Maisie looked at her uncle—if he was her uncle—completely puzzled.
Patrick stared down at his niece. “What? You don’t know my life.”
“Who’s Jack Curtis?”
“Look, you guys were young when I was last working so I’m not sure how much you know about your uncle. You think of me as a carefree bon vivant, a man of leisure, shall we say, who doesn’t have to work, but I can afford to be that way because I was on television. Thus, I have a certain renown. I know that’s perhaps hard to understand with your YouTube and your kid vlogs and everyone you know living their lives so openly on the internet, but I’m a private person and I don’t want people knowing where I live or what I order online.” Patrick stepped over the threshold again to grab the second box.
Maisie was undeterred. She called after him. “Who’s Jack Curtis?”
Patrick sighed. “I told you, I am. It’s a name I use, an alter ego, for making purchases online.” He pulled the second box inside. “The house is in a trust, I do other business under my S corp, but sometimes you just need a name to populate online order forms. So, voilà. Jack Curtis.” She still didn’t seem sold. “You know. Jack Lemmon. Tony Curtis. Some Like It Hot?”
“You like it hot? That’s why you live in Palm Springs?”
Patrick raised an eyebrow. “Sure. Now keep your voice down,” he whispered. “The devices are always listening.” He pulled his phone out of his caftan pocket as if to illustrate his point.
Grant materialized by his side. “Whoa. What’th in the boxes, GUP?”
Patrick struggled with the third box, clearing the door just enough to close it behind him. “Bicycles. I bought us three bicycles. I thought we could go for a ride each morning before breakfast. Before it gets too hot.”
“Some like it hot,” Maisie said. Patrick turned his head and smiled into his shoulder, surprised how clever she was.
“Fun. And what’th in the envelope?” Grant leapt in the air to try to snatch it; Patrick raised it out of reach just in time.
“Do I not have any privacy anymore?” He asked, not really wanting an answer. “Jellyfish have one opening that’s both their mouth and their butt.”
“COOL!” Grant exclaimed and scampered away. Patrick had taken to memorizing a few random facts from an app on his phone each night before bed to use as distraction bombs with the kids. (As an app, it was already more fruitful than Duolingo; last year he was learning Italian until it started teaching him useless words like pinguino. When was he ever going to need to say penguin in Italy? “Buonasera. I’ll have the braised pinguino, per favore. Grazie.” No.)
Patrick knew exactly what the padded envelope contained: three books—one for himself on understanding grief in children and a grief workbook for each of the kids. He wasn’t ready to just tear it open and start handing out manuals like birthday presents. He was in way over his head and wary of doing more damage than good. This material would require his careful perusal in case it was written by quacks; five-star online reviews were not to be trusted. He would give it his own review tonight with a glass of New Zealand white, after the kids were safely in bed.
Patrick glanced down and was surprised to find Maisie still looking at him. “We good?”
“Did you order helmets?”
“No. Do we need them?”
“Kids do.”
“Why?”
“Our heads are squishy.”
Patrick palmed the top of Maisie’s skull, but found no evidence of this confessed squishiness.
She stood awkwardly, her arms a tangled knot of self-consciousness. “That tickles, Uncle Jack.”
Uncle Jack. Guncle Patrick. GUP. Even Patrick was losing track of the names he was required to respond to. He turned to shove the boxes to the side of the foyer, resigned to ordering helmets, when there was another knock at the door. “What is this, Grand Central Station?” Patrick extended his arms until he was nothing but a square of psychedelic fabric with bare feet and a head. Rosa barreled around the corner again, but Patrick held out his hand to stop her, then motioned for his niece to take a second stab at answering the door.
Maisie threw her arms in the air as if she were the only one who ever did anything around the house. Patrick dipped behind the door as it opened, to hide.
“Oh, hello,” came a woman’s voice, clearly caught off guard. Patrick tried to place it but he couldn’t. “I was looking for Patrick O’Hara.”
Patrick froze at the mention of his actual name.
Maisie paused, unsure what to say next. “There’s no one here by that name.”
Patrick was impressed; Maisie was a quick learner. The woman, however, was now thoroughly confused. “This is not Patrick O’Hara’s house? Because it’s the address we have in the Rolodex. I checked three times before knocking. It’s is very warm, by the way. Your door. I think I burned my knuckles.”
Maisie remained unfazed. “This is . . .” She poked her head behind the door. “Uncle Patrick, whose house did you say this was?”
Patrick rolled his eyes. “All right, well clearly we don’t need today’s lesson on the stage whisper, but we might sit through the basics of the actual whisper.” He stepped out from behind the door. “I’m Patrick O’Hara.”
“Oh my god! Yes, you are.” The woman, young, maybe thirty, did a little jig. “I’m sorry. It’s just . . .” Did she need the restroom? “I loved your show.”
“Great. All nine seasons are streaming on Snapchat.” He started to close the door. There were a few of these over the years, crazies. Fewer since he left LA. He had no idea what gave them the gall to walk up to a stranger’s house to ask for a picture or an autograph, but he had no patience for it.
“Wait, wait, wait.”
“No need. Whatever you’re selling, we’re not buying.”
The woman wrapped her fingers around the door to prevent Patrick from closing it. He stared at them, annoyed. And also mildly impressed with her manicure.
“No, you misunderstand. I’m Cassie. OW. This door really is very hot. Cassie Everest.”
Patrick relented, opening the door wide enough for her to thrust her hand forward for him to shake. She was blond like a good Southern California girl, but curvier than you usually see in LA. Her clothes were serious, menswear almost, and she wore sunglasses pushed up on the top of her head like his sister, Clara.
“Cassie Everest? Like the mountain?”
“Could be worse, I suppose. I could be Cassie Kilimanjaro.” She laughed at her own joke, but in a way that made it clear she’d told the same joke a thousand times.
“What are you doing here, Cassie Kilimanjaro?” He was suddenly very aware that this nickname for a potential crazy person contained the words kill a man. He blocked the door from opening any wider with his foot.
She wiped the sweat from her brow. “I’m sorry, could I come in? It’s like a thousand degrees and I just drove two hours to get here.”
Patrick stared at her. There was no way he was letting this woman into his house. Certainly not with the kids. Was this some sort of mama bear instinct he’d developed? That was, without question, new.
“Who are you?”
She looked back at him, hurt. “I’m Cassie Everest. I work for Neal.”
Patrick recoiled. “Neal.” It took him a moment to place the name. “My agent, Neal?”
“The very one.”
Patrick was offended that his agent would send someone unannounced to his house, of all places, but at least this woman wasn’t a deranged fan (well, wasn’t just a deranged fan). He gave her one last look. She seemed harmless enough and his front door was indeed directly in the blazing sun, so he ushered her inside. “Kids!”
Grant appeared from his bedroom and lined up beside Maisie.
“This is Mary Matterhorn.”
“Cassie Everest.”
“Same thing. She and GUP need to have a few words. Why don’t you both nap in your room for a bit and then we’ll go for a swim.”
“We’re too old for naps!” Grant bellowed.
“No you’re not, I take at least four a day.” Patrick stifled a yawn; one sounded pretty good right about now.
“But I’m not tired!”
“Fix yourselves a drink, then. Not too much. Just a light triple.” Patrick turned to Cassie. “I’m kidding,” he said, but his face remained deadly serious.
“Jellyfish eat out of their butts.” Grant flashed one of his trademark grins at Cassie.
“You’re missing a tooth,” Cassie observed, unfazed. “I read somewhere that squirrels can’t burp.”
“Is that true, GUP?” Grant looked up at his uncle, his hands clasped, desperately wanting it to be so.
“I don’t know, I’m not much of a reader. Go play.”
The kids scampered off, and once they were safely out of sight, Patrick motioned for Cassie to follow him through the sunken living room to the kitchen. He opened the refrigerator door, pulled out a cold bottle of Smartwater and handed it to her. “I thought I fired Neal.”
Cassie thought for a second. “Ummm, nope.”
“I fired someone.” Patrick grabbed a second water for himself, twisted the cap, and took a long sip.
“Your publicist. Also your manager, I believe.”
“Right.”
Rosa was scooping cookie dough in heaping mounds onto a baking sheet. Patrick reached for one and she slapped his hand. “I make these for the children.”
“All right, all right.” Patrick retreated, surprised.
“I love your hair,” Cassie offered. Patrick smoothed his hair before realizing she was talking to Rosa, who had recently dyed her mane an intense shade of violet to hide the encroaching gray. “It’s very pretty.”
“Gracias.”
Patrick turned back to Cassie with a realization. “You’re the one who asked me to have new headshots taken! You know I actually had them done? But then I remembered I fired Neal so I never sent them your way.”
“Nope. Didn’t fire him. Not to our knowledge, anyhow.”
“Hmm. Well, I meant to.”
Cassie spoke to fill the awkward silence that was certain to follow. “I thought I knew everything about you, but I didn’t know you had kids.”
“I’m full of surprises.” Patrick gathered a few of the breakfast dishes and put them in the sink.
“What does ‘GUP’ mean? If you don’t mind me asking.” Cassie raised the bottle of water, offering a weak “Cheers” before taking a sip.
“It stands for Gay Uncle Patrick.”
Cassie choked on her water, and some spilled out on her blouse. “You’re gay?”
“Cassie. Tsk, tsk, tsk.” Patrick shook his head and looked down at his caftan, disappointed. And yet, he had never sat for a coming-out profile—even then it seemed almost passé (he never thought it necessary; he figured everyone knew)—so a cursory internet search might miss that detail.
“Oh, I see now. You’re wearing a dress.”
“It’s not a . . .” Patrick spotted Maisie peeking around the corner. “Yes, fine, I’m wearing a dress. I thought you knew everything about me.” He gestured for Maisie to turn right around and head back to her room. “Rosa, would you?”
“No cookies.” Rosa waved her finger at Patrick as a reminder before escorting her boss’s niece out of the kitchen.
Cassie continued. “About your career, I should have said.”
“Huh?” Patrick reached for a spoonful of dough, then thought twice of it, not wanting to incur Rosa’s wrath.
“I thought I knew everything about your career.”
“I’m not gay professionally, Cassie. I maintain my amateur status to compete in the Gay Olympics.”
Cassie took stock of the kitchen, fascinated by her surroundings. The gold foiled mirror behind the bar, the quartz countertops with the sparkled flecks, the high-end appliances and chef’s stove with six burners, the espresso machine that looked like it should have come with a spokesmodel highlighting its features. It was like being inside a catalog.
“Why are you here, Cassie?”
“Oh! Right. Neal thought it was time you come back to work.”
Patrick stopped fussing with the dishes and turned to look at his guest. He narrowed his eyes to really scrutinize her. “That doesn’t sound like Neal.”
“Sure it does.”
“Neal hates me. The only reason he hasn’t fired me as a client is because I’m essentially retired.”
“That’s not true.” She paused to pick a tactic. “Neal does think you should come back to work, so he can make money. I think you should come back to work because your fans miss you.”
“Oh, they do, do they?”
“They do! I do. Now is the time. There are so many options available. So much content in search of talent. You could go back to what you were doing. Or enough time has gone by, we could even rebrand you. Go in a completely different direction.”
“Like New Coke. Wonderful.”
Cassie responded slowly. “That’s . . . perhaps not the best example.”
Patrick folded and refolded a dish towel a dozen different ways. “What is this about?”
“I’m a huge fan. I think you were underserved by your last show. People want to see what else you can do. A lot of people do, but I’m in a rare position, see, that I can actually do something to facilitate that.” Cassie removed the sunglasses from her head and set them on the counter before running her fingers through her hair.
“No. What is this really about?” Patrick crossed his arms and leaned against the sink.
He could see Cassie run back over her sales pitch in her head. She’d probably rehearsed it again and again in the car during the two-hour drive from Los Angeles. Patrick had thrown her a curveball and now she was adrift. “Okay. I’m just going to lay all my cards on the table, because I can see you’re that kind of guy.”
“Well, look at that. You really do know a lot about me.” A crash from the bedroom startled them both. “That’s it! We’re giving away the dog!” he called out.
Cassie looked at him, heartbreak in her eyes.
“We don’t have a dog.”
She wasn’t sure what to believe. “Neal said that if I could get you back to work he would promote me to junior agent.”
“And you’d take over my day-to-day? That’s his way of pawning me off because I’m a pain in the ass.” Something caught Patrick’s eye and he looked over Cassie’s shoulder and out by the pool. He thought it might be the kids, but it was just the pool guy dragging his skimmer across the water. “Those are my words.”
“Nope, they were pretty much his words, too.” Cassie smiled. “Except the day-to-day part. He’d keep you on. You’re too big a client to hand off to a junior agent.”
“Well, then you must truly be a fan.”
“Or I must really want that promotion.” Cassie smiled again, wider this time, but Patrick didn’t return it. That did not mean he was unamused, though. He was warming to this young woman.
“There’s nothing we can’t discuss,” she continued. “What do you want? Do you want to do movies?”
“Oh, sure. A rotten part in a so-so film.”
“Well, okay, so not movies.”
“That’s from A Chorus Line. Cassie’s monologue. Don’t you even know who you’re named after?”
“Actually, I’m named after my great—”
Patrick didn’t let her finish; he hopped up on the counter to sit. “Cassie was complaining about a rotten part in a so-so film. She was a go-go dancer in a movie of the week. But the part got cut, so . . .”
“I never saw A Chorus Line.”
“Clearly.” Patrick felt an unfortunate
breeze and pulled his caftan over his knees to cover himself. “What is the training to be a junior agent these days?”
“I have an MBA from Wharton.”
“Well, sure.” There was no snappy comeback to an MBA from Wharton.
“So you’re not saying no to movies.”
“I’m not saying yes to movies. I’m not saying yes to anything.”
“TV.”
“No.”
“Limited series.”
“No.”
“Netflix.”
“No.”
“Theater?”
“A play? Good lord no.”
“No to theater, then. Does that include all live performance?”
“What else is there, the Capades?”
“Well, no. But, say, Dancing with the Stars.”
“Ew. I’m not wearing a ridiculous costume.”
Cassie moved to indicate Patrick’s caftan but abruptly curbed the gesture.
“I’ll consider a solo show.”
“A solo show,” she repeated.
“Yes. A one-man show.”
“But not a play.”
“No. I don’t see the point in standing around while other people say their lines when I could have all the lines for myself.” Patrick grinned like a hyena.
“You want to have all the lines for yourself.”
“Exactly. I think we’re starting to feel a connection.”
“Would you be willing to write this one-man show? A lot of solo performance is written by the artist.”
“Vanessa Redgrave did Joan Didion.”
“You want to do Joan Didion?”
“I want to do Vanessa Redgrave. I want to do a one-man show where I play Vanessa Redgrave playing Joan Didion. Other than that, I really think we’re done here.”
Cassie sighed. Now it was clear. “You’re not taking me seriously.”
“Oh, was I supposed to?”
Cassie screwed the cap on her bottle of water and picked up her sunglasses from the counter. “It’s okay. I’m used to men not taking me seriously.”
Patrick slid down from the counter. “Oh, don’t do that. Don’t you lump me in with the patriarchy—I’m wearing a dress, for Christ’s sake. But you show up at my house without so much as a phone call. I don’t know you. I don’t know what you want.”
The Guncle Page 9