Lost in LA

by Amy Craig

  Penny Lane pulled off her hat and swatted Wylie’s arm. “And you don’t have to move out just to prove you’re willing to share your new apartment with me.”

  “You’re going to move out?” Nolan asked.

  The lighthearted moment collapsed until the world contained just enough space for the two of them. “I’ve always wanted to prove that I can take care of myself,” she said, hoping Penny Lane and Esther would recognize the moment.

  He ran a hand through his hair. “Nobody doubts that fact.”

  She closed her eyes. But are there more important things to prove? Do I need to prove it to myself? She took a deep breath and offered him a tentative smile. “Maybe we can talk about it over dinner?”

  Esther whistled. “Oh! It’s date night. Wear something sexy.”

  What do I wear to camouflage my heart?

  Chapter Nineteen

  Surveying her closet, Wylie came up with two dress options for dinner—the wrap dress she had worn to her job interview and the cocktail dress she had borrowed to dazzle the Abramowitzes. The wind-swept effects of riding in the Bronco called for fluidity, but she had no idea what to expect from an evening alone with Nolan. Fearing neither dress would leave her comfortable enough to suss out her feelings for the man, she abandoned formalwear and choose skinny jeans, a pair of black heels and a black top with puffed sleeves that bared her abdomen. Work with what you have. She tossed her blonde hair over her shoulder and left the tiny room with a twenty-dollar bill, a credit card and her new, financed smartphone jammed into her back pocket.

  Nolan stood at the base of the stairs in jeans and a button-down shirt. The setting sun came through the wide windows and picked out the red highlights in his dark brown hair. When he smiled, she gravitated toward the invitation on his face. “I didn’t know what to wear,” she said.

  “You look perfect.”

  “Where are we going?”

  He raised his eyebrows. “Does it matter?”

  “Maybe,” she admitted. “I’m starving.”

  “Well, I promise there will be food.” He turned toward the kitchen and plucked a bowl of hulled strawberries from the communal refrigerator. “Will this tide you over?”

  She eyed the ripe red fruit and hoped she could keep the tiny seeds from worrying her teeth. She knew he would delay the rest of her plans if she decided to pull food from the fridge and eat. “I might end up with red-stained lips.”

  “I can think of worse outcomes.” He reached for her and offered her a strawberry.

  She opened her mouth and took it, sucking the juice from his fingers. “Is this how you treat all your first dates?”

  The color of his eyes darkened until they beckoned her to drown in them. “I’m considering an emergency cancellation. You look good enough to eat.”

  She danced from his arms and retained the bowl of food. “Not a chance, Nolan. You promised me real food.” Her expectations of the evening turned her stomach, making her realize she craved more than physical sustenance. “Stand and deliver.”

  He pulled out his phone. “Our car’s here.”

  “What about the Bronco?”

  “I told you… They steer like tanks and the death wobble is enough to make you second-guess the quality of American engineering.”

  She shook her head. “Not yours. It’s got a smooth ride.”

  “But I still have to drive it. I’d rather focus on you.” He held up his hand. “Ride-sharing apps are very normal.”

  She walked to the front door and peered at the waiting car. “That is not a late-model Ford.”

  “And you’re not an average woman, Wylie Winidad. Let me indulge you.”

  He took her hand and pulled her toward the front door. She held firm to the bowl of strawberries and teetered on her heels, wondering whether to lay down the rules that would keep her on solid ground. “You’ll scare me away,” she whispered.

  “Let go for a night,” he said with a smile. “I have you.”

  She nodded and followed him toward a chauffeur in a black suit who had no interest in making eye contact.

  “Mr. Wilson,” the man said, “Right this way.” He held open the rear passenger door and averted his eyes.

  Wylie clutched the bowl of strawberries to her chest as she climbed inside the car and her worn denim slid across the smooth leather seats. “This is ridiculous.”

  Nolan reached for a bottle of chilled champagne and grinned. “I’m so glad you brought snacks.”

  She noticed the gleam in his eye and grinned. “We’re never going to make it through the night.”

  “I can manage to restrain myself if you can.”

  A ripe strawberry caught her eye and she plucked it from the bowl, teasing her lips until juice beaded on the surface and he stopped toying with the champagne cage. “Are you sure about that?”

  He laughed and popped the cork. “I’ve never been more certain.”

  The driver brought them through the chaos of Los Angeles traffic while she told him about growing up with two loving parents who should have maintained a filter between their world and hers.

  “It gave you an appreciation for life’s challenges,” he said. “I doubt you would have need extracurricular classes on adulting. Isn’t that the new thing? A lot of kids have helicopter parents who protected them from reality, but they’re fine with letting colleges fill the gaps.”

  “What else should they do?”

  “Pop their precious bubbles and just go out and do it.”

  She glanced at the columned edifice on the corner of 7th and Olive Street. A uniformed valet waited in front of the neoclassical landmark, primed to open doors and whisk away vehicles without making eye contact. Twelve stories of repurposed splendor waited to receive them, but she shook her head and smiled. “It’s a beautiful hotel, but we could have stayed home and saved you the trouble.”

  He laughed and took her champagne glass. “Home doesn’t have the same 1920s elegance. The Bank of Italy might be responsible for the Doric columns, ornate golden ceiling and marble floors, but I thought you’d get a kick out of the green velvet lobby.”

  “How much green velvet?”

  “Chairs. Curtains. Table fringe.”

  The promise of green velvet table fringe had her reaching for the door handle. “You’ve got to be kidding.”

  He laughed. “We grew up in the same hometown, but people don’t move to Los Angeles for tract housing and residential grids. They move here for the glamour and possibilities of something more. Let me give you a taste of that something more.”

  So I can remember it when you’ve moved on. She kept her mouth closed. “Is this how you grew up?

  “No, but I remember my excitement the first time my mother let me tag along.”

  The valet opened the door and a doorman smiled as Nolan led her into the hotel. Creative downtown denizens and aspiring visitors filled two stories of marble and art deco furnishings. She spied the promised green fringe and the mirrored reflection of a palm tree. “It’s another world.”

  Nolan smiled. “It’s la-la land. But they do have four bars.”

  “Four?”

  He scratched his beard. “One on the rooftop. One in the restaurant. A coffee bar.”

  She shook her head and eyed the dark luxury of a bar waiting off the main lobby. “Let’s do that one.”

  “Afraid to get in the elevator?”

  “No,” she said, “I’m afraid I’ll never get out.”

  He led her through the sharp-dressed suits from the financial district, the New Age bohemians toting designer handbags, the aspiring models who coveted the handbags and the urbane out-of-town guests taking in the show. If their jean-clad presence stood out, the hip crowd gave them time to prove their worth. Nolan chose a quiet table for two and a waiter appeared within seconds. “Would you like to see a menu? We offer a selection of classic and proprietary cocktails crafted by our award-winning bar director.”

  Bar director? Wylie shook her head and tried n
ot to finger the smooth leather beneath her hands. Everyone wants to be a director in this town. “Maybe we should stick to bubbles.”

  The waiter nodded and described a mixture of amaro, vermouth, ginger, lime and sparkling mineral water. Wylie eyed the green velvet lobby and decided to accept his suggestion. Why not? I’m a fish out of water in this crowd.

  When the waiter left, she and Nolan admired the crowd, content to let the suspense of the evening supersede their silence. The waiter promptly returned with two cocktail glasses, their square bowls filled with bubbling cocktails and stylized flowers made from mint leaves. Wylie accepted her drink and stared at it. “It’s too pretty to drink.”

  Nolan laughed and lifted his glass. “If I applied the same rule to you, I’d have never gotten you home.” He toasted her and smiled. “To new beginnings.”

  Wylie held his gaze and sipped her drink. And to memories that help to keep us warm. She tested the boundaries of their conversation limits. “Tell me about your mom? What swayed her move into affordable housing?”

  He put down his drink and wet his lips. “I’m suspicious she had it planned all along.”

  “The timing is convenient.”

  He spread his palms. “Convenience is the marriage of needs and resources.”

  She sipped her drink and looked at their opulent surroundings. What happens when you can’t afford the cost?

  “In the first part of 2020, the governor pushed a huge plan to tackle homelessness. My mom waited for an opportunity, knowing the legislature would have a deadline, the press would take up the problem and homelessness would become a national issue.”

  She snorted. “Too bad she didn’t predict the coronavirus.”

  “Touché, but’s a lot to ask, even in California.”

  She grinned. The state always on the verge of secession. Forty million residents, pushing and pulling against the constraints of the nation, who can’t figure out who they want to be but know they can do it better than anyone else. She looked at Nolan, relaxed in an upscale bar, while she sat on the edge of her chair and the city’s elite moved around him. Maybe he should run for office.

  “Our residents have lots of compassion, but it doesn’t hurt when the state has surplus tax revenue.” He swirled the contents of his drink. “She knew there would be pie.”

  “We’re not talking about Modesto.”

  “No, we’re not.”

  “But she must have seen the news coverage. She must be proud of what you’re trying to do.”

  He smiled. “I hope so, but that’s not why I’m doing it. My mom and I have always been planets in the same solar system, never meeting but following the same orbit. She expected Isla properties to bring us together, but I found other ways to deploy my resources.”

  “But are you close? Do you call and celebrate when you’ve achieved something big?”

  “What counts as something big?”

  She thought of the Abramowitzes and their commercial kitchen. “Will she help you with the expansion?”

  He laughed. “Well, I imagine my mom knew about John and Patty’s decision before I did. They decided to sell the building to me based on my ‘good deeds’, but I felt compelled to confess that you and I weren’t quite dating.”

  Wylie lifted her drink to her lips. Because you were ashamed of me?

  “She told me to hurry up and make it official before I lost you.”

  You can’t lose what you haven’t found. She sighed, struggling to weigh the pleasure of his statement against her uncertainties. “I’m glad you owned up to the truth. It’s hard to define what’s going between us right now. Lust doesn’t seem like enough.”

  “What happens between lust and love?”

  She thought about her childhood fantasies and the outdated marriage proposals she had grown up watching. “Trust? Faith? I don’t know the answer yet. My family’s been small my entire life, but I want to make room in it.”

  “I don’t know the answer either, Wylie, but I want you in my life.”

  She swallowed.

  “And just so we’re clear, my mother wants to meet you.”

  Wylie put down her glass. “That’s scarier than the thought of you proposing marriage.”

  He tipped his glass. “Would you say ‘yes’?”

  “You haven’t asked,” she replied, hoping to put him off as she leaned forward and wondered if she would need the contents of the hotel pool to extinguish the heat between them.

  “I’m afraid I know the answer,” Nolan said. He took a deep breath and smiled. “Patricia told me every story has a beginning. We’ve muddled ours, but here’s to starting on the right foot.”

  Here’s to finding someone who can meet your passion. Here’s to finding someone who’s not afraid to go all in and give you what you need. She let her proposition hang between them as she finished her drink. “I’m not sure you can top this beginning.”

  Nolan stood and offered her his hand. “Care to find out?”

  * * * *

  Their driver glanced at Nolan and rose to open the rear passenger door.

  “Has he been waiting the whole time?” Wylie asked.

  “He’s ours for the night.”

  She climbed into the car. “It’s not good for him to sit still that long.”

  “Well, I’m sure we can stop for a stretch break if he’s amenable. Is that what you’d rather do next?”

  “No,” she admitted, intrigued by his agenda. “But I feel a little conspicuous having a man in a suit drive me around.”

  Nolan shrugged and looked at the ride shares circling the block for the convenience of hotel guests. “Sometimes conspicuous pays the bills.”

  She rubbed her arms and hoped their next stop would replace the chilled air of the art deco lobby with something hotter.

  “So, I confess I pulled a few strings to arrange our next step.”

  Her eyes widened. “How many strings?”

  “It’s not that bad,” he admitted. “My university roommate works on a freelance basis as a curatorial assistant for one of the campus art museums. He offered to give us a VIP curator’s tour before we stop for dinner.”

  “The strawberries were a good call,” she said.

  He leaned across the seat and kissed her lips, reminding her that they both tasted of mint and a week of heady memories. “You were a good call.”

  “Why the museum?” she asked to keep herself from climbing into his lap.

  He cleared his throat and blinked. “The man who started it had two sides. He was the former chairman of an international corporation, but he used his wealth to collect old master paintings and drawings of a bygone era.”

  “That’s not unusual. High-performing individuals often love the arts.”

  “High-performing individuals also have wills and strong opinions on what should happen next.”

  “Opinions aren’t exclusive to the one percent.”

  Nolan smiled. “So the man died before many of the exhibit spaces were complete, but he left enough resources to the museum to ensure its success. The university assumed the management and operations of the institution, but they also leveraged their experience to do more than the man had ever envisioned.”

  “You’re the institution, not the man,” she said, aiming to keep things light.

  “No, I’m building the institution from the ground up.”

  Wylie shook her head. “I respect what you’re trying to do, but I thought we weren’t going to talk about Modesto.”

  “I didn’t say anything about the food truck.” He reached for another bottle of champagne. “You won’t make it to the end of the night if we start enforcing penalty shots.”

  She snorted and imagined the ineffectiveness of shooting champagne. “This isn’t truth or dare, Nolan. It’s a date.”

  “Then stop questioning my agenda. You can plan the next date.”

  The driver picked up speed.

  There might not be a next one, and it definitely won’t be this gra
nd if I’m in charge of the budget.

  He pulled her close and tucked her under his arm, kissing her hair then her lips when she turned her face toward his attention. “I’m not the university. I’m the art. We’re the art. We can’t help where we started, but we can hang in there, doing our best to shine against the white gallery walls and forcing other people to question what should happen next.”

  “Aren’t they also on the gallery walls?”

  He shook his head and looked away. “No. Most people are sitting in the storeroom, content to gather dust. I told you. I want to be among the people. I want to do the work.”

  So do I.

  Their car arrived and Nolan’s friend threw open the museum door. His rumpled shirt and expanded waistline made him look less like a chain-smoking artist and more like a man who treated sugar as a panacea. She smiled at the warmth of his smile as he and Nolan shook hands and embraced with the familiarity of long-time friends.

  The man turned to Wylie and introduced himself as Nash. He scanned her frame and she stood firm, knowing his interest stemmed from his affection for Nolan. Nolan and Nash, she repeated to herself. I wonder how he would fare against Rikard?

  “So it took impressing a woman to finally bring you to the museum?”

  Wylie laughed and asked Nolan, “You haven’t been to your friend’s museum?”

  “The man’s a freelance curatorial assistant,” he said. “They just let him borrow the keys.” Nash laughed and Nolan rocked back on his heels and grinned. “Plus, I’ve been busy since we got back from Europe.”

  “How’s the food truck?”

  Nolan shook his head. “Topic non grata tonight.”

  Nash shrugged and led them into the building. “We’ve got a few exhibitions, but Nolan said you might be interested in the permanent collection.”

  She eyed a kaleidoscope of colors spiraling up a white staircase and wondered how long she could get lost in their rhythm. The modern art called to her bubble-laced buzz, but she recalled Nolan’s intent. “Show me what you’ve got.”

  “Most of the works of art stem from the sixteenth through the twentieth century, but our founder had broad interests. There might be a subtle emphasis on the nineteenth century, but who can resist the explosion of creativity brought on by that period? At the time of his death, the museum’s collection boasted examples of realism, orientalism, impressionism, pointillism”—Wylie smiled when he gauged their interest—“and symbolism. Of course, generous patrons have given the museum the resources to expand that collection.”