering the impact on Second Acts. She really didn’t want to risk everything for a fling that was undoubtedly destined to be short-lived. After all, despite her uncanny gifts as a love conjurer for others, even under normal circumstances her own love life was cursed.
“Okay, I’ll do that,” she said. But she was so taken by his simple, confident, un-pushy response to her rejection——something he had possibly never experienced in his entire life——that she almost wanted to blurt out that somehow, miraculously, things had already changed, as in Did I say I was seeing someone? Because what I meant to say was——hello——I am so not seeing anyone. So please, Mr. Movie Star, ravage me now. I’m ready. I’m on fire. A six-alarm fire. I’m yours.
But she didn’t. Remember. Focus. The business, the business.
“I’m really sorry, Jack, I need to get going. I have another appointment. But I’m absolutely positive that I can find someone for you who you’ll like a whole lot more than little old me.”
“I’m dubious, but thanks,” he said. “Let me know what the next step is. My office will send over a check.”
“Oh,” she said. “They already did. Thanks for that.” And she meant it. He’d bought ten successive, deluxe packages. This was far more than he needed, especially if he was actually planning on “settling down.” But his office said it was more about supporting a local business, so who was Cynthia to argue?
They walked side-by-side through the house and up the driveway, all the way to her car. She swung the door open, preparing for the final goodbye. He touched her shoulder . . . sort of squeezing, sort of caressing. Slow and warm and firm. Perfect. As he slid his hand downward along her bicep, his thumb brushed the outside of her breast, causing yet another delicious shudder that again almost made her reconsider everything . . . possibly her entire life.
This is a siren song and I am Odysseus. I could live in that house. I could re-gift famous works of art with the best of them. Why work? This could be my Bel Air super-hunk-movie-star-hideaway. Why not? Somebody’s gotta do it. No. The business, the business, resist, resist.
“I can’t tell you how nice it was to meet you,” he said. “One of the best Thursday morning meetings ever. Short, sweet, and profound. And to think it could have been even better. But no matter . . . you are exactly what the doctor ordered: a lovely prescription for what was ailing me. Even if the dosage was way too low.” He smiled, knowing the metaphor was silly--but true and sincere.
She smiled too. She tasted the Maker’s Mark in her throat and the words she’d said to herself earlier returned. She repeated them several times to herself like two competing mantras: Please ravage me now. No, the business. I’m ready. I’m yours. No, the business.
She slid onto the car seat, turned the key, and pulled away, carving a large U-turn in his enormous driveway, saying, with a mixture of fortitude and regret, “Jack,” (Good god, I can’t believe I’m even calling him Jack, much less turning him down), “we’ll talk soon.”
Jack Stone waved goodbye. He stood there in his perfect swimsuit, in his perfect driveway, on his perfect piece of property . . . perfectly perplexed. Not one single female had rejected him since his acne had cleared up in the ninth grade. Why her, why now?
Scarlett O’Hara padded up behind him and stuck her cold nose into the back of his knee, deliberately, like this was where it belonged, like a ship coming home to dock. This startled him, making him flinch slightly. He reached down and scratched the dog’s head and behind her ear. Together they watched Cynthia’s convertible wind its way up the long drive and out onto the street, disappearing behind an enormous jasmine bush, the sound of her engine revving and humming and fading away. “Between you and me,” he said to his furry friend, “this is not over. I’m serious. I mean this. I want her. I must have her.”
Day 1, Chapter 4
Lolita’s high-end Beverly Hills dog grooming shop was bustling to say the least. She was dealing with five customers with nine dogs in the front and Tanya, her young assistant, had a full house in the back. Lolita was preoccupied with the whole Cynthia-Jack situation and resented the fact that, even though she was the one who had made the Stone connection through the dogs, Cynthia was receiving all the benefits . . . and the benefits seemed really, really good. As in steamy A.M. sex and possibly P.M. love. With. Jack. Stone.
The current congregation of canines in the cutting room sensed they were not receiving anyone’s full attention and were demanding it rather forcefully. Barks and whines and growls were at a high decibel level.
“Tanya!” Lolita called to her young assistant. “Put some soothing music on! Anything classical. Except no Wagner! That’ll push them totally over the edge! Bach: good. Mozart: better. Brahms: best!”
This got a laugh from a few of the customers, which calmed Lolita a bit. But unbeknownst to her, Tanya’s new boyfriend, a hip-hop artist (part rapper, part dancer, part electronic-funk genius) named Dr. T-Bone, who worked early nights on the Third Street Promenade in Santa Monica and late nights, sometimes all night, in the clubs, had dropped in through the back door of the shop to pay Tanya a visit. Their opposite schedules weren’t terribly conducive to intimate activity and they had both reached a fever pitch of sexual frustration, catching a kiss and a hug here and there on the fly, but not much else. At that very moment, Tanya’s metallic miniskirt was wriggling up and her boyfriend’s baggy pants were slipping even further down than usual.
When, after a few long minutes of waiting——the dogs still causing an alarming cacophony——with absolutely zero strains of classical anything wafting her way, Lolita had had enough.
“Tanya!” she screamed, quite a bit more loudly and shrilly than one expects in front of customers in a tony shop in a neighborhood like this.
“Just a minute!” screeched Tanya, a strange desperation in her voice, like she was in trouble, like she’d gotten hurt or something. Lolita had once cut herself while clipping an uncooperative Daschund and she immediately jumped to conclusions.
“Oh, my god, will you excuse me?” she said as politely as possible to the matronly woman with three extremely unruly Toy Yorkies, doing their best to terrorize an absurdly patient ancient Saint Bernard, who may or may not have been deaf and blind. “I have to check on something.”
“Tanya!” she said, pushing open the swinging doors. “Are you okay?!”
But what she saw stopped her dead in her tracks. It wasn’t just that Tanya’s tank top was hiked high above her tiny, perfect, jiggling breasts and her legs were wrapped tightly around T-Bone, as he pounded mercilessly away, chanting baby, baby, baby . . . although it all did seem a tad inappropriate for the workplace. And it wasn’t just that they were doing it on top of one of the cutting tables and fur was floating in the air like snowflakes in a snow globe. Or that all th
ose dogs——including her beloved King, Max, and Wilfredo——were being exposed to this kind of behavior, potentially scarring them for life. Lolita knew a thing or two about dog psychology, thank you very much. It wasn’t merely that she was paying her sexy young assistant twenty dollars an hour for one service and the girl was providing quite another for Dr. Slick T-Bone on her dime. No, it was also incredibly annoying to Lolita that apparently the whole world was having scorching-hot sex this morning, except her. She, of course, wrongfully assumed that Cynthia was currently consummating things with Jack Stone and she was having great difficulty not being deeply bothered by that. She tried to convince herself that she didn’t care. She loved Cynthia and wanted her to be happy, after all. But she was also aggravated. When it came right down to it, this was part of who she was. She had been deeply competitive her whole life, especially when it came to men. She’d lost friends over this kind of thing. She had fallen for married men several times and broken up at least two marriages. She wasn’t proud of it——she’d seen a therapist about it. She didn’t even think she’d have much of a chance with Jack Stone, it was just that she wanted Cynthia to try to make it happen for her, as a friend. Instead, this? After all her talk about her old fling with Maximillian Schell, she felt like Cynthia had trumped her without even trying. Her favorite Hollywood brush with fame had lost much of its luster in comparison to the first class fame-brushing going down in Bel Air at that very moment.
Tanya was history anyway, but everything else intensified Lolita’s multi-layered feeling of betrayal. Tanya bore the brunt of it all.
“Get out,” she shrieked. “Get out now! I invested a lot of time and money training you, Tanya. And this is what I get?!”
“But Lolita,” she cried, pulling down her skirt, wriggling her top back over her breasts, “remember, I walked in on you with that actor that time. How is that different? I didn’t freak out. I thought it was kind of funny! I was happy for you, remember? T-Bone and I love each other, but we can never seem to find time to make love to each other!”
