California Dreaming (23 page)

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.

“Susan, I—I don't really know what to say. Are you sure you want to do this?” Jonathan asked.

“Of course. You're my father,” Susan replied. “You only get one, you know. So even if I do think that you've been something of a butthole for many years of my life, I have not exactly been a model daughter either, and anyway, all of that is beside the point.” Her eyes softened. “I want to be with you, Dad. If you'll let me.”

Anna felt a lump in her throat. Evidently tragedy was bringing out the best in her sister, who had harbored bad feelings toward her parents for years, ever since they'd played a part in breaking up her relationship with a druggie boyfriend back in college. “But what about your job?” she asked.

“It'll be there when I'm finished here. Or maybe I'll stay. I don't know. All I know is, this is where I need to be right now.” She shrugged easily and adjusted the covers over their dad's pajama-clad legs.

Anna actually found herself envying her sister for the ease with which she'd been able to change her life course, when Anna herself was caught in such a tangle about her own future.

Dr. Miller stuck her brunette head into the room again. “Excuse me, Mr. Percy, we'll need to take you for another PET scan now.” She looked at Anna and Susan. “He'll be done in around forty-five minutes. And there's no pain involved.”

“Works for me,” Jonathan quipped. His eyes went from Anna to Susan and back to Anna again. “If it took a subdural hematoma to get you girls together like this—”

“What, you're going to do it on a regular basis?” Susan said, hands on hips. “I don't freaking
think
so! I don't cuss anymore, either,” she added serenely.

Jonathan laughed.

“I'm so glad you're here,” Anna blurted out. She hadn't realized how alone she'd felt until just this minute. “You want to go get some coffee while dad's having his test?”

Susan slung an arm around Anna's shoulders. “Absolutely, little sis. We've got a lot to talk about.”

Dream Lover

Thursday night, 8:47 p.m.

C
ammie checked her antique silver windup watch with the emerald face—it had been a prop on her father's TV show,
Hermosa Beach
, and when Cammie had admired it, the wardrobe person had simply handed it to her. Cammie knew this had nothing to do with kindness and everything to do with sucking up to the daughter of the big guy, but whatever—she loved the watch. She was counting the hours until Sam, her best and oldest friend, would be actually, really, truly married. Less than twenty-four. Married. Sam. Shit.

Cammie took a sip of her Flirtini. She was at the bar in the Polo Lounge, which was closed to the public for Sam's rehearsal dinner. Even though the Polo Lounge was as familiar to Cammie as her own bedroom, Dee had transformed the place overnight into a festive yet elegant venue befitting the Sharpe wedding extravaganza. Thousands of twinkling lights adorned the large oak trees on the outdoor patio, making it feel like a magical fairy garden. Inside, roses and bouquets of hibiscuses on every table gave off a pleasantly sweet aroma. Dee had also ordered the staff to sprinkle white rose petals on every available surface. Every single detail had been accounted for, right down to the cream-colored cocktail napkins encircled with Swarovski crystal napkin rings, which were custom made by Kate's Paperie and had
SAM & EDUARDO
printed in small, elegant cursive in the upper-left-hand corner. Cammie felt a twinge of guilt when she thought about how many of these decisions she had been involved in—none, to be exact.

A year ago, if someone had told her that Sam would get married right after they graduated from high school, Cammie would have asked what drugs they were on. And now … well, now everything had changed. She was happy that Sam was happy. But also, if Cammie was going to be brutally honest with herself, it felt very weird. As if she, Cammie, was losing something.

“How's it going?”

Adam sidled up to the bar. He wore a black T-shirt that said
THINK
and under that, in small letters:
IT'S NOT ILLEGAL YET
. A deconstructed black cotton blazer, jeans, and black Vans completed the outfit. His hair was short again; the star tattoo behind his ear showed. He was altogether understated and comfortable in his own skin.

Adam.
Her
Adam.

But no. That was then, this was now.

Cammie wondered how she looked to him, in her sleek gold sheath dress that ended six inches above the knee. She had a strange desire for him to still find her attractive, even though she knew that of all the guys she'd ever been with, he was the one to whom looks mattered least.

“I'm good. The club's going great, so I've been busy,” she said, nodding quickly. “I'm …” She drained her Flirtini. “Well, actually, I'm having a hard time believing that Sam is really getting married,” Cammie said honestly.

“Me too,” Adam agreed. He sipped his Heineken and set an elbow on the bar, brushing aside some of the white rose petals that had been scattered over its surface. “But Eduardo's a great guy, so if it's what she wants …”

“Yeah, that's what I was just thinking,” Cammie agreed.

It was strange to be here with Adam, talking easily, as if nothing had ever happened. As if they hadn't been insanely in love with each other. As if he hadn't decided to move to Michigan, as if they hadn't crashed and burned.

Adam set his green beer bottle on the bar. “So, the club's going well?”