Still, something gnawed at her, told her Sara knew the truth. Finally, when she could stand it no longer—she’d wasted an entire day shopping and obsessing—she pounced on an unsuspecting Sara, just home from the day’s work and hauling grocery bags, as if they still lived in the Hills house, as if the staff here didn’t do the shopping and cooking.
“What do you want, Lindsay?” Sara tried to brush by her, but Lindsay stood blocking her way past the foyer.
“I want to know what you know.” Lindsay stared into Sara’s sky-blue peepers. “What Lionel told you, or what you told him.”
Sara stepped to the side, attempting to walk around Lindsay. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Anyway, why do you care? You won the role. I congratulated you, didn’t I?”
Lindsay only caught a brief glimpse, but there was a look in Sara’s eye. Of what? Regret? And suddenly, it hit her. Like a sledgehammer. “You … you pulled out? You freakin’ took yourself out of the running! You told them you didn’t want the part, didn’t you?” Lindsay was incredulous. And sure she was right.
Sara tossed her hair back—a very Lindsay-like motion, it occurred to her—and stood firm. She didn’t deny it, though. “What makes you think I backed out?”
“Because it’s the only way I’d have gotten it without that last audition.”
If she thought Sara was going to reach out to her, take her hand the way she did Naomi’s so often, or say something soothing and insipid, Lindsay was wrong. Sara said nothing, just tried again to walk away from her.
“You have to tell me why you did it!” Lindsay insisted, frustrated at Sara’s silence. The girl had been so open, so easy to read all summer long. Lindsay was having none of her silence now.
Sara managed to brush by her finally and head toward the kitchen. Lindsay found herself trailing the statuesque girl, feeling ever so much like a kid pulling at the back of her mom’s coat, begging to be paid attention to. She didn’t care, though. She had to know. “Please, Sara,” she whined. “I’d really like to understand what happened.”
Finally, Sara whirled around, set the grocery bags down, and crossed her arms. “I called Lionel and told him I didn’t want the part.”
“Why would you do that?”
“Because you wanted it more than I did.”
Lindsay’s mouth fell open. “Well, yeah, but what’s that got to do with anything?” she finally managed. “You … you … rehearsed! You told your people back in Texas—won’t they be disappointed?”
“No doubt.” Sara sighed.
“And you kicked ass at the audition. You really did. I snooped.”
Sara smiled ruefully. Which made Lindsay feel even worse. “I did want it, Lindsay. But you needed it. That’s the difference.”
Sara always did what was needed. Naomi needed shelter, needed help and a friend. The house needed cleaning, the lawn needed seeding, the rent needed to be paid. Sara, ever so righteous, did the right thing. Always.
Standing there in the massive hallway between the foyer and the kitchen, Lindsay didn’t try to stop her lip from quivering, or swallow the lump in her throat, or tell herself she wasn’t acting. “I’ve been a bitch to you all summer long,” she blubbered.
It was then that Sara finally touched her, cupped Lindsay’s chin in her palm. “This is your dream, Lindsay. You go for it.”
“But … don’t you have a dream too?” Lindsay asked, wiping away her tears with the back of her hand.
Sara’s eyes clouded over. “I’m sure I do. I thought I knew what it was, but everything went topsy-turvy this summer. I’m waiting to figure it out.”
Sara had told Lindsay more truth than she’d meant to. More than she owed the selfish girl. In her heart, Sara was still the righteous girl she’d always been—and she knew she’d done the right thing. So why did it hurt so much? Her skin felt sore, every molecule ached.
“Ouch! Is it always this hot?” Naomi, trying out the hot tub for the first time, yanked her foot out of the bubbling Jacuzzi.
“Take it slowly,” Sara advised. “You’ll get used to it.”
In a bid to cheer Sara up, Naomi had suggested an after-dinner soak in the Larsons’ magnificent marble tub, which made the one at the share house look scrawny. This was “the Gucci of Jacuzzis,” as Rusty Larson had proudly bragged, state-of-the-art, featuring several tiers to sit on, two carved-in lounges, and jets shooting pulsating water at you from every which way.
“It’s supposed to relax your tense muscles,” Sara said.
“Or fry my skin,” the dark-haired waif muttered.
Sara chuckled. “You weren’t afraid to dive under the wreckage in an earthquake; you’re going squeamish now?”
“That was all adrenaline,” Naomi pointed out. “This is bizarre.”
Sara had thought so too, back when she’d first come to Los Angeles. All these big, shiny, material things: profligate, extravagant, decadent, toys for people with so much money they don’t know what to do with it.
That was then. Now? Her core values hadn’t changed. But this, she kinda liked: If you allowed yourself to sink into it, to feel—and not think—it felt real, real good.
Naomi carefully slid in, pressed her back against the side. “Wow!” She giggled. One of the power jets had hit the small of her back. “This is definitely … weird.”
“It’s supposed to pound your muscles, take out the knots,” Sara explained, as she sank neck-deep into the bubbles.
Sara wondered if the girl from the streets would find herself liking her first Jacuzzi experience. It was so easy to succumb (the word came to her unbidden) to all kinds of temptation, to things that made you feel good, feel important, to people who made you feel special.
No. She didn’t want to go back there. She closed her eyes. What she’d done the night before the earthquake had set off a chain-of-pain reaction. Nick was wracked with guilt, Eliot was devastated, poor unsuspecting Donald got dumped—for what could she do now but break up with him? She felt responsible for all of it.
When she opened her eyes, she realized Naomi was staring at her. “We all do things out of anger,” Naomi said, “no matter how hard you try not to.”
The words popped out of Sara before she could censor herself. “So, what, you’re a mind reader, too? Is that one of the skills you learned on the streets?” Horrified at her outburst, she slapped her hand over her mouth. “Naomi, I am so sorry. I didn’t mean that—but you seemed to know what I was thinking.”
“I don’t have to be a mind reader to know what you’ve been obsessing about; it’s written all over your face. And don’t worry, no offense taken.”
Sara considered. “So you’re saying I got drunk, broke my purity pledge, had sex with Nick, all out of anger?”
“Pretty much.”
“Who am I supposedly so angry at?”
“Yourself, Sara. That’s who.”
She wanted to say, “I have nothing to be angry at myself for.” She wanted to say, “I live—or lived—a righteous life. I did the right thing.” But the words got stuck in her throat, never made it out.
Naomi continued. “Backing out of the audition so Lindsay could win the role was off-the-chart unselfish. Lindsay isn’t even worthy! You knew it. So you wanted something in return, something for you: something to make you feel good. On a visceral level—the most basic human level.”
“Nick,” Sara mumbled, starting to tear up again.
“You’ve been wanting him all summer.”
“Something else written all over my face?” Sara asked sarcastically.
“Not just your face, sistah.”
Sara swallowed hard. So she had been that obvious, much as she’d tried to kick those feelings away, to not name them. It’d never occurred to her, not in a million years, that she’d act on them. She turned to Naomi. “It’s actually not good to stay in the tub longer than fifteen minutes at a time. You’ll get dizzy.”
“Let’s not risk it.” Naomi hoisted herself out of the wate
r and brought over a couple of soft, oversize beach towels.
They sat on the edge of the Jacuzzi, wrapped in terry cloth, legs dangling in the hot water. “Nick’s not the right guy for me,” Sara heard herself saying. “Neither is Donald. There’s no future with either of them.”
“Agreed.”
Sara was a little surprised Naomi said that so quickly.
“Look, Sara, just because you did something once doesn’t change who you are, cancel out your beliefs. You’re still you, and Nick’s a great guy, but on no planet are the two of you remotely right for each other. At heart, he’s a simple, good-time frat-guy, more brawn than brains. You’re deeper. You’re always going to be searching, questioning, looking for answers. And helping other people—that’s such a huge part of who you are. You’re not going to stop, even if there are times, like this one, you got hurt doing it.”
“Who died and made you Yoda?”
Ah, leave it to Lindsay. As if proof were needed that people, in fact, never do change. Neither Sara nor Naomi had heard her pad outside in her spa slippers. But what shocked them was not her intrusion, nor her itsy-bitsy bikini. It was the sight of Lindsay Pierce, diva divine … carrying a tray? With three fancy salt-rimmed margarita glasses and a pitcher full of the pale green drink.
Lindsay said, “Sounds like I walked in on the juicy stuff—girl-talk confessions. I am so all about that. Mind if I join? I come bearing gifts.”
“Yes, we do mind,” Naomi started to say, but Sara overruled her. “Oh, what the heck. We hardly have any secrets anymore. What’s in the pitcher?”
“Margaritas: my own private recipe,” the freckled girl replied, setting the tray down and pretzeling her legs. “Most excellent.” She narrowed her eyes at Sara. “I assume we are still drinking?”
Sara hesitated, then shrugged. “Maybe I’ll stick with only one.”
Lindsay poured the glasses full and handed them out. “So, what’s our topic, besides self-flagellation? I’m not a big fan of self-criticism.”
“Yeah, we noticed,” Naomi quipped.
“But I am an expert on matters of the heart. And flesh.”
“No kidding.” Naomi again.
“And who’d guess my little savior had a sarcastic streak?” Lindsay shot Naomi a smile, grateful and genuine. “We have something in common after all.”
Naomi sipped her drink. “Not so much.”
“So, Nick.” Lindsay grinned at Sara. “So yummy!”
Sara and Naomi shot her a look.
“Not from personal experience, girls,” Lindsay assured them. “The guy is scorching! Who wouldn’t want to get into his pants?”
Sara looked stricken. But she had no answer for Lindsay, who was, as advertised, spot-on.
Lindsay finished her drink and poured another. “I don’t get you, Sara—and in truth, I never cared that much before.”
Bracing, brutal honesty: That’s Lindsay. Sara wasn’t the least bit pissed.
“You’re like ‘bass-ackwards,’ if you catch my drift. I’m shitty to you, so you go all overly kind to me. You sacrifice the part in the movie for me. You go to Nick for comfort—you feel great, ’cause who wouldn’t, being with him? And then you feel bad about feeling good. I mean, if you really think sex is bad, why did God make it feel so good?”
“Lindsay, don’t take this the wrong way, but you know nothing.” Sara was beginning to feel the tequila.
“I know about wanting. You wanted something for you. Something … oooh … forbidden!” she taunted. “I don’t understand what you don’t understand. We all want forbidden fruit—I don’t have to tell you the story of Adam and Eve, do I?”
Sara felt her jaw drop.
“You’re only human, Sara. You only think you’re better than the rest of us. I might not be religious, but back when I starred on All for Wong, we did a special Christmas episode one year. The lesson was, most people believe in a higher power who forgives your sins. Don’t you?”
“I can’t believe I’m saying this, but she has a point, Sara.” Naomi looked shocked.
Sara slipped back into the hot tub, leaned her head against its smooth lip, and stared at the sky. “So, what do you do with those feelings? You can’t give in to them every time you’re attracted to someone.”
“Yeah, that’d just be slutty.” Lindsay giggled. She joined Sara in the Jacuzzi. “But if you’re asking me personally, we’ll need at least one other round of drinks.”
“I’ll go.” Naomi started to get up, but Lindsay stopped her. “There’s an intercom by the door. Hit the button and tell Desiree we need munchies and ‘mas ’ritas’—that’s Spanish for ‘more.’”
When the housekeeper appeared a few minutes later with a tray of salsa and chips, guacamole, and another huge pitcher, Lindsay tried to answer Sara’s question. “First, you admit your feelings. They are kind of natural, by the way. You don’t have to act on them. I’m all about live and let live. But since you found this out already, sex is pleasurable. I would think it has to be that way, so people would want to procreate. I mean, I don’t know that much … I’m just sayin’.”
Damn—that is, darn—Lindsay. When she was right, she was insufferable. Sara didn’t want to debate the Bible, or her belief in waiting for marriage. She’d always look to the Bible for guidance. But maybe, just maybe, she’d also learn to listen to her own voice. Maybe that’s what this summer had taught her.
She turned to Naomi. “What about you, little one? Ever fallen for the wrong boy?”
“Me? It’s more like I’ve put my trust in too many of the wrong people,” Naomi confessed, draining her glass. “I’m in a different situation. I did what I had to, to survive. I never had the luxury of a boyfriend or thinking about who I wanted to be with.” She said it without bitterness.
“You’ve been very sheltered, Sara,” Lindsay pointed out. “You were bound to have some eye-opening experiences this summer. I hope at least some of them were good.”
Sara reflected. A lot of them were not just good, but great.
The tequila seemed to open Naomi up more too. “So now that we’ve dissected Sara and me, what about you, Lindsay? I mean, really? I know when someone’s fronting. You pretend to be so worldly, like you’ve slept around so much. Something tells me that’s bull.”
Lindsay rolled her eyes. “Okay, okay, we get your point, Yoda. You know, you even look like a little troll.”
Sara splashed her, hard. “That’s a terrible thing to say!” But all three were laughing.
Lindsay added, “So much knowledge, spouting from the fountain of one tiny human. I do sort of, you know, love Jared.”
“Why?” Sara and Naomi had to high-five since they said it at the same time.
Lindsay licked the salty rim of her glass. “Habit?”
Naomi laughed. “Like you’re getting away with that! Spill.”
“You can’t tell us you’ve never thought about it before,” Sara added.
Lindsay drew a deep, dramatic breath. “I know he’s not the hottest guy around, not like Nick. Looks-wise, I could probably do better. And he’s not the smartest guy on the planet. He’s no Eliot Kupferberg.”
“Stop saying what he’s not—and tell us what he is,” Naomi demanded.
“Jared’s kind of the best of both, straddling the fence between brains and brawn, never coming down fully on one side or the other. So, no lust-magnet, but he’s sexy and smart enough, if that makes sense. He always knows the right thing to say and make it sound sincere. He’s chameleon-like, snaky and shrewd, wrapped in a very nice glittery package.”
Sara listened to Lindsay, and it was like a klieg light going off in her brain. Lindsay loved Jared because he was handsome, vapid, and cagey in a hollow kind of way. Just like the town he lived in. Jared embodied Hollywood, and that’s ultimately what Lindsay saw in him. Jared can make magic happen; he’s a walking all-access pass.
Sara had never met anyone like Lindsay or Jared before. She’d held her private thoughts about them
, but hearing Lindsay say it out loud, admit to believing it, set off another klieg light.
“I have an idea,” Sara said.
Jared’s Big Idea
When Jared, Nick, and Eliot returned from the movies, they found Lindsay, Sara, and Naomi sloshing around the hot tub, happily sloshed, deep in the heart of “Margaritaville.” To Jared’s amusement, it was Sara who immediately jumped up, wrapped herself in a towel, and collared him. “Can I speak to you privately?” she asked.
Jared didn’t have long to wonder what was on Sara’s mind. The minute they got inside the house, out of earshot of the others, she blurted, “You said you wanted to make amends, right? After the earthquake, you said you’d do anything for us?”
“Yeah, absolutely.” Only … Sara was pretty hammered—not quite slurring her words yet, but on the verge. “What’d you have in mind, Sara?”
“I need you to read something.”
Late the next afternoon, Jared jumped into his car and drove to Galaxy’s offices in Beverly Hills to see his father. He didn’t have an appointment, so he waited, pacing the anteroom for close to an hour while Rusty Larson finished with his meetings and then ran a teleconference.
The whole time, Jared gripped the screenplay tightly, as if someone walking by might rip it away from him, trick him into dropping it, giving it up. This treasure was titled Hide in Plain Sight; he’d read it only because he’d promised Sara. He’d totally planned to scan about ten pages, make short shrift of it, let Sara down gently. But … in the “who’da thunk it” department, he couldn’t put it down!
He flipped through the 149 pages again nervously: He’d read the thing three times. Each time, he came to the same conclusion: Here was a great story, with equal parts intrigue, edge-of-your-seat action, sweet romance, laughs, and poignancy—the elements that make a movie a blockbuster. Or, expressed another way: This was the shit! And, the earthquake notwithstanding, the single most unexpected event of the summer.
No Strings Attached Page 37