Fringe Benefits

by Christine Pope

  My parents let me stay at home rent-free while I finished college, but I would have paid for my room and board if they’d asked. By that time, though, they were suffering from empty-nest syndrome. Ellen had gotten married and moved out when I was a sophomore, and of course Alex, being six years older than I, was long gone by then. I’d gotten the impression my parents would have been happy for me to stay at home as long as I wanted. That had never been in my plans, however. As soon as I had what I thought was a reasonable amount saved up—about ten grand—I’d pulled up stakes and come out to L.A. And until I’d landed this job at Pyramid Imports, I’d been beginning to think that my gamble wouldn’t pay off.

  But it had paid off, apparently in spades. However, that didn’t mean I should be hasty about replacing the apartment. Plenty of time for that later, after I felt a bit more settled. Besides, stupid as it might have seemed, I felt a definite pang at the thought of leaving this place. It had been home for the past seven months, and it was here that I’d met Leslie, the only true friend I’d made in Los Angeles. We’d bonded in the laundry room after some jerk yanked our stuff out of two of the four dryers and dumped it with little ceremony on the table meant for folding clothes. After Leslie and I shared mutual complaints, we decided to engage in a little guerrilla warfare and pulled the unknown asshole’s clothes from the dryer and put ours back in. This assertion of our rights created a connection, and we ended up drinking beer in Leslie’s apartment and sharing our life stories.

  Despite her sometimes rough exterior, Leslie had a strong protective streak. I think she took me under her wing because she could see how lost and overwhelmed I felt after being in Southern California for only a few weeks. Dummy me—I’d come to L.A. in late January, thinking it was a great time to get away from Montana’s snow. I should have done a little more research. January and February are usually the rainiest months around here, and I found all I’d done was swap snow banks for day after day of gray skies and rain. True, at least I didn’t have to worry about shoveling out a driveway or scraping ice off my windshield, but it was still pretty gloomy. Whoever said it never rains in Southern California has obviously never lived here.

  I glanced at my watch. Quarter to twelve. Plenty of time to still get an early lunch with Leslie and catch a matinee of the movie she wanted to see. Some horror-fest, which wasn’t my usual thing, but I figured I’d be able to handle it if I could walk out afterward into bright sunlight and not have to worry about facing a dark apartment alone immediately following the film. And apparently her brothers, having decided a party on Friday wasn’t enough, were having Part Deux this evening. Maybe not the ideal way to spend a Saturday night, since they had a couple of friends who were awfully persistent and who hadn’t quite yet figured out that my continuous stream of “no” to their requests for a date actually meant no, but definitely better than sitting at home alone.

  Just as I was reaching for the phone on the side table next to the couch so I could call Leslie and let her know I was home, my cell phone rang from the depths of my purse. I scrambled to get it, thinking that maybe Van Rijn needed something else he’d forgotten. Maybe he needed a ride to the airport. Maybe he had forgotten to give me the keys to the back warehouse.

  Maybe he’s decided he’s so overcome with love for you that he wants you to fly away to Europe with him, my brain sneered at me. So of course I thought then, Yeah, right. Ha-ha.

  And when I picked up the phone, that’s what I said: “Ha.” Not hello or hi or anything rational. “Ha.”

  A pause. Then a voice that definitely wasn’t Van Rijn’s. “Uh…Katherine?”

  It only took me a few seconds to place who the caller had to be. “Jonah? Sorry—I was reading something online when you called.” That sounded plausible enough…I hoped.

  “Let me guess—more of the current administration’s sunshine up our asses about the state of the economy?”

  I let out a shaky laugh. “Yeah, something like that.” Even though I somehow managed to sound casual, I found myself feeling a little astonished that he’d called. After all, guys say all the time that they’re going to call and then don’t. He hadn’t even followed the three-day rule; supposedly you were Not Cool if you didn’t let at least three days elapse between the time you asked for a girl’s phone number and when you actually called her.

  “You busy?” he asked.

  No point in sounding too over-eager. “I had plans for this afternoon. Lunch and a movie with my friend Leslie.”

  “What about tonight?”

  A date with Jonah seemed infinitely preferable to one of the Silverman boys’ arrested-development bashes. On the other hand, something felt strange about agreeing to go out after I’d spent the drive back from Van Rijn’s house obsessing about the way his tanned throat had looked against the white collar of his shirt. So I equivocated. “Mmm…I’d sort of planned to go to a party at a friend’s house.”

  “Only ‘sort of’ planned? How committed are you to this plan?”

  Despite myself, I grinned. “I guess I could be persuaded to change my plans if I got a better offer.”

  “Then consider this a better offer. Dinner and an excursion to an exciting destination to be revealed as the evening progresses?”

  “Sounds mysterious.”

  “That’s me—the mystery man.”

  Leslie would be fit to be tied when she found out I already had a date with Jonah. “Okay,” I said. “What time?”

  “Pick you up at seven-thirty?”

  “All right,” I replied.

  And after that it was just mechanics—I gave him directions, and he said he’d see me later that night.

  I snapped my cell phone shut and put it down on the coffee table. I should be feeling pleased with myself. After all, just the evening before I’d thought Jonah was all kinds of cute. The long dry spell in my personal life looked as if it might be coming to an end. I should be happy.

  But all I could think of was the clear blue of Van Rijn’s eyes, and the way the sunlight had caught in his short-cropped fair hair as he stood on the front step of his home. Somehow this date with Jonah felt like cheating. And that, I told myself, was just idiotic. Pieter Van Rijn was my boss. Nothing more, no matter how I might respond to him physically. Mooning after him like an awestruck freshman pining for the high school quarterback was pointless and certainly not something an almost twenty-five-year-old should be doing.

  I figured if I kept telling myself that a couple hundred times between now and the time when Jonah actually picked me up, I might actually begin to believe it.

  Seven

  Jonah picked me up that evening in something that resembled a roller skate on wheels. I didn’t know exactly what I had been expecting, since he hadn’t really struck me as the BMW or Mercedes type, but I was pretty sure I would never have thought of that—that—

  “What the hell is that?” I blurted, after he opened the passenger door of the skate for me.

  He assumed a mock-wounded expression. “You’ve never heard of a SmartCar?”

  “What, it balances your checkbook for you or something?”

  “That would have been nice, but no.” Jonah shut the door after I’d seated myself in the passenger compartment; to the little car’s credit, it did have a lot more head- and legroom than I would have expected. And the door closed with a satisfying thunk, indicating it was made out of something a little more substantial than cardboard and papier maché.

  I waited as Jonah got into his own seat and fastened his seatbelt, then pulled away from the curb.

  “If it makes you feel any better, it’s actually made by Mercedes,” he continued. “Very safe.”

  Yeah, right. I shot a wary glance at the SUV to our right. That thing looked as if it could squash us like a bug without even trying. “Um, okay.”

  He laughed then. I managed a wary smile, but I could tell he had us headed toward the freeway, and I wasn’t exactly thrilled by that proposition. Then again, maybe the glorified golf car
t could do just fine at freeway speeds. Good thing it was bright blue. I wondered if the manufacturer had chosen that color so the car wouldn’t be easily overlooked by other drivers.

  “Eighteen-month waiting list,” Jonah continued. “Everybody’s hyped over mileage these days.”

  Somehow I doubted Jonah had had to wait quite that long for his toy. Rank hath its privileges and all that. I thought maybe it was better I didn’t mention it, though. Even our brief acquaintance had told me he seemed kind of touchy about his father.

  “So where are we going?” I asked.

  “You like sushi?”

  “No,” I said at once. “My uncle’s a cattle rancher. He says if God had meant for us to eat our food raw, he wouldn’t have given us fire in the first place.”

  Once again Jonah laughed. Then he gave me a quick glance before returning his attention to the road. We’d pulled onto the freeway, but I noticed he was staying in the slow lane, not taking us much above the speed limit.

  “Do you know how many girls would’ve just said yes and then tried to choke down a tuna roll?”

  That just sounded silly to me. “No. Why make a guy waste his money buying you food you don’t really want to eat? Besides, don’t most Japanese restaurants have teriyaki and tempura? I could have that if you’re set on sushi.”

  “Very practical of you. I guess Montana girls are just more practical than Southern California ones.”

  “Maybe,” I hedged. Actually, most of the people I’d met so far seemed to have their heads screwed on pretty straight, L.A. origins or no. Then again, I ran in a slightly different crowd than Jonah Freeman, despite the proletariat dress he affected and his apparent disdain for his father’s circle. I just knew that Leslie sure as hell wouldn’t pretend to like something just because her date did.

  “What about Chinese food? You like that?”

  “Oh, definitely,” I replied at once. “And Thai, too, except when it gets too spicy.”

  “Well, that settles it,” he said. “Chinatown it is.”

  He took the turnoff for the Harbor Freeway and headed into downtown. Traffic limped along at a dizzying five miles an hour. I could see the lights at Dodger Stadium blaring away to my right, so maybe the game had something to do with it. But luckily we didn’t have to stay on that freeway for very long. Almost immediately Jonah swung the little car over to the left and got off at Spring Street, aiming us into the heart of Chinatown. I fought the urge to cover my eyes with my hands—we got just a wee bit close for my taste to the back bumper of a Ford F-350 that probably ate SmartCars for breakfast.

  We pulled up to the valet station in front of a building that looked like a Buddhist temple, but which proclaimed itself to be the Empress Pavilion, without losing any fenders, limbs, or other items of importance. At once one of the valets hurried over to open my door, and I climbed out as gracefully as I could. I’d had a hell of a time deciding what to wear. After all, Jonah hadn’t impressed me as someone who cared too much about clothes. On the other hand, I refused to go out on a date looking like I was just running down to the grocery store to pick up an emergency pint of ice cream. So I’d compromised by wearing a nice silk camisole with some beading, along with my best pair of jeans and some strappy sandals. At least I didn’t have to worry about being taller than Jonah, even in three-inch heels. Of course I’d never seen his mother, but he definitely didn’t take after his father in the height department.

  Although the restaurant was jammed, we didn’t have to wait long for a table. As soon as Jonah gave his name, there was a quick whispered convo between the hostess and an imposing older gentleman who might have been the manager, and in a remarkably short amount of time we were sitting at a cozy spot for two off in an obscure corner. A red paper lantern overhead cast a slightly sinister glow over our booth.

  “Their specialty here is dim sum,” Jonah remarked as I picked up a menu. “But just order whatever you like.”

  “Dim sum sounds great,” I said, which was the simple truth. Frankly, so far I really hadn’t met a Chinese dish I didn’t like.

  “Wine? Or a cocktail?”

  I hesitated. Wine was the usual thing to have with food, I supposed, but a mixed drink sounded like more fun. “Cosmopolitan,” I replied.

  His eyes glinted. “You watch a lot of Sex and the City?”

  “No. But I had a college roommate who was obsessed with it. She used to make pitchers of Cosmos. I wasn’t about to turn down free drinks.”

  “Of course not.”

  A waitress wearing a red brocade jacket showed up then and took our drink orders. Jonah requested a gin martini for himself along with my Cosmo. I was a little surprised; I would have expected him to drink something more subversive.

  “Did you know gin is the hardest alcohol for the body to process?” I asked. Jonah lifted an eyebrow. “It’s true. Something in the juniper berries is really hard for the liver to filter.”

  “So should I change my drink order?”

  “Of course not,” I said. His expression didn’t change, so I added, “Don’t mind me. I tend to blurt out useless information from time to time.”

  “I wouldn’t say it was useless,” he replied. “Maybe not the exact thing I want to hear right before I drink a martini, but not useless.”

  Of course the waitress chose that exact moment to show up with our drinks. Jonah shot me an amused glance just before he hoisted his martini and said, “To our livers.”

  “May they never fail,” I chimed in, and we clinked glasses.

  The waitress looked mystified, but she only asked if we wanted to order. We told her what we wanted, and she beat a hasty retreat.

  “So,” I said, after I’d taken a second fortifying sip of my Cosmopolitan, “how long has your father known Pieter Van Rijn?”

  Jonah’s eyes narrowed for the slightest fraction of a second. “Is that why you went out with me—so you could pick my brain about your boss?”

  “Of course not,” I said at once. Then again, would I have felt a flash of indignation if his question hadn’t been a little too close to the mark? “I was just curious.”

  At first Jonah didn’t say anything. He speared one of the olives in his martini, put it in his mouth, and chewed for a few seconds. Finally he replied, “I guess about seven or eight years now. He first came on the scene some time when I was in college, but I wasn’t really paying that much attention. I just remember my father talking at Passover one year about this amazing antiques dealer and how the table we were all sitting at had come from some estate in Scotland or whatever.” He shrugged. “I probably would have tuned out most of it, except that my father went on to say I should show a little respect, considering Van Rijn’s grandparents were killed by the Nazis.”

  That remark made me sit up a little straighter in my seat. “So they were Jewish?”

  “Nope.” Jonah killed off another olive, then said, “I guess they were with the Dutch resistance. Not guerrilla fighters or anything like that. The family had some kind of money, and they were using their resources to smuggle Jews out of the country. But eventually the Gestapo caught up with the grandparents, and they were shipped off to Belsen, where they died. His mother was just a kid, so she was taken in by friends of the family. When she grew up, she married the oldest son. Sounds like something out of a Danielle Steele novel, doesn’t it?”

  “I guess so,” I said. I’d never read a Danielle Steele novel in my life, although my mother loved them. But my head was spinning. To me, with my safe upbringing and a family that had been established in America for the last hundred and fifty years, the Holocaust had only been a tragic, distant tale. I’d never met anyone who’d been directly affected by it. Until now, apparently.

  “I really wanted to tell their story,” Jonah went on. “It would have been the perfect project for my senior thesis. So I did as much research as I could, but when I went to Van Rijn to tell him about it, ask his permission, he turned me down flat.”

  “Did he say why?�
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  “Not in so many words. You know how he is—the guy could give classes in manners and deportment. But he made it pretty clear he didn’t want his family’s history aired in public.”

  Well, that did sound just like Van Rijn. Still, I said, “You’d think he’d want his grandparents recognized for what they did.”

  Jonah raised his glass to me, as if to acknowledge the common sense of my statement. “Exactly. But he wouldn’t hear any of it. I even tried bringing up Schindler’s List—not that I was really trying to compare a student project to a multi-Oscar winner—but just to show what it did for someone not many people had heard of before. Might as well have been talking to a brick wall.”

  “He does seem like a private person,” I ventured. “Maybe it’s just painful for him to talk about.”

  A shrug. “Maybe. It’s not like he ever knew them. They died twenty-five years before he was even born.”

  That seemed like an awfully callous statement to me. I’d been lucky enough to have both sets of grandparents around while I was growing up. My mother’s father had died when I was eight, leaving Uncle Bret the ranch, but the rest of my grandparents were still alive and kicking and doing pretty damn well. I couldn’t imagine not having them in my life. Just because Van Rijn hadn’t known his maternal grandparents didn’t mean he couldn’t still miss them on some level.

  Pointing out this observation probably wouldn’t be very tactful, though, so I just sipped at my drink and then said, “I guess it’s his decision as to how much information he wants out there. I hope you came up with something else for your project.”

  Jonah tipped the remainder of his drink down his throat. I found myself wondering if I should call it quits after I finished my Cosmo. At the rate he was going, I was going to end up being the designated driver whether I wanted to or not. “Oh, I still stuck to the basic story—I just changed the names and some of the situations. You know, the old ‘inspired by true events’ spiel, but not enough that Van Rijn could give me crap for ripping off his grandparents’ story.”