Heart of Glass (18 page)

“They’re . . . friends of mine,” Champagne explained. “From her summer volunteer thing,” Cammie added. “Very cool.” “Bryson—before we order, I need to ask you something!” Champagne had to shout to be heard as the music cranked up again.

“Sure, anything! But quick—I’ve got tables.” Champagne stood, took a few steps away, and motioned for him to join her. Anna’s first instinct was to go with the girl, but Cammie put a hand on her forearm. “I think she’s got it covered.”

“Done! We’ve got our models!”

Anna turned. Champagne stood behind her and Cammie, looking triumphant. “Bryson said yes. And he’s bringing four of his buds!”

“I’ll call Mrs. Vanderleer first,” Cammie assured Anna. “And I’ll take some pictures with my camera-phone. She won’t be disappointed.”

Anna was proud of Champagne for her coup. She’d really come to like the plucky younger girl. Champagne so genuinely wanted to be helpful, once again Anna couldn’t imagine how anyone who’d talked to this girl for more than three minutes could possibly think she was a thief. “Nice job!” She had to shout over the music, which the DJ had just taken to an entire other level. How did you do it?”

“Bryson’s not just my cousin. He’s my friend!”

They stayed for quite a while, ordering hot wings, tamales, and Cokes. Bryson brought over a couple of other waiters who he thought might be good for the show. One was tall, with close-cropped dark hair, and the other was shorter, with a gorgeous smile and incredibly wide shoulders. Each was a remarkable male specimen. Cammie was Cammie. She flirted outrageously. Anna was quieter but friendly. She was listening to one of Bryson’s friends—Granite was the name he went by—tell a joke, when the music stopped, the fire bell clanged, and the red light whirled. By now, everyone in the place had started to clap rhythmically whenever the Fire Drill bell sounded. Anna clapped right along, until the last fireman came down the pole.

Then she stopped. Because she realized that she recognized the Botticelli tattoos on the arm of the final fireman.

The Opposite of the Last Sentence

A
nna watched as it took a moment for Caine to register what he was actually seeing—Anna, probably the last person he ever expected to see at the Firehouse, at the Firehouse. Watching him.

He did a literal double take.

He delivered the shots, took his bow, and then bounded over to her table. Anna could say this for him: His sangfroid was as steady with his shirt off and women cheering as it was with his shirt on at the top of a Ferris wheel on the Santa Monica pier.

“Hi. I never—”

“Yes, I’m sure you never did think you’d see me here,” Anna finished his sentence for him.

She didn’t need to hear the rest of his sentiment, even as she introduced him to Champagne and reacquainted him with Cammie. The evil smile on Cammie’s face—it had to be
so
obvious that Anna had no clue that Caine moonlighted at this place—made her feel mortified. Caine said he’d love to get her a drink at the bar and would meet her there in three minutes. She took her time in rising.

She was grateful for the chance to think a little bit first. So many thoughts were running through her overloaded brain. Her problems with Ben had stemmed from a lack of honesty in their relationship. She’d been so sure that Caine was older, wiser, different. Did any guys tell the truth . . . ever? But what did Caine owe her, really? It wasn’t like he was working for a male escort service. He wasn’t even a stripper.

She slid onto the stool next him—he offered her a bottle of water. “Sorry for the surprise. Buy you something stronger? I’ve got about fifteen before I’m due out there on the floor again.” Again, he seemed to have recovered quickly from his initial surprise at finding her there.

“I’m good.” She looked at him curiously. “So, boring money manager by day, object of female lust at the Firehouse by night?” “I have a wide variety of interests.” Caine laughed, then got the bartender to pour him a glass of orange juice.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Anna asked directly. He shrugged. “Didn’t seem relevant. Yet. It’s kind of early for us to be baring our souls to each other. Three weeks? But now that you’re here, ask away.” “Why . . . why do you do this?” “I’ve got massive debts from undergraduate and grad school. This is how I’m paying them off. It’s honorable work.” He took a sip of his drink.

“Umm . . . my father has to be paying you well. He says you’re a genius. Maybe you should ask him for a raise.” Anna tried to stop her tone from sounding preachy, as she knew it did. “Did you think you
couldn’t
tell me?” “I thought it might bother you, yeah,” Caine admitted reluctantly, and drank some more of his juice. “Look, don’t take this the wrong way, Anna, but you’re very young and—” “Inexperienced. You were going to say ‘inexperienced.’” “Am I wrong?” “I’m not . . . entirely inexperienced.” She felt heat rush to her face. “I was . . . with Ben.” Caine grinned. “Ah. You mean
with
in the biblical sense. So if you had been
with
me in Jackson Sharpe’s office the other night, it would be the second time.” “If you mean my second guy, yes. You would be the second guy.” “That’s what I figured.” He nodded sagely. “Which is fine. But that’s why I decided to let you take the lead on all that, so that you’d feel comfortable.” He downed the last of his juice and motioned to the bartender for another. “Would you like something stronger? You’ve barely touched that water.” She shook her head. Across the room, Anna saw Cammie dancing with a buff Latino fireman to Santana’s “Smooth.” Caine put his hand on her arm to get her attention, then quickly withdrew it. “Honestly, I’m an adventurous guy—always have been. I hitchhiked across Europe when I was sixteen. When I was eighteen, I drove my motorcycle cross-country with a girl I met along the way. Working for your dad, living this suit-and-tie kind of life . . . it’s new for me. So if you were looking for a straight-arrow financial planner—” “I wasn’t looking for anything,” she protested. She didn’t want him to think she was presumptuous. “And I plan to have a lot of adventures myself.” “Oh, you do, do you?” She gave him a look that her mother would be proud of. “Don’t you dare patronize me. I thought you were better than that.” Caine nodded slowly. “You’re right. I apologize. I really would have gotten around to telling you about this. I think.” “Let me ask you something. If I had wanted to . . . go further in Jackson’s office that night . . . would we have?” Anna folded her arms.

“Hell yes,” Caine replied. “When you kissed me on the Ferris wheel, after what I said about you making the first move, I thought that was, you know,
the first move.
” “That’s what I thought, too. And if and when we ever . . . it would be because I felt something for you so real and so deep that my body would be following my heart.” She slid off her bar stool. “I may be young. But I’m not stupid.” “I never thought—”

“I don’t know what you thought,” Anna confessed. “But what’s clear to me is that you didn’t care what
I
thought. We don’t have to get serious for you to take me seriously.” “Fair enough.” She raised eyebrows that had been perfectly shaped on an outing with Sam to Valerie’s salon on Rodeo Drive. “And one more thing, Caine.” “Yes?” “I have to say, that’s quite an outfit you have on.”

By the time Anna dropped off Cammie and Champagne and pulled her Lexus into the circular drive in front of the double doors of her father’s white stucco mansion on Elevado Drive, it was nearly midnight. The only way she had endured the last hour was to tell Cammie in no uncertain terms that the subject of Caine-in-the-Firehouse was strictly off limits.

Tomorrow, maybe. But not tonight.

Cammie got the message. She studiously avoided mentioning Caine the entire ride home. That didn’t mean she wasn’t thinking about him, though. More than once, Anna caught her with a completely shit-eating grin plastered on her face.

As she put the car in park and killed the headlights, she glanced over at Django’s guesthouse—a two-bedroom wooden bungalow built by the Craftsman Company back in the 1950s, shortly after the main mansion had been constructed. Django Simms was her father’s driver, a guy about Caine’s age who hailed from Louisiana and was a wondrous keyboard player. With his short dark hair bleached white blond, and his lanky figure, he seemed an incongruous match for his boss. But Jonathan trusted Django implicitly, and Anna had come to like him a lot.

He was standing in front of his own door, talking to a young woman. This was no shocker. Django was a girl magnet. When Anna stepped out of the Lexus, he softly called her name and waved her over. Why not meet Django’s latest? His love life had to be less complicated than her own.

“Hey, Miss Anna, you’re getting home late,” he noted in his Southern drawl. Per usual, he looked fabulous, in old jeans and a fifties-style bowling shirt. His light blue eyes shone in the moonlight. “Fun night?” “Odd. Very, very odd.” She held out a hand to Django’s latest conquest, who was stunning in a very natural way—long chestnut curls held up by two pearl chopsticks stabbed through them, and very curvy under what looked like standard-issue black pants and a neatly tucked in white button-down blouse. “Hi, I’m Anna Percy. Ignore the ‘Miss’ thing—it’s Django’s idea of a joke.” “You’re Anna? I’ve heard so much about you!” She was beauty-queen pretty and had a Southern drawl that matched Django’s. “I’ve been wantin’ to meet you since I got to town. I’m Citron, Django’s sister.” For some reason, Anna was shocked. Django never talked about his family. She had no idea that he had a sister. All she really knew about him was that he played the piano masterfully. Now he was allegedly trying to get a record deal here. His work for Jonathan was his day job.

“Nice to meet you, Citron.” She regarded Django and offered a little smile. “A sister? Aren’t you the mystery man?” “Now, see, I was going to introduce you to my little sister tomorrow. She just got here from Louisiana. She’s working as a waitress over at the Polo Lounge.” “Good tips,” Citron put in. “Even though I think I’m supposed to know a lot of people that I don’t know. Not yet, anyway.” “She’s living with a couple of friends of mine in mid-Wilshire, but I’m fixing to ask your dad if she can move in here with me for a while. There’re two bedrooms, and she’s on a budget,” Django explained.

“I’m saving up to make a demo,” Citron chimed in. “I’m a singer.” “Rock and roll?” Anna asked.

Citron shook her head. “Jazz, mostly. Not that there’s much call for it in the music stores. Even less on the radio. I aim to change all that. Maybe.” Anna smiled. “So, I can see it’s just a musical family. Well, nice to meet you, Citron. I love your name.” Citron breathed in the clean night air. “This is a beautiful house that your father has. In a real different way from down home. We had a big place there, too, but ever been in Louisiana in the summer? You can wring your clothes out after a walk on a clear night, it’s that humid. And summer means April to October. You end up taking a lot of showers. Of course, after Katrina, most of my friends left. It’s kind of a lonely place now.” They continued talking for a while, then Anna bade them good night and walked back to the main house. It was white with red shutters, and at night it was completely illuminated by bright white floodlights. Impossible to see from the road, it was guarded by shrubbery so tall and thick it served the same purpose as a barbwire fence.

She was surprised to find her father still awake. He was stretched out on the claw-foot beige couch in the living room reading a Tom Clancy novel and listening to a Gary Burton CD on the new Bose surround-sound system. Anna padded across the marble floor, past the white Steinway grand piano that never got played except when Django stopped over, and sat down by him. Her father rarely had time to read for fun. She was also surprised—and not in a good way—to see and smell marijuana smoke wafting from the huge blunt in the ashtray on the new Moroccan carved wood coffee table. Judging from the powerful reefer odor in the room, and the pair of roaches that flanked the joint, this hadn’t been her dad’s first one of the evening.

“Hey, Anna,” he greeted her, his voice dreamy. He wore an old pair of black Levi’s and an even older Yankees sweatshirt left over from their days in New

York. With his spiky hair and two days’ growth of beard, it would be easy for a stranger to mistake him for a writer, or maybe a music industry executive. Instead, Jonathan Percy was an accomplished investment advisor sought after by the richest of the rich.

“You’re stoned.” It was an observation, not an accusation.

“Couldn’t sleep. You’re up late. Out with Caine?” Anna almost admitted that she’d been out watching his protégé Caine Manning slide down a fireman’s pole in jeans and suspenders but decided to keep her mouth shut.

“Hey Dad?”

“I’ve told you before. I want you to call me Jonathan. You’ve been here—how long have you been here?” “Since New Year’s.” “Uh-huh.” He picked up the big fat doobie, sucked down a big fat hit, and offered it to Anna. She took a big fat pass. “Jonathan,” he repeated, blowing out more smoke than the caterpillar in
Alice in Wonderland
. “Call me Jonathan. Please.” “I’ll try,
Dad
.” He grinned. So did she. “That’s my Anna,” he pronounced. “Raised right.” “Did you know that Django has a sister?” He nodded. “I think so. Or maybe it was a brother.” “It’s a sister,” she assured him. “She moved here from Louisiana. I just met her out by the guesthouse.

She’s a singer, and she seems really nice. I told her she could stay there for a while with her brother—I knew you wouldn’t mind.” “That’s cool. Seem nice?”
Seem nice?
Hadn’t she just said that? Anna made a mental note to avoid whatever it was that her father was smoking.

“Very. Well . . . I guess I’ll go up now. See you in the morning.” “Wait, Anna. When’s that fashion show thing you’re working on?” She was surprised he was even tracking what she was doing with her days. “Wednesday night. County art museum. The modern art section.” “I’m going to come, I think. If I can rearrange my schedule. Anyway, have a good night.” He took another monster hit of the joint, and returned his glassy gaze to his book.

That was it for the All-American father-daughter moment, and Anna climbed the stairs to her room. She pushed off her shoes, threw her purse on the bed, and slid into the brown Duxbury chair at her rolltop desk. She tugged her shirt over her head with one hand while bringing up her e-mail with the other. Life could be so insane. There was an e-mail from Sam—once this fashion show was over, she and Anna needed to really get cracking on their script reading. In fact, maybe they could put in a serious session on Tuesday. Plus, if Sam hadn’t adequately thanked Anna for changing that coverage on
Burnt Toast
—well, Sam owed her. Big-time. Of course, if either of them had a brain, they would have realized that no one named their kid Norman Shnorman in the first place. Maybe they needed to improve the circulation of blood to their brains with a spa day.