by Anita Hughes
“Everyone wants more, Rosie,” Colby argued. “It’s as natural as breathing.”
“I found what I want,” Rosie said. “And it’s all here in Montecito.”
“If you change your mind, call me,” Colby answered. “They’re the best fish tacos I ever tasted.”
Rosie parked across the street from Josh’s house. Josh’s car wasn’t out front, and she debated driving to the beach to see if he was surfing. But she didn’t want their reunion to be in front of other people.
She turned off the engine and suddenly felt light and happy. She was doing everything that Estelle and Morris suggested. She smoothed her dress and checked her makeup in the mirror. She rubbed on lip gloss and ran her fingers through her hair.
Josh’s hatchback pulled into the driveway. Rosie opened her door to run and greet him but a young woman stepped out of the driver’s seat. She was petite with an upturned nose and full red lips. Her long black hair fell down her back, and she wore platform shoes and a mini skirt with a sequined silver top.
Rosie froze and waited for Josh to open the passenger door. Her heart was beating so fast she thought it might explode. The woman took a bag of groceries out of the trunk. She opened the passenger door and scooped up a fluffy white dog. She walked to the front door, put a key in the lock, and disappeared inside.
Sixteen
Rosie stayed in bed all day and night. She stared at the ceiling, picturing the young woman with the long black hair and sequined top. Who could she be and why was she driving Josh’s car? None of it made sense, and when she tried calling Josh’s number it went straight to voicemail.
On the second day, there was a knock at the door and Morris entered carrying a tray and a vase of roses.
“Hi, Morris.” Rosie opened the door. “It’s nice to see you.”
“I knocked but you didn’t answer.” Morris set the tray on the table. “I was afraid I’d find a dead body.”
“I’m not feeling well. I wish I were dead,” Rosie mumbled.
“Then these beautiful roses would go to waste,” Morris admonished. “And Peg’s chicken soup, guaranteed to cure anything including heartache.”
“Tell Peg thank you but I’m not hungry.” Rosie dropped back against the pillows.
“You haven’t left the cottage in two days.” Morris frowned. “You can’t exist on cheese and crackers.”
“I have the flu.” Rosie closed her eyes. “All I need is sleep.”
“That’s funny.” Morris walked around the room. “Not a single tissue in sight. You’re pale instead of flushed, and there’s an empty box of chocolate fudge on the bed.”
“Please, Morris,” Rosie begged. “I’ll be fine, there’s nothing to worry about.”
“I paid a visit to your friend Rachel.” Morris sat on the bed. “She said the last time she saw you, you were on your way to Josh’s house.”
“I don’t want to talk about it.” Rosie gulped.
“Tell me what happened,” Morris instructed. “I’m a good listener, it goes with the job.”
Rosie sat cross-legged on the bed and grabbed the box of tissues.
“I went to tell Josh I refused Colby’s offer.” She sniffled. “His car pulled up and a woman got out of the driver’s seat. She took out a bag of groceries and a dog and went inside … with her own key.”
“She could have been anyone.” Morris shrugged. “She could have been delivering groceries.”
“Driving Josh’s car?” Rosie asked.
“He could have lent it to a neighbor. Maybe he twisted his ankle and she was being a Good Samaritan.”
“Josh doesn’t have any neighbors under the age of sixty, and Good Samaritans don’t wear mini skirts and platform shoes.”
“They could,” Morris argued. “There’s no dress code.”
“She’s probably an old girlfriend he called the minute he left me,” Rosie declared.
“Has he ever mentioned a woman with long black hair?” Morris asked.
“He doesn’t talk about women except the girl who dumped him in college,” Rosie cried. “This woman was dressed as if she made one kind of house call, and it wasn’t to deliver a carton of eggs.”
“I knew you weren’t dead.” Morris grinned. “You still have your sense of humor.”
“I don’t, Morris,” Rosie said glumly. “I don’t have anything.”
“You have Rosie’s Fish Tacos, and you have Mr. and Mrs. Pullman, and you have me,” Morris replied.
“I know that, and I’m incredibly grateful,” Rosie said earnestly. “I arrived in Montecito with nothing and everyone has been wonderful.” She looked at Morris. “But I’m falling for Josh and I don’t know what to do.”
“It’s simple. You knock on Josh’s door and ask him what’s going on.” Morris stood up and walked to the table. “The woman is probably gone, maybe she was a hallucination.”
“You want me to check if she left her fingerprints?” Rosie demanded.
“I want you to be an adult.” Morris dipped the spoon into the bowl of soup. “Now open your mouth and eat your soup like a good girl.”
* * *
Rosie pulled up across from Josh’s house. She turned off the engine and slouched in the seat, feeling like a character in a spy movie. She had driven off, seeing Morris’ thumbs-up in the rearview mirror. But as she approached Josh’s street, she began to shake. What if Josh and the woman were together inside? She couldn’t bear the idea of Josh answering the door with rumpled hair and hooded eyes.
Josh’s car was parked in the driveway and the living room window was open. Rosie flinched, remembering his words: “I don’t want you to think I’m going to run every time we have an argument.”
Rosie wanted to yell at him that he broke his promise. He ran right into the arms of another woman. But she was too scared to get out of the car. She was about to leave when a woman’s figure appeared at the living room window.
Rosie rolled down the car window and listened. The woman was talking in a light, girly voice. She held her breath, waiting to see the familiar curve of Josh’s chest. But the woman bent down to pick something up and disappeared.
Rosie drove away and punched Josh’s number into her phone. She couldn’t just appear at the door, she had to give him a chance to explain. But he didn’t pick up and she tossed the phone on the passenger seat.
The gates of the estate opened and she pulled into the driveway. Her heart raced and there was a lump in her throat. She rested her head on the steering wheel and let the tears run down her cheek.
* * *
Rosie followed a strict routine. She was like a marathon runner, not allowing herself to think about Josh. Each morning she ran four laps around the lake and drove to the fish taco shop. All day she grilled fish and chopped onions and rang up sales. At closing time she made herself a taco and ate it in the cottage. Then she climbed in bed and forced herself to fall asleep.
By the fourth day the pain started to ebb, forced out by exhaustion. Her cheekbones were more defined and her eyes were void of color. But she could eat, she could breathe, and she could work. For now, that was enough.
* * *
“Hello, Rosie.” Estelle entered the store as Rosie was cleaning up the lunchtime rush. Estelle wore a yellow silk dress and carried an ostrich-skin purse.
“I lunched with my gardening club and thought I must stop in.” Estelle inspected Rosie. “Are you all right? Your cheeks are sunken and you look like you’re recovering from the flu.”
“Thank you for asking. I’m fine. I’ve been working a lot.” Rosie swept plastic knives and forks into the garbage.
“Morris told me everything that happened.” Estelle placed her hand on Rosie’s shoulder. “You can’t just work from morning to night.”
“I don’t mind,” Rosie said. “The store has been busy and I don’t want to lose customers.”
“I’m having a dinner tonight,” Estelle continued as if she hadn’t heard her. “One of my dearest friends is in tow
n. I’d like you to meet her.”
“I’d love to, but I’m very tired.” Rosie hesitated. “And I need to shower and change.”
“We won’t eat until nine, there’s plenty of time for you to shower,” Estelle continued. “I think you will really hit it off. You’re two of my favorite people.”
Rosie thought of everything Estelle had done: allowing her to stay in the cottage, hosting her grand-opening party, giving her the luxury of Morris and Peg.
“All right.” Rosie nodded. “I’ll be there.”
* * *
Rosie crossed the lawn to the main house. She had been avoiding the house, afraid she’d see Josh coming or going from the garage. But the only car in the driveway was an old silver Bentley. It had lace curtains and an imposing silver grill.
Rosie opened the front door and stepped inside. The living room was empty except for the Irish setters lounging by the fireplace.
Maybe the dinner was canceled. She turned to go back to the cottage, and then she noticed an older woman standing in the dining room. She was admiring a Lladró statue of a boy playing the flute. Her hair was black and cut in a pageboy. Her eyes were large and smudged with kohl. She had long eyelashes and high cheekbones.
The woman stroked the statue with long red fingernails. Rosie moved closer, certain it was Esmeralda, the most famous actress of her time. Esmeralda was a Hollywood legend like Grace Kelly and Marilyn Monroe. Rosie had studied all her movies at Kenyon, watched her mature from a wide-eyed child to a classical beauty.
Esmeralda played the title role in Anya, one of Rosie’s favorite films. Rosie remembered the scene where Anya ran down a Greek hillside, trying to reach her fiancé before he sailed in a boat that Anya knew was doomed. She could still hear Anya’s desperate plea, begging him not to go. But her only proof of danger was a fortuneteller’s prophecy. Rosie knew, just by watching Anya’s face, seeing her perfect mouth quiver, that her fiancé would never return.
Esmeralda was a Hollywood mystery, her personal life as intriguing as her film roles. Some accounts said she was born in Corsica; others said Brazil or Portugal. She blazed into the spotlight as a teenager and won her first Oscar before she was twenty-one. The critics called her “Lady in Black” because she always wore black in public, matching her glossy, black mane.
Rosie read countless articles about Esmeralda, but none said with certainty where she lived, whether she was married, or even her age. One of Rosie’s wishes was to meet her idol in person. When she arrived in LA, she spent many afternoons sitting at the Beverly Hills Hotel waiting for her to pass by. But that was the year Esmeralda disappeared. Variety insisted it was a terrific marketing ploy. She would reappear in a blaze of publicity to launch her next film.
Esmeralda didn’t return and there was no new movie. Eventually the paparazzi stopped hiding behind palm trees. The gossip columnists claimed she had a botched face-lift and was hiding in the South of France, or she had become a nun and was sequestered in a convent in Tuscany.
“I love Lladró.” The woman turned to Rosie. “Henry gave me a statue after every movie—this is my favorite, such a beautiful young boy.”
“I’m Rosie.” Rosie moved towards Esmeralda. She felt like a schoolgirl; she didn’t know what to say or what to do with her hands.
“Rosie!” Esmeralda fluttered long, dark eyelashes. “Estelle has told me all about you. Come sit with me, I’ve been traveling and I’m very tired.”
Rosie and Esmeralda moved to the living room. Rosie couldn’t help staring. Esmeralda’s skin was stretched tight, and the kohl masked dark shadows under her eyes.
Esmeralda settled into the sofa. “Entertain me, tell me about yourself.”
“I’m a huge fan,” Rosie replied shyly. “I’ve seen all your movies.”
“I thought that when I stopped acting, I’d die of boredom.” Esmeralda sighed. “But life goes on, even if it’s only to play backgammon. Henry said I should get a hobby, but I was very stubborn.”
“Henry?” Rosie repeated.
Esmeralda glanced at Rosie as if she had forgotten she was there. “My manager and my husband, of course.” Esmeralda raised her eyebrows. “It’s all ancient history. If I flung myself on Sunset Boulevard no one would recognize me.”
“You look exactly the same,” Rosie protested.
“You are a kind girl.” Esmeralda’s eyes were suddenly bright. “What is your name?”
“Rosie!” Estelle called, hurrying down the staircase. “I was on the phone with the florist in Monte Carlo. It is not easy planning a transatlantic wedding.”
“We’ve been getting to know each other,” Esmeralda said. “I could use a drink. Do you have any of that lovely brandy?”
“I have some in the library.” Estelle nodded. “Rosie, why don’t you come help me.”
“That really is Esmeralda,” Rosie breathed when they reached the library.
“I told you I wanted you to meet someone special.” Estelle smiled.
“But how do you know each other. Where has she been for the last ten years?”
“Esmeralda lived in Montecito for decades; no one knew of course. Esmeralda became famous so young she was terrified of growing old. Every year the studio held a big bash at the Polo Lounge to celebrate Esmeralda’s twenty-ninth birthday. I don’t think she even knows how old she is.” Estelle took the bottle of brandy from the cabinet.
“She seems a bit forgetful,” Rosie offered.
“She was diagnosed with early-onset Alzheimer’s disease,” Estelle explained. “It’s terribly sad.”
“When I moved to Hollywood, I spent weeks plotting to meet her. But she just disappeared,” Rosie recalled.
“After Henry’s death, she moved to Montreux, Switzerland. She couldn’t function without him.” Estelle took three shot glasses from the cabinet. “I visited her once. She had a beautiful home on the lake; we ate fondue and walnut torte.”
“How did Henry die?” Rosie asked.
“He found Esmeralda in bed with Trevor Tate.” Estelle poured brandy into the glasses. “Henry drove his car off the cliff, straight into the Pacific Ocean.”
“Trevor Tate?” Rosie repeated.
“He’s a wonderful actor but terribly young.” Estelle frowned. “Much too young for Esmeralda.”
“And she just disappeared?”
“We better go back.” Estelle put the drinks on a tray. “I knew she’d like you, she loves young people.”
Rosie followed Estelle into the living room. Esmeralda sat on the sofa, her hands crossed in her lap. There was a distant look in her eyes and she hummed a song.
“Tell me what I’ve missed in America.” Esmeralda sipped her brandy. “By the time I get the gossip magazines, it’s old news. Do you like movies, Rosie?”
Rosie blushed. “I was an associate producer until I moved up here.”
“Hollywood will eat you up and spit you out.” Esmeralda nodded knowingly. “I was so fortunate to discover Montecito: it’s so peaceful, like a European village.”
“Have you known each other long?” Rosie looked from Estelle to Esmeralda.
“We had children the same age,” Estelle answered.
“I was a terrible mother, I kept them locked up like Hansel and Gretel.” Esmeralda grimaced.
“You were a wonderful mother,” Estelle soothed.
“It was impossible to be a mother and a movie star in those days.” Esmeralda shrugged. “At least they had a lovely lawn to play on and all those trees to climb in. And the dogs! Do you remember the dogs, Estelle? We brought our dogs over and they chased yours around the lake. They scared the ducks so badly they almost flew away.”
“I’ll help Morris in the kitchen.” Estelle stood up. “Why don’t you two go into the dining room?”
Rosie followed Esmeralda across the hall. Esmeralda paused in front of the Lladró as if seeing it for the first time. “Don’t you love this statue; it reminds me so much of Josh at that age.”
Rosie stared at Esm
eralda as if she was one of those crazy people who babble at street corners.
“The curly hair, the long legs, just like Josh when he was about twelve,” Esmeralda mused.
“Who’s Josh?” Rosie’s eyes were wide.
“My son,” Esmeralda explained. “I never let photographers take pictures of my children. Estelle took some years ago; I’ll ask her if she has them.”
“Where’s Josh now?” Rosie asked in a strangled voice.
“I haven’t talked to him in years,” Esmeralda’s mouth puckered. “But he was a beautiful boy: blue eyes and blond, curly hair. He took after Henry, and Yvette looked like me.”
Rosie felt like her legs were going to give out. She sat down quickly, almost missing the chair. Her eyes blurred and her heart hammered in her chest.
“I was just telling Rosie I never let photographers in the house. God, I was stupid. As if we were going to live forever,” Esmeralda said as Estelle entered the room. “Do you have any pictures of the children?”
“I do in the library.” Estelle avoided Rosie’s eyes. “I’ll get them.”
Esmeralda kept talking, but Rosie didn’t hear her. Josh said both his parents were dead. How could he lie to her, how could Estelle not tell her?
Estelle returned with a leather photo album. She placed it in front of Esmeralda and flipped the pages.
“Here’s one at Angelica’s birthday party. Angelica and Yvette were so pretty.” Esmeralda paused. “Josh and Sam were embarrassed to be at a party with a bunch of ten-year-old girls.”
Rosie stared at the photo. Angelica’s hair was in pigtails and she wore a pinafore dress. Next to her was a girl with long black hair and full red lips. Rosie picked up the album and studied it closely.
“Who’s that?” She pointed to the girl.
“That’s Yvette.” Esmeralda smiled. “She was lovely at ten, but then she became a wild child. She almost gave her father a coronary when she scaled the fence and ran off with a boy in a band. I don’t know how she did it, even the paparazzi couldn’t scale that fence.”
Rosie inhaled and tried to keep the air flowing through her lungs. She stared at the little girl with long black hair and knew she was looking at the woman getting out of Josh’s car at his house.