“Okay, party boy,” he yelled. “Time to give it up and go home to Momma.”
“Who says?” twin number two shouted before sailing through the air like a flying squirrel and landing on Anthony’s back.
“Says me.” The answer was from Nick, who just as effortlessly picked the teen off his cousin like an unwanted anchovy on a slice of pizza.
“Anthony, watch out!” Maria’s voice cut through the muggy night air. I glanced up to see my other uninvited guests stampede down the stairs.
Quinn was the first to hit the St. Augustine and the first to attempt a punch at Nick. It wasn’t a good idea. Blocking the punch, Nick put his arms around a flailing Quinn in a bear hug.
“I don’t want to hurt you, buddy,” Nick said in a voice that sounded like he was reading a bedtime story. “So why don’t you and your friends take off before you make me and my cousin really mad?”
Like a losing general, Quinn looked around to count his troops. Out of eight buddies, two were passed out, one was puking, and three were headed for their car with their girlfriends. That left only the general and two very drunk friends.
Quinn turned to face my rescuers. “You Greek guys always think you’re so friggin’ tough.”
Anthony laughed. “We don’t just think we’re tough. We know it.”
Sudsy and Tamara left right after the guys from Bayview. Maria and Anthony had left together after them. Nick and I sat on the steps. Silence never sounded so good.
“I never had the chance to ask you about your accident. Was your convertible towed or what?”
“Well, actually, the Green Lady was in the repair shop already. I was driving Miss de France’s Rolls-Royce.”
“Oh, brother.”
“Don’t worry. It’s not really that bad. Just a fender.”
“Do you have any idea what that car is worth?”
“No, and please don’t tell me.”
We were quiet again, me remembering how I’d backed Rose Bud into the Tastee Freeze sign, Nick looking up at the stars. I waited for the lecture I knew I deserved. Instead, Nick pointed up into the inky night sky.
“Do you know what star that is?” he asked.
“Which one?”
He took my hand, directing it to a bright-bright star. Totally surprised, I jumped like I’d been touched with a cattle prod.
“That one. It’s really a planet, Jupiter. It’s a lot brighter than usual because it’s as close to the earth as it can get. It only happens something like once every twenty or thirty years.”
“Awesome.” We sat without talking, Nick still holding my hand, me in total bliss.
“Thanks for saving me,” I said, finally having the nerve to talk. The light from the moon fell on his face making him as handsome as a GQ model. “I don’t know what I would have done without you...and Anthony.”
“Glad we were around. Anthony’s really a good guy underneath all the bull.” He paused. “Did you figure anything out tonight?”
I nodded. “I guess so.” A tear slipped down my cheek.
“And what was it?”
“That even though I love my carriage house apartment, maybe it would have been better if Miss de France had never given it to me.”
Nick smiled. “I guess everything’s a lesson. God knows I’ve learned a few.”
I wiped away a tear only to find another.
“Hey, none of that.” Nick brushed my cheek with his finger.
“I wish I were older,” I sniffled. “Like you.”
“No, you don’t.” His voice was bedtime story soft again.
“Yes, I do, because if I were a little older, maybe I wouldn’t be so stupid. And maybe you and I could...”
Nick touched my chin, lifting my face to his. “Don’t wish your life away, Baby Cakes. You’ll be old soon enough. Who knows? Maybe someday you and I will...” It was his turn for his voice to trail.
I smiled through my tears. And before I knew what was happening, he kissed me softly on the lips. And this time it wasn’t a pretend kiss.
Nick pulled me to my feet. “Let’s go upstairs and clean up.”
Afraid to look, I peeked through my fingers at what could only be described as disaster with a capital D. Beers cans, plastic cups and smashed chips lay everywhere. Dirt and what looked just like pee, but was hopefully beer, dotted my silver duvet. A message in red lipstick scrawled on the patent leather wall screamed Tiffany was here! Thoughts of Miss de France and her dressing room at Paramount squeezed into my addled brain. I rushed for a paper towel that I wet in the sink.
“Try Windex,” Nick said. “It works on dance shoes.”
We cleaned in silence until the apartment almost looked like it had never had the misfortune to meet Jake, Jack, Brice and the other partiers from Bayview. When we were through, we stood in the doorway. Nick reached for the light switch. “Let’s get out of here. I’ll drive you home.”
“Nick, I think I’ll stay all night. My parents think I’m at Maria’s and then I’d have to explain.”
“Brooke, don’t you think it’s about time you start leveling with your parents? That you give up this fantasy life with Miss de France?”
I nodded. “Believe me, I’m going to. Beginning tomorrow. Promise.”
“For your sake, I hope tomorrow comes.” He turned and walked out the door, the sound of his footsteps echoing down the carriage house stairs.
But of course I couldn’t spend the night. Not after all that had happened. I’d ride my bike home. It wasn’t far. I’d be okay. After all, it was only eleven o’clock.
Memorizing the room, I swallowed hard. My very own apartment. The space I’d been so proud of. I bit my lip to keep from crying for the third time that night. I’d thought I was so smart, but instead of being smart, I’d only proved I was majorly stupid.
The faint lipstick outline of Tiffany was here on the black patent leather wall stared back, taunting me. A reminder that the words from the girl with the ring in her nose could never be completely erased. Just like the memories of Miss de France and James in the Victorian.
From my dressing table, I picked up a pen and my birthday card from Tamara and sat down on the bed to write a note on the back.
Dear Miss de France,
I’m sorry about tonight—the party and Rose Bud and everything. Please don’t hate me. I’m really grateful for everything you’ve done, but I just can’t do this anymore.
Love, as always, Brooke
I licked the envelope and impulsively gave the letter a kiss. I glanced around the carriage house. “Good-bye gorgeous little Patent Leather Room,” I said. “Take care of yourself.”
I locked the front door and walked downstairs across the backyard to the Victorian. It’s the very last time, I thought. The very last time I will ever use this key. Bending down, I began to slip the card and the spidery black key under the pot of pink impatiens, then feeling a presence, glanced up. There standing at the lace curtained window was Miss de France, looking at me through her opera glasses. She waved, motioning for me to come upstairs. I hesitated, not wanting to go. But I owed her a real good-bye, didn’t I?
Chapter Thirty
The house was unlocked. I crept in, tiptoeing through the dark kitchen with its ancient gas stove and hanging copper-bottomed pots and its smell of onions and rosemary and long forgotten dinners, past the pantry into the entry where I made my way up the mahogany staircase. Grasping the smooth polished railing, I remembered the night of the Valentine’s Day party—me showing off in Elizabeth Taylor’s Cleopatra dress, Tyler preening in a black tux, and Miss de France tumbling down the stairs after her Academy Award winning heart attack.
When I reached the second floor, Miss de France was waiting for me at her bedroom door.
“Come in, darling,” she whispered. “I don’t want to disturb poor James.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. It was all I could think of to say.
“Well, it’s only a car.”
“Yes, but it was
a special car.”
“Is a special car,” she corrected. “Rose Bud’s not dead yet. All she needs is a good cosmetic surgeon.” She laughed.
How can she be laughing? I wondered. If I’d crashed my father’s car, he’d kill me.
Miss de France crossed the room to her four poster and climbed onto a tiny stepstool into bed where she arranged herself against lace pillows.
“I never invited those kids from Bayview,” I went on. “They just showed up.”
“Well, all’s well that ends well.”
I nodded, but inside I wondered how a bunch of drunk guys trashing The Patent Leather Room could be called a good ending. I looked down at the pattern of the blue Oriental rug, trying to gather the courage to hand her the note.
“Now don’t you fret, my darling. We’re going to forget about all of this. Remember, tomorrow’s another day. Isn’t that what Scarlett O’Hara said?”
“There isn’t going to be another day, Miss de France,” I answered.
“Nonsense, there is always another day.”
I shook my head.
Abruptly, she shot up. “Are you ill? God, tell me you haven’t come down with something terrible.”
“No, I’m fine...physically. I’m just sick inside. I can’t do this anymore, Miss de France. I just can’t.”
She looked stunned. “But Brooke, you have a fabulous life with me and James and your acting lessons. And an unbelievable future.”
I smiled a sad smile. “Yes, I do have a future, but I‘m afraid it isn’t here with you. I’m sorry.”
I handed her the birthday card with my farewell note on the back. From her bedside table, she pulled a pair of glasses from the drawer and began to read while I stood before her waiting. Waiting for her anger. She scanned the words, and then angrily tore the card into pieces, her famous Hollywood smile melting like a snow maiden in the sun.
“Nonsense. You’re running away from all of this?” she screamed, her face turning into a frightening mask. “Any girl in her right mind would kill to have what I’ve given you!”
“And I appreciate everything. Really.” I stared at her, this tiny, selfish old woman who’d stolen my life.
“Brooke, please think.” An actress to the end, she’d morphed from hysterical to pathetic. “Darling, you don’t realize what you’re doing. What can I do to change your mind?” she pleaded. “What can I give you?”
“My life. All I want is my life back.”
“And what about me?” Gone was reasonable and in its place a return to hysteria. “Do you even care that I’m alone in this monstrous house? That I have no one?”
“You have James.”
“James? We live in a color-coded world that never allowed me to have James.”
“Good-bye, Miss de France.” I turned toward the door. Out of the corner of my eye I caught a glint of pearl from something in her hand.
I felt a whoosh by my right ear, making a boom before it crashed into the dressing table mirror, shattering it into a galaxy of splinters. Every instinct screamed hit the floor. Instead I turned, knocking the gun from Miss de France’s slim hand, sending it like a torpedo across the room.
Frozen with fear and disbelief, I stared into her blue, blue eyes.
“I hope you’re not mad at me,” she said. “Sometimes I just get so angry. Do you forgive me?”
“Why should I? You tried to kill me.”
The door opened and a terrified James tore into the room. For a moment the three of us stood frozen, like players in our own Greek tragedy.
“My God. I didn’t know she still had that gun.”
My teeth chattered. I willed my body to move, but it refused.
“James, Lana was trying to leave me,” she said, her voice a mere whisper. “Even after all I’ve done for her. But then, they all leave in the end.”
“Never you mind, Laura,” James consoled. “Never you mind, darling.”
He picked up the gun from where it lay in the corner, then emptying the chamber, placed the bullets and the weapon in his bathrobe pocket.
“She was only trying to scare you,” James said.
“Well, she did a pretty good job.”
“Please don’t call the police. She’s so sick and frail.” I’d never seen him look so old.
“But what about the next starlet-in-training?” I asked. “What about her?”
“There will be no more girls. I give you my word.”
James was protecting her. The way he always had and always would. I stood a moment, staring into his lined face, finally knowing what real love was.
“All right, this will be our secret,” I answered.
“Thank you.”
Catching my startled reflection staring at me from the shattered mirror, I moved toward the bedroom door and freedom. It’s over, I thought. It’s finally over.
Chapter Thirty-One
At last I’m out of her life forever. A week inched by, then another, and I slowly got used to not going to the Victorian on Spring Bayou. It was like trying to go cold turkey from chocolate.
“I never thought I’d say this, but I really miss her,” I told Sudsy as we tagged bathing suits at Surf’s Up. I hadn’t told her about Miss de France and the gun. I’d promised.
“Do whatever you used to do before you knew her,” Sudsy advised. The trouble was, I couldn’t remember my life before Miss de France.
In a burst of semi-honesty, I told my mother I wasn’t going to Miss de France’s anymore, omitting the fact I’d smashed the fender of a Rolls-Royce worth about a gazillion dollars. I also conveniently omitted the part about the out-of-control party in the carriage house and the shooting. I blamed the Brooke/Laura de France break up on my freaky encounter with Ginger at the Tastee Freeze.
“Unbelievable!” It was all my mother could say when I told her how Ginger had been Miss de France’s former wonder child.
“You have to feel sorry for her,” my mother said after she’d had a minute to digest the enormity of it all. “I mean, to be so desperately lonely to resort to fabricating a niece who died in a car crash.”
“I know. But finding out the truth made me realize I had to get away. That somehow I was part of Miss de France’s fantasy world. I needed my life back.”
“Just be thankful you’re young.” My mom kissed me on the forehead. “It’s sad things had to end this way, but I guess everything in life is a lesson.”
And with that bit of philosophy, she ambled off to the den to finish her summer term paper.
Alone in my room, I shut the plantation shutters against the tired sunlight and slipped a DVD into my player. Comforted with a fresh bag of Fritos and a can of bean dip, I flopped down onto my bed with Erskine. The music from Summer Place filled the darkened bedroom.
I wished I lived then, I thought. Life was simpler. Or maybe they were stupider. All I knew was, for some weird reason, I missed Tyler and couldn’t have him. I couldn’t have Nick, either. Even former sleezeball Anthony didn’t want me since he was going with Maria, again. My life was hopeless, and there was nothing I could do for the moment but settle for a make-believe romance with Troy Donahue.
The package came one mega-hot afternoon around the middle of August. I was camped out in my walk-in closet trying to decide what to wear to the movies with Sudsy when Benji loped in. Looking up to see his freckled face and crooked grin, I realized how much he’d grown over the summer.
“Hey, you got something in the mail,” he said, jamming a flat brown box into my hands. “It looks good.”
Stunned, I glanced at the package. No return address, only a postmark stamped LA, CA.
“Well, open it!” Benji demanded.
“Benji, please! Can’t I ever have a little privacy?”
“Okay,” he said and slouched toward the door.
I returned to my mysterious box. Who did I know in California? Absolutely no one. Slowly opening the package, I discovered a smaller box wrapped in silver wrapping paper. And nestled within t
ons of white tissue was the last thing in the world I expected. Elizabeth Taylor’s green Cleopatra dress!
Totally dazed, I held the gown against me, memories of Miss de France’s fateful Valentine party flooding my mind—James serving hors d’oeuvres on a silver tray, Jamal playing the grand piano, Tyler in a black tuxedo, and me showing off for the Sisters in Elizabeth Taylor’s toga while we watched Beneath the 12-Mile Reef. And finally, an image of distraught, make-believe movie star, Miss de France, tumbling down the staircase.
A light clicking sound made me look down to see two sheets of white stationery that had slipped from the folds of the dress to the mahogany floor. I picked up the letter and began reading the bold handwriting.
Dear Brooke,
As you already know, Laura de France was forced to leave her home in Coral Cove last month when her caregiver James suffered a major stroke and she was left alone. Aware of the situation, I arranged for her return to California. I believe the short time she had here was happy as she was surrounded by other actor friends. Unfortunately, because of her frail condition, she developed pneumonia resulting in her translation on July 30th.
Translation? Shaking, I sat down on my bed. She’d died?
I am sorry to be the bearer of such sad news, but sometimes we must face reality, grim as it may be.
Laura spoke of you often, making me promise to send this dress, one of the few possessions she brought with her. To be sure, it is very special, as it is a gown designed for our mutual friend Elizabeth Taylor by designer Irene Sharaff for the movie Cleopatra. I am sure you will cherish it.
It goes without saying, Laura cared for you and the little town you live in very much. I also have a special fondness for Coral Cove having spent time there filming Beneath the 12-Mile Reef years ago.
Best of luck in your budding career. Laura believed you possess great promise.
Regards, Robert Wagner
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