We sat quietly, then George said, "Would you die for her?"
"Don't bet against it."
Chapter 3 – Gina Meets the Matriarch
Gina knew enough to unfold her napkin immediately and place in on her lap; she'd have totally shriveled if the servant had made that move for her, which he'd looked poised to do.
Lunch today at the Sauvenard estate was terrine of salmon with chives, wild rice pancakes, young parsnips with celery—a weird but delicious combo—and a very nice chardonnay. Gina and Lance had driven the last leg from Portland this morning. Today was Wednesday, and lunch had gotten going at the merciful hour of one o'clock.
Mrs. Bertrice de Sauvenard was what polite boutique clerks call "statuesque" and what Gramma Gladys would have called "built like a brick shithouse." Contrary to Gina's expectations, Mrs. de Sauvenard wore a daring raw-silk dress in slap-your-face blue, cut to fit her perfectly. She was closing in on seventy, an old broad not afraid to show it off. She had a few curves left, too.
Her jewelry was not gorped-up old lady stuff but a sleek neckpiece of coiled gold with a carved slab of dark-red stone—jasper?—for a pendant. A ring or two, and a pair of black satin heels. Really OK.
Oh, and the hair: crinkled, like Lance's, but iron-gray and worn long and loose down her shoulders. Those piercing eyes wanted no eye shadow, but the lips enjoyed plenty of lipstick.
Lunch was a riot. They drank wine and talked about dozens of things.
Mrs. de Sauvenard recollected taking a sailing trip in her 24-footer in the San Juan Islands, alone, where she encountered a sudden violent squall. As she sprang to take down her mainsail, a gust caught her and tossed her overboard. "And if I hadn't had my safety line, well, it was tough enough to hand-over-hand it back to the boat and over the transom; thank God the wind shifted right then and I caught a minute's lull!"
Gina said, "Wow. How long ago was that?"
Mrs. de Sauvenard looked at her. "It was last week, dear."
Lance said, "She used to crew on racing yachts."
His mother said, "I'm not in shape to race anymore, but I still have the body weight to crew!" and laughed.
Gina, in turn, told about the time she and the Burris boys got a buzz on and decided to take off from Durability, Wisconsin, in the middle of the night in search of the Bonneville Salt Flats to see a) how fast Ed Burris's souped-up Trans Am would go, and b) how wide a doughnut it would do. "When the beer and Kahlua wore off, we took a ton of NoDoz. I don't really do speed," she added.
Mrs. de Sauvenard said, "Ha! Did you get there?"
"Of course," Gina replied.
"And?"
"It topped out at a hundred and fifty-five miles an hour. Great car. Great car. Yellow and black, those big fat hood stripes, you know? Ed took it down to eighty before he tried the doughnut."
"And?"
"Immense. I'm sure you could see it from space. Then he let me drive it and I got it up to one thirty-five before he told me to take it down."
"Did you?"
"Yeah, I did, it was starting to get away from me a little bit."
Lance interjected, "A modicum of good sense, the girl has!" His smile was as joyful and uninhibited as his mom's.
Lance told his mother the latest updates on Kenner's movie, and his own recent root canal, and his need for just a little more, uh, this month.
His mother made a slight head motion that Lance seemed to understand in a favorable way.
"The boy I can't say no to," Mrs. de Sauvenard murmured thoughtfully.
Lunch concluded with coffee and cherry trifle. Gina, who had never eaten trifle, decided that she would like nothing more than to eat trifle once per day for the rest of her life. The custard part was sublime, the cherries magical sweet spheres. She fell madly in love with Mrs. de Sauvenard.
The dining room overlooked a rather untamed garden, with a view of the city beyond. The Space Needle looked like a beensy UFO from here.
Mrs. de Sauvenard was enthusiastic about Gina's dream of being a torch singer.
"You just need a good break or two," she commented wisely.
"You said it."
Then the old girl caught her off-guard by saying, "I don't see why a woman can't be a torch singer and a good wife at the same time."
Lance laughed and took Gina's hand.
"No reason at all," Gina agreed.
After lunch, Mrs. de Sauvenard sent Lance downtown to see somebody named Leland, who Gina assumed held the purse strings.
Gina reached for her sweater, but Mrs. de Sauvenard said, "You stay here with me."
Lance was already out of the room.
His mother took Gina to a cozy study where the radio was playing. Mrs. de Sauvenard listened to a business report for a minute, then turned it off.
A butler looked in inquiringly.
"Ah! Would you like more coffee, dear? Some brandy?"
"No, thank you." Gina was enjoying the view, from this room, of purple-shouldered Mt. Rainier, impossibly massive in the crisp light of the autumn afternoon.
Mrs. de Sauvenard went over to a low-backed sofa and slipped off one shoe and tucked her foot beneath her. She patted the place next to her.
Gina expected the woman's expression to harden now; this was, after all, going to be The Talk.
Mrs. de Sauvenard said, "Call me Bertrice."
Gina smiled guardedly.
Bertrice said, "You're waiting for me to drop the act."
Gina burst out laughing, suddenly—inexplicably—at ease. The woman's eyes gleamed. "How well do you think you know Lance?"
"I guess you're about to tell me something new."
She loved that. "Haha! Yes. Well, he's a wild child, you know that? My little feral creature! That's what I always used to call him, my feral creature. None of his girlfriends has been up to the task. I've got nothing against golddiggers, mind you; just don't give me a simpy one!" Mrs. de Sauvenard's face was lively, yet her general expression was intense, and Gina got a quick glimpse of Kenner, the other son, in it. "God, I hate simps! Do you think he'll change and ever settle down?"
"I like him the way he is, actually."
"Excellent! Because here's what you need to know: the Lance you see is the Lance you'll get. He needs a woman like you who won't try to water him down. You're half feral yourself, aren't you? Driving the Bonneville Salt Flats! The salt'll chew up your bearings, I bet you found that out."
"We did!"
They laughed and Bertrice mused, "It'll be nice to have a woman in the family to talk to. There's something about you I just feel comfortable with. You've got spunk, you don't overthink things." Then her mood did change, and she sighed. "He might run around on you, you know."
"Let him try." Gina's tone was suddenly taut.
That delighted Bertrice. "Ha!" Then she asked, "You want kids?"
Gina pushed back her bangs. "I like kids. But—I don't know if having a kid is in the cards for me."
"Good." Bertrice paused again. "Lance was always the risk-taker, the fun one; God knows how many times we rushed him to the emergency room. While Kenner took after his dad, very grown-up, always thinking about other people. To his own detriment at times, I'm afraid."
Gina smiled neutrally.
"Listen, honey, take something from me: stick with that jazz singer idea—don't ever run a business."
"Yeah? Tough row, huh?"
"It's hell. Don't be impressed by all this." Her wave encompassed the mahogany, the silky sheers flanking the window, the mountains beyond the plate glass, the family holdings wherever they all were. "I'm so sick of being worried! I don't love this goddamn company. The boys just found out it's worth less than they thought. Well, times are tough for businesses like timber and mining. All those Carson Plovers out there chaining themselves to trees, you know."
"Ah. Yes," said Gina, looking away.
"People always trying to put a muscle on you, your own people, even! Hard when you don't know who you can trust."
Gina un
consciously bit the side of her thumb as she thought about that. "Is somebody giving you trouble right now?"
Bertrice gazed upon Mt. Rainier. "That's the hell of it: I'm not sure! In an organization of this size, you never know who might be in cahoots, you know? The money doesn't mean so much to me. What bugs me is getting fleeced! By God, I hate sneaks! If you're going to rob me, face me down in the street! Man-to-man!"
Gina said, "I know a guy who might be able to help you."
——
I offered Kenner something to drink when he stopped over Saturday evening at seven to pick up a notebook he'd left here. We hung out at the breakfast bar sipping grapefruit juice and talking about his movie. He'd gotten over Daniel's and my refusal of his movie offer; he was already upbeat about some unrealistic-sounding new possibilities.
About the only thing I'd thought of to help Gina prepare for her trip to the Great Northwest was to lend her my flashlight, which I did, plus some spare batteries. She'd bought a sleeping bag and a canteen at the Army-Navy Store on Hollywood Boulevard—rough blanket supplier to the stars—and at the last minute I wrapped my heating pad in a grocery bag and handed it to her.
"I don't think there's gonna be electricity where we're—"
"I know, but just in case." I'd felt totally like Gramma Gladys. "You're going to check in with me every day, right? Either phone or message or you're going to get your ass to civilization and find an Internet connection, right?"
"Right, yes."
"Every day."
"Yes, Rita, every day, I promise."
"Because I'll have a heart attack if—"
"Don't worry!" And she was out the door.
Now Kenner pulled out his phone and said, "Lance has sent back some great photos." Though teeny, the pictures were indeed beautiful. Kenner explained, "He found the old summer camp we got packed off to, looks like it's been abandoned for—gosh, years. Man, check out that dripping moss, isn't it great? Here's one Gina must have taken—look at him hanging by his knees!"
Gina always wanted me to like her boyfriends, naturally—but not too much. Naturally. Well, no danger with this one; I already had a boisterous, charmingly immature man in my life: Petey.
This evening I'd gotten him started, by the way, drawing a picture of one of his pirate action figures, using a nice new sketch pad and a set of colored pencils I'd bought on special at the UCLA bookstore that afternoon. I'd been so desperate to get the kid weaned from that damn beeping ScoreLad. His dad kept buying him new games for it, all these proto-criminal amusements.
My goal was: if the kid was going to be a typical boy, I preferred he create violent material rather than consume it.
In his room, he squinted at the fist-sized pirate figurine under his little desk lamp and worked on his drawing. He'd been a pirate for Halloween last night, in keeping. They'd had a party at school, then at dusk I took him up and down the street for trick-or-treating. He looked very masculine in his costume; I'd penciled him a swarthy beard, heavy eyebrows, and a scar on one downy cheek, and tied a sash around his waist to hold his dagger.
Kenner lounged at my breakfast bar like Fred Astaire, with that ultra-slim build and mature manner. He was thirty-three and only two years older than Lance, but they were such a contrast: stocky, rambunctious Lance, slender, serious Kenner. They shared the quick smiles, the spirit of engagement with the world, plus they clearly loved each other in that brother-vs.-brother way guys have. Kenner was so introspective. At Griffith Park he'd lost track of everything but the script reading. In spite of my certainty that Night for Dark wouldn't hold an audience's attention for six minutes, I had no doubt that he'd get it made somehow, if he had to kidnap a cast and rob a bank.
"Someday," he said, "I want to be able to tell everybody in L.A. to kiss my ass."
"I guess that'd be great."
"They'll do it, too."
Kenner's phone played "Bison Blue," last year's hit tune about the toxic effects of discarded toner cartridges. He checked the display casually, then said, "Oh, excuse me."
He took the call while I went into the kitchen and pretended to re-alphabetize the spice rack.
"Yes, hi!" said Kenner. "Well, the reason I called—" Pause. "Oh, God, I hate those shareholder meetings! If there's anything more stultifying than—" He changed his tone to a combo of grudging and wheedling. "Yeah, OK, I can do that for you. Heck, I could fly out to New York tonight, if that would—tomorrow, then. See, I do these things because I love you. Remember that. Now how about the reason I called?" Pause. "OK." He was clearly disappointed but putting a good tone on it. "That'll be helpful. Oh, you did? What did he need it for? Yes, I see. OK. Well, thanks, Mom, goodb—what? Yes, I'm still here." He listened. "Oh, really? H'h! Well, whaddaya know?" I heard him slap his thigh. "He never said a word to me. Well, did they say—no? OK, well, I'll just have to throw him the world's most outrageous bachelor party!"
I stopped what I was doing, the jar of rosemary in my fingers.
Kenner said, "I just cannot believe he didn't tell me. Oh, she's great, I think so too. Gina's great."
I ran into the living room.
"From the look on her sister's face, she didn't know either." He laughed. "OK, talk to you soon."
He turned to me, a huge smile splitting his face. "Did you know?"
"No!" I was too stunned to say anything more.
Gina hadn't told me first.
I consider my sisterly intuition to be beyond excellent; there have been times when I knew what Gina was going to do before she knew what she was going to do.
I cannot describe how off-guard this caught me. I stammered, "I mean, I knew they were serious." I set down the rosemary jar.
Maybe it wasn't true. This was so unlike Gina. This was just totally out of character for her. Don't overreact.
"Maybe he didn't pop the question," Kenner speculated, "until they left town."
I couldn't help it; dread gripped my heart. Something was wrong. "Uh," I said, "do you think they went up to get, like, your mom's permission or something?"
"I doubt it, I think that was sort of a side conversation. Lance went primarily to try to get cash out of her, and she gave it to him."
Gina's getting married. "Wow," I said out loud. "Wow." Don't overreact.
I didn't want to betray how upset I was to Kenner; after all he was the guy's brother, and I didn't want to give the impression I didn't like Lance.
Gina had not called me today, which had been OK up until now. Despite her promise, I hadn't really expected her to check in every day—I'd have settled for every other day. Gina was Gina, plus who knew what cell coverage was like in the backcountry? But not calling me with the biggest news of her life?
I sure as hell hoped he got her a really nice ring.
I pulled myself together. "Where, uh, exactly did they go after Seattle, Kenner?"
"The pictures are from the Harkett River area. Silver Coast owns most of it." His mother's company. "I'm happy for them. Gotta say, I wish he'd told me, but I've been predicting it! Yep, I've been predicting it! Hey, shouldn't we toast them?"
"Oh, good idea." I went to the kitchen and poured two glasses of the red wine George and I hadn't finished with our spaghetti the other night.
We clinked and I started to feel calmer, although the wine had a slightly toxic vibe; that spaghetti dinner had ended badly. I glanced at the orangish stain on the wall over Kenner's shoulder.
He and I spent half an hour talking about Lance and Gina, forcing ourselves to be happy for them. When he changed the subject to his film again, I was relieved. Kenner and I were, on a crude level, each losing a sibling.
As soon as he left, I called Gina's cell. She didn't answer, and I yelled to her voice mail, "Hey, sis! Fantastic! I'll never forgive you for not telling me first! I'll be your maid of honor, but I won't wear chiffon! Callmee callmee callmee!"
——
The next morning, Sunday, I left basically the same message again. I did laundry and finally cleaned
the grout in the bathroom, starting to worry about Gina; then I picked up Petey from a play date at his friend Ryan's and cooked us some hamburgers and green beans.
After I got him to bed, I stayed up late studying race theory as it relates to the California Penal Code. Whenever I thought of Gina, my feelings vacillated between excitement and growing concern. I exchanged e-mails with two other students in my study group, and I read the night's headlines on CNN.
I looked at the clock: midnight. No call yesterday, no call today.
I reached for the phone.
Chapter 4 – Rita Packs Her Knife
George Rowe's morning was not going well. His flight from LAX had boarded late, the flight attendant had spilled coffee on his shirt because the plane hit an air pocket next to Mt. Shasta, then they had sat on the tarmac at Sea-Tac for an hour waiting for a gate.
In the concourse a teenager horsing around in an airport wheelchair knocked down a pregnant woman, and Rowe sprinted after him. Rowe gashed his shin as he hauled the kid out of the chair, his blood boiling at the sight of the kid's smirking, zitty face. He twisted his collar in his fist hard, really scaring the kid, who yelped to his mother, who rushed over intent on head-butting Rowe into a cleaning cart.
He gave her a murderous look, handed the kid over to security, and took off amidst the mother's yelling. The pregnant woman seemed OK except for a bruised arm. She was yelling too.
Women yelling.
He picked up his rental car and exited the airport in a spitting cold rain.
On one hand, he wished Rita were like other women he'd known—calmer, more reasonable. Rita was calm and reasonable until she got angry, which she freely did. He laughed short and bitter as he steered the car through the maze of airport roads.
But he knew better than to wish Rita different; without her unpredictable temper she'd be—well, predictable.
He couldn't stand a mealy-mouthed woman. He was doomed, then. You either settled for less or kept chasing wildcats. He sighed. There was only one wildcat for him.
How could he have been so stupid?
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