by Zoey Dean
"A little heavy on the PDA," Logan noted. "But they seem to really be into each other."
"I guess." Anna found that she was gritting her teeth watching the display. Well, that was okay. The more times she saw the Traveling Ben and Cammie Show, the less it would bother her.
Suddenly, Anna felt herself thinking again. Overthinking, in her usual Anna Percy way. About Bali and Yale. About Logan and Ben. About her screenplay. About--
"Anna?"
She looked up at Logan.
"Relax. It'll all work out."
It was like he was reading her mind. "You think?"
His blue eyes were bright. "I'm going to say this one time. When you decided to get on that plane? You made a decision that was right. You chose in the moment, from your gut, your heart--someplace deep. You can do it again. Now," he said sternly, "enjoy the show." He stood behind her and wrapped his arms around her waist so that they could both watch Fan on stage. Now he was making a bubble large enough for a dozen people to stand inside.
She ordered her brain to turn off and leaned back into Logan. He kissed her temple. He was wonderful, terrific, smart, cute, kind, and all around better for her than Ben.
Fan Yang had moved into the crowd and was encapsulating other people in bubbles. With a giant swirl, he flashed one over Logan. Then over Anna. The bubble was clear, like glass, and she looked through it. The world sparkled, like some sort of fantasyland. It made her laugh with pure joy.
She was here. She was alive. She was with a guy she liked, could maybe even love. What could be better?
Being with him in Bali, perhaps?
Mommy DearesMonday, 11:21 a.m.
Anna awoke the next morning with a pounding headache. It could have been due to the fact that she had a hair consultation for Sam's wedding, and Sam had already gone off the stress scale--she'd left a rambling message for Anna the night before that was essentially one long run-on sentence that went something like: "Sorry I didn't come to Cammie's club there was too much planning to be done I hope you're having fun without me I can't fucking believe I'm getting married on Friday I have a zillion things to do I must be insane why am I doing this oh God I love Eduardo so much you have to be at my house tomorrow at four for a hair consultation with Raymond I'm thinking updos and according to his assistant you shouldn't wash it first because it's harder to put up clean hair and did I mention I'm getting fucking married?!"Anna sat up in her antique four-poster bed and massaged her temples. Maybe it was knowing she had to have a talk with her father about her future that was stressing her out. She had to tell him about Yale, her feelings about going. Or not going, as the case might be. Not that she even knew. She just knew that after their heart-to-heart the other day, she owed him an honest conversation canvassing her doubts and fears. The story he'd told her about his teacher friend in Appalachia made her feel as if maybe, just maybe, he'd understand her confusion.
She showered quickly, threw on a white tank top and a pair of McQ-Alexander McQueen khakis she'd had forever, curled her wet hair into a bun, and went downstairs to find her dad. He'd mentioned that he'd be working at home today, so it was the perfect time to get him alone.
She found him on the phone in his home office. He lit up when he saw Anna and motioned for her to take a seat on the camel suede Bellini Clock sofa. Its two branches were designed to rotate around a circular coffee table like the hands of a clock. Anna slid onto the sofa and gazed out the picture window at the meticulously groomed English rose garden. It featured an abundance of rare flowers, like the Barbra Streisand, a fragrant mauve rose, and First Kiss, a wonderful landscape rose, given to Anna's dad from the Nixon Library's rose garden.
Her dad finished the call quickly. "Anna, sweetheart, I'm famished. Follow me," he said, hugging her. "Did you eat?"
"Not yet."
"Mimi will have some food outside," he noted, as he grabbed his navy Yale Class of '83 coffee mug and headed to the glass door that led to the back garden. Anna followed.
"How's your morning? I had an early game at the club," her father went on, his long legs loping so that she had to power-walk to keep up. "Took a tennis racket to the head--one of the guys I was playing doubles against lost control of it at the net."
"Ouch." Anna winced sympathetically. "Are you okay?"
"Oh yeah, sure. Zonked me out there for a minute, but I'm fine."
They emerged into the bright late-summer sunshine and Anna breathed deeply. She loved the back of her dad's house. Wrought-iron outdoor furniture graced the portico, which was covered with crimson bougainvillea. Beyond was a patio surrounded by greenery and a burst of flowering colors. A lush pathway of moss and stones meandered through the rose garden, which was organized like a museum--here a collection of all twenty-three varieties of the rare desert rose, there an exhibit of English tea roses. The vibrant colors were offset by elegant ivy-covered trellises that made the garden feel like a nineteenth-century romantic paradise. In the center of everything were the koi pond and gazebo where her father spent many an hour in "medicinal meditation," his euphemism for smoking weed.
On the patio, they sat down at the table set with Limoges fine bone china, as one of the household assistants, the very blond Tatyana, whose hair was wound on top of her head in two braids, served blueberry pancakes and omelets with basil, tomato, and goat cheese. The crystal French press in the center of the table gave off a heady aroma of roasting coffee that filled the air, mingling with the ever-present scent of roses and freshly cut grass.
Anna lifted her fork, then put it down again. "Dad, since the plane--"
"You've been doing a lot of thinking," he surmised.
She nodded and took a sip of coffee from her delicate china cup before continuing. "It's been ..."
"Of course. You've been through a life-changing event." He poured himself more coffee, then held the French press toward her. She shook her head no, and he put the pot down again.
"True," Anna agreed, "but it's more than that. I'm feeling ... confused. It's like, I know what I want to do." She thought of her screenplay. "And at the same time, I don't know what I want to do at all."
He put his fork down and wiped his mouth with the delicate cream-colored napkin. Clearly she had his undivided attention, so she pressed on. "About college, I mean. Yale has been the plan, the blueprint, the dream, my dream--"
"Since you were old enough to speak in full sentences, as I recall," her father said fondly.
"Right," she agreed, even though the acknowledgment was going to make this even harder. "Everything I've ever done was so wrapped up in the ultimate goal. But now ..." Anna paused to consider the exact words, but couldn't find them.
"Honey, cut yourself some slack," Jonathan advised, and picked up his fork to stab a bite of blueberry pancake. "Anxiety is part of the deal when you're switching from one phase of your life to another." He washed the food down with a gulp of black coffee. "Mmm. How good are these pancakes?"
"Great," Anna agreed, even though she hadn't touched hers. He didn't notice.
Jonathan reached for a pinch of sea salt from the small gold seashell that held it and sprinkled it on his omelet. "Seriously, Anna," he continued, "you're going to have the best time. Yale is a Percy family tradition!" he exclaimed, brandishing his navy blue mug for emphasis. "The bulldog, the Shakespearean society, the yacht club--"
"Dad? I wouldn't go to Yale for any of that."
He drained his crystal goblet full of fresh-squeezed orange juice and smiled. He was still wearing the crisp white tennis clothes he'd had on from his early-morning match, and his tan arms were muscled and lean. "You're going for the education. That's okay. The bulldog can take care of itself." He took a huge forkful of tomato-basil omelet, pillowy white goat cheese falling onto the ivory plate. "This is just prefreshman jitters."
Anna bit into her pancakes thoughtfully. Was it? Was she totally overreacting? "It might be," she responded slowly. "But I don't think it's fair for me to take the spot of someone else who would kill, m
aim, or sell a body part to get off the waiting list and be accepted."
Her father put down his silver-plated fork and stared at her with something that looked like horror.
Anna forced herself to plunge on. "It's not fair for me to take that spot, Dad," she murmured, gulping hard. She winced, waiting for the axe to fall. Her father was quiet.
"I admire your selflessness," he finally said. "But I still think it's jitters. What would you do if you don't go? Go to Bali with Logan? Stay here and hang out with Sam? Go back to New York and work in a gallery?" He didn't seem mad. That was a relief. But he also didn't seem to understand the strength of her ambivalence.
"It doesn't surprise me, Anna," he continued, leaning back in the wrought-iron chair. "After what you went through--I couldn't imagine. You must have been sure you were going to die. But you didn't. Which to me says, Get on with your life. Let the jitters go."
For a split second, she wanted to tell him he was right, that it was only a little bit of precollege nerves. To talk about what it would be like in New Haven on early-morning walks across the quad, the smell of the leaves in the fall, the challenge and the fun and the lifelong relationships she'd forge.
But it simply didn't feel right.
The bright sunshine reflected off her father's crisp tennis whites, and Anna felt like she was staring into the sun. "I don't think it's jitters, Dad. Maybe the plane thing is affecting my thinking," she agreed. "But maybe that's a good thing. It's like ..." She closed her eyes and felt the hot sun soak into her skin as she searched for the right words. "Like everything is stripped down to the barest essentials."
Her father was quiet for a little while. Finally he stood and stretched, then rubbed a spot on his left temple. "Damn racket. It hurts where it hit me."
She gave him a faint smile. "Did you win the point?"
"Lost the point, won the match." He shook his head a little, as if to clear it. "Don't put so much pressure on yourself. It will all work out in the end."
A cloud passed in front of the sun, casting a quick-moving shadow over the backyard. It passed, and summer sunlight washed over everything again.
"I appreciate your not blowing up over this," she told him.
"You're not a little girl anymore. You make your own decisions. But I do think it's a mistake not to go back to New York next Saturday and get yourself started at Yale."
"But--"
He held up a palm to interrupt her. "I'm asking you to keep your mind open for a little while longer. You still have a window--albeit an extremely small window--to make your decision." He came back to the glass-topped table and put a hand on hers. "Either way, you'll be okay, Anna."
She rose and wrapped her arms around his neck in a spontaneous hug, grateful that he wasn't ranting and raving. "Thanks, Dad."
"You're welcome."
For a moment she wondered what it would have been like to grow up with him, to have had the closeness that she felt with him at this very moment. But you couldn't move backward, only forward.
She left her father, went up to her room with a porcelain mug full of coffee, and sat down at her iBook. After checking her e-mail, she opened her screenplay and started adjusting scenes. Some needed to be lengthened. Some needed to be trimmed. One or two were superfluous, and she cut them with a couple of swift keystrokes. She was in the second act--at about page sixty--when the sound of her Razr chiming practically made her jump out of her skin.
She glanced at the clock. Four-fifteen. She was going to be late to Sam's. It was probably Sam calling, annoyed and crazed in her new Bridezilla way.
But when she checked the number, she saw it was her mom. Her mother was still in Italy, and it was probably 2 a.m. there. Anna smiled. It was thoughtful of her mom to check up on her. They didn't speak all that often. As much as she hadn't enjoyed her crash landing, some good things had come out of it.
"Hello?" Phone in hand, she moved to her oak canopy bed and plopped on the handmade silk tapestry quilt. The whole room was done in classic antique style: the hardwood floor gleamed beneath tapestry rugs with hand-knotted edges, an antique armoire scented with lavender sachet held her clothing, and there were fresh flowers in a crystal vase on a small table by the picture window, and an antique chaise lounge. And of course, an antique brown wood rolltop desk, on which she kept her laptop.
"Hello, darling," Jane began. "How are you? How do you feel? Have you recovered completely? What an ordeal!"
Anna smiled. "I'm good. I'm okay."
"Of course you're okay. You're a Percy," her mother intoned.
"Where are you, Mother?"
"Milan. The Intercontinental. There's a major art auction here tomorrow; I want to be a part of it. So tell me how things are going."
Her mother was uncharacteristically chatty. Anna talked a bit about Sam's wedding and about how she'd been doing a bit of writing. Her mother didn't inquire about what she was working on, and Anna didn't volunteer.
Anna glanced at the clock again. Four thirty-five. "Mom, I'm sorry, but I actually have to run to a hair thing at Sam's," she said. "I'm going to be late."
"Just a second, Anna, one last thing. There's someone in Los Angeles that you need to meet."
"Who?" Anna asked cautiously, leaning back against the fluffy white pillows.
"My dear friend Carlie Martin. I've known her forever. She's a Yale alum."
Anna sat up in bed like she'd been speared with a red-hot poker. So that was it. Her father, who had been so supportive at breakfast, had turned around and promptly called in the cavalry--namely, her mother. Jane Percy hadn't called at 2 a.m. to chat.
Instantly Anna curled her fingers into fists, feeling defensive. "Mother, please--"
"Anna, I won't hear another word. You owe it to yourself to speak with her before you make the biggest mistake of your life. She's in Los Angeles this very minute. I won't take no for an answer. You know who she is, of course?"
Of course Anna knew who Carlie Martin was--everyone in the western world knew. She was a triple threat actress/director/producer, who had to be around the same age as her parents. Jane's usual contacts were anti-Hollywood, and this was the first time Anna had heard that her mother even knew Carlie Martin. The whole thing was funny in some bitter way. Her parents, who could not get along for ten minutes without sniping at each other, could join forces so easily on what Anna now thought of as the Yale Problem. It reminded her of what she'd learned about Roosevelt and Stalin's collaboration during World War II, though who was Roosevelt and who was Stalin was up for grabs.
"Anna?" Jane prompted again.
Anna scuffed a bare foot into the tapestry throw rug. This was no time for a fight.
"Fine," she acquiesced. It wouldn't hurt to meet Carlie.
"Fantastic. I'll have her assistant call you to set a time?" Her mother said this as if it was a question because that was the polite thing to do, when in fact Anna knew it to be a parental decree.
"Yes, Mother." Anna played with a loose thread in her white Frette sheet, looking out the picture window toward the backyard, the gazebo in the distance. After her talk with her father, she'd felt like she won the point. Now it was clear that she'd lost the match.
They talked a few more moments, then Anna clicked off. She needed to get to Sam's. But there was one thing she needed to do first.
Live like you were dying, she told herself.It was great to have a completed script. But it wasn't doing anyone any good on her iBook, and there was only one other person in the world she could send it to for an opinion. An honest opinion. She opened her Gmail and attached the script.
Sam-tell me if this blows.
Without hesitation, she hit send.
Too Cool for SchoolTuesday, 10:20 a.m.
"In Paris, you can become the next Truffaut," Eduardo murmured in Sam's ear as he came up behind her. He brushed her hair to the side so he could kiss the back of her neck.Sam liked the kisses but wasn't sure about the concept.
"The whole French New Wave thing is hi
ghly overrated," she mused, turning to him. She fiddled with one citron starburst earring. She'd recently bought the pair at Fred Segal on a whim. "I mean, improvising lines and quick scene cuts might have been innovative in the fifties, but please--every kid in the 'burbs with a camcorder has been doing that for years now and calling himself an auteur."
Eduardo slipped his arms around her waist. He smiled at her attitude; clearly it didn't bother him in the least. They were in her room, alone in the massive house. Her father had taken her mother on an insiders' tour of the Paramount lot and then to lunch at the Ivy, and Eduardo had delayed going to his job at the Peruvian consulate so he could stop over to talk about wedding plans.
Of course, she hadn't revealed a thing. Part of it was because she wanted Friday night to be a surprise for him, and part of it was that Dee was still pulling together so many of the details. Sam was supposed to taste wedding cake samples later in the afternoon and then look at potential floral designs for the tables. There was so much to do--choosing a DJ, arranging the seating assignments, finalizing her color scheme--the list went on and on. At least she'd been able to check bridesmaid hairstyles off her list: Anna and Dee had come over yesterday for a consult with Raymond and had chosen their looks for the event--sweeping updos with the occasional cascading tendril, a yet-to-be-decided flower that would match the floral arrangements woven in.
"In that case you will be better than Truffaut," Eduardo decreed, gently brushing her just-moisturized skin with a tanned hand. That he was so proud of her talent was one of the many things she adored about him. "In Paris, you can be anything you want. Let me go downstairs and get you coffee so you won't be late." Sam smiled at his cute butt as he disappeared out the door, feeling like the luckiest girl in the world.
