by Jean Stone
“What would you rather have me do?” Jake went on. “Stay home and play with you all day? Go to the health club with you? Eat watercress sandwiches at the Wilshire every noon?”
Ginny looked back to the sea. “We could travel,” she said. “Monte Carlo, Hong Kong, Rio. Anywhere. Just to get out of this shit hole. Find some action.”
Jake was quiet for a moment, then he spoke quietly. “So I could watch you hit on a different bartender every night?”
Ginny didn’t answer. They never talked about her escapades, but Ginny had always known that Jake knew. Shit. He was an old man, with neither the interest nor the ability to get it up often enough. So he let her have her fun and probably thought she really got off on it. And she did. At least in the beginning. Christ—she smiled as the bartender’s contorted face came to her mind—Jake should’ve seen what happened a few minutes ago.
“Besides, Ginny,” Jake spoke again. “It’s not the money. It’s the opportunity.”
“For what? To be able to keep coming to these shit-ass parties?”
“More like the chance to keep learning. To interact.” He was thoughtful for a moment, then added, “To stay in the game.”
“Jesus,” Ginny whispered, and dug her nails into the sand. Then she stood up and brushed off her dress. “I want to go home,” she announced.
Jake pulled himself up. “Wait, Ginny.”
She turned and looked at him.
“Why don’t you come on the shoot with me? A few weeks in Napa is bound to be better than hanging around L.A.”
Ginny laughed. “Can’t. Got my charity work, you know.”
Jake bent his head. “I hate it when you lie like that.”
“Oh, Christ, it’s not like he’ll ever find out. Besides, doesn’t that make me sound like the perfect wife?”
“Ginny …”
She turned on her heel and headed back to the house.
“I’m not going to any fucking vineyard,” she called back. “You’re lucky you got me to come here.” She marched up the steps to the house, wondering why she kept wanting to hurt Jake, wanting now only to go home, take a Seconal, and go to sleep.
They didn’t talk on the drive home. The only words that came out of either of their mouths happened when Jake wheeled into the circular driveway of their house in the canyon and they spotted the red Porsche.
“Oh, no,” said Jake.
“Jesus Christ,” said Ginny.
Jake pulled up next to the Porsche, and they both got out. Silently they walked to the front door. Jake turned his key in the lock, the sound of rap emanating from within. They stepped into the foyer. To the left was the family room. Brad was sprawled across floor pillows, tapping his fingers on the Aubusson rug to the beat of the CD.
“How the hell did you get in?” Jake barked over the noise.
Brad turned and waved. “Yo, Pops! How’s it goin’?” Even from the doorway Ginny could see that Brad was shitfaced.
“Leave him alone, Jake,” she said. “Let’s go to bed.”
Jake stalked into the room and snapped off the CD player. “Get up,” he commanded his son. “And get out of my house.”
Brad rolled to one side. He had on torn, tight jeans, and the buttons on his white shirt were undone, revealing his muscular chest and taut stomach. As he turned, his gold chains clinked together. Nice body, Ginny thought. Too bad he’s such an asshole.
“Is that any way to talk to your only son?” Brad chided.
Ginny could see Jake was fuming. Something, maybe everything, about Brad always touched his anger button.
“Give me the key,” Jake demanded.
“What key?”
“The one you let yourself in with. Hand it over.”
Brad laughed. “Don’t have a key, man. Never needed one yet to get where I wanted to be.”
“How’d you get past the security system?”
“I know the code, man. I lived here for twelve years, remember?”
“I changed the code.”
Brad shrugged. “Big deal. I cut the wire. So sue me.”
Jake reached down and grabbed him by the arm. “Get up. And get out.”
Brad grabbed Jake’s other arm. “Hey, man, take it easy.”
Ginny sighed and walked to where they were, locked in their perpetual father-son battle.
“Jake, let go. Brad, knock it off.”
The two men looked at her.
“Love the dress, Mommy,” Brad said. “Where’s the rest of it?”
Jake released his grasp and slugged Brad in the face. He fell backward, letting go of Jake’s arm.
Ginny put her hands on her hips. Her cheeks felt flushed. “What do you want, Brad? Why are you here?”
Jake turned and walked to the fireplace. He stood with his back to the room, his shoulders tight. Brad sat up and touched the spot where Jake had connected with his face.
“My old lady threw me out,” he said quietly.
From the fireplace Jake gave a loud guffaw.
“I needed a place to crash tonight.” He looked toward his father. “I thought I could depend on coming home.”
“You should have thought again,” Ginny said, trying not to stare at the dark hair on his chest that curled around his tight, excited nipples.
“Besides,” Brad continued, “I wanted to talk to him about a little business proposition.”
Jake turned toward his son. “What kind of trouble are you in now?”
“Believe it or not, none. I’m trying to go straight, Dad.”
Jake laughed. “Seems like I’ve heard that before.”
Ginny walked to the low moire sofa and sat down, the hem of her dress riding high on her thighs. She crossed her legs. Brad looked at her, then dropped his eyes to her crotch. From his vantage point on the floor, Ginny knew he was seeing more than his father would have approved of.
Brad turned back to his father. “I’ve got a chance to open a restaurant.”
Jake leaned against the marble mantel, looking exhausted. “And just what the hell do you know about restaurants?”
“Betty’s husband owns one. I’ve been running it for the past two years.”
Jake’s and Ginny’s eyes met.
“Who’s Betty?” Ginny asked.
“A lady. Friend of mine.”
“Funny, this is the first we’ve heard of it,” Jake said.
“I’m not exactly a welcome visitor around here.” Again he touched the place where Jake had hit him, and Ginny suspected that this time he did it for effect. “Anyway,” Brad continued, “her old man went bankrupt. I’ve got a chance to pick it up dirt-cheap. Two hundred grand.”
“Sounds like a lot for a restaurant that’s bankrupt.”
“It’s not the restaurant that went bad. Betty’s old man was into other things.”
“What kind of ‘other things’?”
Brad shrugged. “Who cares? Real estate, I guess. Just give me the money, and I’ll get out of what’s left of your hair. You’ll never have to see me again.”
A tempting offer, Ginny thought, but she doubted if Jake would do it.
“Why don’t I believe you?” Jake asked.
Brad picked at the heel of his suede boot. Ginny almost felt sorry for him. What chance had the kid had? His mother was an alcoholic—something Ginny could certainly relate to. But unlike her own, Brad’s mother had deserted them when Brad was only six, Jodi four. And no matter how hard Jake had tried, and Ginny knew her husband well enough to know he had tried—maybe too hard—both kids had seemed to have inherited their mother’s proclivity for screwing up.
“Check it out for yourself,” Brad was saying. “Fresco’s on Fourteenth Street. Around the corner from Rodeo Drive. Great tourist trap.”
Ginny looked at Jake. Maybe Brad was telling the truth.
Jake sighed. “I’m leaving in the morning. I’ll be gone until October twelfth. I’ll think about it while I’m gone.”
“That might be too late,” Brad said.
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“Tough,” Jake answered. “I told you I’d think about it.”
“And what do I do in the meantime?”
“First, you get out of my house. Call me when I get back, and I’ll give you an answer.”
Brad stood up. He ran his fingers through the dark hair on the top of his head, then adjusted the band around his long ponytail. “Fair enough,” he said. “Remember, Pops, I’ll be out of your hair forever.”
He brushed past Ginny, looked at her, and winked. Harmless though it was, if Jake ever knew the way they flirted with each other, he’d kill them both.
* * *
It was late in the morning when Ginny sauntered into the kitchen, rubbing her eyes, trying to wake up. The red tile floor was cool beneath her bare feet, but her face felt warm and weary, the way it always was after she’d had too many drinks the night before.
Consuelo was at the stove, scrubbing the grate of the built-in gas grill. Jake must have had a steak for his breakfast. If he kept that up, Ginny would be a rich widow.
“Good morning, Consuelo,” she managed to say through a cotton mouth.
“Señora.” The woman acknowledged Ginny with her usual coolness. “Señor Jake left about an hour ago. He be back October twelfth. Said he didn’t want to wake you.”
“Mmm,” Ginny mumbled, and took a carton of orange juice from the refrigerator. She poured a big glass, looked at it, then reached into the cabinet over the sink. She took down a large bottle of vodka and splashed a shot into her juice to clear her brain. She tightened the tie on her silk robe and shuffled out to the patio, leaving Consuelo muttering to herself.
Ginny set her glass down on a glass table, flopped onto the cushioned chaise, and decided she hated L.A. Once, long ago, it had been a dream. She was supposed to have been a star, lavished with attention, known by everyone on the street, recognized around the world. Instead, all she had was Jake’s money and the anonymity of being just another Hollywood wife: a transient role that could change on any given day.
She closed her eyes and let the sun bake her hangover. True, Jake was good to her, and he said he loved her. But that was one emotion Ginny had no connection with. Love was nothing more than a bullshit word used by people who wanted to either fuck you or own you. If they wanted both, it was called marriage.
Now the next month stretched ahead of Ginny with no boring cocktail parties, no have-to-do’s. She was alone to do whatever she damned well pleased, and Ginny intended to make the most of it. She could start by hitting some of the hot spots Jake wouldn’t be caught dead in, maybe even plan a way to make a comeback. Over-forty had become a hot age for superstars. Maybe it wasn’t too late, after all. She rolled onto her side and took a deep drink of the screwdriver. If it didn’t work, she always had her gold card, and a little time in Rio might be just what the doctor ordered. Then, if she felt like coming back, she would. Jake would still be here. What the hell, he loved her, right? The bitter orange juice burned its way down her throat and sank into the empty pit of her stomach. If only he weren’t so damned nice to her. It would be so much easier to give two shits about him if he gave her a little challenge.
“Señora?”
Ginny rolled onto her back and closed her eyes again, wondering why the Christ these immigrants refused to speak English.
“What?” she asked flatly.
“Will you be wanting your dinner prepared?” The woman’s tone was, as usual, disinterested. It always was, except when she was talking to Jake. Then her black eyes sparkled, and she gushed with motherliness. But the fact that the two women simply didn’t like each other didn’t bother Ginny. She couldn’t care less.
“Jesus Christ, Consuelo, it’s only ten o’clock in the goddamn morning.”
“Sí, señora,” came the crisp reply, and Ginny heard the woman shuffle back into the house.
She sat up on the chaise and rubbed her temples. Maybe Rio wasn’t such a great idea, Ginny thought. The hiss of foreign words always gave her a headache. She drained her glass and wondered if she should call her agent. If she was lucky, he might even remember her.
“Ginny?” It was a soft voice, coming from the direction of the house.
She turned toward the sound and squinted against the white-hot glare of the sun. The figure stood about twenty feet away. It looked like a little girl.
“Yeah, that’s me,” Ginny said.
The figure stepped forward tentatively. “Ginny,” the voice said, “I never thought I’d find you.”
Ginny shielded her eyes with one hand. Who the Christ was it? Leave it to Consuelo to let a stranger in without warning.
“Yeah, well, you did,” she said, still trying to make out the approaching figure. “Who are you?”
“It’s Jess,” the voice said. “Jess Bates.”
The figure stood in front of her now. Ginny felt the vodka turn over in her stomach. She was small; hell, she always had been. Her hair still was short and neat, like everything about her, and her clothes, though casual, were still haute couture—Milan or Paris, no doubt. She had little lines around her eyes, but there was no doubt about it, it definitely was Jess Bates. Ginny’s head tightened.
“What the fuck are you doing here?”
Jess smiled. “Same old Ginny,” she tried to joke.
“How the hell did you find me?”
The woman laughed, a twittery, childlike laugh that told Ginny Jess was nervous. “I hired a private detective. I think he found you through a talent agent.”
Well, Ginny thought, at least I’m still on file. “A private dick?” she asked. “You must have been pretty hot to find me.”
“I wanted to find you, yes.”
“Nice to know you’re still rich.”
“It doesn’t look like you’ve done too badly for yourself, Ginny.”
Ginny snickered.
“May I sit down?”
“No,” Ginny said, and lay back on the chaise. “I’ve got nothing to say to you.” The vodka and orange juice soured inside her. For an instant Ginny thought she might puke on Jess’s Bally shoes.
“Please, Ginny,” Jess said. “I’ve come all the way across the country.”
Ginny shrugged. “Then you’d better go all the way back.”
“I have something important to tell you.”
“Nothing I’d be interested in, I’m sure.” She reached in the pocket of her robe and pulled out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. She lit a cigarette and blew out the smoke.
“You’d better leave,” Ginny said, “before I have Consuelo call the cops.”
Jess crossed in front of the chaise and took a seat on the chair facing Ginny.
“I don’t think you’ll do that.”
Ginny took another drag. As if life weren’t fucked up enough. Now her past—and everything she’d forced herself to forget—was sitting on her deck. Ginny looked at Jess, feeling the bile rise to her mouth. She swallowed it back and took another drag. Then one thought crept to the surface: This woman saved your life. Ginny closed her eyes.
“What do you want?” she asked.
“I’ve thought about you a lot over the years.”
“This isn’t like blackmail or anything, is it?”
Jess ignored her and continued, “I’ve thought about you, and I’ve thought about the others.”
Ginny laughed. “Pretty P.J. and snotty Susan?”
“You remember their names. You haven’t forgotten them either.”
Ginny didn’t answer.
“I’ve especially thought about our children.”
Ginny sat up and stubbed out her cigarette.
“Look,” she said, “if you’ve come here to dig up that old shit with me, you’ve got the wrong person. I forgot about that long ago, so I think you’d better leave.”
Jess folded her hands on her lap.
“I’m not going anywhere. Not until I’ve told you what I’ve come to tell you.”
Ginny flopped back on the chaise.
“It doe
sn’t mean I’ve got to listen.”
“You’re still bitter, aren’t you?”
Ginny laughed but said nothing.
“Ginny.” Jess leaned forward and touched the end of Ginny’s chaise. “I think it’s time we made things right. Time we faced up to the past; time we got on with our lives.” She paused, then went on. “I think your mother would have wanted that.”
Ginny closed her eyes again. The sun was growing higher; sweat was beginning to form under her arms. In her throat the bile stung. She felt as though this were a dream, only a dream, a very bad dream. She tried to shut out Jess’s words, but it was too late. And then Jess told her what she planned to do.
When Jess finished, Ginny stood up. “Get out of my house,” she said simply.
“Ginny …”
Fire raged inside her. “Who the fuck do you think you are? You can’t just blast in here after all these years and make an announcement like this! You can’t just decide to do something so stupid that’ll fuck up other people’s lives! Who the fuck do you think you are?” she ranted as she crossed the patio. “Besides, you can’t do it. It must be against the law, and I have a hard time believing a prissy thing like you would do anything illegal. As I recall, crime didn’t exactly suit you.”
A pained look came over the other woman’s face, but Ginny could tell she was going to tough it out.
“Look.” Ginny stopped pacing and continued. “A long time ago you did me a favor. I appreciate it. But I don’t owe anybody squat. Not you. Not that baby.” She started toward the house, then turned back to Jess. “And believe me,” she added, “my mother would not have wanted me to do this. Think about it.”
“What about you?” Jess called after her. “Haven’t you ever wondered—”
“No. Now get out.”
Jess stood up and straightened the pleats in her slacks. “October sixteenth,” she said. “Two o’clock. At Larchwood Hall. I hope you’ll change your mind, Ginny. For your daughter’s sake.”
Ginny stormed into the house, pulled the sliding door across its track, and slammed down the bolt. She raced to the kitchen sink, bent her head, and threw up.
CHAPTER 5
Jess