by Susan Kandel
“Cece,” she said, not even halfway in the door, “I don’t care what that guy on the phone said, you have to call Gambino. He would want to know about something like this.”
“She didn’t mean to step on you,” I said to the locksmith, who had arrived a few minutes earlier, and was crouching in front of the doorway. “Listen, can you do something about that knob while you’re at it? It comes off in people’s hands. And this is for you, Lael.” I handed her a huge pile of laundry. We were washing those sheets before we were sleeping on them.
“Cece, I said you had to call Gambino. Why didn’t you answer me? Are you ill? You look pale.”
“Peter and I aren’t actually speaking right now,” I said. “What should we order for dinner? Do you like mee krob?”
“Stop it. Why aren’t you and Peter speaking? Again?”
“He told me he loved me.”
“And…”
“And I don’t believe him.” I grabbed the laundry out of her hands and headed for the washing machine. She followed me into the kitchen.
“You are one sick cookie.”
“Is that an offer?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I have this recurrent fantasy. I’m listening to Mozart. I’m eating your chocolate chip cookies—”
“We have to clean up this mess. It’ll take us all night. And your cookie sheets suck, if I remember properly.”
“You could spin gold from dross.”
“Cece.”
“You put Sweet Lady Jane to shame.” Sweet Lady Jane was the best bakery in L.A.
“All right. You can stop it, Cece. You win. But we are having a long talk about you and Gambino.”
“We have all night to talk about my tragedy of a love life.”
“Your love life is not a tragedy. You are the tragedy.”
“That’s a lovely thing to say.”
“Where do you keep the brown sugar?”
I opened the door to the pantry and pulled out the box. “There’s flour, baking soda, and vanilla in there, too.”
“I’ll take care of it,” she said, pushing me away. She’d found an apron I had no idea I owned, and put it on.
I stared at her, bemused. She had a permanent post-coital glow. She glowed when she was paying bills. When she was scrubbing toilets. “Lael. How come you look like a Stepford wife? When I wear an apron, I look like a fishwife.”
“Go tidy,” she said distractedly.
I had a couple of phone calls to make first.
Clarissa was semihappy about my semihappy news. Of course, she’d been calling her daughter all day and had left dozens more messages, and now, much to her consternation, Nancy’s machine wouldn’t accept any more. I encouraged her to give her daughter a little space and assured her that all would be well, that Nancy would be waiting for her at the hotel tomorrow in Palm Springs. Then Clarissa asked about my speech.
“I think it might surprise you.”
She detected the hesitation in my voice. “I’m not one for surprises, Cece.”
“In a good way, I mean.” And who could possibly blame me for jettisoning “The Changing Demographics of River Heights”? I didn’t want to put all those good women to sleep. I still had to clarify some details in my own mind, though. How exactly did Edgar’s nude portrait of Grace Horton change things? Why had Grace posed in the buff in the first place? Money? Unlikely. A sexy painting by Russell Tandy, a little-known illustrator, would never have fetched much. And would have jeopardized Grace’s career as Nancy Drew. For a lark? Perhaps. Because she felt straitjacketed by her role as Saint Nancy? Anyone would have. And what about Grace and Tandy? Were things between them purely business? You know what they say about artists and models.
Clarissa seemed to be feeling a little better by the time we hung up.
Mitchell Honey was another story.
He picked up on the third ring. No, Edgar had not shown up, nor had Jake, but, amazingly, it was no longer my fault. And no longer my business. Mitchell was a very busy man with dozens of things to take care of, and why was I keeping him on the phone? These were private affairs, after all. Edgar and Jake were probably out whooping it up somewhere, and he was no longer doing them the courtesy of freaking out. Fine with me.
I spent the next hour or so doing the laundry, making up the bed, putting things back where they belonged, and finding spots in various closets and drawers for the stuff that was left over. Then I took a long hot shower. By the time I emerged with a towel wrapped around my hair, the locksmith was gone and the kitchen was spotless. There were wildflowers from the garden in a vase, Lael’s signature cookies had been arranged on a plate, and there was a carton of mee krob on the counter, along with some spicy chicken coconut soup and pork with mint leaves.
Lael pushed a strand of long blond hair out of her eyes and smiled at me.
It would’ve been nice to have had a sister, but a best friend was just as good.
6
We couldn’t see Bridget. Her entire body was obscured by five antique Louis Vuitton steamer trunks. But we could hear her.
“You ladies said nine o’clock on the nose. You’re late. I’ve been waiting out here for twenty minutes.”
“Oh, no,” I said. “I warned you about this. You cannot bring those things with you. Who do you think you are, a French contessa?”
“If I were French, I’d be a comtesse.”
“Morning, Bridget,” said Lael.
“Morning, Lael,” said Bridget.
Lael pushed the top two trunks aside. “That is a fantastic outfit you’ve got on, Bridget.”
The woman was encased in skintight black leather, the star of a blaxploitation film. I was as pure as the driven snow in a white head scarf, white lace-up mini-caftan with long bell sleeves, and white-rimmed Jackie O. sunglasses—not that anyone had taken notice.
“Thank you,” Bridget said, pouting. She scrutinized Lael’s stained lavender painter’s pants and puffy-sleeved smock.
“Your outfit,” she conceded, “has hippie flair.”
Lael waited a beat. She had four kids and knew what she was doing.
“I used to be a hippie,” Bridget said. “I lived on nuts and didn’t want to be burdened with worldly possessions.”
Lael waited another beat.
“I guess I could leave some of my luggage at home.”
Lael shrugged noncommittally.
“People expect me to look fantastic.”
Lael clucked sympathetically.
“No time off for good behavior.”
Lael nodded sagely.
“I’m exhausted.”
Lael smiled victoriously.
We helped Bridget haul three of the trunks back inside and the other two into the backseat.
“Should I sit back here with my luggage?” Bridget asked in a small voice.
“That sounds like a good idea. And I hope you’re hungry. Cece and I have packed a hamper with all sorts of goodies—little lobster sandwiches, poached pears, cucumber salad.”
“What about Diet Coke? And nacho cheese Doritos?” Bridget undid the top button of her pants.
“It’s a road trip! That’s what convenience stores are for! And we love our convenience stores, right, Cece?”
“Right!” I said, getting into the spirit of things. “Right?” I asked Bridget, catching her eye in the rearview mirror.
“Right,” she said, peeling off her motorcycle jacket. “No leather! No juice fasts!” And we were off.
We got on the 10 at Overland. Rush hour was pretty much over so it wasn’t too bad. Downtown was a blur of skyscrapers and smog. From there we sped through the Chinese suburbs of Alhambra and Monterey Park and a string of towns whose names escaped me but that appeared to consist exclusively of places to buy consumer electronics. Lael used the bathroom at the biggest Toyota dealership in the world. We passed a garbage mountain with a flag flying on top in Ontario. We listened to jazz. We stopped at a 7-Eleven.
“I
sn’t Riverside somewhere around here?” Lael asked.
“What’s in Riverside?” I asked, looking up from my cherry Big Gulp.
“Can we listen to the Saturday Night Fever sound track now?” Bridget interrupted.
“Just the most revered fruit tree in the entire United States,” Lael said. Then she gave me the look I knew so well, the one that meant business.
We got off the freeway at the next exit and followed the arrows toward the center of town.
“I found out about it researching recipes for orange poppy seed minimuffins on the Internet,” Lael said.
“I’ve never heard of orange poppy seed minimuffins. Don’t you mean lemon? We need a map. Can you check the glove compartment?”
“Here.” She handed me some crumpled shreds of paper that used to be a map but currently resembled a napkin.
“I can’t do this when I’m driving. You figure out where we’re going, Bridget,” I said, shoving the mess back at her.
“This tree,” Lael continued, “is one of two from which all navel oranges in California descended. It came here from Brazil in about 1875 and created an orange empire. The navel is the noblest of all citrus.”
“It’s marked with an orange,” Bridget said after a few minutes. “I think this is it.” She handed the map back to me, poking furiously at a small stain somewhere in southern Nevada.
I sighed. “I think we’ll stop at the closest gas station to be sure.”
The man at the gas station studied us disapprovingly, then directed us to the corner of Arlington and Magnolia. We headed that way.
Bridget was singing, “If I can’t have you, I don’t want nobody, baby!”
Lael was trying to rip a loose thread off the bottom of her smock.
I was trying my best, but I suspected sabotage. From all quarters.
“Stop, Cece! There it is!” Bridget cried. “Across the street from Donut Tyme!”
“You should trust your friends,” Lael said, altogether too smugly.
The most revered fruit tree in the entire United States was located smack in the middle of a commercial district, directly in front of a combination day spa and dental office. Donut Tyme had good parking, so we left the Caddy there and walked across the street.
The tree was surrounded by a dusty, padlocked gate with dangerous-looking spikes running across the top.
“So where’s the armed guard?” asked Bridget, who was munching away on a cinnamon cruller.
“It’s the honor system,” Lael said.
“They look awfully tasty,” I said.
Bridget narrowed her eyes. “Stay away from my cruller.”
“I mean the oranges. Look at those smooth deep-orange rinds.”
“You wouldn’t dare,” Lael said.
“Seedless, too.”
“I can’t take you anywhere.”
“Bridget, give me a boost.”
“But those women are watching.”
A couple of day spa clients were lingering out front, gingerly touching each other’s freshly peeled face.
“They aren’t paying attention. C’mon.”
“This is a historic landmark,” Lael said, reading the plaque. “We are going to get arrested.”
Bridget didn’t like that idea. “You really want old fruit, Cece? There are probably worms in there, or fruit flies. You can have the rest of my cruller.”
The fence was about six feet high, but there was a leafy branch extending over the top, just within reach. It was dripping with fruit.
“I can stand on this bench. I don’t even need your help.”
Looking back, I wish someone had warned me about that bench. It must’ve been there as long as the tree, because the minute I stood up on it the whole damn thing collapsed, propelling me straight toward one of those rusty spikes.
“Omigod!” Bridget shrieked at Lael, who was standing twenty feet away, pretending she didn’t know us.
“Cece!” Lael raced over to me.
“I’m fine,” I said, picking myself up off the ground. “And I got an orange!”
“You’re not fine. You’re bleeding.”
I looked down at my dress, which was ripped across the front, revealing a scratch on my stomach. And also my oldest underwear. My mother used to warn me about that.
Lael took my arm. “That must hurt. Let’s go inside and get you fixed up.”
After complimenting me on my teeth, the people in the day spa/dental office cleaned off my cut, which looked worse than it was, bandaged me up, and gave me a couple of safety pins to hold my dress together. I figured I’d change in the bathroom at Donut Tyme.
We walked back across the street, sharing the orange.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” Lael asked.
How exactly was I supposed to answer that? The last twenty-four hours had gone by in a fog. Had two strangers really broken into my house, or was that a dream?
“I’m made of strong stuff. You know that.” I wiped my sticky fingers on my dress, popped open the trunk, and reached for my suitcase.
“So what’s that license plate supposed to say anyway?” Bridget asked. “Smutty or smoothie?”
“Neither,” I said. “Smooth, as in ‘smooth-talking ladies’ man.’”
“Give me a break.”
“Lael,” I said, looking up, “did you open the hamper?”
“No. Why?”
“It’s nothing. The latch must’ve come undone.” I closed it, then opened it again, puzzled. “That’s weird. The sandwiches aren’t in here. We must have left them on the counter.”
“Impossible. I put them in there myself. Let me see that.” She rifled through the hamper, frowning. “I guess I didn’t. What a lamebrain. I must’ve left them on the counter.”
I opened my suitcase and pulled out an Aerosmith T-shirt and my oldest, softest jeans. “I’ll just be a sec.”
“Wait,” Bridget said loudly.
“What is it?”
“What happened to my Louis Vuitton trunks?”
I looked into the backseat. “They’re right where we left them. Both of them. What’s the problem?”
“They’re there, but not where we left them.”
“What are you talking about?” I asked slowly.
“They were behind the passenger seat before. Now they’re behind your seat, Cece.”
“They must’ve shifted when we were driving.”
“They were the other way around when we went across the street.”
“Have they been opened? Check them. Is anything missing?”
She opened the car door and climbed in. “Well, they seem to be locked up, like I left them. And the keys are right here, in my purse.” She shrugged. “I’m so spacey.”
But Bridget was not spacey. And Lael was not a lamebrain.
And it hadn’t been a dream.
We drove off.
“Everything’s fine now,” Lael said.
Just fine.
THE SUN WAS HIGH overhead by the time we saw the first billboard for Hadley Fruit Orchards.
“Do you think hydrogen-powered cars will ever be a reality?” Lael’s eyes were closed. She had exhausted herself searching for a chimerical all-Beatles radio station.
“It’s the only thing that will save California,” Bridget answered. “What are your thoughts on Indian gaming?”
“How can you think about such things at a time like this?” I asked. “Didn’t you see the sign? We’re almost at Hadley’s!”
“I think we should keep going,” Lael said.
The air was hot and dry. How could birds fly through such hot dry air? I looked around. Didn’t see any birds. Not many plants either. Just some extraterrestrial-looking Joshua trees poking out of the parched red dirt.
“Hadley’s has been an oasis in the high desert since 1931,” I said, slowing down to read the next sign.
“I said I think we should keep going.”
“You’re going to pass on sage honey? Mango-flavored pineapple cones? A
pricot-stuffed Medjool dates? Ostrich jerky?”
“I want to take a dip in the pool at Edgar’s,” she said. “Doesn’t that sound nice?”
Bridget piped up. “Perfect.”
“I’m thirsty,” I said as we drove past Hadley’s. I knew what Lael was doing. She was worried about me. She did not approve of my stunts. She feared for my mental health. And she wanted to get me settled in so I could rest up before my speech tomorrow. How little faith she had in me.
“You can have a drink when we arrive,” she said. “And a nice hot bubble bath after the pool.”
“I have to go to the bathroom,” I said stubbornly, pulling off the road and into the Wheel Inn.
Lael sighed. “Just make it quick.”
The Wheel Inn in Cabazon was famous for its four-story-tall dinosaurs. Back in the sixties, somebody had planned an entire dinosaur-themed amusement park there, but had never gotten any further than a brontosaurus and a T. rex.
“Looks like there’s a gift shop inside the T. rex,” said Bridget excitedly. Away from her usual designer boutiques for two hours and she’d lost all perspective.
“We’ll get the sodas,” Lael said, pushing Bridget inside behind me.
Five minutes later, we walked back out to the car. I pressed the icy can of Diet Coke against my cheek.
Bridget kicked some gravel in the parking lot. “I want one of those pith helmets with a fan attached.”
“Edgar must have air-conditioning.”
“Are you sure it’s fine that we all stay there?”
“He insisted,” I said. “I have no idea why, but he insisted.”
“Andrew loathes air-conditioning. He doesn’t mind sweat.”
“Yuck,” I said.
“Who’s Andrew?” Lael asked.
“Bridget’s new intern,” I said with a snort.
“Are you jealous?” Bridget asked.
“A little,” I confessed. “You seem so happy.”