“Interesting,” was all she said. “Let’s sit, okay?” But as they started to cross the lobby an elderly couple took the last free chairs. Jeremy stopped.
“Let’s just take a walk,” he said. “Or there must be a Starbucks around here.”
Annabelle mulled their choices. It seemed like a big decision. She had a thought. “Where are you parked?”
They ended up sitting in Jeremy’s Prius, which was parked at a meter on Ventura Boulevard across from, whaddya know, a Starbucks. He was just glad to be with her. It was hard to tell if the feeling was mutual.
Annabelle did most of the talking as she tried to explain the wellspring of emotion let loose by Jeremy’s move-in request. (He had wanted to explain the Cassie thing first, but Annabelle was already on a roll.) Jeremy had been right that it upset her to think about living with him in the same house that she and Gil created together. He’d also correctly guessed that she wasn’t prepared to leave her house to move elsewhere with him.
“Still, if you asking me to live together took me by surprise, it really shouldn’t have,” admitted Annabelle, “at least not in such a bewildering, immobilizing way.” She paused. “That’s what Melinda says anyhow.”
“Melinda?”
“She’s this psychotherapist I’ve been working with.”
“Oh, after we stopped seeing each other?”
“Actually, about a month after we started seeing each other.” Annabelle turned away shyly, maybe embarrassed.
“Why didn’t you tell me about therapy to begin with?” Jeremy finally asked. “What were you hiding?”
“Nothing. I just didn’t want any more input than I was already getting from Melinda. I didn’t want to jeopardize what you and I had. Which was so good.”
“Not that good if you had to go to therapy.” A car parallel parked behind Jeremy, its radio blaring classical music as if it were death metal.
Annabelle waited till the driver shut off his engine. “I knew you’d take it personally,” she said. “That’s why I didn’t tell you.”
“You could have trusted me.” It wasn’t an accusation; it was a fact. Jeremy stared at Annabelle for emphasis. She met his gaze head-on.
They were silent a few more moments.
“After just a few weeks of dating, I knew we were headed somewhere special,” Annabelle said. “And even if I seemed all chipper and enthusiastic on the outside, inside I was worried I’d screw it all up. I was still in love with Gil and, despite falling for you, I didn’t know if I could handle a future with you. I mean, if there was going to be one.”
“I don’t get it. You seemed, like, all in with me. You were so open and present and … amazing. Especially on the trip to Cambria. Was it all bullshit? Because if it was, I have to say, you were a terrific actress.” It was getting warm in the car. Jeremy turned on the engine and opened the sunroof. The early autumn air wafted in.
Annabelle shifted in her seat. “Maybe we should have taken a walk after all.”
“We still can. I need to get back into my walks anyway. I’ve been kind of delinquent lately.”
“Oh, that’s too bad. You were really liking those.” She paused. “Actually, no, here’s fine. I don’t have a lot more to say.”
“What if I do?”
“Is it about Cassie?” Annabelle asked with a concern she hadn’t previously shown.
“No, that’s … that’s all just kinda crazy. I’ll tell you about it after. No, I want to talk more about you. Why did you shut down so fast after I floated moving in? I told you, it was just a passing thought. It was supposed to be a good thing.”
“Of course, and any woman would’ve been flattered. I should have been flattered. Instead, I was flattened. And, believe me, Melinda and I are deep into trying to figure out why.”
“Why don’t you and I try to figure out why?”
Annabelle looked moved, conflicted. “That’s a sweet offer, but all due respect, I’d better leave this one to the pros.”
“Well, if you ever need a film critic or a screenwriter, you know who to call.” It sounded huffy, but he was going for funny, and it somehow worked: Annabelle laughed and then looked out the window as a couple of Valley kids banged past on skateboards.
“Speaking of which,” she said, turning back to Jeremy, serious again, “what did happen with your script rewrite? You kind of sidestepped your mother when she asked.” Annabelle, as usual, was nothing if not perceptive.
Jeremy related the recent turn of events regarding Offense in colorful detail. And, though Annabelle was sympathetic, even indignant about his unceremonious dismissal, Jeremy was surprised to find himself feeling pretty sanguine about the whole thing. Who knows, maybe it’d come back to kick the shit out of him later. Meanwhile, the segue had effectively diverted them from the issue at hand, and it seemed like there wasn’t much more to say for now about the state of their relationship—or lack thereof.
Jeremy just had one final question.
“So where does this leave us?” he asked, wanting to feel as if he left their meeting with more certitude than when it had started.
“I wish I could say, but I don’t exactly know,” Annabelle answered. Her expressive eyes looked especially dark just then, though they remained inscrutable. Maybe she really didn’t know. “Melinda wants me to take it one day at a time right now.”
Jeremy was sitting two feet from Annabelle but felt a million miles away. He flashed on that last talk he’d had with Matty about relationships: how they take time; how they were easily breakable; but how something totally unexpected could strengthen them, make you realize what you had. Perhaps for Annabelle, it would be Jeremy’s proposal to live with her. It was a ray of hope. But he’d have to be patient—and believe.
Seeing her again also reconfirmed what Jeremy was pretty sure he already knew: that he was done with Cassie. He couldn’t go backward, only forward. That Melinda had better be a fucking great shrink.
But for now, maybe less was more. He snapped on his seatbelt. “Okay, then,” he said. “Well, thanks for coming to see my mom. I know it meant a lot to her. And to me.”
“I hope she’ll be okay. I’m sure she will.” She gave his hand a quick squeeze and let go.
Jeremy watched her leave the car and cross the street. He sighed, cranked up his Pandora, and Night Ranger’s “Sister Christian” poured out. He was reminded of his middle school days when anything still seemed possible, and drove off into the late afternoon sun.
CHAPTER
36
On his way home battling Ventura Boulevard’s rush-hour gridlock, Jeremy received an unexpected trio of emails all at once: one from Ian, another from Lucien, and a third from, think of the devil, Cassie. He was itching to open the messages, of course, having no idea what any of them could possibly say, but didn’t want to do so while driving (or crawling along, as was the case). So he made his way to the curb and parked in front of what had been, in his youth, a big old single-screen movie house called the La Reina. It was now the site of a cluttered retail complex which, for better or worse, had retained the theatre’s spiffy, Art Deco-style marquee.
Jeremy steeled himself and started with Ian’s, which Jeremy fantasized was an offer for another rewrite gig or something equally exciting, but quickly realized was probably some thank-you bullshit. Which it was, but without the thank you:
Hey Jeremy, Hope all’s good with you! So I know you talked to Juliana but just wanted to tell you Laz and I thought you brought a ton to the rewrite but he and a writer buddy (do you know Ty McDougal? He’s awesome!) are going to jump on it from here. Laz has an amazing vision for the film—which we all love!—and the great news is we’re fast-tracking it to shoot right after January 1! How cool is that? Peace, Ian.
There was so much wrong about the message that Jeremy didn’t know where to begin. Still, Ian didn’t have to get in touch
at all, so that was at least something. Talk about a low bar. And, yeah, Laz may have been kind of a piece of shit—Jeremy’s ousting was probably all his doing—but he was Offense’s piece of shit, so he had to root for him and this Ty guy to succeed. Hollywood.
He flipped to the next email. What in the world could Lucien want? He hadn’t talked with him since that night at Pace.
J: I know you’re a hot screenwriter now and barely have time to even read this email :) but some interesting news: Geneva’s out (long story—ugly) and I’m the new boss (short story—happy)! So if you have the interest—and the bandwidth—to start reviewing again, the job is yours. Short-term, long-term, one-offs, whatever. Your choice. Miss you, man. LMK! – L
Well, that was interesting. What the heck could Geneva have done to get sacked? Jeremy hoped it was something sordid. But good for Lucien that he was promoted. And nice that he wanted Jeremy back after what happened. Maybe Lucien was more of a mensch than he gave him credit for. Much as Jeremy liked reviewing, he hadn’t thought a lot about going back to it, given how busy he’d been with the script and his house.
Which isn’t to say he didn’t feel a little pang whenever he read a review by another Times freelancer of a film that might have been assigned to him. (No fewer than six Holocaust documentaries had been released since Jeremy’s firing.) And he definitely missed exercising the corner of his brain that forced him to think critically, yet fairly and objectively—and put it into words that were both reasoned and entertaining. Fuck it, he’d say yes. Who knew if he’d ever get another script job? Might as well hedge his bets.
But first, he had to open Cassie’s email with its mysteriously blank subject line. Jeremy hesitated, wondering why she hadn’t just texted. He held his breath and opened her message. It contained a photo of a large, elaborately wrapped gift box. Beneath it were the words: “A surprise is waiting for you …”
Huh? He checked to see if Cassie had been hacked. But no, it was from her actual address.
Whatever it meant, it didn’t seem like Cassie, certainly not the Cassie she’d become. Jeremy would hardly describe her as playful over the last few years.
A horn honked behind Jeremy. He turned around. A guy driving a funky old Jeep Wrangler (they had once been so popular in L.A.) raised his eyebrows and slashed his index finger back and forth: the international signal for “Are you getting out?” Jeremy nodded yes, put down his phone, and exited the space, glad for an excuse to stop trying to interpret Cassie’s email. He’d call her later and claim his “surprise,” though a bigger surprise than her plea to put the brakes on their divorce was hard to fathom.
Jeremy proved to have a stunning lack of imagination.
As Ventura Boulevard traffic lightened up at the Coldwater Canyon intersection, Jeremy’s phone rang. It was his realtor, Marjan. She was in the vicinity with her clients—his home’s soon-to-be owners, as she was representing both parties—who wondered if they could stop by and take some measurements. Jeremy said sure, he’d be there in about ten minutes and meet them in front. Jeremy was intrigued: he would finally get to meet the buyers.
They were waiting at the curb when Jeremy pulled up and parked in the garage. Marjan gave him an effusive hug. Introductions were made, and Jeremy was relieved to find that Corey and Tasha were not the monsters he’d imagined but rather a friendly, seemingly down-to-earth pair who couldn’t stop talking about how much they adored the house. They had him at: “And that wood-beamed ceiling!”
As Jeremy unlocked the front door, he was struck by the absence of the shrill whine that would typically erupt until the alarm was disarmed. Could he have forgotten to set it before he left for the hospital? He’d been kind of dizzy these days, so it was possible. And it’s not like he hadn’t forgotten before. (How many times had Cassie scolded him about that?) He shrugged it off and stepped aside for the others to enter.
“Do you mind if we just scoot into the master bedroom?” Tasha asked, hesitating in the doorway. “We want to make sure our king-size bed will fit.”
“Sure, go on in,” Jeremy said, having to think twice if his own bed was a king or queen. “I’ll be right there.” He left to retrieve the mail from the birdhouse-style box at the curb and then made his way back up the brick path and into the house. That’s when he heard the scream. Jeremy nearly hit the ceiling.
Marjan, Corey, and Tasha came flying out of the bedroom and down the hallway, landing in the living room to face a terrified Jeremy. “What is it? What happened?”
“It’s okay, it’s okay,” answered Marjan, catching her breath. “We didn’t know someone would be in there.”
“What? Who’s in there?” he shouted, heart pounding.
“We’re really sorry, we’re so embarrassed,” said Tasha, who, like her husband, seemed to be suppressing a grin.
“We’ll just come back another time, okay?” Corey said, smile broadening against his better efforts. He reached for Tasha’s hand, and they made a hasty exit.
Marjan looked at the unnerved Jeremy, stifled her own grin, and scurried out after her clients.
As Marjan shut the door behind her, Jeremy steadied himself and started out for his bedroom. But not before stopping to grab a fireplace poker just in case. He moved warily down the hallway and opened the door to the bedroom, poker primed at his side.
The window blinds were lowered and a dozen little candles flickered seductively around the darkened room. Sitting up in the bed, covers wrapped around her naked shoulders, was a woman sobbing profusely, dabbing at her eyes with a corner of the duvet. Jeremy could not believe what he was seeing.
“Cassie? What in the hell are you doing here?”
“I wanted to surprise you,” she answered between teary heaves.
“Well, mission accomplished,” Jeremy said. He had to admit, she looked rather beautiful: her short hair framing her radiant, candlelit face, her noisy weeping lending her a lovely vulnerability. She had never been much of a crier, more cool customer than emotional puddle. But now? Who knows? It was topsy-turvy time.
Cassie quieted, working to compose herself. Jeremy watched her, frozen in that spot at the foot of their bed. “Did you get my email?” she asked glumly.
He nodded, realized, pointed at her. “Oh, you’re the fancy gift box …” He knew she still had a house key, but he didn’t think she’d actually use it—at least not like this.
“Not so fancy,” Cassie said, residual tears trickling down her cheeks. “How was I supposed to know those people were going to show up?”
“How did you know I was even going to show up?” His breathing had steadied again. He was pretty sure by then that he wasn’t hallucinating.
“Matty told me he spoke to you this morning. That you mentioned you were going to the hospital this afternoon. I took the chance you’d come right home after.”
“Because I couldn’t possibly have anywhere else to go?” He didn’t, but she didn’t have to know that.
“I said I took a chance.” Cassie scrunched further under the covers as if to disappear completely.
“What were you expecting? That I’d walk in, see you lying there naked, leap into bed and we’d re-consummate our marriage? Live happily ever after?”
“Is ‘re-consummate’ even a word?” she asked, voice muffled by the duvet.
“I don’t know. But if it is I doubt I’ve ever had occasion to use it.” Jeremy dislodged himself from where he’d been standing and plopped down on the edge of the bed. He was facing away from Cassie and into the full-length mirror across; her reflection hovered behind his own. He watched as she disentangled herself from the covers and reached for her bra and panties strewn on the floor beside her.
“Look, I was hoping you were going to call me after our talk at Joan’s yesterday. I mean, I know you had a lot on your mind with your mother and all, but …”
“But you thought I’d jump at the c
hance?”
She slipped on her bra—a sexy, black floral mesh deal that had “special occasion” written all over it—and swiftly fastened the hooks. “Actually, no,” she answered. “But I know you, and I knew I’d probably have to be the one to make the next move. So I did.”
Cassie shimmied into her matching bikini briefs and stood, her reflection disappearing from Jeremy’s view. He turned away from the mirror.
“Cassie, I’m not really sure what you want me to say.” It sounded lame but the whole surreal episode felt like being with some total stranger who’d stumbled into the wrong house, not one she’d lived in for twenty-two years and still half owned.
“Who was it who said, ‘When people show you who they are, believe them?’” she asked evenly as she buttoned a familiar, sapphire-blue satin blouse. Jeremy had always liked her in it; it brought out the color of her eyes, made them glisten.
“Maya Angelou,” he answered, embarrassed that he was getting turned on watching her dress. More than a little. He took a few steps back from her.
“Right. Smart lady,” Cassie said, stepping into a short, pleated skirt that showed off her toned legs. Had she been walking every day as well?
Jeremy focused. The angrier he felt, the hornier he got.
“You really don’t want to get back together, do you?” she asked.
“Do you?”
“I’m not entirely sure what I want. But I guess that’s obvious.”
“This is so unlike you, Cassie.”
“Maybe it’s not, and I just never let you see this side of me.” She slowly, almost imperceptibly, moved toward him. They were maybe a foot apart.
“I don’t think that’s true. But if it is, well, that’s a shame now, isn’t it?” he noted as she inched even closer. He didn’t budge. He was suddenly, officially hard. He hated himself. He could also tell that Cassie knew just what she was doing. The question was still: Why?
She slowly moved her hand toward Jeremy’s groin and placed her lips on his. They could both feel his resolve weakening and hers intensifying. It had been so very long—eons, it seemed—since they’d been this close, this tempted, this aware of each other’s presence. Cassie parted her lips, let her tongue escape, forcing Jeremy’s mouth to grant entry. His pulse raced, prickles of sweat forming on his forehead. He was swept back twenty-seven years to when they first met, when everything was new and thrilling and promising. When there was no history, only future. When life, love, and lust formed one single, inextricable force. When they felt invincible.
The Last Birthday Party Page 24