by Tanya Stowe
She scrambled out behind him, tugging on his hand. “Jackson, you can’t. You’ll be mobbed.”
“I doubt it.”
They walked into a packed dining room. Not a single table sat empty, and at least ten people stood in line ahead of them. Not pausing, Jackson walked straight up to the cash register and turned to face the people in the line. “Hi, folks. I hope you don’t mind me interrupting the process here.”
Some folks gasped. Behind him, other people whispered his name until the whole dining room came to electric silence. He turned and waved.
“Howdy, everyone. This is my first long-term visit here, and I couldn’t wait to try Fast and Fresh. But I’m afraid I’ve made us late for an appointment.” He turned back to the line. “So I was wondering if y’all would allow me the pleasure of buying your lunches so we can be on our way.”
A few gasps were followed by a stunned silence. He was pretty sure one of those gasps came from Sunny. Good. He wanted to send her on a few flip-flops of her own. After that mega-jolt she’d given him, it was only fair.
One burly fellow with tattoos up and down both arms stepped out of line. “You can buy my lunch anytime.”
Jackson nodded. “Much obliged.”
Two teenage girls giggled their agreement, and a young mom mumbled a very audible thank you while she wrestled an infant in her arms and a wriggly toddler on her leg.
“Sunny, why don’t you place our order while I try to find this lady a seat?”
Not far away, two older women occupied a large table with chairs to spare. “Ladies, do you mind if this young woman joins you? She looks as if she’s about to drop.”
The little white-haired women nodded. They smiled and made room for the harried mother as Jackson pulled up one of the restaurant’s high chairs. By the time he returned to the register, the clerk had finished almost all of the orders. One woman who’d just finished eating handed him her receipt and asked for his autograph.
“There you go.” He handed it back with a polite tip of his hat.
“Will your new album be coming out soon?”
“By the end of the summer. Thanks for asking.”
The last of the customers he’d offered to pay for placed their order, and Jackson charged it to his credit card. By that time, their order waited on the counter in a big white bag.
He gripped it in one hand and placed his other at the small of Sunny’s back. She slid the cardboard holder full of drinks into her hands, and he guided her toward the door. Just as they were about to leave, he turned and waved. “Thanks, folks. I sure am enjoying my visit here in Southern California.”
They were out the door in a flash. Sunny started to lag behind, and he stepped back and gently guided her forward. “A fast getaway is the key to avoiding the mob.”
One of those cute giggles slipped out of her again as they half ran to the limo now parked in the only empty corner of the parking lot.
Jackson opened the vehicle door. Sunny slid in. He climbed in behind her and slammed it shut.
“Dan, let’s hit it.”
They pulled away just as people began to tumble out the swinging doors, waving as the limo passed.
Sunny fell back against the seat. “Now that’s what I call shock and awe. Just plain shock and awe.”
Jackson grinned. “Works for me every time.”
3
They arrived at the first apartment complex, nestled in the Hollywood Hills, fashionably late by five minutes. The manager was waiting for them in the spacious, airy lobby. Full-sized windows opened onto a large pool area, where perfectly spaced lounge chairs lined the square of blue water.
Drought-resistant palms and small bushes filled the area, blocking out the sounds of pedestrian traffic and cars, which told Sunny the complex had been built in recent, water conscious years.
A small cabana perched at the end of the Olympic-sized pool featured a bar. Everything was sealed tight, but the manager assured them the heated pool would open soon and would be a central gathering place for the residents all summer long.
Sunny’s staff had put together the list. Trusting their abilities, she hadn’t paid much attention to the rental units they’d chosen. Now, looking at Jackson’s decidedly uninterested features, she wished she done so. Even before the manager took them to the sixth-floor penthouse, she realized this building was not to his liking.
The immaculate penthouse boasted a hilltop view of the cityscape and contained all the conveniences, including a spa and a private terrace. Ultra-modern furniture in tones of gray, black, and white dominated the living area. Tasteful splashes of brightly colored pillows dotted several sleek chairs and a divan.
Jackson nodded politely and said all the right words to the manager, but they were descending the private elevator to the foyer within moments.
As they slid into the car, Sunny put a bright tone in her voice. “The next place is right along the Miracle Mile in the Wilshire District.”
“What’s the Miracle Mile?” Jackson leaned back on the seat, one booted ankle over his knee. He was clearly trying hard to appear interested, but Sunny wasn’t fooled.
“Well, in the 1930s, that stretch of Wilshire Boulevard was a dirt road leading to bean and dairy farms. A developer by the name of A. W. Ross was fed up with the deteriorating downtown area so he decided to create an ultra-modern shopping and financial district here on Wilshire. His development was unique because Ross wanted the area designed for automobile traffic rather than pedestrians. All of the buildings were to be in Art Deco style, and he wanted the heights at multiple levels so each building’s signage could be seen while driving at the daring speed of thirty miles per hour.”
Jackson’s lips lifted on one side, a bare semblance of a smile.
Sunny breathed a little sigh of relief. She was beginning to feel as if he hated everything about her team’s choices of living spaces…maybe even hated L.A. And that would turn her immediate future into a constant, time-consuming challenge of keeping her celebrity happy during his stint as judge on Rising Stars. The months ahead rolled out before her in a disheartening pattern of constant smiles and bright comments. Way too much high energy that would be better spent creating a business plan for her new production company.
She took a deep fortifying breath before continuing. “Ross wanted the signs to be larger than life, to make them visible at those speeds. Streets were made wider and the first left turn lanes in the country were brought into play. Ross was credited with creating the modern car-oriented urban form. It was called ‘the linear downtown’ and became so popular so fast, it was dubbed the ‘Miracle Mile.’ All across the country, city after city revitalized and modeled their downtown areas after it.”
“So Ross is also responsible for cementing the automobile’s place in Southern California culture. He’s the man to blame for all this traffic.” Jackson timed his comment to play out just as they pulled to a stop at yet another stop light.
Sunny’s momentary feeling of success faded. “Yes, it’s true. Traffic is heavy here. Getting across town takes planning and time. But you have to admit, we have the most efficient freeway system in the world.”
Jackson tilted his head downward so she couldn’t see his eyes beneath the brim of his hat. But the deep, rich tones of a chuckle filled the car. “Yep. I do have to admit the freeways are efficient and most people appreciate that…if they survive the heart attack the speeds give them. Some people just don’t believe we were meant to go eighty-plus miles an hour on the ground.”
Sunny’s hopes sank to the bottom of her toes as they pulled beneath the shade of the next complex’s large portico and came to a stop.
Dan hopped out and opened the door on the side of the entrance…Jackson’s side.
Jackson leaned forward so she could see his gaze and she almost wished he hadn’t. His brown eyes warmed to the color of caramel and filled her with a sweet yearning from the bottom of her hopeless toes to the top of her spinning head.
“D
on’t worry, Sunny, I’m not one of those people. I love speed. It’s one of the things that did give my momma fits when I was in school.”
Then he flashed her his rare smile and a bolt of pure, Jackson Maise electricity shot through her. Sunny sat for one stunned moment, hoping the tingling in her fingertips and her thumping heart would stop.
Speed wasn’t the only thing that gave Jackson’s momma fits. Sweet, caring person that she was, she should have plastered a caution sign on her son’s forehead for all the unprepared females within ten miles.
Sunny didn’t move, waiting for the aftereffects of the Jackson shockwave to pass. She would have stayed longer, but Jackson climbed out and reached back in, offering her a hand. She had to take it or appear foolish, and she couldn’t afford to do that. Her weakness needed to be her secret.
Tripping over her own feet, she tumbled out of the limo. Jackson’s strong, sturdy hand kept her stable. She let her fingers trail over his palm and fingertips as he released her and moved behind.
The automatic doors whooshed open and they stepped into the Tuscan-style lobby of the rental complex.
The exterior of the complex was painted in a bright, almost garish gold. The style was Mediterranean villa, with balconies, wrought-iron railings and shutters. Not laid out in the square block pattern of the last complex, this one was comprised of several smaller buildings spread over a half-block, the tallest being the main one, which rose to twenty stories.
The manager took them in a small cart to tour the tennis courts, a community building for larger get-togethers, and the pool area, all designed for maximum privacy. Low, drought resistant, spiky shrubs, palm trees and deep red bougainvillea draped over all the textured walls.
The penthouse was located on the twentieth floor, and as they ascended in the private elevator, Sunny had better hopes for Jackson’s approval. So far, he seemed comfortable with the space of the Tuscan-styled complex and its old-word flavor.
She wasn’t disappointed in the penthouse either: dark wood, bold fall colors of rust, fireball orange, browns, and beiges, marble on the floors and countertops, and a massive balcony that ran the length of the penthouse and afforded a spectacular view reaching all the way to the ocean.
But ultimately, Jackson nodded his appreciation to the manager, and they descended to the ground floor and the waiting limo. Dan pulled into the heavy traffic of the Miracle Mile. Stalled in a blocked lane, Sunny didn’t have the heart to even try to distract Jackson from their latest delay. They sat silent—Sunny on one side of the wide limo seat, far from Jackson’s invasive influence, and Jackson on the other side.
After a long while, Jackson pointed out the window. “This must be your Miracle Mile. That building has a distinctive Streaming Moderne look.”
Sunny couldn’t hide her surprise.
Jackson noticed. “What? You don’t think a country boy like me can be educated in early twentieth century architecture?”
“I didn’t think a country boy like you would care.” She surprised herself with her quick, too honest comeback.
“I care.” He pointed to the building. “Streaming Moderne—a style of the late Art Deco period characterized by a departure from the typical ornamentation of the period in favor of sleek, horizontally streamed lines and cylindrical shapes.”
Sunny nodded. “That’s text book perfect.”
“Yep.” Jackson gave a nod of his cowboy hat. “That was the problem with my architectural designs. All textbook and no inspiration. It’s exactly why I decided to go back to music. I knew some of that was uniquely mine.”
“You were an architect before you made it big in country music?”
He shook his head. “I studied architecture for two years in college before I realized my heart simply wasn’t in it. I love old buildings and designs, but I can’t create the really brilliant stuff.”
She studied Jackson with a semi-fierce glare until he finally turned back to face her.
“What?”
“So you really did like my little tour guide speech about the Miracle Mile and its buildings. You just acted bored to make me uncomfortable.”
His lips twisted in his signature wry, semi-smile. “No. I expressed my discomfort with the traffic. I can certainly find better things to do with my time then sit on a gridlocked side street.”
“Even if that side street is lined with twentieth century marvels?”
At last Jackson chuckled. “OK. I’ll concede that point to you. I am interested in these architectural marvels. But they were built in the twenties and thirties. They’re over eighty years old and surrounded by modern skyscrapers on high value real estate. I don’t know how they’ve survived.”
“Miracle Mile is still a center of the financial district but of course, the department stores like the May Company, Desmonds’ and Silverwood’s have disappeared. They don’t even exist anymore.”
“Exactly my point. Times have changed, and someone has to carry the cost of restoring and maintaining these old structures.”
“The district got a shot in the arm when some of the buildings were added to the National Register of Historic Places. It’s actually become a vital area again, but now it’s known as Museum Row. That building you like so much with the gold cylinder face is being repurposed and should open up next year as the Academy Museum of Motion Pictures. You know, the people who do the Oscars.”
A slight frown creased his brown. “Not exactly my favorite topic.”
“Maybe not, but you’d love the A+D Museum…short for Architectural and Design. That’s right up your alley.”
He nodded. “Well, the proximity of a good museum and some fabulous buildings does raise my opinion of the area a notch…” The words trailed way as they entered the freeway on-ramp and came to a stop in deadlocked traffic.
Sunny sighed. “It’s rush hour. I’m sorry. The reality of L.A. is freeway gridlock, and we’re on the 405 Freeway, one of the busiest.” But she refused to be disheartened by his obvious dislike of her hometown. “Fortunately, for us, we’ll be getting off soon and heading toward the beach. Our next place is located in Malibu. I think you’ll like it.” She hoped he would. It was their last option. Besides, she had fond memories of Malibu. “I used to live there,” she murmured as scenes flashed through her mind: her dad teaching her to body surf, And laying on a blanket on the warm sand beside her mother as the hot summer day lazed away.
“In Malibu?”
“Yes, my dad inherited a small beach house from my grandfather, and we lived there when I was little before my mom and dad split.” She didn’t add that her father had sold her grandfather’s valuable property and blew it all on drugs before his death. That was one vision she didn’t want popping into her mind…the image of her father stretched out on the floor of the nasty apartment where she and her mother had found him.
“Did your grandfather own a lot of Malibu property?”
Jackson’s question drew her back from the brink of the dark abyss surrounding her father’s mistakes.
She shook her head. “No. He inherited it from his father, my great-grandfather. My dad grew up in that house on the beach. He used to tell me such great stories about those days. Back in the sixties, it was the happening place. Think beach movies. They filmed those just down the way from my dad’s old house. He said he skipped school to watch them film. Between takes, the male stars and the stunt men were out in the water, learning to surf on those crazy long boards. At night, they’d take off in dune buggies and hit the sand hills before meeting back on the beach for a bonfire.”
“My dad always said one of those young starlets was his first crush,” Jackson said.
“I imagine the whole group of them were a lot of pre-teen crushes. By the time my dad came of age, the sixties were moving into the seventies, away from those simpler times…especially the music. My dad got his start working seventies groups. Things changed rapidly after that, but my dad always said some of his happiest days were spent in our family beach house.
” Some of her favorite memories of him were made there, before the drugs took over his life.
“Your family has a long history here in Los Angeles.”
She blinked away the tears that always came when she thought of her father’s wasted life and nodded. “My great-grandfather crossed the States with his family in a covered wagon and landed here just before the silent picture era exploded. I’m a third-generation Californian. There aren’t too many of us around. Most people here are transplants from other States.”
“Like me?”
She smiled. “Like you. But something tells me you won’t be here long enough to call yourself a transplant.”
The limo crested a hill and the Pacific Ocean burst into view. Blue water undulated as far as they could see, cresting with sparkling tips in the late afternoon sun.
Jackson gave a low, slow whistle. “If you show me more beautiful sites like this, I might start liking it better.”
~*~
Dan made a turn and squeezed the long limo onto a narrow strip of pavement. The wide car reached almost into the lane of oncoming traffic with cars whizzing past on the Pacific Coast Highway.
They had to exit on his side and Jackson wasn’t sure he could even get his long body out of the narrow passage between the car door and the closed garage of the plain little building. He didn’t like letting Sunny know he was unhappy, but his discomfort simply couldn’t be hid. He’d been feeling cramped ever since he left the plane yesterday morning. Surrounded by buckets of people, cars, and now buildings…he needed space. The small, nondescript house with the plain gray clapboard didn’t look as if it would break the pattern.
They had to edge their way along the garage to the sidewalk where a locked gate stopped them. Fortunately, they didn’t have to wait long. The agent waited just inside and opened the gate to let them in. Once the gate shut, the tall fencing blocked out some of the noise of the street.