by Gigi Blume
I set the letter on my lap, trying to piece together Jorge’s story to compare it to Will’s. There were some parallels, but from completely polarizing points of view. Which one was an accurate depiction of the true facts? My head spun. I didn’t know what to think.
I was startled from my thoughts by the abrupt bang of my bedroom door. The thunderous entrance of Lydia and Holly flung it open. Had I forgotten to lock it?
“Just borrowing a suitcase. Okay?” Lydia was already rummaging through my closet. Holly offered me a silly grin as if to say crazy Lydia and then ran to my dresser when she noticed my collection of Fan Pop dolls.
“You have the limited edition Elphaba doll?” she exclaimed. “Wicked. Ha! No pun intended.”
She laughed at her little quip, turning over the dolls to read the edition number on the bottom. I did have an impressive collection. Jane wandered in and sat on my bed, watching the girls go through my belongings. No biggie. The party was now in my room. Lucky me.
“Can I borrow your sequined mini skirt?” Lydia was going through my dresser now.
“That’s a costume,” I replied.
She just shrugged and continued to search my drawers. Holly helped her.
“What are you reading?” Jane nodded to the letter on my lap, which I snatched up and held to my chest, so she couldn’t take a peek.
“Nothing,” I said, so not sounding suspicious. “Just some notes I made for myself. Acting notes.”
Her eyes narrowed. She was on to me.
“Carry on,” she said. “Don’t let us interrupt you.”
She slid off my bed and knelt on the floor to help Lydia with the suitcase. The girls pulled globs of clothes from the black trash bag Lydia kept in the corner of my room, along with tattered boxes filled with Lord knows what. This was the sum of her existence. A couple of trash bags and some boxes. But she was fine with this arrangement for the time being.
While the girls busied themselves with the job of selecting what items to pile in the suitcase, the letter burned into my palms. What was the truth? I could handle the truth. I couldn’t resist the pull of it. My eyes instinctively drew themselves to the letters on the page. I wiggled onto my side to turn my back on my friends and continued to read in silence.
One day, I found Jorge ransacking the house. He’d shoved some items in boxes. I really didn’t know what he took exactly—some valuable stuff, I guess. Some of Dad’s books and knickknacks from the study. I confronted him, and that’s when he lost it. He threw every insult imaginable in my direction. It had to be drugs. Why else would someone lash out like that on family? When he left that day, I thought I’d never see him again. It was both heartbreaking and a relief. It’s extremely difficult when someone you care for becomes someone you no longer recognize. But that’s what addiction does to people. I couldn’t let that touch my little sister. Unfortunately, I was too late.
I settled into my pillows, both enthralled at what I was to discover next and disappointed in my morbid curiosity. This was all too strange. Jorge didn’t seem like a drug addict to me. He was a hot surfer. Hot surfers don’t do drugs. Do they?
After the course of a few months, I noticed a long thread of text messages from Jorge on Georgia’s phone. Most of them stupid small talk like an exchange of photos of what they ate for lunch. Sometimes, he’d ask her about her day, what she learned in school that day, what she bought at the mall. For about three seconds, I felt sorry she was growing up without her adopted brother. Then the texts got into personal territory. Send me a picture of yourself. She’d send a pouty snapshot of her face. What are you wearing? She’d reply with poop emoji. A tight coil wrenched in my gut. He preyed on her. Then a few texts later, he’d say how much he enjoyed seeing her at a friend’s party. At the beach. At the coffee house she studied at most afternoons. All that time I wasn’t present in her life because I was working long hours on set. Sometimes out of the country. I blamed myself. If I’d only been there. So I took away her phone and made sure she came straight home from school. When I couldn’t pick her up, I’d send a car. She hated that. Hated being the movie star’s sister. In retrospect, I realize I could have handled it better. I didn’t know how to deal with a teenager.
I put impossible restrictions on her freedom. Forbade her to go to parties or out with friends. I think it made her a little rebellious. All I wanted was to protect her, but my efforts seemed to push her away. I told myself I didn’t care if she hated me. As long as she was safe. And she was. For a time.
One night, I was up late, long after she was supposed to be asleep. I was on the other side of the house, and I wouldn’t have heard anything if it weren’t for Lady. Her ears perked up, and she started growling in the direction of the bedrooms. I followed her up the stairs, and that’s when I heard voices. When I forced open the door, I saw a sight I will never unsee. Jorge had my sister pinned down. The expression of fear on her face was conviction enough that his advances weren’t welcome. She was sixteen.
“Shut the front door!” I didn’t realize I had said that aloud until three heads swooshed in my direction, everyone with various degrees of shock in their eyes.
“Beth, what the?”
“Are you okay?”
“I’ve never heard you cuss before.”
I shoved the letter under my comforter and turned my head to acknowledge them. I smiled on one side of my mouth, dismissing their concern.
“I didn’t cuss.”
Lydia nodded vehemently. “Knowing you, that was close enough.”
Jane came to sit on the edge of my bed and looked at me in the eyes. She put a soft hand on my arm.
“What’s wrong?”
She knew I wasn’t reading show notes.
“I’ll tell you later,” I whispered, nodding in the other girl’s direction. She understood. I couldn’t say anything in front of Holly and Lydia. They didn’t take anything seriously. But Jane gave me a reassuring smile and quietly left the room. I glanced over at Holly and Lydia, happily oblivious to the world’s woes while they threw various clothing into piles. They made a huge mess of my room. I told myself it was only a reflection of my life at the moment. Just piles of stuff everywhere. No real direction. No plan.
In a last-ditch effort to read the rest of the letter in peace, I took a stroll down to the community pool and claimed one of many unoccupied lounge chairs. The gated-in area was perfect for a reprieve from the noise in my apartment. The breeze made little ripples in the pool water, which glistened with the orange glow from the setting sun. Soon, it would be too chilly to sit there without a sweater, but only one page remained of the thick stack of papers Will gave me. I didn’t think I’d care to read this far, but now I was invested in learning all he had to say. I couldn't escape it now, no matter how crazy his story was. I didn’t want to believe him. I couldn’t imagine Jorge doing those things. But Will’s account of things was too horrific to be made up. He wouldn’t involve his sister in the story if it weren’t true.
Thankfully, I caught him before anything happened, but because of that, and the trail of text messages they’d been exchanging, the authorities shrugged it off. They didn’t believe her. He got off scot-free. But my sister didn’t recover so easily. She became more and more distant. Counseling did little, and she became rebellious.
Beth, I’m only telling you these things so you will know the truth about Jorge. Whatever he said about me and my family could only be half-truths at best.
Very few people know about what my sister went through. Could you imagine what it would do to her if the media got ahold of this story? Keeping it hidden was the last thing I could do. I failed her. But I hope I can at least keep you from being one of Jorge’s victims.
I know he must have given you some sob story. Maybe even told you I had something to do with his failure in the business. But the truth is Jorge is extremely unreliable and difficult to work with. If he can’t get a job in Hollywood, he has no one to blame but himself. The only reason Stella took him o
n at the Gardiner was to honor my father’s memory. She knows how much Dad loved him.
I sincerely hope he is a changed man. From what I’ve seen, he appears to be sober now. Maybe I should deal with my trust issues. But I’ve been burned by a lot of people in my life, and I can never forgive Jorge for what he did to my sister. I’ve told you before that I hold grudges. Now you know one of the reasons why.
I shook my head, trying to un-jumble it all. I hope I can at least keep you from being one of Jorge’s victims? Melodramatic much? Still, if Will’s story were true, and he wasn’t embellishing it at all, those were some mighty bad things Jorge was guilty of.
I understand if you’re having a hard time believing all this. We haven’t been stellar communicators, you and I. Fitz is one of the few people who knows the details of what happened. He had given Georgia piano lessons while these events took place and was with me at Lucas Lodge the other night when I got a phone call from my sister telling me Jorge paid her a visit at our house. I’m sure Fitz would be happy to answer any questions you may have.
Perhaps, this will give you some idea where I'm coming from and why I act upon my instincts in the way I’ve done recently. You and I still have to work together once the show opens. My desire is that we come to an understanding and can at least bury the hatchet until we part ways. Not for my sake, but for the sake of the show.
Sincerely,
Will
I let the words sink in for a long time. It was a lot to take in, and I wasn’t sure how to process it. I didn’t know what to think. I swore to loathe Will for all eternity. How I wished to go back to those simple times. I reminisced fondly of the good ol’ days when Will was just a common jerk. Now, I felt sorry for the man, which was incredibly inconvenient. I was still angry about the whole Bing and Jane thing.
I went back to the first page and read the letter again with the knowledge I now had. I had a better sense of him, where his motives came from. On my third reading, I could almost read between the lines, running over every detail. I scanned the letter over and over until it was too dark to read. I reclined my head and gazed at the night sky. The palm treetops swayed in the soft breeze against the smoggy backdrop above. The rustle of palm fronds caressed in lulling gentle waves while the roar of engines and swooshing of tires against pavement provided a counter rhythm. The tumult of my thoughts fell in line with the ambient sounds of Los Angeles apartment living. Every now and then, voices and clanging dishes would carry on the wind from beyond someone’s window. Iron bars would cast dancing shadows over the pool whenever headlights shone in passing. Sounds of footfall and sundry conversation whizzed by when families and couples took the path from the parking lot to their units. A dog would bark. Someone was watching TV. A guy spoke on the phone obnoxiously loud in Spanish. I must have been there for a couple hours when I decided it was time to go back inside.
The apartment was dark when I returned. Lydia left a drawing of herself drinking margaritas on the dry-erase board we used for grocery lists. Her eyes were bulgy and words inside a speech bubble said, Look out, Mexico. Here comes Lettuce. Under that, Jane’s fine handwriting stated BRB: gone to Hobby Lobby.
I was glad for the silence, but it was maybe a little too silent. I plopped on the couch, flipping through the thousands of channels the guy next door hacked for us. Nothing was on but reruns of the Rose Parade. I usually liked the Rose Parade, but all the smiling faces on the floats, waving cowgirls on horses, and marching bands made my misery even more acute by comparison. I returned to the letter and read it again. By this time, I almost had it memorized. I was a glutton for punishment. Looking back on my memories with Jorge only confirmed Will’s account of his character. Where I once saw a young, hot, fun surfer, I realized there was no redeeming quality in Jorge. He was just a party guy and a flirt. From the first moment I met him, it was all double entendres and stripping himself of his shirt at every opportunity. The attention he got from the chorus girls at the theatre—he was all over that. He was in his element. And then there was Caroline’s warning. As much as I hated to admit it, she was right about him—in her own bigoted, Caroline way.
I always suspected he was a player. That was no newsflash. But now that I’d read Will’s letter, things made sense. Jorge was so worried all the time. Could it be he thought Will might expose him?
Suddenly, I felt like an idiot. Jorge had me eating right out of his hands with his bedroom eyes and sad story about his childhood—how much he suffered because of the Darcys. Then I remembered how friendly he was to my sister—all the times he encouraged me to invite her along with us places. She was only seventeen—one year older than Georgia had been. I shuddered to think what might have happened if I’d included her as Jorge so often suggested. What was wrong with me? I’d always been proud of my excellent judge of character. But I was wrong about Colin and now, so detrimentally wrong about Jorge. I was even wrong about Will.
Every time I turned it over in my head, Jorge’s charm faded more and more. But the most disturbing thing of all was that I saw Will in a completely different light. It had been so fun to direct all my abhorrence toward him. Now what was I supposed to do? I couldn’t exactly join the Will Darcy fan club. That would involve attending weekly meetings with Caroline. It would majorly suck beans. I decided to let all this new information percolate for a while. In a week, I’d go to Stella’s charity carnival and after that, there’d be a few days before I had to face Will at the theatre. It would be awkward but doable and certainly not the end of the world.
I opened my laptop and clicked through the trades. It was time to take Fitz’s advice. There are no guarantees. Only regrets.
22
The Winter of Our Discontent
Will
The FedEx driver came to my house for the ten millionth time in a week. Today, Stella briskly swooshed away one rather large, flat box from my hands.
“I’ll take that, thank you,” she chirped merrily.
Stella had been a permanent fixture at my house since the day after Christmas. She was a spry force to be reckoned with in her winter years. The round-the-clock preparations for her charity event seemed to magically float into place by her tireless orchestration. A constant movement of elegant rental tables, tents, booths, stages, and rides were erected all over my house and lawns. I couldn’t tell you where most of my furniture had gone, only that my living room was transformed into a ballroom at the Ritz Carlton. A great tent extended beyond the back deck, and the front lawn was littered with carnival rides and even more tents and stages. Why did I ever agree to this? I supposed it was the sweet charm spread across Stella’s face when she asked me. Her organization had outgrown the venue from prior years, and I couldn’t resist those pleading, soft eyes. That woman could con a con artist with those baby blues. It made me wonder how many hearts she’d broken as a young woman.
“Wait a minute.” I caught the corner of the box to make sure my eyes weren’t playing tricks on me but after reading the address label, I let go as if it scorched my skin.
“Why is Elizabeth Bennet getting Bloomingdale’s deliveries at my house?”
Stella shrugged with her arms stretched around the edges of the package and smiled wryly.
“For the gala, of course. You wouldn’t expect the poor child to carry an evening gown in a knapsack all day. She’ll have to change into it before dinner.”
Why could I not escape this pixie girl? She was everywhere. Now, she was having evening gowns delivered to my house?
“Couldn’t you have found someone else to take Emma’s ticket?” I said with more aggravation than I cared to display. I would have preferred to avoid Beth for as long as possible before preview night at the Gardiner. She hated my guts. Plus, I couldn’t control my manners around her. My intellect reverted to caveman status whenever she was within a hundred feet from me. Her feisty wit and scrappy obstinacy were all that refrained me from clubbing her over the head and throwing her over my shoulder. The thought of her in my home, tou
ching my furniture, using a guest room to slip into a slinky dress—at least I hoped it was a slinky dress—oh hell, I lost my train of thought.
Get a grip.
I stared at the offending box and willed it to contain a burlap sack. A burlap sack from Bloomingdale’s. That didn’t help. It just brought on more caveman scenarios.
Stella didn’t answer my question. She just grinned with a twinkle in her eyes and winked. This was all her fault. She flittered away with Beth’s seduction-in-a-box with a bounce in her step just as my cell phone went off in my back pocket. The caller ID displayed contact info for Catherine de Bourgh. Oh, how wonderful. Was this my day to be harassed by elderly women?
“William Martin Darcy,” she snapped without preamble, “I want to be sure I have a place for Anne and myself at the head table.”
She never did have patience for pleasantries, even over the phone.
“Hello to you, Catherine.” I, on the other hand, wasn’t above a cordial yet pointless greeting. “How may I help you?”
I learned long ago that the way to grate on her nerves was to either ignore her completely or be so sugary sweet, it would offend a dentist.
“I have donated a large sum for the honor of attending the gala, and I intend to be seated at your table.”
I decided to channel my inner customer care representative who doesn’t give a fig about your first world problems.
“I’m so sorry,” I said. “You’ll have to take that up with Stella. She’s in charge of the seating chart.”