by Anita Hughes
“It would be perfect. Maybe when the movie wraps Ben will come to his senses. He’s put you through hell, you need to pamper yourself. And you’ll do me a favor. Once I get a paycheck for The Philadelphia Story, my mother will realize I’m serious about acting. In the meantime you can talk to her about her roses and feed the ducks in the lake. You deserve so much better, Rosie. Montecito is the ideal place to recharge.”
“It’s so removed.” Rosie hesitated, thinking of the ninety miles of Pacific Coast Highway that separated Santa Barbara from Santa Monica. She wouldn’t casually bump into Ben at Starbucks or run into him at Sprinkles.
“Ben needs to realize what he’s missing. He’ll wake up with Mary Beth’s hair extensions on his pillow and wish he was lying next to you.”
“I can’t just quit the picture.” Rosie shook her head.
“Take a leave of absence for personal reasons. It’s written into every contract.” She looked at Rosie and her eyes were dark. “He’s an asshole and he doesn’t deserve you.”
Rosie picked up her phone. She wanted to call Ben and ask his advice. For the last ten years, if she couldn’t decide between the butternut squash soup and the black bean chili she called Ben. If she wasn’t sure whether to record Homeland or Scandal, she called Ben. But she couldn’t call him. The Ben who made blueberry waffles on Sundays, the Ben who knew exactly how to touch her, the Ben who could whistle Frank Sinatra and knew every song by Muse had been replaced by a guy who screwed other women. A guy whose vision of the future included blockbuster movies, palatial homes, but not her. She put the phone down and set her mouth in a firm, straight line. “Call your mother.”
Two
Rosie drove along the coast, keeping one eye on the ocean. Gazing at the Pacific, glittering like a diamond necklace, was the only thing that kept her from driving the car off the road. The ocean was what she loved best about Los Angeles: running on the beach, digging her toes into the sand, walking at sunset with a tall iced coffee. If she had to leave the scudding white sailboats and rainbow-colored surfboards, she’d stop living.
Ben hadn’t put up any resistance to her plan, and neither had the studio. Ben stood in the bedroom as she packed, calmly encouraging her. She felt like she was already gone, like he was propelling her out the door.
“A change of scenery is the best thing.” He nodded, his arms crossed over his chest. He wore a gray U2 t-shirt. He was freshly shaved; his hair slicked back, his eyes achingly hazel.
“You’re the one who wants a change of scenery.” Rosie stuffed her running shoes into a duffle bag. “You want a tall, curvy blonde instead of a small, mousy brunette.”
“This isn’t about other women,” Ben said, as if he was talking to a child.
“Of course it is!” Rosie snapped. “For the last ten years you’ve been a film geek, content with your college sweetheart. Now that your name is on a director’s chair, you’ve got a jet propulsion pack strapped to your back.”
“We both need to see if we’re in the right place.” Ben put his hands on Rosie’s shoulders. “Sometimes people stay together out of habit. I don’t want that to happen to us.”
“What happened to us is you slept with another woman.” Rosie emptied her bedside drawer on the bed.
“You know I love you.” Ben smoothed her hair with his fingers. “We just need to explore and be certain we want the same things. Maybe you can be part of the theater scene in Montecito. I’ve heard they have good summer stock.”
“Stop patronizing me!” Rosie was trembling. She kept telling herself the worst was over, she couldn’t love Ben anymore. But standing so close to him, she felt the air had been squeezed out of her lungs. “Go ahead. Screw every starlet in Hollywood. Rent a suite at the W, host all-night tequila parties.”
“You know I’m not like that,” Ben replied soothingly.
“You weren’t like that.” Rosie zipped up her duffle bag and stormed out the door. “I don’t know who you are anymore.”
* * *
Rosie’s navigation system said it was only forty miles to Santa Barbara. Already the coastline looked more pristine. The urban beaches crammed with roller bladers and skateboarders and hamburger shacks gave way to miles of white sand. She glimpsed lines of surfers, families carrying buckets and picnic baskets. The harshness of LA slipped away: the traffic jams, the strip malls, the sense that you always had to be watching your back.
Her last meeting with the studio had been disconcerting. She spent a day rehearsing her speech; half hoping the producer would beg her to stay. She dressed in a yellow tunic and straightened her hair and applied mascara and lipstick.
“You’re doing the right thing.” Adam Stein nodded, sitting at his oversized desk. “This town can eat you up. Better to take some time off before you’re forced to.”
“I’ll train my assistant to take over the things I was working on,” Rosie said awkwardly. She had never been comfortable in Adam’s steel and glass office. There were no plants, no pictures of Adam’s girlfriend, no worn paperbacks on the shelf.
Adam was only three years older than Rosie but whenever she was near him, she felt like an intern. He wore Italian suits and monogrammed shirts. His walls were covered in movie posters, and scripts were piled neatly on his desk. She felt if she and Ben made a misstep, he’d pluck another script from the pile and suspend their production.
“If Lindsay Lohan had taken a summer off she’d still have a career. Even directors burn out, end up directing community theater in the Valley.” Adam glanced at his Rolex as if the meeting was already over.
“I’ll just be in Montecito; I can come in for a day or two,” Rosie replied weakly. She wanted to tell Adam there was nothing wrong with her. It was Ben who was spiraling out of control, who had sex with another woman in their bed, who thought they needed some distance.
“Don’t worry about it.” Adam shrugged, standing up and walking towards the door. “We brought Mary Beth Chase on board, she’s got an army of assistants.”
Rosie left his office and drove out of the parking garage. She stopped in front of the Coffee Company and watched girls in mini skirts and four-inch heels balancing their bosses’ lattes. Young men wearing narrow ties and khakis grabbed espressos and donuts and ran to production meetings.
On the passenger seat was a box with all her office supplies, her lists, and her notebooks full of memos. There was a dog-eared script, marked up with Ben’s messy scrawl. She thought about Mary Beth Chase and her assistants. They would create spreadsheets on laptops and read Variety on their iPhones. They would wear Free People dresses and order lunch with some app like Door Dash.
The box spilled onto the seat, and she threw its contents in the garbage. She got back in the car and turned on the radio. Bono sang, “I still haven’t found what I’m looking for,” and she started sobbing.
* * *
The coastline as she approached Montecito was breathtaking. The Santa Ynez Mountains loomed to the north, studded with olive trees. Spanish-style houses climbed the hills, and blue and yellow beach shacks hugged the shore. The orange smog that marred the beaches of Venice and Santa Monica was replaced by a clean, white horizon.
Rosie turned onto Channel Road, feeling like a movie star. The Four Seasons stood before her, flags flapping in the breeze. She imagined pulling up to the double front doors with Ben at her side. The valet would greet them warmly and insist on taking their bags. The concierge would offer them a complimentary fruit basket and European bottled water and a dozen red roses.
They would stay in an oceanfront suite and sit on the balcony, sipping champagne. After the sun slipped past the horizon, they’d go inside and Ben would draw the curtains. He’d whisper, “Please forgive me,” and pull Rosie down on the bed. Then he’d bury his face in her breasts and cover her with kisses.
* * *
Her phone lay on the passenger seat. Maybe she should call Angelica and tell her this was a terrible idea. How could she survive in a town where she knew no on
e? How would she keep busy so she didn’t replay the image of crumpled sheets, of Ben shrugging nonchalantly, of her pounding her fists on the bed?
“It’s like riding a surfboard,” Angelica would insist. “When you fall off, you get right back up. If you don’t, the next wave is going to pull you under.”
It was easy for Angelica; she was an actress. Every time she accepted a new role she stepped into a different skin. One month she was a gangster’s accomplice, packing a sawed-off shotgun, the next she was a nun, trying to save an alcoholic priest. Rosie had been the same thing since college: Ben’s girlfriend and production partner. It might be simpler to drown in the ocean than try to be something new.
The car turned away from the coast towards the village. She hadn’t eaten lunch and she was suddenly starving. She parked at the end of Coast Village Road. The air was cool, a light fog settling on the shops. She stepped out of the car into the wide, cobble-stoned street, and felt like she walked onto a movie set.
Two-story brick buildings were covered in ivy; purple and white daisies lined the sidewalk. Almost every shop had a window box full of pansies and tulips and roses. Rosie breathed deeply, smelling the sweet, heavy fragrance.
If Ben was with her they would stop for pizza at the pizzeria or splurge on cheese fondue at the French Bistro. Afterwards they would visit a gallery or flip through secondhand books at the Front Page bookstore. But she couldn’t finish a pizza alone and she needed at least one other person to eat fondue. Even looking at art or discovering books by herself didn’t sound appealing. And the antique wedding dresses in the window of the Bridal Shop made her want to hop back in the car and keep driving.
Reluctantly, she entered a delicatessen with a soda fountain and cases of cold meat. There were twenty different kinds of cheeses, barrels of pickles, and sausages hanging from the ceiling. A sandwich board stood behind the counter, listing specialty sandwiches. Rosie scanned the selection: turkey club on a French roll, Canadian ham and Gruyère cheese, roast beef with horseradish and Bermuda onions.
She pictured Ben standing in their kitchen after a long day at the studio. He would assemble almost every item in the fridge: ham, Swiss cheese, mustard, pickles, mayonnaise, sprouts, lettuce, and tomatoes. He would carefully spread the mustard on a whole-wheat roll and build a sandwich as if he was constructing a pyramid.
When it teetered on the plate, dripping with juices, Ben would wait for Rosie to take the first bite. They would sit opposite each other and tell stories about the set, devouring the sandwich from both ends.
“Can I help you?” the guy behind the counter interrupted her thoughts. He wore a white apron over a navy polo shirt.
“I’d like a peanut butter and jelly sandwich on whole wheat,” Rosie replied.
“This is a delicatessen.” He shook his head. “We sell roast beef, turkey, ham, bologna, sausage.”
“I’d really like peanut butter,” Rosie pleaded.
“I can make you a salad sandwich or a cheese sandwich, but I don’t have peanut butter.” He turned back to slicing cheeses on a large silver machine. “I’m sorry.”
Rosie leaned over the counter. “I lived with my boyfriend for eight years and he’s allergic to peanut butter. I haven’t had peanut butter since college. A few days ago he had sex with a woman in our bed. I’d give anything for a peanut butter sandwich.”
The guy looked at Rosie as if he was afraid she was going to climb over the counter and make the sandwich herself. He took off his apron and folded it on the counter. “Wait here.”
Rosie stood in the middle of the store, alone and embarrassed. She wanted to run away, or melt into the floor. The bell tinkled over the door and the guy returned clutching a jar of peanut butter.
“I’m sorry.” She blushed. “I should have just ordered a turkey sandwich.”
“My dad has owned this store for thirty years.” He put on his apron and sliced a loaf of bread. “He’s never said no to a customer.” He wrapped the sandwich in white paper and handed it to her.
“Thank you.” Rosie blushed deeper. “I didn’t mean to blurt out my history.”
“My grandmother wanted me to be a priest.” He smiled. He had red hair and a face full of freckles. “Pretend you were in confessional. The sandwich is on the house. Come back when you’re really hungry, and I’ll make you a turkey club.”
Rosie walked down the street and sat on a bench painted fire engine red. A few shopkeepers stood on the sidewalk, arranging baskets of flowers and racks of vintage dresses. She ate the sandwich quickly, the peanut butter sticking to the roof of her mouth.
A young woman wearing a long floral skirt and carrying a gold box sat on the bench. She had curly black hair and almond-shaped eyes. She opened the box and ruffled through the contents before handing the box to Rosie.
“Please have one, if I take the box home I eat them all.” She smiled. “And then I hate myself in the morning.”
Rosie glanced at the rows of chocolate truffles. “Is there a peanut butter truffle? I’m on a peanut butter kick.”
“My favorite,” the woman agreed. She extracted a truffle wrapped in gold foil. “I’m Rachel Gold: Gold’s Chocolates.” She pointed to the sign above the store behind them. “The greatest hazard of owning a chocolate store is disposing of leftover truffles.”
“This is an interesting town.” Rosie bit into the truffle. “The guy in the delicatessen made me a free peanut butter sandwich, and you’re giving away truffles.”
“Patrick.” The woman nodded, nibbling a marzipan truffle. “He quit the seminary to take over his father’s delicatessen. He must have sensed you needed help. He’s always giving free food to Boy Scouts and Brownie troops.”
“I sort of told him my life history,” Rosie admitted. “Running away from a cheating boyfriend.”
“That definitely warrants a complimentary peanut butter sandwich.” Rachel finished her truffle and handed Rosie the box. “Take the whole box. It’ll make both of us feel better.”
“No, thanks.” Rosie shook her head. “I can’t seem to swallow anything. This is the first solid meal I’ve had in days.”
“If you count peanut butter and jelly as solid food you are in trouble.” Rachel looked at Rosie quizzically. “There are some great restaurants in town: Giovanni’s, Trattoria Mollie’s. You should drown your sorrows in fettuccini scampi and a classic red wine. I’ll join you.”
“I’m already late.” Rosie glanced at her watch. “I’m staying with a friend’s parents. They’re expecting me for dinner, but I wanted to stop in the village. It’s like a postcard. It feels like everyone is moving in slow motion.”
“People aren’t in a hurry in Montecito,” Rachel agreed. “They just want to potter around the shops and buy engraved stationery and pieces of jewelry.”
“It must be wonderful to own your own store.” Rosie turned around and admired Rachel’s storefront. The large window held an antique chest and GOLD’S CHOCOLATES was written in cursive at the bottom of the glass. The chest was laden with chocolates: truffles in gold boxes, jars of bonbons, chocolate fudge wrapped with gold ribbon.
“It has its challenges.” Rachel shrugged. She had a heart-shaped face and a small snub nose. “Making sure the merchandise doesn’t melt in summer, not letting children eat all the samples and complain to their parents they have a stomachache. But it’s much better than the alternative.”
“What’s the alternative?”
“Gold’s Department Stores: New Jersey’s oldest family-owned department stores. Five stores in three cities, a new store opening in Teaneck soon.” Rachel winced. “I used the money my father gave me to attend business school to open Gold’s Chocolates.”
“You started your own business,” Rosie said. “He should be proud of you.”
“He flew across the country to get his money back.” Rachel grinned. Her teeth were white and very straight. “But he fell in love with Montecito too. They must put a secret potion in the drinking fountain. He said he c
ouldn’t blame me; he’s been dying to escape New Jersey summers for years. I paid him back after twenty months.”
“I’ll have to find that drinking fountain.” Rosie sighed. “I don’t have a job or a boyfriend or a permanent home.”
“Painful breakup.” Rachel nodded knowingly. “The kind where your boyfriend takes your toothpaste, your friends, and your subscription to Netflix. I don’t have the cure, but I can help ease the suffering.”
“I’m not much of a drinker.” Rosie shook her head. “And I’m not cut out for wild sex and all-night partying.”
“Good, because you won’t find any of that in Montecito. Even the owls go to bed at nine p.m. Drive down to Butterfly Beach to watch the sunset.” Rachel pointed in the direction of the ocean. “I promise you’ll feel better.”
“Butterfly Beach,” Rosie repeated.
“It’s the only west-facing beach in Santa Barbara County.” Rachel stood up. “The sunsets are like a Monet painting, and you’ll have it all to yourself. You can cry your eyes out.”
“Thank you.” Rosie dusted chocolate from her shorts. It was getting chilly, and she wore a thin cotton shirt and denim shorts she had pulled on this morning.
“Here’s my card.” Rachel reached into her pocket and handed her a gold business card. “Come by tomorrow and sample my peanut butter brittle.”
* * *
Rosie got back in her car and drove towards the beach. She couldn’t remember chatting with strangers in Santa Monica. People in Los Angeles hid behind dark sunglasses and scrolled through their iPhones while they walked. She blinked away tears, feeling lonelier than before. She was like one of those people on daytime television, spilling their guts in front of the audience.
Rosie crossed the highway and pulled into the parking lot. It was so beautiful; she couldn’t drag her eyes from the horizon. The sun lowered itself into the ocean, turning the water a deep, mysterious blue. The sand turned pink, glittering with shells. The seagulls stood still; even the sand crabs stopped moving.