California Dreaming (26 page)
The waitress brought their drinks and said she'd give them some more time to look at their menus. Only then did Sam lift her head.
“Know why I wanted to come here?” Sam asked darkly.
“Because it's not in town?”
“There is that,” Sam agreed. “But also because I couldn't stand the idea of going downstairs to have breakfast with my father and Dina. She slept over last night, you know.”
Anna peered at her friend. “How do you know?”
“Because we ran into each other at the refrigerator at four in the morning. I couldn't sleep and had to eat my sorrows away. I was thinking pastrami piled on rye. I came downstairs, and she was chowing on exactly that! Can you believe it? At least I know where I get it from.”
“Who knew a love of pastrami was genetic?” Anna pushed up the sleeves of her favorite gray cashmere sweater, which she'd worn with a battered pair of jeans. It was cool up here, with the stiff ocean breeze, and she was glad she'd worn it. As for Sam, she was as low-key as Sam Sharpe got. A cast-and-crew jacket from
Ben-Hur
over a long-sleeved black tee, and black DVF trousers.
“I don't know why she's even still here. There's no wedding. She should go back to North Carolina.”
Anna risked stating the obvious. “Maybe she likes your dad again. Maybe she'll sleep with him again tonight. Then she'll go home. She has a life, right?”
“I suppose,” Sam replied. “But it doesn't involve me.” She raised her glass. “What should we drink to? Not the past. The past reminds me of Eduardo.”
Sam's stomach turned. “I broke his heart.” Out of the corner of her eye she watched a couple dressed in practically identical white linen ensembles interlocking arms as they clinked champagne flutes and looked deep into each other's eyes.
“But … maybe you had to choose between his and yours,” Anna offered.
“I'll never get another guy as great as him.” Sam stabbed a finger in Anna's direction. “Don't tell me different.”
“Okay.” Anna smoothed back some hair that had escaped from her ponytail. “But let me just say this one thing. If you find the right guy at the wrong time … then he's the wrong guy. You don't even know who you are yet, Sam. I mean, how could you? How could I? We have to live a little first.”
Sam rolled her eyes. “You sound like that asshole therapist Dr. Fred.”
Anna laughed. “Well, come on. The runaway bride. You're a talk-show segment.”
“Lucky me,” Sam muttered. She raised her glass again. “How about to the future?”
“To the future it is,” Anna agreed, and clinked her iced coffee against Sam's red Bloody Mary.
“Yours starts tomorrow, huh?” Sam asked. “Are you packed?”
“Mostly. I don't have all that much. I'll take a couple of suitcases back to New York and ask my dad to ship the rest.”
Sam took a long sip of her Bloody Mary and pronounced it outstanding. “How is your father? When will he be out of the hospital?”
“Tomorrow.”
“And you're going back to Yale. And I'm going to film school. Jeez.” Sam laughed bitterly. “It's almost like the last eight months didn't happen.”
“Oh, they happened all right. So much changed. Me, especially.”
“Funny. You look just the same. Only skinnier. Bitch.”
The waitress drifted by to take their orders, but Sam waved her away. “I'm not so hungry. Must have been the pastrami. Are you okay with that?”
“I had a bagel before you called,” Anna confessed. “I'm fine. Did you talk to your mom last night? Or just grab the pastrami and run?”
“We talked. Dina said she and my dad were proud that I did the right thing.”
Anna nodded. “I did the right thing, too. When I told Logan goodbye.”
“Cammie's father, Clark? He always says that character is destiny. You're not the kind of girl who'd blow off Yale and go to Bali with some beautiful stranger.” Sam nodded definitively, biting into the celery stick that had come with her Bloody Mary.
Anna bristled. “He's not a stranger. I've known him my whole life.”
“With a very significant multiyear gap in there. How soon we forget.”
Anna looked out at the ocean waves crashing against the shore. Logan was probably packing right now, and by this time tomorrow he'd be gone. When she thought about him, she felt badly at the hurt she must have caused, but she didn't have a moment's regret. She'd made a split-second decision last night, but that didn't mean it was the wrong one. And the fact that she'd made it right after seeing Ben … well, she hadn't fully unpacked what that meant yet. She'd spotted him dancing with Cammie soon afterward, and hadn't had the chance to talk to him, what with Sam calling off the wedding and ending the evening so abruptly. She wondered if she'd even have the chance to say goodbye in person before she left for Yale.
“What are you doing tonight?” Sam asked. She downed the rest of her Bloody Mary in one gulp and looked around for the waitress.
“Packing, I guess.” Anna stirred her half-finished iced coffee. “What do you have in mind?” What she really wanted to ask Sam about was her screenplay, but once again, this wasn't the right time or place. It would be incredibly selfish of her to bring it up. Sam would get around to reading it. She had more than a little on her mind.
“Let's go out.”
“Any special destination?”
“Someplace Hollywood and cool. I'll choose.” Sam glanced over at the couple with the champagne. As the girl reached over to pluck an invisible piece of lint from her boyfriend's shoulder, he snatched her hand and kissed it in mock sincerity, and the girl giggled gleefully. “We have to really do it right for your last night in L.A.”
“I'd like that.” Suddenly, Anna got very sad at the prospect of the day after tomorrow. It was like a heavy weight had settled once again on her shoulders. She was about to ask her friend what she thought that meant when Sam's cell rang.
“Excuse me,” she said as she picked up. “Uh-huh … uh-huh … no … you're kidding. You're fucking kidding. You're totally fucking kidding. You're not kidding. … Fair enough. Bye.” She clicked off, her face pale.
Anna tensed. What could it possibly be? Something about her family? About Eduardo?
“Good news? Bad news?” Anna asked cautiously.
Sam shrugged. “Depends on how you look at it. Those plans we had for tonight? They just changed. Big-time.”
Friday afternoon, 12:07 p.m.
C
ammie strode across the thick green grass of Hollywood Forever Cemetery, smiling at Ben as she approached. The cemetery was off Santa Monica Boulevard in Hollywood, near the final resting place of the silent film star Rudolph Valentino, one of the greatest screen lovers in the history of the industry.
She'd dressed down for the occasion, in Frankie B. jeans and a white Petit Bateau T-shirt. For once, she hadn't even bothered with full makeup, just a dab of Smashbox lip gloss and a few spritzes of Narciso Rodríguez eau de toilette. Still, she looked fresh-faced and beautiful.
Hollywood Forever was perfect for this moment. Not just. Valentino, but such screen luminaries as Jayne Mansfield and Douglas Fairbanks also had their final resting places there. The facility had a great attitude about life and death. Spread out over sixty well-manicured acres were walking paths, five different mausoleums, and a special building where loved ones could record “Forever LifeStories” about the deceased, featuring interactive audio, visual, and computer displays so the deceased could be seen in death as they had been in life. Best of all, the cemetery showed movies on Saturday night, projecting them against the side of one of the buildings and inviting anyone with a chair or blanket to attend. There was something both creepy and exhilarating about watching
The Sixth Sense
in a place like this.
“Hi.” Ben waved his left hand; in his right was a to-go coffee cup from the Coffee Bean. Cammie saw he'd brought one for her, too. It was on the ground near his left foot. He'd come in cargo shorts and a T-shirt from the club.
“Hey, yourself.” She eased up next to him. “Want to walk a bit?”
“Love to. Great place for us to meet up. I haven't been here in years.”
She slipped her hand into the crook of his arm, and they headed deeper into the cemetery.
“Who do you want to visit? Jayne Mansfield or Douglas Fairbanks?”
“Just us.”
“I sense something serious coming,” he joked.
“It won't be if you don't make it that way,” she replied.
“Then let's sit and talk,” he proposed.
They were near a small mausoleum, a paean to one of the robber barons who worked for one of the major automobile manufacturers in the 1920s and 1930s, and who was responsible for tearing up the streetcar tracks that used to crisscross the city. There was a stone bench near the mausoleum, under a spacious chestnut tree that offered shade against the sun. They sat, almost contentedly.
“We've had an amazing summer,” Cammie began.
Ben nodded and sipped his coffee. “Yes, we have.”
“But the summer has come to an end,” Cammie added. “And so have we.”
As she said the words, Cammie thought about how far she had come as a human being in the year since Ben had graduated from Beverly Hills High School and gone off to college. She'd had him. Lost him. Semi-gotten him back again. And now she was letting him go. A year ago, she might have done this by e-mail. Or fax. Or even—she shuddered to think about it—text message. How fucked-up was that?
Ben got the implication. He stiffened slightly and pressed his lips together. “You want to keep it strictly business from here on in.”
“Actually, Ben, I would say that you're the one who wants to keep it strictly business. Which is fine with me. And speaking of, the club is your business. I was happy to be a part of it. But it was your dream, not mine.” She crossed and uncrossed her legs. The stone was cool underneath her.
“It was both of our dreams,” he protested, edging closer to her on the bench.
“That's nice of you to say. But it's not true. You came up with the idea, you found the place, you ran the renovation; I just wrote checks and cheered. Mostly.”
“You're not giving yourself enough credit.”
“Nonsense,” Cammie said, shaking her head. She saw a flock of mourning doves land on the lawn near them. They pecked contentedly at the soil, and she wondered idly how close she could step toward them before they'd fly away. “I'm still in on the club financially. But it's kind of boring me, so you won't see me there all that much. I'm going to concentrate on the model-management thing. I love helping Champagne, and I think I can help a lot of other girls, too. Think you can run the place on your own?”
Ben appraised her carefully. “If you're sure you want to do this, then … definitely.” He was emphatic.
Cammie grinned. “This is why you suck. You should fight for me.”
His blue eyes twinkled in the bright sunshine. “I took a punch in the jaw from a guy who wanted to fight for you.”
Cammie stood up and stretched languorously, ignoring Ben's comment. If Adam wanted to be with her, he wouldn't have decided to go to Michigan for college. That was two time zones, and two thousand miles, away. How could anyone call that fighting for her?
“It was a fun ride.” Ben stood too. “Hey, before we go, I wanted to tell you—what you did for Sam at the rehearsal dinner? That was really amazing.” He shoved his hands into the pockets of his cargos. “You didn't stick around long enough to hear, but most of us were cheering. At least on the inside.”
Cammie Sheppard prided herself on never choking up. But tears started to well in her honey-colored eyes.
“I'll remember that,” she told him. “I—”
Her Razr sounded, and she fished it out of her jeans pocket. “Hello?”
“Hey, it's me, the disappearing bride. What are you up to?” Sam's voice sounded surprisingly upbeat.
“I'm with Ben, at Hollywood Forever.”
“Cool. Say hi to him for me. And also Jayne Mansfield. I wonder if her head is buried in one grave and her body in another.”
“She died of a broken neck, Sam,” Cammie pointed out. “That doesn't mean her head fell off.” She turned to Ben. “It's Sam.”
“Tell her I hope she's drinking,” he joked.
She put the phone to her ear again. “Ben says he wants to know how much alcohol you've had today. Whatever it is, it isn't enough.”
“Yeah, whatever. Listen, do you still have your brides-maid's dress?”
Cammie dug her Sigerson Morrison stacked heel into the ground. No fucking way. Sam was going through with the wedding after all?
“Yeah, I still have it,” Cammie began cautiously, “but Sam, I think you really need to think this through—”
“Not ‘buts’ allowed,” Sam decreed. “Cancel whatever plans you had for tonight. I'll see you on the
Look Sharpe
at seven.”
Friday night, 7:07 p.m.
A
h, the irony.
Anna had spent her first night in Los Angeles, all those months ago, at a Sharpe family wedding: Jackson Sharpe and Poppy Sinclair's, at the Griffith Observatory. That wedding, with three hundred and fifty of Jackson's closest friends, had been Anna's introduction to life in Hollywood. She'd attended as Ben's guest, and it was there that she'd met Sam, Cammie, and Dee.
And now, her last night in Los Angeles would be spent at another wedding, this one out on Jackson's newest yacht, the
Look Sharpe IV
.
The boat had been decorated magnificently for the ceremony. James Cameron himself couldn't have designed it better, and in fact, Dee had brought in the production designer from
Titanic
to set the right mood. The teak banisters were covered with white silk and delicate strands of ivy. The greased mahogany bar shone in the waning light and held bottles of every alcohol imaginable, plus several cases of wine sent by Francis Ford Coppola from his vineyard in Napa County. In addition to the usual sleek rattan deck chairs, a number of small tables with white silk tablecloths had been set up on the second deck so that guests could eat and mingle as an army of tuxedo-clad waiters circulated with steaming trays of hors d'oeuvres and bottles of Taittinger champagne. The centerpieces were one of a kind—crystal bowls containing brightly colored tropical fish that swam graceful laps around a single purple orchid rising three feet into the air.
