Buoyed with purpose, Mel had climbed into her Mini Cooper at eight A.M. on Monday morning ready to meet other smart, like-minded women who loathed the Big Cheeto and feared the demise of their country as much as she did. But when she entered her destination address into Waze the app informed her that her drive time to Santa Clarita was now two hours and eighteen minutes.
She’d texted her squad leader, a brisk woman named Wendy, apologizing profusely for her tardiness and asking if she could intercept the canvassers out in the field.
Wendy had replied by text: Welcome to LA traffic! Sorry you’re having trouble, but we’re on a really tight schedule and can’t accommodate changes this late in the game. Hope to see you next time. Drive safe!
Humiliated, Mel had deleted herself from WOMEN WHO WILL on Facebook, and resolved to find another volunteer job, closer to home. Then she’d emailed the coach of Sloane’s soccer team and offered to serve as team manager. Not exactly political activism, she knew, but Mel had read about the empowering impact of soccer on young girls, and frankly, the games had become her favorite part of the week. It was almost embarrassing how it thrilled her to hear the crowd cheer at top volume for Sloane, her little ankle-breaker, half the size and twice as fast as the other girls on the field.
Coach Crystal had emailed back immediately, granting Mel the job.
Okay, so she wasn’t fighting to bring down the Big Cheeto. She would get to that, she swore to herself. Right after soccer season ended. After she’d figured out how to be in this too-happy, too-sunny place.
Mel gave her leggings another mighty tug, and finally they snapped into place, cinching her waist like a corset. A faint rapping came from downstairs. The person at the front door had switched to knocking. She suddenly remembered she had a “smart door” that synced with her phone, giving her a view on her screen of whomever was standing on the front steps, ostensibly for added security. Adam had insisted on the feature, which struck Mel as utterly ridiculous: what sort of intruder marched right up to the front door?
She grabbed her phone from the bureau, noticing Adam had already texted her a half-dozen pictures from Sloane’s soccer game, which was currently happening at a park on the other side of town. Mel blanched with the guilt of missing the game (So a bunch of rando ladies are more important than me, I guess? Sloane had guilt-tripped Mel that morning) and tapped open the Ring app on her phone.
Standing beneath the stone archway of her front door was a tall man with wavy brown hair in a sleeveless gray T-shirt that read Eat Pure, Train Filthy. What did that mean? Mel wondered. His sunglasses and red baseball cap (Jesus, it wasn’t one of those hats, was it?) obscured his face, but she could see the muscles in his long arms. They were . . . prominent.
She cleared her throat and tapped the Talk icon on her app.
“Hi! You must be here for the workout . . . um, thing. I’ll be right down.”
“Whoa, hey there!” he said. “I haven’t gotten used to these robot doors.” On her screen, she could see him grinning. His teeth were very white. “But yes, I’m Zack Doheny, here to coach your workout thing. Regina Wolfe told me to come to the front door and ask for Melissa. But I can just swing around to the back if you’re busy.”
“No, no,” said Mel. “I’m . . . her. Melissa. Mel. I’ll be right there.”
“Take your time,” said Zack. “I’m early.”
Mel tossed her phone onto the bed, silently cursing Regina, feeling her heart rate skip up. Great. Now she had to make small talk with a fucking personal trainer, who was probably also an actor, and who would immediately disapprove of Mel’s obvious lack of fitness.
She smoothed her black tank top over the skintight pants, straightened her glasses (Maybe wear contacts for the actual workout? Regina had said), and patted her fringe of dark bangs. The new leggings were sort of flattering, even if they were probably damaging her internal organs.
Her arms might resemble fat mackerels, but all in all, she didn’t look terrible.
It was, as she’d heard Regina say, go-time.
Mel hurried out of her bedroom and down the polished red oak stairs. She speed-walked through the living room to the arched wooden doorway and pulled it open.
“Sorry to keep you waiting!” she blurted to Zack Doheny, who stood on her stone steps in the dappled morning sunshine, a large duffel bag on either side of him.
“Don’t be sorry,” said Zack, smiling down at her, floppy curls falling over his forehead. “I’m enjoying this gorgeous front yard.”
“Okay, I’m . . . not sorry then,” said Mel, fumbling. “And thank you.” Zack removed his sunglasses and hung them on the neck of his T-shirt, so Mel could see the blue-green color of his eyes and the tan skin of his unlined face.
“So, it’s Mel, right?” He extended a hand. Mel paused before taking it, conscious of her short, bitten-down nails, and the large diamond on her finger. “Lady of the house?”
“Um.” Mel cringed. “I’ve never heard it put quite that way but, yes, I am, uh, female. And I do live here.”
“I’m sticking with lady of the house. Old school.” Zack grinned at her. His nose was straight and his chin square: a face of clean, strong angles. His features pure symmetry. He looked like a sample headshot, Mel thought.
“How charming.” Mel said, making sure to sound thoroughly un-charmed. “So, you’re the guy Regina brought here to torture us?”
“That’s one way of looking at it. Ready for your best workout of the year?”
“Are you fucking kidding me?”
“Excuse me?”
“This will be my only workout of the year.”
“Well, then, I’m honored.” He reached down and picked up one duffel in each hand, holding eye contact with her.
“Don’t be,” said Mel.
“Too late.” He smiled. “Not only am I honored, but I’m now making it my mission to guarantee you’ll want to start taking my classes after today.”
Mel felt her cheeks turn warm. Normally, the beautiful young creatures of Los Angeles barely registered with her: they were everywhere, floating through the city. They saw right through Mel, took no notice. She was irrelevant to them. Zack Doheny, however, seemed to be taking her in. Fully absorbing her with his sea-green eyes. Were colored contact lenses still a thing? she wondered.
He’d probably never seen someone so fat in Santa Monica, Mel decided.
“To be clear,” she said. “I’m just doing a favor for Regina. She needed a backyard. I said she could use mine. I wasn’t even planning to stick around for the ‘event.’ But then somehow”—she flung her hands upward—“Regina talked me into participating. And I’m not a . . .” She searched for the words. “A worker-outer. A work-outer. Or what the fuck ever. You get the idea.”
“Hey, deep breath. No need to stress about a little circuit training. You’re here. You showed up. Just relax and leave the rest to me, okay?”
“I didn’t show up. I live here.”
“Details,” Zack said. “Keep an open mind. It’s all I ask.”
“You don’t want my mind to open. I’m much more likable when it’s closed.”
“You’re pretty likable so far,” said Zack, “in an angry sort of way.” He flashed his toothpaste-commercial smile.
Jesus, was he flirting? Mel reminded herself that fitness trainers/actors flirted with everyone; it was basically how they made a living.
“Well, you have about two dozen ultra-perky, non-angry women—I mean, ladies—waiting for you in the backyard.” She spun on the heel of her brand-new sneaker back into the house. “Follow me.”
“I’m not a huge fan of perky, actually,” Zack called out behind her.
Sure, Mel thought. Still, she couldn’t stop herself from smiling.
Inside, she led him past the stairs and through the kitchen, which gleamed with the steel appliances and marble countertops Adam loved so much (for years in Brooklyn, he’d been content with preparing gourmet meals on the mini-range of their tiny kitc
hen with the one burner that never worked; now, he acted as if the palatial kitchen were essential to his lifeblood), then into the den arranged with taut, geometric couches Mel had gingerly selected from a store on Montana Avenue.
God, why was getting rich so embarrassing?
Beside one of the sleek couches, on the floor, was a large cage made from black plastic gridding and colorful tubes. It was filled with shredded paper and, Mel knew, hamster shit.
“Sorry for the stench,” she said quickly to Zack, as the manure-like scent hit her nostrils. “My husband brought some hamsters home and now refuses to clean the cage.”
“Hamsters are great!” said Zack, a bit too cheerfully.
“Give me a break. They’re rodents.”
She hurried out of the smelly den and into the hallway that led to the back door, which was covered with family photos she’d spent a week selecting, framing, and hanging. “Hold on,” Zack called from behind her. “I gotta take a look at some of these.”
Mel sighed and turned around. Zack had turned his red baseball cap backward and was studying the picture wall.
“Don’t judge me for the jiu-jitsu photos. I had nothing to do with those. I’m a pacifist.”
Recently, Adam had added a few photos of himself in full fighter mode to the wall, shots from a tournament he’d fought in last month. In one, he stood on a podium wearing a thick white gi and his brown belt, holding a trophy aloft. In another, he was shirtless and charging toward another man, wearing the expression of an attacking warrior, his delts and lats as defined as the glazed apple slices on the tarts Mel loved at Sweet Lady Jane on Montana Avenue, and then hated herself for eating.
“My husband Adam’s obsessed with jiu-jitsu,” she said to Zack. “I know what you’re thinking. How can someone married to me be so fit? It’s only happened since we moved to LA. It’s like he caught a disease that makes him insanely healthy. While I’m still . . . you know. Brooklyn-ish.” Instantly, her face tinged with heat.
“I wasn’t thinking that at all. And I’m not sure what Brooklyn-ish is, but I’m pretty sure I like it.”
“Um.” Mel was confused; had he just complimented her looks? Surely, she’d misunderstood. “Thanks?”
Zack moved closer to a photo of Sloane in action on the field. “Your little soccer player’s adorable. She looks like a firecracker.”
“And then some,” said Mel.
Finally, they reached the double-paneled doors at the back of the house and paused together, looking out at the clusters of leggy women in skintight workout gear like Mel’s—except, she thought, any one of them could have been modeling the clothes for a catalogue. All over her yard, shiny ponytails bobbed in the sunshine. She spotted Lettie, holding an armful of towels and nodding at Regina, who appeared to be telling her something very urgent. Mel felt a wave of comfort at the sight of her housecleaner. Lettie was her only true ally here.
“You go on out,” said Zack. “I’m going to hang back for a minute and review my routine one more time.” He tapped a finger to his forehead.
“Ugh. I don’t know if I can. It looks like some kind of sporty Miss Universe pageant is about to begin. Plus, the sun is brutal and it’s not even noon. I hate sweating.”
“You’re wearing a lot of black,” he said. “For someone who hates sweating.”
“I’m a New Yorker. We wear black.”
“And I’m from the swamplands of Florida. We don’t wear shirts. But look”—he ran his hand down the front of his tank top with flourish, brushing his arm ever so slightly against hers—“I’ve adapted.” Mel felt suddenly buzzy, as if she’d had too much caffeine.
“Maybe I don’t want to adapt,” she managed.
“So, don’t adapt. But you got to get your sweat on. Sweat is the great equalizer. Makes everything else fall away. You’ll see. Once I get everyone into the red zone—”
“Into the what?”
“Sorry. The red zone is what we call the top level of exertion, where you’re maxing out your heart rate. When you’re giving a workout absolutely everything you’ve got.”
“Sounds horrendous,” said Mel. “Like coronary arrest, but on purpose.” She was becoming more fearful of the workout by the second, but somehow, also wanting to show him—this cute Millennial fitness coach she’d just met—that she could do it.
Zack laughed. “Seriously, though. The red is where the magic happens. When a bunch of people are in it together, all their petty shit—I mean, stuff—just dissolves.”
“Please don’t tell me you just corrected shit to stuff on my behalf. Because shit is my second favorite word. Next to fuck.” She felt her face go hot. “I mean . . . I didn’t mean—oh God, just kill me now. Self-control isn’t my strong suit.”
“I noticed,” he said, and winked at her.
“Please don’t tell me you just winked.”
“Self-control can be learned, you know. Working out helps a ton with that. It’s actually more about emotional discipline than physical.”
Mel groaned. “Gee, thanks. But I think I’m familiar with the mind-body connection.”
He laughed. “Okay, okay, I’m sorry. That was very coach-y of me. Anyway. Maybe you should just ease up on yourself a little? You’re allowed to curse as much as you want. It’s just that I’m personally trying to quit profanity. I’m Catholic.” He cleared his throat. “Roman Catholic.”
Mel tried to keep a straight face. “Are you serious?”
“Absolutely,” he said, lifting a string of beads from under the neckline of his T-shirt. “See?”
“Is that a rosary? I thought you were just supposed to carry them. Like, in your pocket?”
Zack shrugged. “I feel closer to God if I keep it right here.”
“You are going to hate my guts,” said Mel. Then she forced a deep breath and pushed the door open, blinking as she stepped into the clear morning sunshine.
“I doubt that, darlin’,” she heard him say as the door closed behind her.
3
Regina
THE MORNING WAS HOT, EVEN FOR MID-OCTOBER, AND REGINA WOLFE felt twin pools of sweat gathering in the cups of her sports bra. She should have worn a lighter-weight top—she had exercise clothes for every season, in a wide array of styles and cuts, so many that she often hid new gym-wear from her husband, Gordon. Not that he’d notice. Probably, she thought, on days she was feeling more honest, she was hiding the stuff from herself. Normal people in Regina’s financial situation did not purchase $200 leggings from Carbon38 or Sweaty Betty or any of the numerous “wellness boutiques” that showed up on her Instagram feed.
Then again, lately, Regina was beginning to feel she was not normal. Or at least, she’d begun to feel there was an abnormal discrepancy between the way she appeared to the unsuspecting eye—a fortyish (okay, forty-four) woman who could pass for thirty-seven (thirty-five, even, if she’d had a recent facial), living a life that most people would envy: a beautiful house situated a mile from the Pacific Ocean, and a beautiful family to match. Her own business that allowed her to set her own hours; friends who were generous with lending their desert houses in Palm Springs, lake houses in Tahoe, and ski lodges in Mammoth. Regina was in excellent health—five foot eight, one hundred and twenty pounds.
At a glance, how many women over forty wouldn’t want to be Regina? Especially if they could see her at this very moment, standing in the middle of a lavish backyard, a quarter-acre lot so full of greenery you might forget you were, technically, in a city—giant white poppies, their paper-thin petals like parasols; fruit trees circled by knee-high lavender, and a stone wall draped in star jasmine. Its scent reminded Regina of buttered toast. She imagined her own family—she, Gordon, and their daughters, twelve-year-old Mia and almost-eleven Kaden—eating a Sunday breakfast at Mel’s teak outdoor table, the pergola above with climbing purple wisteria and passionfruit blooms.
Plus, the Goldberg home had what Regina considered the most enviable amenity of all: a pool. Both of Regina’s
daughters were avid swimmers, with passes to the aquatic center at Santa Monica College. Regina had dangled the idea of a backyard pool to them a few years ago, when it seemed her marketing business, Big Rad Wolfe, was really going to explode, and they’d freaked out, giggling and squealing. Of course, Kaden had told Gordon that night at dinner—Mom says we’re getting a pool next year! And Gordon had raised his eyebrows at Regina behind his glasses and said, “Oh?” in that noncommittal way that drove her crazy.
That was three years ago. The pool had not turned up.
It was never going to turn up.
Regina looked away from Mel’s pool, toward the handsome rear façade of the house: one of many Tudors built in the 1920s revival to create an illusion of old money in nouveaux riches on the west side of Los Angeles. The steeply pitched roof and decorative timbers reminded Regina of a fairy-tale cottage, but ten times as grand. The diamond-paned lead windows looked so authentic she half expected Snow White to throw one open and greet the twenty women who’d shown up (thankfully) right at nine A.M. for the Version Two You! event she and her trainer, Zack Doheny, had organized. The women stood in small clusters, clad in spandex and sneakers, sipping kombucha from champagne flutes, bright and chirpy as jungle birds. Some were Regina’s friends, some total strangers who’d responded to her email and social media campaign, and all of them had the money to pay top dollar for Zack’s personal training program. The crowd also seemed impressed by Mel’s yard. The pool glinting in the morning sunshine. The garden beds circling the lush grass, resplendent with juniper and sage.
Santa Monica Page 3