by Zoey Dean
"Good afternoon," the two uniformed valets--both college age, both sporting crew cuts (they looked like Mormon missionaries in their starched white shirts and dark trousers)--said simultaneously, as they opened the Audi doors and helped the girls out. "Are you checking in?" the shorter blond one asked.
"Gawd, no." Sam was aghast. "Does anyone actually stay here anymore?"
Jazz blushed. "We're here to meet with--"
Before Jazz could finish her sentence, a toady little man in his late fifties with black hair swirled atop his head like soft-serve ice cream, to cover an orbital-size bald spot, burst through the glass front doors, arms open wide. He wore a black suit, white dress shirt, and yellow power tie, circa 1985 which, Sam figured, was the last year anyone actually breathing had held a hip event at this hotel.
"Welcome, welcome, welcome to the Bel Air Grand
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Hotel. I'm Donald Plummage, hotel manager." He nodded vigorously to the valets. "These lovely ladies are my special guests."
"Yes sir," the taller, skinnier valet said dutifully, and slipped into Fee's car to park it.
"You are the lovely Miss Samantha Sharpe, are you not?" the Donald inquired. "I've seen your photo in various publications and might I say that you're even lovelier in person. I am a great fan of your father's work."
Fee and Jazz beamed--clearly, they'd hoped for just such a reaction when they'd cajoled Sam into taking the tour.
"How fresh," Sam chirped. "You and twenty million other people."
The Donald bellowed as if Sam had just said the funniest thing on record. She was used to this kind of sucking up. Sometimes she said or did the most horrid things just to see how far a suck-up would go in pretending that she was scintillating or sweet or sexy. It was a fascinating exercise, in a sick kind of way. The really crazy thing was, Fee and Jazz had stumbled onto a decent idea in thinking this would be a cool prom location. A new place could become hip, but then the tourists and wanna-bes would hear about it and flock to it, rendering the death knell of post hip, and then it was on to the next. The idea that a famous locale gone to seed could be made hip again by a soon-to-be-A-list event was ... well, near genius. Not that Sam was about to let on to that logic.
"Welcome to our lobby, ladies," Donald intoned, as they entered the cavernous hall.
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The lobby walls were dark mahogany, the lighting provided by antique crystal chandeliers. Ornate red velvet furniture was arranged in various conversation areas, flanked by priceless hand-tied Oriental rugs. Black marble pedestals held massive white vases filled with long-stemmed blossoms. Though the furniture was ancient and the carpets showed some shiny spots, the lobby had a certain Casablanca air to it, a whiff of the grandeur of days past.
"Isn't it fabulous?" Jazz gushed. She pointed to the couches nestled near a giant stone fireplace. "Right over there, Mae West got drunk and did a striptease for Montgomery Clift by firelight--or at least, that's what Donald told us."
"True, true, it's all true," Donald assured them. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply, putting fingertips on both his eyelids. "When I do this, I can still feel her presence."
"It's empty in here," Sam sniffed. There were perhaps a dozen extremely low-key guests scattered about the lobby. "Why is that, Donald?"
"It's two in the afternoon," Fee pointed out nervously. "I'm sure it'll be more crowded later."
"Doubtful," Sam declared, playing her snotty role for all it was worth. "All the biggest clients are busy pushing up daisies at Forest Lawn Cemetery."
The Donald laughed his hysterical laugh anew. "Aren't you witty, Miss Sharpe! Actually, it's a little-known fact that Swifty Lazar gave his first post-Oscar party here."
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"He's so twentieth century," Sam intoned, and then shook her head. "You know, I just don't think my friends are going to get behind this. Where's your valet ticket, Fee?"
Fee grasped Sam's arm. "Let us show you around, at least."
"Right, I mean, this is just the lobby!" Jazz added, a half-octave higher than normal.
Sam feigned reluctance, but the hotel manager cajoled her. For the next fifteen minutes or so, the Donald, Jasmine, and Fee led her on a tour. They took her to the grand suite on the tenth floor, which would be reserved as part of their prom package. Though Sam sniffed, it was quaintly lovely. There were two spacious bedrooms with white, eggshell-and-ochre quilts from Marks & Spencer on the beds; a large, long bathroom with a charming blue porcelain tub perched on claw feet; and a cozy living room with a faux-bearskin rug before a red flagstone fireplace. The balcony just off the living room facing south and west was airy and elegant, with marble railings and comfortable rattan furniture.
"It's the original marble from 1919, Miss Sharpe," the Donald explained, his voice just so proud. "We've tried to retain as much of its historicity as possible and still make it modern and luxurious for our guests."
The elevator to the Grand Ballroom was claustrophobic and slow--two facts Sam delighted in pointing out--but the banquet room itself was massive: it could easily hold five hundred people. Sam found as much fault with it as possible, from the yellow-toned color
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scheme to the Italian and Spanish coats of arms in the corner, and especially the priceless knights' metal suits in Plexiglas display cases in the rear.
"We're going to go with a renaissance theme," Jazz blurted. "In keeping with the surroundings."
"It's going to be so fabulous!" Fee rushed to join her. "We contacted those people who do those renaissance fair thingies? We've hired them for jousting and Tarot readings, and, um, wenches, you know?"
"Right," Jazz agreed. "Total debauchery."
Sam folded her arms. Not bad at all. But if you were going to have those kinds of out-of-the-ordinary entertainers, you needed to hire an actual party planner, like Fleur Abra, who had done her father's wedding.
"Let me ask you girls something. Have you ever gone to one of those lame ren fairs?"
"No," Fee admitted, shifting uncomfortably, "but my cousin works for the one in Santa Fe Springs. That's how I knew who to contact."
"I think you can do better."
Both girls were silent. For a nanosecond, Sam wondered if she'd carried her act too far. She changed the subject. "What about the band?"
"The stage will go up over there." The Donald pointed to the far corner of the room.
"The band?" Sam asked.
Jasmine and Fee exchanged a fearful look.
"We've got the Roadsters," Fee offered tentatively.
Sam threw them a bone. "Good choice."
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The wattage in the girls' grins could have powered a third-world nation for a year.
"Ladies?" The ever-jovial Donald got their attention. "Time for the pièce de résistance--the food. A table has been set up for you ladies in the main dining room."
"Sam, you're going to like this," Fee declared. "I know it."
The dining room's decor leaned heavily toward its Old Hollywood connection--the walls were adorned with posters of classic films from the thirties and forties, ranging from Mrs. Miniver to The Third Man to How Green Was My Valley? The tables had white tablecloths, the lights were kept dim, and the waiters all apparently had been working since the Bel Air's heyday judging by their age. The sound of old show tunes from movie musicals trickled in from the grand piano next door.
The Donald led the three girls to their table and held Sam's chair for her. "Bon appétit, ladies," he wished, with a little bow. "I leave you to dine."
Sam read the white card at the center of the table as the Donald departed. "Beverly Hills High School Anniversary Prom Menu," she read aloud. "Bagaduce oysters and osetra caviar. Fresh Mendocino champignons with truffles, marlin niçoise, and whole roasted lobster. Dé lice au chocolat et caramel, or homemade Cold Stone Creamery ice cream hand-mixed on the premises. Accompanied by assorted beverages."
Sam's mouth was watering just reading the menu; she
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hadn't eaten lunch. But she shook her head. "Not good."
"You haven't even tasted it yet!" Jazz protested.
"We--you--need a vegetarian alternative." Oops. Almost a slip.
"You're so right," Jazz agreed. "We need to talk to the kitchen."
Great. She had them where she wanted them. Time to shift gears.
"I was thinking about some other things that could make this prom special," Sam mused.
Both girls' faces lit up as if Orlando Bloom had just asked them to dance. "We'd love to hear them," Fee exulted.
"Here's my thought." Sam tapped a forefinger against her lips. "I help refine your prom concept, all of my nearest and dearest friends come to prom, and ... what say I film the transformation? Sort of a ... prom makeover movie. What do you two think?"
Fee and Jazz turned into happy bobble-head dolls.
"Excellent." Sam shook Fee's hand, then Jazz's. "It's settled, then. We have a lot of work to do while we eat. Someone make a list. By the way, once we've got a vegetarian option, the menu will be outstanding."
Fee beamed and instantly whipped a small notebook out of her purse.
Sam smiled. In the end, it had been as easy as giving candy to Kirstie Alley.
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So ...Curvy
As Ben piloted his parents' yacht, the new Nip 'n' Tuck, out of the harbor--at forty feet, it was longer than its predecessor, with brass fixtures gleaming and the scent of new paint mixing with the glorious smell of the ocean--Anna stood at the bow and flashed back to a moment when she'd been in seventh grade.
She and her best friend, Cynthia Baltres, had let themselves into Cyn's brownstone one afternoon after school. Cyn had gone to the kitchen to find some chips and Cokes, and Anna had wandered into her father's home office, a small room off the library that held a black steel desk and chair, a laptop, stacks of papers, and several shelves of books. Cyn's father, though a businessman, was at work on a novel. Right by the computer was a copy of a book that Anna had never heard of before, Kahlil Gibran's The Prophet . Anna idly flipped it open and began to read one of the short poems.
"Love gives naught but itself and takes naught but from itself. Love possesses not nor would it be possessed. For love is sufficient unto love."49
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The words had struck her in their simple profundity. Not only had she memorized the verse, but she'd also hand-lettered the words on an index card and put the card inside the top desk drawer in her private study. (That year, her mother's designer had redone Anna's bedroom and adjoining study suite in Chinese antiques from the late Ming and early Qing dynasties. Anna's new desk had been made from priceless huanghuali hardwood whose hand-carved pieces fit together without glue or nails.)
By the time Anna was in ninth grade, everyone at Trinity was jaded or at least pretending to be. Ragging on The Prophet was party blood sport. No one believed that love existed and everyone pointed to the off-the-charts divorce rates of their parents as empirical proof.
Anna had tossed away the index card but had kept the words emblazoned in her memory. Yes, she'd temporarily jettisoned them when she'd been so certain in the autumn that she was in love with young writer Scott Spencer--a crush she hadn't mentioned to Cyn--and then Cyn had hooked up with Scott. Now that Cyn and Scott were history and Anna didn't want Scott at all, Gibran's words had come roaring back. Could those words apply to a guy who, the last time she'd been on a boat with him, had abandoned her in the middle of the night and then made up some absurd excuse about it?
"Ah. My Selkie maiden longing to return to the sea," Ben intoned, coming up behind Anna. She was in her ancient gray cashmere sweater and faded jeans--she'd worn her Ralph Lauren deck shoes because it sometimes
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got slippery. He was in khakis and a faded Princeton sweatshirt. He lifted her ponytail and kissed the back of her neck.
She half-smiled. "The sea is not what I'm longing for. Who's steering the ship of state?"
"It's on autopilot. Kind of like the government." He put his hands on Anna's shoulders and turned her toward him. "Care to elaborate on what you're longing for?"
For a moment she was ready to fib, but she decided to hold to her honesty policy. When he'd lied about why he'd abandoned her, when she'd not been up-front about the guys she'd been seeing in Los Angeles, when he'd hidden the fact that he had to return to Princeton or that the school would kick him out, it had hurt them. She didn't want that to happen again.
"The truth? I wasn't longing for anything. I was thinking about the first time you brought me out here. New Year's Eve."
Ben winced and shook his head. "Don't."
The Nip 'n' Tuck cut across the wake of a larger vessel and pitched forward and backward. Ben put his hands on Anna's hips to steady her.
"I was so sure you had used me. But you'd gone off to play the knight in shining armor to your dad."
"You had no way of knowing that," Ben reminded her. Anna saw the flush of shame in his cheeks. "I don't blame you for jumping to the wrong conclusion."
"That's the whole point." She traced the line of his jaw with her forefinger and gazed over his shoulder at
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the California coastline. The further they went from the harbor, the more beautiful it became. To the north she could see the Santa Monica Pier, with its famous Ferris wheel. To the south, planes were roaring into the sky from LAX. "Why was I so quick to think the worst of you instead of the best?"
"Because men are dogs?" Ben ventured.
She smiled. "Because I was afraid of... of everything. Being hurt. Wanting you." She ducked her head selfconsciously. "I should shut up now."
He cupped her chin until she lifted her head to face him again, and turned his body slightly to shield her from the fine spray as the bow of the yacht cut through some choppy water. "Hey, don't do that. I'm just as sick of all the bullshit out there as you are. You can tell me anything." His hand traced a line from her chin down her neck; then he gently brushed his knuckles against her collarbone. "Man, I missed you."
"Me too." Her eyes searched his. "I really think ... if we're honest with each other, we can be ..." She searched for the right words. "Far from the madding crowd."
He pointed at her playfully. "Thomas Hardy. You thought I wouldn't know."
'"The sky was clear --remarkably clear--and the twinkling of all the stars seemed to be but throbs of one body, timed by a common pulse,'" Anna half-whispered. "Isn't that amazing, that one man could write something like that?"
Ben's strong hands circled her slender waist. "I think you're amazing."
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Anna rested her check against his strong chest and shut her eyes, letting the perfection of the moment wash over her. Then she opened them again. Honest. She had to be honest.
"I wanted to ask you. About Blythe." She cleared her throat.
"Blythe-at-Princeton Blythe?"
"Is there another one?" she asked archly.
He laughed. "Yeah, somewhere in the universe, I guess. It's just that I haven't even thought about her in three months."
Anna wanted to make absolutely certain she had this right. "You broke up with her?"
"There wasn't anything to break up. We hung out a few times; that's pretty much it."
"That's not how it sounded when you first told me about her. You're really not 'hanging out' anymore?"
"No, Anna," he replied as if humoring her. "We are not 'hanging out' anymore. I have no female hang-out partners under the age of eighty, I swear."
"Well, then." She smiled. That was that. "You need to kiss me."
He did, over and over, until Anna couldn't think at all. Then he lifted her up in his arms and carried her down the steps to the main cabin. It was bigger than the one that had been on the original Nip 'n' Tuck, more lavishly appointed, with actual portholes, a white Berber rug, and an Adriatic desk. The light brown teak king-size bed was built into a darker teak headboard-bookshelf combination--recessed track lighting plus
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twin reading lamps provided all the illumination one could desire. The bed frame was hand-carved with Moorish designs and inlays so new that Anna could smell the faint aroma of the wood.
The big brown and white pillows on the bed, though, were the same. So was the down comforter with the gold-inlaid comforter cover. So were the light gold silk sheets, his arms, his body--the him that she remembered so well.
Anna opened her eyes to the gentle rocking of the yacht. She was nestled in Ben's arms, the silk sheets crumpled beneath them. His eyes were still closed. She thought about everything they'd shared before falling asleep and shivered deliciously. Whoever had invented sex was a genius.
"You're thinking again," Ben accused, but there was a smile on his lips.
She gazed at his peaceful face and ran the tips of her fingers down his hard chest. "Your eyes aren't even open; how would you know?"
"I can feel it."
"I had no idea you were so sensitive," she teased.
"Oh yes you did." He opened his eyes and pulled her closer. "I think the past hour or two proved that."
She kissed one of the ridges of his abdominal six-pack. "I have problems with short-term memory. I might need an instant replay to remind me."
"Oh, really?"
"Yes, really."
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"Or maybe you need ... this !"
He picked up a pillow and bopped her with it. She whacked him with another one. She thought she was on the verge of vanquishing him, until Ben held her down and made her say, "Ben is the king!" three times in French. She was laughing so hard she could hardly get the breath to say it.
"Ben est le roi! Trois fois!" she teased.
Who knew she could be this happy, this carefree? He rolled over next to her, a big, dopey grin on his face. Could it be possible that he was just as happy as she was? Yes, it was. She could feel it.
It was the perfect time to ask him.
"Ben?"
"Anna?"
"How would you feel about going to prom?"
He pretended to muse for a moment. "Prom. You're talking the Beverly Hills High School prom?"
