A-List #10, The: California Dreaming: An A-List Novel (A-List)

by Zoey Dean

  "Fine," Dina agreed, fingering one of the buttons on her frumpy beige blouse. "The short version. Your dad got very successful very fast. Our lives were utterly changed by Hollywood in the fast lane. It wasn't a world where I felt comfortable. I didn't like it, and I didn't want it. In fact, I hated it."

  "Oh, I see. So it's all Dad's fault for getting successful." As if hating Hollywood and money and success had given her mother the right to chuck it all. "That makes so much sense."

  Dina plunged on. "When we split up, I was running away from everything. Your father, Hollywood, a certain kind of lifestyle, and you," she admitted. "I was going to reinvent myself in New York and pursue my writing. It was selfish and wrong, but I was young and stupid and probably much more self-centered than I want to admit even now."

  Her eyes flicked to Sam, then back to her flute, as if, Sam thought, holding her gaze was too painful. She brushed a speck of lint from her ugly trousers.

  Sam watched a diminutive woman with a choppy bob start to clean up the material and pins and fabric tape that Gisella had discarded while fitting Sam's gown. Her gaze went back to her mother.

  "If you're waiting for me to encourage you to continue, you'll be waiting a long time," Sam said flatly.

  Dina nodded. "Fair enough. After a while, when I hadn't spoken to you, it became harder and harder to reach out. We lived in different worlds. I told myself you were better off without me. And ... I suppose I told myself that so many times that I even started to believe it."

  Silence. That was it? That was the big maternal confession? Sam tugged angrily at the hem of her black blouse. She didn't know what to say. To think that her mother had left because she simply didn't like the way her life had turned out? It was mind-boggling. It was ...

  It was the kind of thing Sam would do. Maybe not abandon a child, but Sam could see herself doing whatever it took to get away from a suffocating life.

  "I don't expect you to forgive me, Sam," Dina went on. "But I hope you'll give me a chance to get to you know again, at least. To be your friend."

  Sam didn't need a friend. But over the years, she'd needed a mother desperately. One part of her wanted to hurl her champagne flute against the three-quarter mirror, watch it shatter into a thousand shards, and tell her mother to go to hell. But another part of her wanted to bury her face in her mother's arms.

  The needy part of her won out.

  Sam didn't trust herself to speak. So she just nodded. Then her eyes landed on Dina's cheap brown flats. Target. Wal-Mart. Someplace like that. They made her laugh.

  Dina's eyes looked a little hurt. "I was going for profound."

  "Look at your toes."

  Dina looked down. She was scuffing the toe of her right foot against the toe of her left foot. She smiled. "I guess it's genetic."

  Now Sam and her mother shared a smile. The same smile, Sam realized. Could it be that she and her mother were--gasp--sharing a moment?

  "Hey, you two!"

  Sam and Dina both turned. America's Best-Loved Action Star had just stepped into Gisella's studio. He wore faded jeans, an old white button-down dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and Adidas tennis shoes. But as he crossed the floor, dodging mannequins and racks of clothes, it was as if a tsunami of charisma preceded him, clearing the way. Sam had seen the Jackson Sharpe effect in action many times. That it would work on others was a given. That it still affected her was astonishing.

  "How's the mother and daughter?" The charisma got more intense the closer he came.

  "Eating and talking, not fitting," Dina admitted. Her eyes shone, a dead giveaway that she was not immune to the Jackson charisma wave either, even if she'd divorced him years before.

  Jackson cupped his hands in the direction of Gisella's office. "Hello! Madame Designer? Come out and do your thing for the mother of the bride who's against the wedding! And by the way, so is the father!"

  Under ordinary circumstances, Sam would have been irritated. But her dad's voice was so good-natured, and she was so wrung out from her talk with her mother, that she couldn't muster up any annoyance.

  "Thank you so much for your support," she quipped, which made her mother and father both laugh.

  Gisella came back out of her office. Sam and Jackson talked easily and ate more sushi as the designer measured Dina, then cut fabric and pinned it and measured some more, finally promising that she'd have Dina's gown ready the next morning. What would it look like? Gisella would only smile and say that Dina had to trust her. As for Jackson, he'd be wearing a tux by Ted Lapidus, his favorite designer.

  "How'd you get here?" he asked Dina, when Gisella was finally finished.

  "Cab," she admitted.

  "Sam, you've got the Hummer?"

  "Yep."

  "Well, I've got the Jensen. How about we send my assistant, Kiki, to pick the Hummer up later, and I drive us all home?" Jackson took the keys from his pocket and tossed them lightly in the air.

  There was every reason to say no. They were against the wedding. They weren't a real family. She'd wanted to go for a massage at the Century City Athletic Club, because Olga from Moldova was working this afternoon.

  Sam said yes.

  Twisted SisterThursday morning, 11:00 a.m.

  Anna's father looked pale under his tan. "Scared the hell out of you, huh, sweetheart?"Actually, there weren't any words for how scared she'd been. The mental tug-of-war that had been her relationship with her dad ever since she'd moved west had been based on the assumption that he would always be there. She was too young to think about the mortality of her parents. And yet it happened all the time; people dying young, in an accident, or just out of nowhere. It had almost happened to her in a plane crash, just a few days ago.

  She shuddered, not wanting to share any of her morbid thoughts with her dad. Instead she smiled. "You could say that."

  He laughed, gingerly touching the bandage that circled his head. "Scared the hell out of myself."

  It was two days after Jonathan had been rushed to Cedars-Sinai for emergency brain surgery. Anna was happy to find her father had been moved to a luxury private room on the fourth floor and was in the midst of making a rapid recovery. She hadn't talked to Dr. Miller--she was scheduled to stop in sometime during the next half hour--but from her conversation with her father, the way his eyes followed her around the room as she moved, his lucidity, and even his sense of humor, she'd have been surprised if his subdural hematoma had any severe aftereffects.

  There was a plush dove gray easy chair to the left of his hospital bed--a bed that looked more like it had been imported from a French château than the kind of bed Anna was used to seeing in a hospital. Anna plopped into it. Her dad's breakfast had just been served, and clearly he already had an appetite, because he was forking scrambled eggs with capers and creamed cheese into his mouth with gusto. Cedars-Sinai was the preferred hospital of Hollywood's rich, famous, and infamous, and had recently been experimenting with the idea of luxury hospital accommodations and care for their many patients to whom money was no object.

  Jonathan's present suite--Anna couldn't bring herself to call it a hospital room, because it was much closer to a luxury hotel room than to typical hospital accommodations--was one of these experiments. Painted in soft sky blue, with framed photographs on the walls that Anna recognized as having been taken by Ansel Adams and Alfred Stieglitz, a wall-mounted fifty-inch HD flat-screen television monitor, a state-of-the art sound system with an eight-gig iPod on the nightstand plus connections for the patient's own iPod, high-speed wireless Internet, a small refrigerator fully stocked by the hospital's dietician, and the aforesaid bed, easy chair, and matching couch, and soft lighting that could be adjusted by the same remote that worked the electronics, it was a place to be sick in style.

  "Want some of this?" her father offered, gesturing to the tray of food. "It's damn good."

  "I'm not that hungry." Something about this was still making Anna anxious.

  "Are you sure this is from tennis?"<
br />
  "Of course I'm sure! I was playing doubles at the Riviera Country Club with a couple of Sony execs in from Tokyo. I was at the net, and one of these Sony guys lost his grip on his racquet while he was hitting an overhead; the racquet caught me on the side of the head. I didn't think a thing of it at the time, just thought I had a bump."

  Anna shivered. It was so, so random. Her dad was lucky that he had been at home when the symptoms had hit. What if he'd been driving? He could have crashed and killed himself. Or what if he hadn't been Jonathan Percy, but had just been your average Los Angeleno who didn't have full-time household help to call for an ambulance? The thought made her weak in the knees because it was so real. She could so easily have been at a funeral this morning instead of in her father's plush hospital room.

  "But you're having a complete physical and everything?" Anna asked, because she still needed reassurance. "Just in case those headaches--"

  "Anna. I'm fine. Really." He took a sip of melon juice. "So what have you been doing since yesterday?" He pushed a button on the remote; a moment later a young woman with jet black hair in a shaggy bob, clad in a fitted navy Armani blazer, and sporting a name tag that read BETH WILLIAMS, GUEST SERVICES, as if this were a hotel rather than a hospital, came in to remove the breakfast tray.

  "Besides worrying about you?" Anna asked, after the young woman left. "I had a fitting for my bridesmaid dress for Sam's wedding last night; the rehearsal dinner is tonight and the wedding is tomorrow."

  Jonathan shook his head. "Better her than you."

  Anna actually agreed with that sentiment. She couldn't see herself marrying for a long, long time. But Sam, on the other hand, seemed so happy. And Anna only wanted the best for her friend, so ...

  "There's a time for weddings and a time to stay single," her father went on. "Don't rush."

  Anna was about to say she had no intention of rushing when her father's bedside phone rang. He answered with his customary "Jonathan Percy" and then launched into a detailed conversation about hedge funds and stock index futures, which was both excruciatingly boring and further confirmation that his mental faculties seemed unimpaired. It gave her a moment to check her own appointment list for the day, which she'd scribbled on a sticky note just to keep it all straight. At noon, she was supposed to meet Dee for a final wedding-cake tasting. Dee had tracked down the best baker in the city, a young woman named Joy Wilson, whose Web site was a thing of beauty--her cakes really were a work of art--and whose cupcakes Dee had devoured at the CD launch party for Jordin Sparks. Joy was going to do the actual baking this evening, a cake for seventy-five people, but they still had to decide whether it would be vanilla-coconut or Belgian chocolate. Sam had left the decision in Dee's hands.

  Then they'd go to the Beverly Hills Hotel for the wedding rehearsal and rehearsal dinner. Dee had already consulted her on the menu and wine list, which she'd narrowed down with the help of the hotel's head chef and sommelier. Dee had hired Django to play and Citron to sing at the rehearsal dinner, and the jazz singer Diana Krall would perform at the wedding itself.

  Dee's overall notion for the wedding was simple: "Elegant, elegant, elegant," as she put it. "Very Old Hollywood. Glamour and glitz as befits the daughter of Jackson Sharpe, with some Peruvian touches for Eduardo and his family."

  It was good that Dee was so on top of things, because with her father in the hospital, Anna had barely been able to concentrate enough to turn the switch of the Braun coffeemaker this morning. And Cammie, who should have been helping out, was missing in action. Anna felt bad on Sam's behalf. Cammie was supposed to be Sam's oldest and closest friend, yet, per usual, she was taking the selfish way out.

  Logan was being so sweet about everything. He'd stopped by the house yesterday with a takeout lunch from Spago, given her a supportive hug, and asked that she stay in touch. Being with him was so easy--as if she'd known him forever. Maybe because she had. Anna had invited him to the rehearsal dinner and the wedding, and she smiled just thinking about sharing the evening with him.

  But she couldn't help wonder, every now and then, if she shouldn't be thinking about him more. Was it normal to have days go by and not think about a guy when a relationship was brand-new? When she'd been with Ben, she'd thought about him all the time. But she certainly didn't miss the drama, anxiety, and insecurity that had come with the relationship. Anna decided this was how it was supposed to be if a romance was healthy.

  Honestly, though ... sometimes she still thought about Ben. His family had sent a massive flower arrangement. And Ben had made a personal delivery of a box of DVDs from Vidiots in Santa Monica that would supplement the hospital's already-large collection. Or at least, so she'd been told--she'd been off talking to the doctor when he'd stopped by, and he'd only stayed long enough to check in on Jonathan and deliver the DVDs. He hadn't called Anna since he'd surprised her in the intensive care waiting room, and she hadn't called him. That part of her life was over. She had accepted it and was ready to move on.

  But the question was ... move on to what? She was either off to Yale, or to Bali with Logan. And she still didn't know which choice was right.

  About the only thing that would take her mind off her father's health, or her own indecision about the future, was writing. Part of her was nervous and uncertain. She'd uploaded her screenplay for The Big Palm to Sam a few nights before, and every time she talked to her friend she expected a reply. A comment. Something. But all she got was a big nothing. Anna could only conclude that Sam had hated it, and that by being silent, she was being kind. She didn't want to out-and-out lie to Anna about the awfulness of her writing, so she figured silence was the best alternative.

  A creative writing teacher had once told Anna that you couldn't write to try and impress anyone, or you would end up impressing no one. That finally, you had to write for yourself. Ironically, Anna had not impressed that particular teacher with her writing. Although she'd aced the class, just as she aced every class, she had not been thought of as the star, the talent. There had been two other students who got all the attention.

  So maybe she was crazy to keep writing, but now she found it an unexpected lifeline. With one screenplay done, she started on another one. This one was about a rich girl who got hooked on heroin and had to hide it from everyone. In the first twelve pages the girl went to a MoMA fund-raiser looking skinny and ethereal and perfect. She wore couture, and was adorned with hundreds of thousands of dollars' worth of jewelry, but her long gloves hid the track marks on her arms, and she passed out in a toilet stall, blood dripping across her pale pink evening gown.

  When Anna finished twelve pages, she reread it. It wasn't entirely dreadful. Too dramatic, maybe bordering on melodramatic? But Anna had known girls like this; her own sister, in fact, had passed out in some of the best ladies' rooms in New York. But good? Anna had no idea if it was good.

  "I'm telling you, Malcolm, this is a great deal and you should get in on it," her father insisted, switching the phone to his other ear. The business call droned on.

  "He's making a quick recovery." Anna heard the steady voice of Dr. Miller growing louder as she approached the room. "He'll need to take it easy for a couple of weeks. No driving, lots of rest, and his wound will need some care. But I'm starting to think that your father is the poster boy for subdural hematomas."

  Anna stood up from the dove gray chair slowly. Who was Dr. Miller talking to? She'd said "your father." That could only mean ...

  Anna's sister, Susan, bounded into the room, followed by Dr. Miller, in her customary green scrubs. Susan wore faded jeans and a white Kripalu Center T-shirt from the yoga retreat where she worked, red flip-flops on her feet. Her hair was stuck in a haphazard ponytail and she wore no makeup. Seeing Susan au naturel--she was known for her over-the-top sex queen outfits--was almost as shocking as seeing her sister at all. Susan was grinning, clearly enjoying the shock value of showing up out of nowhere. Anna had kept her apprised by phone about how her father was progressing; Susan had called
twice today, in fact. But Anna had never expected her sister, who was not big on family obligations, just to walk blithely into her dad's hospital room.

  "Surprise," Susan said, her blue eyes clear and bright.

  Her father stabbed a happy finger in Susan's direction, as if to say, You trickster! and quickly wound up his phone call.

  "Susan!" Her father hung up the phone. "Both my girls!"

  "Shut up and hug me!" Susan demanded, and Jonathan did. Then Susan hugged Anna, and Anna found herself hugging back, hard. No one in the world could understand how terrible it had been to watch her dad go through this but her sister.

  "This is ... this is unbelievable. I never expected ..." Jonathan's voice became choked with emotion. Dr. Miller slipped discreetly out of the room.

  "What? That I'd come? I had to," Susan said lightly, running a hand through her short blond hair. "Besides, who else would take over the second shift?"

  "Excuse me?" Anna asked, confused.

  "I'm replacing you. So someone can be here with Dad when you leave for Yale. When do you fly out?"

  Anna was so surprised she could hardly speak. "Oh--I--Saturday at noon," Anna sputtered.

  That was when she was supposed to fly out, at least, though whether or not Anna would be on that flight was unclear. It was the craziest thing. Every time she thought seriously about Yale, Bali looked like a better option. Every time she thought seriously about Bali, she'd hear Carlie Martin's voice and feel herself drawn to New Haven and Yale. She'd been almost grateful, strange as it sounded, for the distraction of her father in the hospital, once she knew that his life wasn't in danger. It gave her less time to think.

  "Saturday at noon," Susan nodded. "That's what I thought. Good thing I have a flexible schedule. And care-taking experience," she added, gesturing to her Kripalu T-shirt.

  "I can hire a nurse!" Jonathan protested, sitting up in his hospital bed.

  "Yes, you can. But you're not going to. Because I'm moving in, and I'll do what Anna's doing right now. Only better, because I'm older and smarter and more treacherous." Susan grinned wickedly, refilling Jonathan's glass of melon juice with the jug on his meal tray.