The Carson Springs Trilogy: Stranger in Paradise, Taste of Honey, and Wish Come True (101 page)

She glanced about the office as she was leaving. Since a maid’s comfort was the least of her employer’s concerns, particularly in the 1930s when LoreiLinda had been built, by real estate magnate Henry “Huff” Huffington, the room faced north and got almost no sunlight. It was also cramped: If one walked toe to heel, it measured roughly eight by twelve feet, with a sloping ceiling to which Anna, who was five feet eight, had thumbtacked a tree-shaped air freshener that had the dual purpose of reminding her to duck and masking the mildew odor from the corner of the roof that leaked.

She headed down the back stairs, which were narrow and poorly lit compared to the majestic marble sweep of the main staircase, and exited into the laundry room, where she found Arcela ironing Monica’s 340-thread-count Egyptian cotton sheets.

Arcela didn’t wait for her to ask where Monica was. “She outside.” She nodded toward the doorway that opened onto the kitchen, where the sliding glass door to the patio stood open.

“Everything okay?” Code for whether Monica had had too much to drink.

The housekeeper shrugged, a small brown fist of a woman in perpetual motion—Anna had never seen her still, much less sitting down—and brought the iron down with a thump, as if to make clear she wanted no part of whatever Monica might be up to. It wasn’t that Arcela was unfriendly, but between her limited English and keeping up with her work—enough for a staff of five—their exchanges tended to be brief.

“Well, I guess I should go see what she wants.” Anna hesitated nonetheless. It wouldn’t hurt Monica to cool her heels. “Heard from Cherry lately?”

Arcela’s dark eyes lit up at the mention of her daughter in the Philippines. “I show you.” From an apron pocket she fished out a photo of a pretty, smiling girl in a starched nurse’s cap and uniform, proudly presenting it to Anna. Cherry, short for Conception (the double meaning was lost on Arcela), had just graduated from nursing school.

“You must be so proud,” Anna told her.

“She good girl.” Arcela tucked the photo back in her pocket with a wistful look. She hadn’t seen either of her children, Cherry or her sixteen-year-old son, Eddie, in almost three years.

“If she’s looking for work, I know a few people.” Cherry was planning to move to Carson Springs to be near her mother, and Anna had thought of Dr. Steinberg, a close friend of Maude’s.

Arcela’s eyes shone. “You good lady, Miss Anna.” Anna had requested repeatedly that she drop the
Miss
, but Arcela stubbornly refused to comply. “I talk to Miss Monica, but …” The light in her eyes dimmed. Anna had no trouble guessing Monica’s response. She would have agreed to help, perhaps even to sponsor Cherry for her green card, then had forgotten all about it.

“I’ll get on it first thing tomorrow,” Anna promised, patting Arcela’s shoulder as she sidled past.

She stepped into the sunny black-and-white tiled kitchen, with its rows of gleaming copper pots and pans that were mostly for show: Monica didn’t eat enough to warrant hiring a chef. Four years earlier, when the house had been remodeled, the decorator had wisely left most of the kitchen’s original fixtures intact—the old porcelain sink, glass-front cupboards, and built-in breakfront—choosing instead to update the appliances and install a thirties dinette from an antique dealer who specialized in art deco. It had cost a small fortune and was nearly an exact replica of the one they’d eaten at as children, the one that still sat in the kitchen at home.

Anna crossed the room and pushed open the sliding glass door. At that end, the patio was sheltered by a cabana, where at the moment Monica lay stretched on a chaise longue, gazing out at the pool, her wheelchair parked a few feet away. If she’d been a portrait, Anna thought, it would have been titled
Study in Blue.
The dark blue robe draped over her shoulders showed off her creamy skin and pale, slender limbs. A scarf the same deep indigo as her eyes was tied about her head, from which auburn tresses cascaded over the perfect half moons of breast swelling from her lilac bikini top.

“Well, you certainly took your sweet time. I could have been lying here dead, for all you knew.” In one hand was a crystal tumbler in which amber liquid sloshed amid melting ice.

Anna’s heart sank. There’d be no getting away early today. When Monica got like this, the only hope was that she’d pass out. “Obviously rumors of your death were greatly exaggerated.” She struck a light tone. “What’s the big emergency?”

“You can freshen this to start with.” She handed Anna her glass. “Honestly, where is that woman when you need her?” Meaning Arcela, of course. But even with Monica’s eyes hidden behind a pair of Jackie O sunglasses, Anna could see that she was more bored than annoyed. “I think she only cleans when she knows I’m watching. God only knows what she does the rest of the day.”

Anna held her tongue. Past experience had taught her that sticking up for Arcela did no good. In fact, it often made it worse. “The usual?” she asked with only a slight lifting of her brow.

Monica didn’t reply, which meant the answer should have been obvious. Anna went back into the kitchen, returning moments later with a refill—scotch and soda, light on the soda. Going easy on the scotch never worked; past experience had taught her that, too.

“Thanks, sweetie.” Monica was suddenly all smiles. “Listen, I just got off the phone with Glenn. He’s on his way over. You’ll see him in, won’t you?” Her agent, Glenn Lefevour, was the only regular visitor permitted these days.

Anna glanced pointedly at her watch. “I’m leaving in a minute, but I’ll let Arcela know.”

“I don’t trust her.” Monica’s lower lip edged out. “Remember what happened last time.”

She was referring to the occasion on which Glenn had been left idling at the gate. Anna had been out running errands and Arcela vacuuming, so only Monica had heard him buzz. By the time she’d managed to get to the intercom, it was too late. He’d turned back, thinking no one was home. “I’ll tell her to listen for the gate.” Anna was quick to add, “I’d stay, but I have to get home to Mom.”

Monica blew out an exasperated breath. “Isn’t that what I pay Edna for? Anyway, it’s not like Mom even knows what day of the week it is, much less what time you get home.”

“She knows more than you think.” But Monica, who hadn’t visited in months and wouldn’t dream of inviting their mother here, had no way of knowing that Betty grew fretful when Anna was late.

“Well, it won’t hurt her to wait. I feel like a swim.” Her unsmiling mouth let Anna know it wasn’t a request.

Anna’s sinking heart touched bottom. Monica would need help getting in and out of the pool, and even if she weren’t handicapped, she couldn’t be trusted in the water—not after several scotches. She glanced again at her watch. “Now?” Joyce, the physical therapist, would be here tomorrow, and she spent most of the time doing exercises with Monica in the pool. Why couldn’t her sister wait until then? “I promised Edna …” She faltered, the look on Monica’s face telling her she wouldn’t be leaving anytime soon.

“I’m sure Edna will understand.” Monica spoke slowly, drawing out every syllable.

“I don’t—”

“How would
you
like it if you had to depend on other people for every little thing?” Monica’s voice wavered. “Don’t you think I’d like to be able to get in and out of the pool on my own?”

“It’s not that I don’t sympathize.”
Just that I’ve heard it all before.

“Sympathize? You haven’t the faintest idea. Every morning I wake up thinking … then I remember.” She gulped back a sob, pressing a hand to her forehead in a gesture so theatrical it was all Anna could do not to groan.

Anna lived with it every day, too: The photo shoot for
Vanity Fair
up at Monica’s Tahoe cabin. Hadn’t it been
her
idea that they get some shots of Monica on her Sea Breeze? As if she could’ve known that the boat would hit a log and flip over, and that her sister would be left paralyzed from the waist down. Monica didn’t hold her responsible, or so she said—often enough for Anna to suspect otherwise. For months, years even, Anna had blamed herself, but enough was enough.

“Look, I know it’s hard for you, but—”

“You don’t know a
thing
.” Monica’s mouth trembled.

All right, you win.
Anna sighed in defeat. “I’ll go change.”

Trudging off to the pool house, she felt as if she were already in up to her eyeballs, being slowly dragged under. All at once she was catapulted back to the sixth grade, hearing the gym teacher’s whistle shrilling and seeing everyone scrambling out of the pool. But she’d been too fat to pull herself over the edge. Amid the jeers and snickers of her classmates, she’d kicked and strained until finally Miss Babcock, with a look of disgust, had roughly seized her by the arm and hauled her onto dry land. Her nickname from that day on had been Moby, as in Moby Dick.

All these years later, Anna’s cheeks burned at the memory. The mere thought of being seen in a swimsuit was enough to bring it all back, even though there was no one but Monica to witness her humiliation. She eyed the pool, twinkling like shards of glass in the late afternoon sun. If she hadn’t been filled with trepidation, she might have appreciated its charms. The same vintage as the house, its mosaic tiles and a decorative border gave it an opulent, old-world feel. Trees planted in Huff Huffington’s day—jacaranda and tulip and Paraguayan nightshade—cast a lacy shade over the patio and louvered pool house beyond. As she neared it, her gaze was drawn to the built-in barbecue off to the right, a reminder of the lavish parties Monica had been known for—parties to which she and Liz were occasionally invited—and of how different life had been since the accident that had divided it into Before and After.

Minutes later she emerged from the pool house clad in a one-piece suit that might have been stylish in her grandmother’s day, a towel knotted about her waist. As she made her way across the patio, she was aware of Monica’s eyes on her, noting every jiggle. Shouldn’t it have been the other way around, Monica ashamed to be seen half naked? Except no one who didn’t know better would have guessed she was anything less than whole. If anything, Monica looked even more beautiful than before the accident.

Anna puffed and wheezed as she dragged the chaise on which Monica lay to the edge of the pool. She was bent over, her arms about her sister’s waist and Monica’s wound tightly about her neck, when she felt something in her lower back give way. Gritting her teeth against the pain, she lowered Monica into the water. Moments later Anna joined her, holding a hand pressed to the throbbing small of her back.

“Oooo. It’s cold!” Monica maintained a tight grip on the coping.

Anna opened her mouth to disagree—the water, warmed by daytime temps that even in November seldom dropped below seventy, was quite comfortable—but thought better of it. With all her blubber the Arctic Ocean would seem warm. As she pushed away from the edge, the old panic closed in. For a moment she couldn’t find her breath, and the water seemed to drag at her arms and legs. But she managed to stay afloat … barely. “Do you want the kickboard? You’ll warm up faster.”

Monica shook her head, teeth chattering. “N-n-no. I’m fine.” She clung to the edge, her legs, pale as water lilies, floating lifelessly below the shimmering surface. It wasn’t until Anna was stroking her way into the deep end to retrieve the kickboard that her sister called out, “We should do this more often. The exercise wouldn’t hurt either of us.”

Holding on to the Styrofoam board, Anna kicked her way back to Monica. “You’re right, we should.” She struck an even, noncommittal tone. Monica knew perfectly well she loathed being anywhere near the water. Anna waited for the other shoe to drop.

“You might even lose a few pounds.”

Anna felt her stomach clench. “I’d have to swim all the way to Hawaii and back for that,” she replied with a laugh.

She’d learned early on that the best defense was a joke at her own expense. “Here.” She nudged the raft toward Monica. “Your turn.”

Monica ignored it. “The only reason I mention it is because I care. I don’t have to remind you of the statistics.”

“Thanks, I appreciate your concern.” Anna injected the right note of cynicism into her voice. Yes, she could stand to lose a few pounds—okay, more than a few—but she didn’t exactly qualify as a “statistic.”

“If you’d only—”

“Grab hold and I’ll push you.”

“You’re not—”

“Come on. I promise I won’t go too deep.”

“If you’d just listen to what I’m trying to—”

Anna abruptly released the raft and went splashing off into the deep end. She came up gasping for air, her hair plastered to her head and water streaming down her face, to hear Monica trill in greeting, “Glenn, darling!” Anna, pushing clumps of wet hair out of her eyes, squinted up at Monica’s agent poised beside the pool.
Oh, God.
There was no way out without his seeing her in all her naked glory.

Monica held out her arms to him, the dying swan in her final pas de deux. “Just in time. I’m freezing.” The plaintive note in her voice left the impression that she was being ignored while Anna selfishly went off in pursuit of her own fun.

“My pleasure.” He waved to Anna. “Hey, gorgeous.”

Anna gritted her teeth as she waved back. She knew it wasn’t a put-down; in his own way he was only being nice. Maybe there was still a way, while he was occupied with Monica, to slip out and into the pool house without his seeing her.

The slim hope was dashed when Monica called out, “Anna, sweetie, I’m sure Glenn could use a hand.”

Had the shallow end been shark infested, Anna couldn’t have swum toward it more reluctantly. She paused when she reached the steps, blinking up at him through the water trickling into her eyes. He stood with his back to the sun, but even with his face engulfed in shadow, no one could have missed how handsome he was—if you liked the type. Glenn could have been a movie star himself, though strictly the action variety. There was nothing subtle about him, from his swarthy skin and
mano-a-mano
build to the wavy black hair expertly gelled to look as if he’d just tumbled out of the surf … or bed.