American Beauty

by Zoey Dean

Anna took a deep breath. Time to move on to real life.

  “Is he cute?” Susan asked, stretching her arms over her head.

  “Yes. He’s your type. Your type last year, I mean.” Anna tapped the card against the back of her hand. “I can’t believe he sent flowers for graduation. What a thoughtful thing to do.”

  “How’d you meet him?”

  “Dad’s intern, believe it or not. We’re just friends.”

  “Of course,” Susan agreed with a laugh. “You’re too straight to do one guy behind another guy’s back. Want them in a vase?”

  “Sure, thanks.” Anna handed her the flowers back and then hesitated a moment. “You don’t do that anymore, Sooz. Do you?”

  “What are you talking about? I’m doing pretty much the entire kitchen staff at Kripalu,” she cracked. “Is that what you think?”

  “I don’t think anything. I’m asking.”

  Susan stood, her mouth pressed shut in a tight line. “Look, I’m together now, get it? I prefer to forget that the old me ever existed. In fact, if you tell Gordon, I’ll kill you.” She turned around and promptly walked out with the flowers.

  “Gee, swell way to start the day,” Anna told the ceiling.

  The flowers were nice, but Caine wasn’t the guy on her mind at the moment. She was thinking about what Sam had said to her the night before, and about what she’d said earlier in the week about being an active heroine.

  Well, all right. She would take Sam’s advice and listen to Ben. Unlike last night, she felt like she could do it with a modicum of dignity.

  She reached for her cell on the antique oak nighstand before she could change her mind.

  “I should have told you,” Ben muttered.

  He stared at the tiny espresso cup in his hands; they were sitting together but quite apart on a huge green velvet couch at the Cameo Bar in the Viceroy Hotel in Santa Monica. The Viceroy was extremely popular—just steps from the beach—but at ten on a Friday morning the bar was nearly empty. Ben could have chosen one of the white tables with the high-backed white upholstered chairs out on the exterior poolside deck. Instead, he’d opted for this couch, which faced two white stools and a round Lucite table. There was an area rug underneath in swirls of white, black, green, and gray. Anna could see what a fun and romantic place the Cameo Bar would have been at another time—the green-and-gray palette with Lucite and chrome accents was beautiful in an off-kilter way. But not now.

  I should have told you.

  Anna sighed. How many boyfriends had used those exact same words with how many girlfriends? Funny how they never got used until the person got caught.

  “I’m being as honest as I can, Anna.” Ben was leaning forward with his arms resting on the table. He raised his eyes to her. “Blythe and I were just friends. We got wasted one night and had wasted-friends sex. That’s all it was. We both agreed.”

  “I guess she didn’t get the memo,” Anna said coolly.

  Ben shook his head. He wore baggy jeans and a sky-blue polo shirt. His hair was disheveled; he looked as if he hadn’t slept. “I’ve been asking myself over and over: Did I do or say anything to make her think we had something going on?”

  “You had sex with her, Ben.” She leaned back on the couch and crossed her legs away from him. “Most girls take that as a sign of involvement.” She’d dressed down in khakis and a plain white T-shirt. But just to make sure Ben would eat his heart out while he drank his coffee, she’d put on a touch of Stila brown mascara and a quick slick of clear Chanel lip gloss. Then she’d sprayed Chanel’s Allure perfume into the air and stepped through the mist so that only the subtle aroma would linger. Diamond studs in her ears, a quick brush through her hair, and she’d been good to go.

  “Actually, you’re completely wrong.” He sipped his espresso, then set it down on the round Lucite table. “I know you do, but other people don’t. When it happened, you and I weren’t together. I had no way of knowing we’d get back together, either.”

  Oh. That was just so disingenuous.

  “You just don’t get it, Ben. I don’t think you should have had sex with her unless you loved her. You can call me old-fashioned or the moral police or whatever flip thing you want to call me. I don’t really care.”

  “I wasn’t going to—”

  “But that’s between the two of you,” Anna went on, keeping her voice low. “When you came to Las Vegas to see me, I asked you again and again what was going on between you and Blythe—”

  “I told you the truth—”

  “No, you didn’t—”

  “Yes, I did,” Ben insisted in a loud whisper. “I told you she and I had barely gotten started and there wasn’t a real relationship to end. One night of drunk sex didn’t make that any less true.” He ran a hand through his disheveled hair. “I don’t know why she showed up here with this delusion that there was more going on with us. I swear to you, I did not lead her on.”

  Anna glanced over at the empty bar, realizing all this could well be true. She wasn’t sure, though, what difference that would really make.

  “Even if I accept that,” she began slowly, “it doesn’t change this: You hid this whole affair from me. Literally and figuratively, I mean.”

  “Jesus, Anna. What do you want from me? I know you. I knew you’d make it into way more than it was. Which is exactly what you’ve done. Look, I’m not perfect. And I’m sorry.”

  “Sorry that I found out,” Anna translated, trying to keep her voice from trembling.

  He rubbed his collarbone. “The truth? Yeah. I’m real sorry you found out. We weren’t together then, which means that what I did and who I did it with had nothing to do with you. You don’t see me asking for a blow-by-blow of your time then. Do you?”

  The bluntness of his statement stung, because she sensed he really was telling her the entire truth. No. He wasn’t asking for a blow-by-blow. But if he did, there wasn’t anything she’d done with anyone that came close to what he hadn’t shared about Blythe. Sometimes she thought that the two of them had been marked by some strange, two-pronged Shakespearean curse. Just when things were good, they fell apart. No matter how often they pledged honesty, what got delivered was deceit. Which was more painful? she wondered; to constantly hope and hope and hope things changed? Or to just accept reality?

  “If you had only trusted me with the truth, we wouldn’t be sitting on opposite sides of this couch right now,” she said softly.

  “I’m sorry, Anna.” He put his hands on his knees. “I should have told you, but it wasn’t really such a big thing. I would hate like hell for this to break us up.”

  She managed a small smile. “Me too.”

  His eyes brightened. “So we’re good?”

  “I don’t know what we are. I need to think.”

  “Okay, okay, that’s reasonable,” Ben agreed, head bobbing. “How about if I pick you up after graduation tonight? We’ll go someplace quiet and romantic. Up to Malibu, maybe. Jeffrey’s restaurant, or—”

  Anna shook her head, her heart tightening in her chest. “I don’t think so.”

  “What then?”

  “I don’t know. I need some time.” She stood; Ben did too.

  “How much time?” His eyes bored into hers.

  “I don’t know. I’ll call you.”

  “You’re not really going to let this mess us up, Anna. Come on! ”

  She raised her chin and kissed him softly. “I’ll call you. And Ben?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Don’t follow me.”

  Anna was going to drive straight home from Santa Monica. She really was. But when she reached the intersection of West Olympic Boulevard and Avenue of the Stars, she impetuously turned her loaner red Acura TL onto the Avenue of the Stars, and then into the parking structure below one of the immense high-rises that made up this incongruous L.A. neighborhood known as Century City.

  There was the ubiquitous valet to take her car, and the ubiquitous garage elevator that swooshed her up, up, up to
the thirtieth floor—the floor that housed the offices of Percy Tweed Partners, her father’s investment firm. Their striking offices had been designed by the Dutch architect Rem Koolhaas; they featured exposed beams and pipes, irregular walls, and a gleaming parquet wood floor.

  The receptionist had straight chestnut brown hair and a button nose with a smattering of freckles. She wore a sleeveless gray cashmere sweater and gray pants over her lean frame. “May I help you?”

  Funny, in all the time that Anna had been in Los Angeles, she’d never been here.

  “I’m Anna Percy.”

  “Mr. Percy’s daughter?” the young woman exclaimed, taking off her phone headset for a brief moment. “He talks about you all the time.”

  Anna was taken aback. Her father talked about her all the time?

  The woman looked something up on her computer. “I’m Claire. It’s such a pleasure to meet you. Your dad … is in a meeting with clients from Oman. He probably shouldn’t be interrupted, unless it’s an emergency, of course.”

  “That’s okay. I didn’t come to see him, actually. Is Caine Manning around?”

  “Your dad’s intern? Absolutely,” Claire told her. “I’ll buzz him.”

  She typed something on the keyboard—a bare minute later, Caine pushed through the mirrored doors into the reception area, carrying a stack of manila envelopes. He wore black trousers, a crisp white dress shirt, and a red- and-black striped tie. His tattoos were covered, and his ears were earring-free.

  “Hey, stranger!” He dumped the envelopes on the reception desk into the wire basket for outgoing mail.

  “Hey, yourself. You’re looking quite corporate.”

  “I told you, protective coloration,” Caine replied easily.

  “You have a minute?”

  “Sure. Come on back.”

  He opened one of the doors and led the way through a warren of trapezoidal gray cubicles, until they came to a conference room with a spectacular view east toward downtown and the San Bernardino Valley. He pulled out one of the high-backed black suede chairs for Anna on the side where she could take in the landscape.

  “I wanted to thank you in person for the flowers,” she told him as he sat down across from her. “That was unbelievably thoughtful of you.”

  “I have my moments. Glad you liked them.” He leaned back in his chair and stretched his arms out. “So, ready for your big night?”

  “Not really,” Anna admitted. “Kind of … fraught, actually. My mother and my sister showed up to surprise me.”

  “Good surprise or bad surprise?”

  “Um, peculiar surprise.”

  “Oh hell, everyone’s family is insane, don’t worry about it. Do the cap-and-gown thing, kick back with your friends, and realize that everyone will be gone on their merry ways in a couple of days.”

  Friends. All week, Anna had just assumed that after graduation she would go someplace with Ben and they’d spend the summer together. Now that was out. What were the alternatives? Sam would be with Eduardo. Even though Anna liked the new and chemically balanced Dee, they weren’t really friends yet. Besides, she was completely involved with Jack. And of course, forget Cammie. What was Anna going to do all summer? And then what about after that? She’d be heading off to Yale to start all over again, make all new friends and start a whole new life. Would Ben be a part of it?

  Caine laced his hands behind his neck, clearly at home in his skin and damned okay in both of his worlds.

  Why not? She could almost hear Sam’s words in her head: “Goddammit, Anna. Be an active heroine. What would an active heroine do in your situation?”

  Anna took a deep breath.

  “I like that idea. Kicking back with friends.” She nodded, putting her hair behind her ears.

  “Well, I hope you have a great time. And maybe we’ll run into each other over the summer.” He stood up and smiled as if to go back to work.

  “Hold on.”

  Caine looked at her quizzically.

  “I was wondering if …” Damn. This active heroine thing wasn’t so easy. “I was wondering if … well … would a friend like to hang out with a friend tonight? After graduation?”

  “Could be.” He peered at her more closely. “But the friend who’s good at reading people is wondering if there’s a motivation for this invitation.”

  “There is,” she admitted.

  “It being … ?”

  “I had a fight with my boyfriend.”

  “Ah, yes. Scowling Dude from the movie line. Got that preppy thing goin’ on.”

  “We didn’t break up,” she added hastily. “And I’m not inviting you on a … date or anything, so I would completely understand if you don’t want to be with me under the circumstances—”

  He held up a hand. “Got the picture. Rashomon is playing Redrum tonight. You into it?”

  Anna looked bewildered.

  “Redrum—a new club in Hollywood. Rashomon—Asian fusion rock. They kick ass. We’ll have fun.”

  How had the tables turned? Now she felt like she was the one considering an invitation. Okay. She could deal with that, as long as Caine truly understood her situation. Lies of omission could be just as painful as lies of commission.

  “I love Ben.”

  “Glad to hear that. How about after we hit the club—I know this amazing guy in Venice—you can get I LOVE BEN tattooed someplace it will really hurt.”

  Anna laughed. “You’re crazy.”

  “We on?”

  “On,” Anna agreed. “Do you want to pick me up? Say around eight?”

  “Call me after you get handed your diploma.” He reached across the table for Anna’s hands and helped her up. Once she was standing, he didn’t let go and his smile disappeared. “I even promise not to hit on you.”

  Anna arched a brow. “Good to know.”

  “I’ll wait until you hit on me.”

  She giggled. Instead of wallowing, paralyzed with inner angst, she was making decisions. She was acting like a goddamn active heroine, in fact. Sam would be proud of her.

  Acid-Green Faux-Fur Shrug

  Cammie was aghast as she took in the low-slung building ahead of them. “The Zurich Haus hotel in Sherman Oaks? Gawd, who stays at a place like that?”

  “My mother, evidently,” Sam replied nervously. There’d been no valet; they’d had to park behind the hotel and walk to the entrance. In some ways, Sam didn’t mind. She’d been so nervous about this meeting that she’d scratched all the polish from her last manicure at La Prairie off her nails, then nibbled them practically to stubs. She couldn’t believe this moment was actually real.

  Last night, after the party, she’d gone back with Eduardo to his condo and they’d reconnected in every possible way. Afterward, he’d held her while she poured her heart out about this reunion with her mother. How freaked out she was. How angry.

  The hardest part, she reluctantly admitted, was how little she remembered of her life with her mother. She had vivid memories of sixth grade, seventh grade—everything that had come after her parents divorced. But before that, it was a blur, with only the occasional birthday party, vacation, or movie opening clear in her mind. She lamented to Eduardo how she didn’t remember a single intimate moment with her mother—sitting on her lap, coloring with her, shopping … all the things that girls did with their moms.

  How sad and pathetic was that?

  Ironically, Eduardo had offered the same advice she’d given to Anna. “You can’t change the past. Just listen to what she has to say. If you are so busy resenting what you think she did or didn’t do, you will not be able to hear anything she says now.”

  Okay. Good advice. But it sure as hell was easier to give than to take.

  And how did one dress to see a mother who walked out of your life nine years ago and never looked back? Sam had put on and rejected a dozen outfits. She’d finally settled on dark-wash Seven jeans and a pleated black silk Imitation of Christ shirt, with round-toed taupe-and-black snakeskin Prada
pumps. She wanted to look put-together and independent, like someone who didn’t care that her mother had been missing for the last nine years. As for Cammie, she’d gone in completely the opposite direction. She wore a citron leather miniskirt that barely covered her ass, and a paisley Chamoni nylon-and-antiqu-lace bustier that laced up the back, under an acid-green faux-fur shrug. Her four-inch-high shocking pink velvet platform shoes matched her Pout lip gloss. Her eyelash extensions were heavily done with mascara, which couldn’t be good for their longevity.

  “Don’t be surprised if men in the lobby ask your price,” Sam told her, as they pulled open the glass doors of the ZurichHaus, which had no doormen.

  “I’ll ignore that dig. You’re nervous.”

  “More like petrified. We’re supposed to meet her in the café. I have to tell you, I feel like barfing.”

  “Sam.” Cammie stopped and took Sam’s wrist.

  Sam turned to her. “What?”

  “It’ll be okay. Really.”

  Sam managed a small nod. “Thanks. And I wanted to thank you for something, too.”

  “What?”

  “Your idea for last night. How to get back at Stefanie.”

  “Hey, you hired the actor,” Cammie grinned. “One who could barf on cue.”

  “It was your concept, though.”

  Cammie shook her curls off her face and winked at a cute blond FedEx guy leaving the building. “Like I always say, that’s just the kind of bitch I am.”

  It wasn’t hard to find the café. The room was utilitarian—white stools around white tables, one walnut-stained wall of shelving with souvenir tchotchkes and knickknacks from various Los Angeles attractions, a small bar at one end. Just as Sam was thinking, What if I don’t even recognize her?—she found herself looking at the table in the rear corner. No doubt about who was sitting there.

  “Sam,” her mother intoned with a smile. “And Cammie Sheppard. I’d recognize you anywhere. Sit, please.”

  Almost mechanically, Sam took the stool across from her mother; Cammie sat between them. She was a little shocked. Her mother probably had been pretty thirty pounds ago, but now looked so old. But she couldn’t be more than … what? Late forties? Sam realized that no one in Beverly Hills ever looked like they were in their late forties, because they began having work done in their late twenties. She wasn’t used to seeing a female face with actual lines on it.