by Eliza Gordon
I grab at my ears with my free hand. “Oh. Right. Thank you. It’s in the bathroom. Lady Macbeth called in the middle of Jericho doing my hair—oh, I should get you water. There’s Perrier from last night—”
“Let me take the flowers—I will water us both. Will I find a vase in the kitchen?”
“On top of the fridge.” I start toward the kitchen, but Marco stops me, a hand light against my bare arm. Ever so gently he kisses the tip of my nose, his smoldering brown eyes locked on mine. Dear lord, if Dwayne Johnson weren’t hanging out in a hotel downtown waiting for his esteemed guests, I’d tear every last stitch of clothing off our bodies and call it even.
“Dani, I can get the water. Go fix your ears.” He smirks.
“Yes. Sorry. I’m a little nervous.”
“You don’t say.” That glorious grin will never find its equal. I shiver as his hand slides down my arm, and he takes the flowers.
I retreat into the bathroom, holding the dress’s full skirt so I don’t trip and break my neck. Would be just my luck to get an evening like tonight but end up in the ER in a full-body cast because I forgot how to walk in heels.
Left earring reattached, I check for lipstick on my teeth, rinse with mouthwash again, and fold up a few Kleenexes to stuff in my impossibly small handbag.
As I emerge, Marco is again standing near my two-seater kitchen table, a sweating bottle of Perrier in one hand, one of Howie’s books in the other.
“A Farewell to Arms? Howie was a Hemingway fan?” Marco sets the bottle down and cradles the book in his palm, opening the cover. “Have you looked through these?”
“Not really. I had my diary you gave me hidden in there earlier. Glad I remembered to pull it out before one of my nosy sisters found it.”
Marco flips the front pages back and forth. “Dani—I think this is a first edition. And it’s signed.”
“What?” No way. I swish across the apartment, and he shows me the opened book. “You’re kidding me. . . shit, it is.”
He folds the book closed and turns to the box, pulling out yet another title. Tortilla Flat, by John Steinbeck. Not signed, but first edition from 1935. The Hobbit, by J. R. R. Tolkien, signed, “Second Impression, 1937.”
There are ten more books besides these. All first or second editions, half of them signed.
In researching and gathering signed and first edition books for Mommy, I know this is more than just a friend gifting me some old keepsakes.
“These are worth something,” Marco says, before I can get the words out.
“How . . . ? Why would he have these in a plastic bag in his shopping cart, and not in a bank vault somewhere?” I ask. “I can’t believe they’re in such good condition, either. This is insane.”
“Whatever his rationale, he knew their value. And he gave them to you,” Marco says, gently closing a copy of Wise Blood, by Flannery O’Connor. “You get what you give, Dani.”
“But I didn’t give him more than any other decent person would have. And he could’ve sold these. He could’ve had a better life, off the streets.”
“Don’t discount the important role you played in his life. Something happened to him at one point that led him to make the choices he did.”
“He had a wife and young son . . . they were killed by a drunk driver,” I say quietly.
Marco sets the book down onto the table behind him, and when he looks back at me, I swear his eyes are damp. “That day in the gym, when I told you how everyone there had a story—Howie was no different. Perhaps you look at it as though you only took him hot food or lent a patient ear, but it meant so much more to him than that. He saw something special in you. It’s the same special I see in you.”
My breath quickens. “Stop . . . you’re gonna make me cry, and I’ll melt all my makeup.”
With gentle fingers, he traces the sides of my neck, down across the top of my shoulders. My skin erupts in goose bumps. “Let’s save the makeup melting for later, shall we?” His lips twist in a roguish half smile.
I nod and swallow hard, resisting the urge to kiss him. “Should we go?” I squeak.
He slides the books back into the box and closes the lid. “To protect them from Aldous,” he says, nodding at the crazed tabby cat hanging from my shredded curtains.
If those books really are worth something, my first stop will be the pet store to buy Howie’s fur baby a proper cat tree. Thank you, Howard Nash. Thank you.
I move to the counter and pick up my beaded handbag, double-checking that the Miami Hurricanes trading card is safe inside in its plastic baggie.
“Do you have the tickets?”
Marco pats his breast pocket. Of course he has the tickets. “Dani, take a deep breath,” he says. “You’re shaking.”
God, I am. But it’s less about seeing DJ and more about the very visceral effect this tuxedoed man before me is having on my heart and other relevant anatomy.
Marco offers his bent arm. “Milady,” he says, “let’s go meet your hero.”
SIXTY-THREE
I’ve driven past the Nines Hotel a thousand times since it opened in 2008; I’ve even longingly perused their website, promising myself that when I became a famous actress, I’d stay here when I flew into town to visit Mommy et al. Locals know it as the part of the repurposed Meier & Frank Building; to everyone else, it’s the swankiest hotel Portland has to offer, the perfect blend of contemporary furniture and design with its bright colors and Tiffany-blue patterns and modern-day luxury with glassed-in meeting spaces and intimate gathering spots and a breathtaking atrium.
However, the website does not do it justice.
We park in a structure around the block, because getting anywhere near the front of the hotel is impossible—I didn’t know Portland even had that many limousines.
There’s even a red carpet!
The sidewalk and main entry are lined with enough tuxes and taffeta worthy of a state dinner or even the Oscars. Elevators take us up to the eighth floor to the front desk/lobby area in smaller groups so we do not plummet to our deaths from overloading. Once we step out, it is again a sea of gorgeous humanity, the air frenetic. While beautiful, shiny people greet friends and take selfies and exchange air-kisses, Portland’s version of paparazzi snaps photos.
I’m squeezing Marco’s arm so hard, he pats the top of my hand and reminds me that if I cut off his circulation, he’ll have to charge me for the amputation.
We check in at an antique wrought iron-and-glass table set up to receive us and are directed to either the elevators or the “elegant birdsong stairs” down to the sixth-floor ballroom.
Sure, the elevator would be safer, but being the dramatic creature I am, I want to take the stairs so the whole world sees me descend in this dress.
By the fourth or fifth step, I’m regretting my vanity, forgetting how bloody sore my legs are from yesterday.
We make it to the bottom without incident, following our fellow revelers to the doors of the huge ballroom. Marco checks in yet again, and we’re given our table assignment. I’m so glad his brain is screwed in right tonight—I am in numb shock that we’re even here. This place is jaw-dropping.
The walls are covered in more of the trademark patterned wallpaper; massive white chandeliers with fluted glass sconces bathe the room in a soft, warm light; the plush gray, red, and blue carpet underneath looks more like a painting than a floor covering; round tables wear gray skirts, tasteful flower decorations at their centers, surrounded by padded red-and-gold chairs.
The human energy coming out of this place could power the entire city for a year.
Once we find our home for the evening, a waiter swoops in and takes drink orders. Marco orders red wine for us both; I am too distracted watching every possible entrance into the room, hoping for a glimpse of our guest of honor.
“Dani, have a sip,” Marco says, handing me my glass. “We’re here. Time to relax.”
One by one, the other seats at our table are claimed. Marco holds my han
d under the tablecloth, rubbing a thumb over the top of my knuckles. I’d say it’s easing my jitters, but actually, it’s hot. Every time he touches me, I feel like grabbing him by the lapels and doing unholy things to his person.
“They may ask you to leave. No one is supposed to look better than the guest of honor,” I tease in his ear.
“Says the woman who is the envy of all who spy her.” He releases my hand to squeeze my thigh, but I yelp. He laughs. “Oh, is that tender?”
I nudge him with my shoulder (also sore) and turn so the new people at the table can’t hear me. “I must confess, this is the best first date I’ve ever been on. It’s way better than getting my period at the miniature golf course.”
He chuckles. “That happened?”
“Wearing white pants, no less.”
“Well, for our second date, I’ve received confirmation from my mate Elon—you know, the fellow with SpaceX? We’ll be heading to Mars for dinner next Thursday. If your schedule permits, of course.”
“Mars? Again?” I feign an exasperated sigh. “But it’s so hot. What ever shall I wear?”
“Maybe no white pants. They don’t call it the Red Planet for nothing.” Marco leans over and plants a light peck on my cheek, his arm around the back of my chair, his thumb rubbing the side of my shoulder.
What is air?
Once our table is filled to capacity, the usual small talk commences—what do you do, did you participate in the event yesterday, are you affiliated with the children’s hospital, how much do you love The Rock . . . I let Marco do most of the talking, not only because his accent and charm has the women at the table—me included—held captive, but because I don’t want to answer questions about what I do. Oh, I was fired from my job of six years for inadvertently violating a nondisclosure agreement after my unpublished blog was hacked by a crazy person in an act of penile retribution, and also, I’m a struggling actress who is hoping a feminine hygiene national ad will save me from the streets.
Promptly at seven o’clock, the perky organizer from Rock the Tots ascends the dais at the ballroom’s front; she’s been poured into a gorgeous emerald, slim-fitting gown that, despite its beauty, does little to soften the shrill of her voice.
When it comes time for her to bring out the Reason We’re All Here Tonight, Marco grabs my clammy hand under the table.
And when The Rock bounds onto the dais and welcomes us to this fine evening amid cacophonous applause, I squeeze harder so Marco won’t let go.
Dwayne again thanks us for our generous contributions and how we blew the top off donation expectations; he tells a few jokes and talks about his commitment to helping people after all the help he’s had in his own life.
Lord, that man in a tux . . .
Followed by my next thought: He’s almost as pretty as Marco in a tux.
The three-course meal—all organic, locally sourced farm-to-table fare—is serenaded by a string quartet. With the last plate cleared, I cannot eat another bite. Well, until they put a fluffy chocolate liqueur mousse topped with Belgian chocolate shavings right in front of my face.
“One hell of a cheat meal, huh? Please, don’t tell my trainer,” I say to Marco. The woman next to me tee-hees and agrees, mentioning that if her trainer knew she was eating this, she’d never be allowed off the treadmill.
“Yeah, mine too. He’s a brute,” I say. Marco nudges me under the table and leans close.
“You thought I was tough before . . .” Wink.
Heat surges in my chest.
Once dessert is finished and we’re all fat and happy and half-drunk on the wine that flows like Jesus himself is in the back room replenishing the carafes, the event organizer invites us, one table at a time, to make our way to the photo area for the meet-and-greet portion of the evening. I hadn’t noticed until she drew our attention to it, but in the southeastern corner of the ballroom, white paper has been mounted on backdrop stands; banquet staff are moving small studio lights into place. It’s the ideal setup for attendees to have flawless photos taken with the One and Only.
My leg starts bouncing.
“Have you rehearsed what you’re going to say?” Marco whispers in my ear.
“You mean my speech about how he is a god among men and how he’s sort of been my best friend since I was twelve and I still have his autographed picture from fifth grade and that my depressed goldfish and his French bulldog would be BFFs because they have the same name and if it wouldn’t be too much trouble could he just put me in every movie he makes for the rest of his life and it’s no Iron Paradise but he should totally come work out with us at our gym?”
Marco laughs, “That’ll do,” and finishes the last of his wine.
At last, table 22.
Oh my god that’s our table.
Instead of racing to be first, I linger long enough to let our tablemates queue in front of us.
“Ever the strategist, Steele,” Marco says, his lips so close to my ear, my left side erupts in goose bumps.
One by one, our fellow benefactors shake hands with The Rock, smile, exchange a few polite words, and pose for their photos. By the time the woman in front of us steps up for her turn, I’m afraid I might have a heart attack. My ears are overcome by that ominous roaring sound, my fingertips are tingling, I can’t feel my legs, and the tunnel vision creeps in. Oh man, I should not have worn these shoes. And this dress is so tight . . .
Marco wraps his arm firmly around my waist. “Do not lose consciousness, Danielle. Come on, deep breaths.” He lets go long enough to grab a glass of ice water from a refreshment table ten feet to our left. “Drink. It’s almost our turn.”
I sip the water and take deep breaths and do my best not to wither into a red puddle on this pretty ballroom carpet.
And then the lady in front of us is done, and we’re still standing at the little tape line where we’re meant to wait our turn, and the assistant is to my right, asking Marco if I’m unwell, and then, holy shit . . .
“Hey, you okay? That dress is something else. Would be a shame if I didn’t get my picture taken with that,” he says. Dear god, he is huge.
Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson just talked to me, and it wasn’t even a conversation written by my overactive imagination.
“Yes. Wow. I am so sorry. I’m fine.” I offer my shaking hand, so thankful that Marco is still propping me up. “I’m Dani. Danielle. Danielle Steele. That’s my whole name. Well, not my whole name. My middle name is Elizabeth. Oh, and I’m not the romance novelist. My mom is just really weird, and she named all her daughters after romance novelists, all three of us. But I’m the only Danielle. The other two have different names.”
Marco and DJ chuckle, and Marco offers his left hand for a fist bump because if he frees his right arm, I’ll hit the deck.
“Well, Danielle Steele who is not the romance novelist, it’s a pleasure to meet you. Thank you so much for being a part of Rock the Tots—you competed yesterday?”
“I did. But I didn’t win my division. Which totally sucks. This is Marco—he’s my trainer. And my . . . friend. He’s awesome, so it’s not his fault I didn’t win. I was hoping to get to be in a movie with you.”
“Are you an actress?”
“I am. Well, sort of.”
“You live here in Portland?”
“Yeah, but I’d love to move back to LA. I used to live there.”
“Danielle will be consulting on a production at a theater off Cahuenga she wrote the source material for and that, incidentally, is about you,” Marco adds, his playful smile directed at me. Is that . . . pride?
Dwayne’s eyes widen. “About me?” He laughs.
“Yeah. It’s a long, weird, embarrassing, very true story involving an unpublished blog-slash-diary full of letters written to you called Dear Dwayne, With Love that was hacked and put up online, and the whole world read it, but yeah . . . You’re kind of my idol.”
He pauses for a second and looks at me with his head tilted ever so slightly.
<
br /> Oh god, do I have a booger or lipstick on my teeth? Why is he looking at me like that . . .
And then the smile returns. “Well, I wish we had more time—and some tequila—because the long, weird, embarrassing, very true stories involving diaries are always my favorite.” The assistant running the photo area mentions that we need to keep moving through the tables.
“Right. Sorry,” I say, smiling at The Rock and Marco. “Can we get a picture?”
“Absolutely.”
The three of us step onto the white paper—now that he’s talked to me and I can see that, though he’s definitely a demigod, he’s not going to strike me down with the People’s Elbow, I’m a little steadier on my feet. The assistant takes photos with our phones, and then a photographer snaps a few shots that I can order online at no charge starting tomorrow.
Marco and Dwayne shake hands, properly this time. “It was nice meeting you both. Dani, good luck with the play. You should have your director or PR person send my team the info. I’m in LA a lot, so maybe we can check it out.”
“Are you serious? Okay, that would be incredible. I’ll do that. Thank you so much.”
“Thank you for being a part of our fund-raising event,” he says, that thousand-watt smile dimming every last bulb in the room.
“Oh! Wait! One more thing—” I spin around like a kid who’s forgotten to tell Santa she wants a puppy. I open my wee handbag and pull out the Miami Hurricanes card nestled in its plastic bag. “Will you sign this for me?”
Dwayne takes it and laughs as he extracts the card. “Ah, shit, where did you get this?”
“I told you. I’m a big fan.”
The assistant pulls a Sharpie out of her pocket; Dwayne asks me to turn around, and he signs the card against my bare shoulder.
He’s touching my bare shoulder.
“This is awesome—I don’t think I even have this. The 1991 champs, baby. I think I might have the Warren Sapp card somewhere,” he says, handing me the card and the Sharpie.
“Nahhhh, Warren Sapp is a chump.”
His laugh bounces off the ceiling as he throws his hand up for a high five. He turns to the assistant. “Make sure this girl gets all the tequila she wants tonight.”