You can’t run away from this forever. Both Oscar and Jonathan told me that over and over again. Up until now, the easiest reaction has been to avoid—which I’ve done with great success. Until Brenden appeared.
He planted hope inside of me.
I remember this euphoria. Once, it was new to me, teasing with innocent possibilities. Then I met Rufus. Any innocence I possessed was demolished beneath his hands.
It took every ounce of will I could gather to ask Brenden to let me go. I wanted to turn to him and fold myself into his body, giving myself to ecstasy. But I can’t use him for my own pleasure, that would make me no better than Rufus.
He’s been stony since. I can’t expect anything else, and this is better for us both. I have to make seeing Rufus my first priority once we’re in Los Angeles. Anything involving Brenden will have to wait until that’s resolved.
Tidy as that thought is, Brenden shines at me like a spotlight. I don’t want to ignore him. Complicating the issue is the possibility that he has feelings for me—why else would he try to kiss me?
My romantic naiveté is a reality that hasn’t changed even with decades of living. An atrophied muscle that has left me with the thoughts, the wonders and fears of a seventeen-year-old girl. How many girlfriends has Brenden had? The mysterious, quiet, artistic type would stir endless interest from females—that I’m certain of. Go ahead, ask him. This is part of letting go of past fears and embracing a new frame of mind.
“Are you seeing anyone special?” I ask.
His eyes widen at my out-of-the-blue question. “No.”
“I’m surprised, I guess.”
“Yeah, well, what did you think? Did you want the honor of being the first to cut me down?”
“I would do no such thing.”
“You just did. But, hey, it’s okay. I got it. Message taken.”
“You don’t understand.”
His face snaps in close. “Then clear it up for me.”
I swallow. “I—“
He resents me for taking his father away from him. He’s already hurting. I can’t tell him the truth. Then I see the flickering of hope in his eyes—because I don’t say anything more. I remember what no admittance means; that there is still hope for the dream. I hate myself. Unable to bear him waiting for my answer, I turn and look out the window.
* * *
When the flight attendant announces that we’re approaching LAX, my nerves string tight. Out the small rectangular window spreads a vast mosaic of concrete buildings and houses, dotted with the occasional cluster of trees, expanses of grass. Blue swimming pools shimmer beneath the sun like tiles.
Further West, the Pacific Ocean stretches on in endless sapphire. The city is huge. The sheer magnitude of its size is daunting. I’m in awe. I remember stretches of unblemished land, growing cities with acres of fields in between.
Can I do this?
The aircraft lands and Brenden and I deplane in silence. I frequently check to see if we’re being followed. Brenden, I notice, keeps his gaze straight ahead.
“You’re not mad at me, are you?” I ask.
He shoots me a stormy look. “Hell. Yeah, I am.”
“Because I didn’t let you kiss me?”
He shakes his head, snorts. “Because you didn’t want me to kiss you.”
I wanted you to kiss me. I couldn’t let you. Just like I can’t tell you why—not yet, anyway. His body moves stiffly, I can tell he’s even more upset that I haven’t repudiated his comment.
We move along with hoards of passengers. I can’t shake what feels like millions of pairs of eyes watching me. I’m glad to have Brenden by my side regardless of how he feels about me.
Outside, taxis are lined up at the curb. A wintery noon sun blinds my eyes so I slip on sunglasses. Brenden does the same—his pair has reflecting lenses.
He faces me. “Guess this is it.” He extends his hand, then retracts it. “Oh wait, you don’t want me to touch you.” There’s sarcasm in his remark, but I know he’s only using the tone because I’ve hurt him.
My heart beats nervously. “You’re leaving?”
“You don’t need me,” he says, staring at me with my own reflection in his sunglasses.
Yes, I do. I’m overwhelmed. Frightened. I came to do this alone, but I wish you could be with me.
“Because of that kiss? That’s silliness.”
“There was no kiss. And, no, I’m not leaving just because of that.”
“Then what? I hurt your pride so you can’t get past it?”
“That’s a load coming from a chick who can’t say I’m sorry.”
“What should I say I’m sorry for?” But I know. I’ve hurt him. I should apologize. The two words numb my tongue.
After a long while, punctuated by horns, the boom of plane engines soaring overhead, recorded announcements about loading and unloading, he shifts feet, dips his head. “I’d better go.” Then he turns and strides to one of the waiting cabs.
Stop him. Tell him the truth before it’s too late.
I’m unable to move, watching his cab pull into traffic. It disappears in a herd of cars.
“Miss, can I get you a cab?” The black, uniformed taxi attendant asks. I nod. The next moment I’m in the back seat of a yellow cab that smells like skin, sweat and cologne have soaked through the upholstery.
“Where to?” the cabby has a thick, Middle Eastern accent. His dark eyes examine me through the rearview mirror like he knows me. A look I’m familiar with. A look that reminds me that what people see in me is Rufus Solomon’s Grace Doll.
Not my Grace Doll.
“Where to?” the driver asks again.
I have no idea if the hotels that once graced town are still in operation. Some locations I left behind and never want to see again. I have to see the Dollhouse, even though the idea sends revulsion ricocheting through me.
Rufus had rented a bungalow at the Hotel Bel Air for our honeymoon. I never want to see that place again. I’d also attended parties at the Garden of Allah, the Brown Derby, Ciros and The Copacabana.
“Is there a respectable hotel you can recommend?” I ask.
His brows draw together. “Lady, where do you want to go?”
“The Roosevelt.”
The driver nods and pulls into traffic. I take a deep breath, preparing for an assault of feelings. I’d been to the Roosevelt, but only once and it had been for an after party celebrating one of BMB’s films. Nothing horrifying happened there, that’s why the memory floated beneath the surface. I try to deal with what feels like the very soul of the city rushing through my blood, percolating my anxiety.
I’m astounded that just being here, even with changes that have left the city unrecognizable—not to mention the decades I have lived away from all of this—in spite of all of that, I feel insignificant, like I did years ago.
No one owns you.
Even though I have to face Rufus by myself, I wish Brenden was with me. His wounded face is fixed in my mind. I let him go without telling him the truth. I need to clear up what I’m certain is confusion in his mind, and the vial has to be in my possession.
I search every cab we pass in the hopes I’ll see him, but that’s not possible. He has a good five-minute lead on us.
“Take me to 1515 Roscomare Road in Bel Air first, please.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
~Brenden~
I shouldn’t have left her like that. I can’t get the image of her standing on the curb, alone, out of my head. Don’t kid yourself. She gave you the brush off—no, a shove off. She doesn’t want or need your help.
Then why can’t I remember anything but the exposed look in her eyes?
Checking my cell phone for her call is an instinctive reaction, and futile. I didn’t see her use a cell phone once, and I don’t have her number. Even if I did, I’d be an idiot with ‘kick me’ tattooed on my forehead if I called.
My only calls and texts are from Solomon and Judy.
Ugh.
Judy.
I have to face her when I get to the house. Since I don’t want to, I dial Dick Ridgeway.
“Brenden. What can I do for you?”
“I just got back in town, you know, from doing that thing for Dad.”
“How did the trip go?”
“It didn’t happen.” My gut churns saying the words. “The person who was supposed to get the item isn’t alive anymore.”
“I see.”
“Yeah. What happens now?”
“As far as the money goes, you just won’t have access to the full amount until you’re twenty-one.”
I’m relieved I’m still entitled to the money, even if I’m carrying disappointment over what didn’t happen. ”Okay. Thanks. I guess we’ll be in touch.”
My stomach growls and feels sick simultaneously. You left her. I have the driver drop me off on Westwood Boulevard. The tantalizing scent of refried beans and deep fried shells leads me to Poquito Mas.
I order, and hope that eating takes my mind off of her. I take a table by the window and stare out. But all I see is her, those two black bags at her feet, looking like a child dropped off in the middle of a third-world country.
My order arrives. I shovel in what I normally like to savor. The food sits like a brick in my gut. I’m really just killing time because I don’t want to go back to Dad’s. I left town with the intention of dropping off the box and coming back to any future my imagination conjured. Somehow, while I was there, I failed at the one thing Dad wanted me to do, fell for a mysterious girl I know nothing about, and made a fool out of myself.
I pull out my sketchbook. The drawing from the airport faces me. Just looking at her makes every joint holding my bones together ache. The next two hours are spent sketching her as I last saw her—so I never forget. The image wallpapers my memory.
The sun’s heading toward the edge of the ocean when I’m finally done. I sigh, stare at the drawing—my most abstract yet—and know I won’t finish filling it in. Details will only remind me of what I’ll never touch, taste, feel.
I catch another cab and head to Dad’s, ready to face off with Judy.
Chapter Twenty-Five
~Grace~
My memory’s sharp as a blade. I’ve never been to Jonathan’s, but I remember him telling me about when he found the house, fell in love with it, and made an offer on it. And I remember the address.
Jonathan hadn’t told me much about Judy. I imagine he didn’t think I could relate to either of his two marriages. There were lots of things—like Jonathan’s marriages and women—we didn’t discuss.
He only mentioned Brenden because he wanted me to know he had a son. It wasn’t so much that he was happy to be a father, but more of a delivery of news: Celia had a boy. His name is Brenden. Even then, I’d sensed that he’d wished it had been me by his side and the realization swamped me with sadness for him.
The one-story house is hidden by bushes. Not what I imagined Jonathan living in and calling home, though he sent me photos through the years. When his artistic nature rambled off track in horticulture and he’d taken creative license with his shrubs, he’d sent pictures. The year he repainted gray the wood siding a deep brick shade, he’d sent pictures.
I knock on the door with a nervous stomach. Timing. I’m going to find the right moment to tell Brenden everything, and I hope that moment presents itself here.
The door opens and I’m looking at a woman with a bright red pixie haircut, large green eyes, and a heavy nose, bulging at the tip.
“Yes?” She holds the door like a shield, her face peering out from behind it.
“Is Brenden here?”
Her gaze scans me, eyes discerning. She seems to decide what to say based on my appearance rather than my question. “Who are you?”
“A…friend.”
She examines me critically, suspiciously—as if I’m a door-to-door salesperson. Then, without any explanation, her face brightens. I assume I’ve passed her test, for her tight hold on the door relaxes. The door swings wide, revealing her five-foot three inch frame dressed in a long emerald housedress made of velveteen. Down the center, a single zipper runs from her neckline to her hip line. She tilts her head, her gaze now firmly locked on my face.
“He’s not here, but you are very welcome to come in.” She gestures for me to enter, then closes the door behind me.
I can smell Jonathan here—faintly—and I smile. My only regret is that I’m seeing his home without him. Regret causes my fresh loss to gape open inside me.
“I’m Judy Lane. Brenden’s step-mother.” She extends her hand and bright pink painted nails flash. I shake her hand and she holds mine, covering it with her other. “You are simply stunning. Really. You remind me of Grace Doll, does anyone tell you that?”
“Occasionally.”
“Well, it’s as obvious as the red in my hair. Like Lucille Ball. Do you know who she is? I bet you don’t, you’re a different generation.”
“I know who she is.”
Her brow arches. “Well, smart then. Come in. Have a seat.”
I follow her, my gaze sweeping the interior of the house: dark wood floors, walls painted honey-brown, photos covering the main hall which leads to more rooms. The living area is white with gold accents. Not classy, more garish, and I have to figure that’s Judy’s influence. Jonathan preferred traditional styling.
Judy flutters to a white couch and settles into the fat cushions like a cat. “Go ahead, sit.” She waves her arm at the matching loveseat. “How do you know Bren?”
“From school.”
“Really?” Something about the rugged cut of her face is familiar. “I’ve never met any of Brenden’s school friends.” She whips out her cell phone and before I can blink, I hear the click of a camera. “You don’t mind if I take your picture? I have to have something to hold over his head.”
I’m surprised, and try to ignore the queasiness I feel. “Your home is very nice.” I steer the conversation elsewhere, for Brenden’s sake, and for mine.
“Thank you. What’s your name, dear?”
“Katherine.”
“Ah.” She nods. “Are you named after a family member?”
“No.” Why is she asking me odd questions? I wish Brenden would arrive. What if he doesn’t come here? Asking will make it obvious that I don’t where he is, she might get suspicious. And I don’t want to cause trouble for him.
“Brenden told me about your husband’s passing. I’m sorry for your loss.”
The woman’s expression remains bright as a Christmas bulb. “How nice of you to think of my deceased husband.” She runs her painted nails through her hair, as if conscious of her appearance. “It’s only been two weeks. I miss him so…” Her fake eyelashes flutter. Perhaps she’s holding back tears, but I see no glistening in her eyes. Dabbing at them with her bright-painted nails, she sniffs.
I’m uncomfortable with her unconvincing performance and I regret my timing. I should have made sure Brenden was home before coming here.
My gaze wanders the room: the French abstract painting over the white brick fireplace, the Oscar on a side table. Other than the Oscar, there’s nothing of Jonathan in this room.
Jonathan.
“My husband won that Oscar in 1949 for Paradise Found.” Judy’s tone isn’t informative, it’s more like she’s telling me something I should already know. “Have you seen the movie?”
“Yes.”
She says nothing, just watches me. A shudder skims my spine. She points to another Oscar that sits on a bookshelf. “He won that one there for Lifetime Achievement. Has anyone ever told you that you look like Grace Doll?”
“Occasionally.”
“You talk like her, too. Your voice is practically identical.”
The air in the room is suddenly cold and thin.
“Was your husband an actor?” I ask, hoping to change the subject.
She throws her head back in a laugh. The innards of her white teeth flash with gold fillings. “
Dieu! You still have it. Still the actress!”
My neck prickles with heat.
Her eyes lock with mine and for a long, heated silence, she says nothing. “I’ve spent my inheritance trying to find you, Grace,” she says. “And here you are, in my living room. After all this time, after all the expense, you came to me. How ironic.”
The hairs on my body stand on end. My heart fumbles. I glance at the entry hall, wondering if there’s anyone else in the house witnessing this bizarre moment.
“I was my Papa’s only girl. When he passed away I was seven years old. But I made myself a promise, that I’d vindicate his good name. Yes, he won a Noble Prize, but that’s not what he will be remembered for. His greatest achievement is you.”
Dr. Lemarchal’s daughter?
I rise.
“No, sit, sit. S’il vous plait. We have so much to talk about and, after all these years there’s no way I’m letting you out of my sight before I let the world know you’re alive and, most importantly, that you’re still young and beautiful.”
Confusion and fear gnash inside of me. A cold sweat slicks my skin.
“Don’t bother trying to come up with some story,” she says, waving her hands in the air. “I had years to learn everything there is to know about you. I know that Katherine Grace Doll is your full name. Have you gone by Katherine all these years?”
“It’s your opinion that I look like Grace,” I say. Either the woman is crazy or she really is Dr. Lemarchal’s daughter. Both options frighten me. “But I find it rather—sick—that you’re carrying on like this.”
She laughs again, shaking her head, but her eyes are dark. “I bet you’re wondering how I know? Jon didn’t tell me. He took your secret to his grave. Nothing cracked that loyalty—damn him. I’m not going to go into the lengths I went to try getting even one shred of your whereabouts from him. It’s none of your business. I finally realized whatever he’d done to protect you was impenetrable—and then Celia died and Brenden moved in. I knew if there was ever going to be a crack, it’d be there—between Brenden and Jonathan. I was right.”