Between You and Me (4 page)

Today I am learning that if you want to pretend things are one thing when they’re another, it helps to have millions of dollars at your disposal. For example, it was easy—as I leaped over the three-foot gulch of black slush into the moneyed interior of the town car, as I sank into its leather seat and swiveled open the gratis Evian, as I lay back, letting the driver glide me through Manhattan’s rush-hour-congested streets—to tell myself, despite coming off two nights of anticipatory insomnia, that I was on my way to a vacation and not a reunion.

And then, on the plane, even as pictures of my host flashed from the tabloids and smartphones of my fellow passengers, I merely reclined my seat to a true, all-the-way-down flat and said yes to the nuts (warmed), the champagne (chilled), and the fudge sundae (piping). In my extra-wide chair, the coach footprint of which crams half a family, I didn’t even get my usual clammy hands when the pilot asked for the doors to be sealed. Two and a half movies of my own choosing while the engine was drowned out by courtesy Bose headphones was better than sex with Jeff Stone. If I had completed this journey only to find myself watching Charlotte shave in our living room, this would have been eight hours of the honeymoon I may never get to take. I now understand how bad movies get made and bad wars get started—it’s hard to think through anything when you’re
this
comfortable.

But now, as the sun-saturated wind whips my face through the opened limo window, not even the air—fresh, vast, with a hint of brine—not even the view of the Pacific on one side and lush hills sloping up to estates on my right, nothing can calm me. Because every estate might be her estate, and I am now only minutes away
from facing the path not chosen. My cell rings, and I dig into the pocket of my handbag.

“Hello?”

“Logan?” my mom says cautiously, despite having called me.

“Yes, hi.” I press the lever on the control panel, and the shaded window seals me back inside the dim AC.

“I was just calling because—are you okay?” she asks.

“I’m great—why?”

“You didn’t call me back.”

“Work’s been crazy.” I shamefully trot out the overworn excuse.

“I’m sure,” she replies, not really knowing how to connect with me on this, having never worked outside the home herself. “Your father didn’t get in until six-thirty last night.”

“Wow. How is he?”

“Oh, good. Well, you know him,” she says vaguely, and I don’t ask for clarification. “Did you have a fun birthday? You had a date with your boyfriend, didn’t you? When are we going to meet him?”

“Yes, it was, well, I ended up having to work, so—thank you for the gift card.” I switch tracks, creating a pause.

“I’m glad you liked it. We took a guess.”

“No, I’m sure I’ll find something great at Penney’s.” Once I rent a car and drive to New Jersey to find one. The van ahead of us slows abruptly, and my chauffer hits his horn.

“Sounds like you’re out and about? I don’t understand how you like living somewhere so loud.”

“Actually, I’m in . . . ” But I can’t say—losing touch with Kelsey is probably the only thing I’ve ever done that my mother approves of. “Midday traffic. What about you two finally visiting? I could put together a fun time—” I hear a pot clank and change topics again before she can say no. “You’re cooking?”

“I’m making a casserole. With a salad and beans.”

“Sounds great,” I say, picturing them cooked to the palest green and able to fall through a sieve.

“Well, I better get this finished,” she says, sensing we’re close to exhausting our few tacitly agreed-upon friction-free topics. “You know how he hates to get in the door before dinner’s ready.”

And all at once, I’m sad for her, but I don’t know how to fix it, short of moving home to a place that never felt like one. “I love you, Mom.”

“God bless.”

I stare at the phone as it dims, giving in to the familiar sink. With a tiny jolt of adrenaline, I form a text to Jeff. “What am I resting up for?” My thumb hovers over the send button as the car slows at the first driveway with a gatehouse. The uniformed guard nods to my chauffeur, and the heavy gate swings open, letting us into what looks like Central Park.

“Be there in two shakes,” the driver says as we move up the winding path through oleander, whose pink blossoms make the foliage appear dotted with confetti, as though we missed the parade. We wind around the tennis courts, plural.

“Are you from Oklahoma?” I ask, identifying the familiar cadence of home that’s intensifying my nerves.

“Sure am. Why?”

“You a friend of Andy’s?” He looks like one of the guys our dads used to pop a beer with.

“Met on varsity, class of ’82, then we both ended up at the insurance company. But I wasn’t a paper pusher like him. I worked the lobby. Big demand for security after the bombing. Anyway, hurt my back, ended up on disability. Andy suggested I come out, drive the little lady around. But you really need to have logged time as a fighter pilot for this job.” He chuckles. “Always dodging something.” The car pulls up at the hilltop mansion, which, like my driver, also feels transplanted, with its red brick façade, cream trim, and columned wrap-around porch. It harks to the houses Kelsey’s mom, Michelle, would drive us past on the way to ballet. Little girls in shell-pink leotards and tight buns, we twisted in our duct-tape-patched seats talking in if-onlys and somedays.

I realize my hands are shaking and go ahead and hit send.

The engine hasn’t even cut before Delia comes rushing down the veranda’s stairs, her rubber flip-flops smacking the brick. “Logan Wade, get out of that car!” she calls. Peering at the house door I climb out and into her embrace, her clipboard momentarily sticking
into my spine. “Let me look at you.” She steps back, and I take her in, too. Her resemblance to Michelle has strengthened with age. “I was trying to add it up this morning—have I really not seen you since you left for college?”

“No, there was that Christmas we ran into each other at Marshall’s.”

“You were with Grandma Ruth, so that had to be over ten years ago. You’re skinny,” she pronounces.

“It’s New York.” I demur, my eyes scanning the porch only to find it vacant. “Hard living.”

“Well, a few days of Uncle Andy’s cooking’ll give the boys something to look at. You met our driver, Peter.”

“Yes.” I smile as he sets my suitcase at my feet. “Thank you so much.”

“You have a great time.” He winks as he returns to the wheel.

“How’re your folks?” She takes the handle for me.

“Good, thanks. Dad’s still working. Mom’s got her church group. Still waiting for my call to say I’m having triplets and moving next door. How are yours?”

“Oh, they’re a hoot. Healthy and all that. They miss Oklahoma, but they just couldn’t take the winters anymore. Thankfully, my brother moved down there to keep an eye on ’em. I’ve never known how you and Kelsey do it—being only children is such a responsibility. Come on in.” I follow her up the steps, squinting as the sun catches the crystal dragon on her hoodie. Her hair is still that same reddish color, the same long shag she could have gotten at Super Cuts.

We step right into a double-height living room with three sitting areas, the ocean rippling in every window. I spin in search of my host. “This is the main room, or greeeeeeeat room, which Michelle says like the queen of England and I say like Tony the Tiger.”

“Wow, Delia, this place is amazing!”
Where is she?

“This was one of the first houses built here in Malibu, and as soon as Michelle and Kel saw it, they were in love. Everything else is glass and cement boxes. I know it’s big, but I still think it’s cozy, don’t you?” The room immediately conjures the collages Michelle used to make with us out of back issues of
Good Housekeeping.
Every detail is inviting,
from the salmon chenille pillows to the mohair throws on the overstuffed couches. I look to the grand staircase, my ears primed to make out footsteps. “Off there is the kitchen.” She points, “Chef Angela should be in there, let her know what you like. The other day, I was having such a crank, PMSing out my ears. I asked her to make me a burger that tastes like Sonic’s and she did, just unbelievable. In that wing, you’ll find the breakfast room, den, and staff quarters. Seriously, make yourself at home—well, not in the staff area.” She chuckles. “They might have a say about that.” She points to the other side. “And in that wing is Michelle’s sitting room, the game room, screening room, sun room, and the offices. The gym, dance studio, recording studio, and salon are in the basement.”

“And where’s Kelsey?” I ask, unable to wait a minute longer as I follow her up the stairs.

“Oh, Logan, Kelsey’s break has gotten screwed with its pants on. I’m so sorry.” Her shoulders sink.

“Oh?”

“She was supposed to shoot a
Vanity Fair
cover next month, but the photographer had a conflict, so they had to bang it out this week. I just snuck away to get you settled.” She pushes open a door at the end of the hallway. “This is yours.”

“Wow.” My jaw breaks a spring at the canopy bed, the fireplace, and the balcony overlooking the trees. “It takes a week?” I ask.

“Uch.” She rolls her eyes. “I can only say this: David LaChapelle and a camel with an attitude problem. They’re shooting in the Mojave. Kelsey wanted to do an Arabian thing.”

“I understand. Nothing I do at work takes as long as projected. And none of it involves dromedary mood swings.”

Looking past me, she laughs a moment later. Her BlackBerry buzzes, and she shakes her head in what seems an attempt to wake up. “So! I have to get back out there. Michelle’s in sequin overdrive, Andy’s obsessing about overages, even though they don’t come out of our pocket.”

“How are they?” I ask. “You know, otherwise.”

“Otherwise?” She mugs. “Just kidding. Michelle is great—you know her, she thrives on the nuttiness.”

“And Andy?” I inquire about my estranged uncle, trying to sound casual, polite.

“Andy’s Andy.” She smiles.

“I heard he’s . . . ”

“Sober?” she finishes for me. “Oh, for a while now.” She tucks her tongue in the corner of her mouth. “Since Kelsey’s first tour.” She considers. “I think, you know, Kel and Michelle finally had some leverage. And he had something he wanted to be around for. You have my cell?”

“Yes. So, sorry, but I’m not going to see Kelsey?” I ask as I simultaneously think, could I really have come all this way not to see her? And could I just get to enjoy all this and not have to see her?

“Oh, no, I’m doing everything a girl can so you sit tight.” I place my tote on the duvet, and it tips, the tabloid I picked up on the plane sliding out. Delia’s smile falters as we stare at Kelsey’s first love, Eric Lamont, and his new girlfriend. “I’m so embarrassed—I meant to throw that out at the airport.”

“Oh, my gosh, don’t be—usually, we don’t give a rat’s ass, but this—now that Eric’s getting serious with this woman.” She swipes it up and sticks it in her clipboard. I nod as if I didn’t cross the Rockies perusing the pictures rehashing Eric and Kelsey’s relationship, from its genesis on
Kids, Inc.,
through the very public breakup last year. “She’s going to need—it’ll be really good for her to see you.” She hugs her board to her chest. “I know it will.”

“I’m glad to hear you think so. It’s just, you know, I haven’t seen her since—”

“Oh, please, you two were attached at the hip!” If Delia knows that the one time we’d spoken, Kelsey offered me the job she ended up taking, she doesn’t let on. “Used to drive me crazy when I babysat you guys. No, she’s super excited. Everyone is. We just have to get the girl home!”

“And you’re sure it’s okay for me to be here in the meantime? I could stay at a hotel.”

“Don’t be silly. I feel terrible. Dragging you across the country and making you wait around. Who
should
feel terrible is that camel.” She smiles. “I’ll keep you posted.”

She gives me another hug and closes the door, shutting me inside the quiet. I pull out my phone to wait for Jeff’s text and place it on the night table, where its black face sits like charred toast. Out the bathroom window I see Delia hop into a town car.

Agitated with anticipation that has yet to be relieved, I make my way back along the hallway in search of clues to whom I may or may not get to reconnect with, based on the whim of a camel. I stop to study the photos on the wall. Pictures of our grandmother, her yellow vinyl-sided house, and various extended family members, but my parents are markedly missing—as am I.

I move from frame to frame like a sniffing hound, finally finding a copious display atop the white grand piano. After years of feasting on the bread crumbs of magazine layouts, billboard ads, and tabloid pictures of her with her head tucked, hat and sunglasses obscuring her unreadable face, it’s dizzying to see unretouched photos of Kelsey, taken with personal cameras. She finally resembles the blurring image I carry of her in my memory, laughing open-mouthed, the corners of her eyes watering.

Then I’m surprised by the glint of dormant jealousy at images of Kelsey, Delia, and Michelle, draped under towels on a boat, swinging skis from a lift chair, making faces in a dressing-room mirror. Michelle looks beautiful, her blond hair now streaked gray as she embraces Kelsey in that famously daring dress she wore when she won all those Grammys. There are lines around Michelle’s light blue eyes, but they are as sweet as I remember. I run my thumb along the gemstones bordering the picture. No question, I owe the ambition of my Pier 1 pillows to Michelle Wade.

At the piano’s curved end I lift a picture of Andy and Michelle huddled in rain ponchos and recognize the observation deck of the Empire State Building. I wonder if Kelsey is on the other side of the lens, wondering if she thought of me as she looked down on my city. I tilt it to the window, studying Andy’s smile.

“Can I get you anything?”

I jump, the frame clanking back onto the piano. “Oh, no, thank you. I’m great.”

The uniformed woman nods deferentially and departs. But I’m
not great. I’m dry-mouthed and a little sweaty and . . . needing more. Up the hall in the opposite direction I pass an open door that reveals a king-size bed with a needlepoint pillow resting in front of two perfectly plumped rows of peach damask. “Bless This Mess.” And I remember Michelle needlepointing in the wings while Kelsey warmed up for one of her hundreds of contests. Fringed in lace that has since yellowed, it is the centerpiece of the pristine space.