His skin was so rough. Violet turned her hand up so his rested in it. His nails were savaged, the cuticles stained black. “Do you garden?” she asked.
“Listen to you. Do I garden.”
There was a calm in his face, an invitation to linger. She lowered her eyes. His hand, scarred with worry. Hers, plump from herbal-infused creams. The only way people like them were meant to meet was across a counter. She wasn’t supposed to be alone with him in a lavishly appointed men’s room, a black American Express card in her wallet, a month’s rent worth of artisan truffles at her feet. If the chatty docent came upon them and caught the foul-mouthed bass player from Palm Springs holding Violet Parry’s hand, it would be within reason for her to call security.
Violet placed her other hand on top of his, cupping it as she would a cricket that had made its way inside the house and she had to return to the safety of the wild. The bass player looked up. She met his green eyes, daring him to do something. But he looked down. She quickly let go of his hand. “Blood,” she said.
“What?”
“There, where you were biting your nails.” A poppy seed of blood rested on his cuticle. Violet went to wipe it off, but he jerked his hand away before she could touch it. Violet was momentarily confused, then it occurred to her: he must have just noticed her five-carat diamond ring. “I’m married,” she said.
He rose to his feet. “Stay happy,” he said. “You twinkle when you’re happy.” A blast of sunlight blinded her, and the bass player was gone.
SALLY pulled up to the gate off Mandeville Canyon, early for her one o’clock, a private ballet class for three-year-old twins. She got out of her Toyota RAV4 — her “truck” as she liked to call it — with the CORE-DE-BALLET placard in the window and picked up the newspaper. She had made sure to arrive early because Jeremy White’s column ran Tuesdays in the Los Angeles Times and she wanted to appear informed when she finally met him tonight. Sally scooched the paper out of its plastic so she’d be able to return it undetected. The parents were super-nice and would have let her read it if she had asked, but one of the things that made Sally so successful as a private instructor was knowing her boundaries.
She opened the sports section and found “Just the Stats” by Jeremy White. Jeremy’s column had started running last fall, and since then he’d predicted the winner of some amazing number of football games. So amazing, apparently, that Maryam, a producer for ESPN, was giving him a segment on their Sunday-morning show beginning next month. That’s why tonight was so important. Sally had to get a ring on her finger before Jeremy became famous and started earning the big bucks. That’s how they never leave you. Because no matter what happens, they know you loved them for them and not for their money.
Her phone rang. She recognized the number as David’s office and wasn’t thrilled at the prospect of another unpleasant exchange with his secretary. “Hello.”
“Hey, Sal, it’s me!”
“Oh — David — Hi!”
“Happy birthday. I’m sorry we didn’t connect yesterday.”
“That’s okay,” Sally said, unable to resist the surge of love her brother’s voice always triggered. “I know how super-busy you are.”
“Thirty-six,” he said. “That’s a big one.”
“Yeah, I went out with friends. How are you —”
“You’re good?” he asked. It was more of a statement than a question. “Health’s good? Work’s good?”
“Yeah, fine. What are you up to?”
“Same old — Violet, Dot, my bands. Hey, I saw the Bolshoi is coming. I thought you’d like to go.”
“Wow, I’d love to. When is it?”
“April something,” he said. “I’ll be out of town, but I’ll get you tickets —”
Caw! Caw! A screech echoed through the breezy canyon. Sally covered her free ear.
“Well, sounds like you’re busy,” David said with a laugh.
“No, I’m not, it’s just —”
“Call if you need anything.”
Then — splat! And another splat. Out of nowhere, the hood of Sally’s truck was freckled with white. And in the tree overhead, parrots! A whole flock of them! “Aaaah!” Sally shut her phone and shielded her hair with the LA Times. Splat-splat. Splat-splat. Splat-splat-splat-splat. Wet bird poop machine-gunned the flimsy newsprint. She jumped into her truck, turned on the engine, and drove into the clear. She opened the door and ditched the gross newspaper on the driveway. Always one to learn from her mistakes, Sally resolved to never again park under a tree without first looking for parrots.
OVER the past several hours, Violet had found many excuses to wander the streets of Beverly Hills, the jazz music beckoning her through the mash of traffic. At one point, she had stood across from the park and watched him. The song was “My Funny Valentine,” whose lyrics always broke Violet’s heart.
Your looks are laughable,
Unphotographable,
Yet you’re my fav’rite work of art.
The bass loomed over the bass player. His stance was wide, aggressive, and his arms snaked around the instrument’s neck as if trying to wrestle it to its death. But the bass was surely older than the musician who slapped it. It would survive long after he was dust. Between songs, the wizened black drummer said something to the bassist, who in turn laughed. His same laugh from the bathroom. Violet had felt jealousy, stacked with the preposterousness of such jealousy. She had shaken it off and headed to her car.
Yet here she was again, an hour later, pulled toward the park and the dismantled health fair. She didn’t realize it until her heart quickened. There he was, getting into a car across Santa Monica Boulevard. Violet hustled through traffic, then flat-out ran up the block to the fenderless Mazda hatchback.
“Fuck! Fuck!” He pounded the wheel with both hands.
Violet tapped on the window. Still looking down, he smiled, then cocked his head and met Violet’s eyes. He nodded, as if he’d been expecting her. She motioned for him to roll down the window. He turned the crank with one hand and hooked his finger over the top of the glass.
“Push down,” his muffled voice instructed Violet. She flattened both hands against the window and pushed. Their combined effort lowered it six inches. “Did I fucking predict this?” he said with a great big laugh. “My car won’t start.”
“Can I give you a ride home?” she asked. The passenger seat was fully reclined. On it rested the upright bass in a black bag. Violet imagined him tenderly laying the instrument on the tattered seat, and blushed.
“I need this fucking car,” he said. “I have a champagne brunch gig in Agoura Hills on Sunday, and the rest of the band lives in Ventura, so if someone comes to pick me up, I’ll have to give them gas money, and I’m only making fifty bucks for the gig.”
“Oh my God. It’s like every other word out of your mouth is gas money.”
“Excuse me if my biggest concern in life isn’t chocolate and hats.”
“I have a great mechanic,” she said. “I can have your car towed there. He’ll arrange for a rental and make sure your car is fixed in time for your gig.”
“Really?” he asked.
“Really.”
“That’s the way it’s going to happen?”
“That’s the way it’s going to happen,” Violet said, “because I’m going to pay for it.” She felt as though she had just hurled herself off a cliff. He looked away, unable to see she was falling, falling. He started chewing his nails. “Stop that,” she said, eager to change the subject.
“Thanks.” He pulled his finger out of his mouth. “Why are you doing this?”
“Noblesse oblige?”
“Heh?”
“Never mind. It was — it’s just my way of saying thank you. For cheering me up in the men’s room.”
“Don’t let your rich husband hear you say that.”
“Whatever it’s going to cost, it’s an insignificant amount of money.”
“Say that again.”
“W
hat?”
“Insignificant amount of money.”
Violet did. The bass player looked off and thought about it. “I might never be able to pay you back,” he said.
“Think of it as me miracling you.”
“Miracling me?”
“It’s a Deadhead thing,” Violet said. “At Grateful Dead shows, there’d be all these nasty hippies walking around holding up one finger, saying, I need a miracle, which was meant to take the form of someone giving them a free ticket.”
“You’re a Deadhead?” he asked skeptically.
“I was.”
“I feel less guilty accepting your money knowing you have such shitty taste in music.”
“I’ll call our car service to pick you up,” she said. “The mechanic will take care of you.”
“Do you think one day I’ll ever say, Our car service?”
“Most likely no.”
“Man, as hippie chicks go, you have one hell of a mean streak.”
“The best ones always do.”
He got out of the car. His black shirt was wet and stuck to his back. Violet resisted the urge to peel it off.
“You do know how to get shit done,” he said. “Are you sure you’re not a cokehead, too?” He had changed into flimsy flip-flops. His feet were small and delicate, with black hairs sprouting from the tops of his toes.
Violet fumbled for her cell phone. “What’s your name?”
He pulled out a stiff leather wallet chained to his belt loop and removed a business card.
TEDDY REYES
BASS PLAYER
11838 Venice Blvd.
Los Angeles, CA 90066
(310) 555-0199
Reyes. It meant “kings” in Spanish. That answered it; he must be Mexican. Violet pictured Venice Boulevard but could see only oil-change places, strip malls, and junk shops. She didn’t know people actually lived on Venice. The zip code — 90066 — meant nothing to her. Bordering the card were colorful dancing pharmaceutical pills. “What are you, some kind of pill freak?”
“I was,” he said. “Among other things. I’ve been clean almost three years.”
“So that’s the royal we? AA?”
“I’m Teddy and I’m an alcoholic.”
“I’m Violet,” she said. “And I’m . . . I’m happy to meet you.”
Teddy gave a big laugh. There it was, his laugh: her laugh. “Of course you’re a Violet,” he said. “Nice to meet you, too, Violet. I need a miracle.”
SALLY followed Maryam into her boss’s Marina del Rey condo. It was packed, loud and overlit with twenty-dollar halogen torch lamps you could get at any drugstore. Sally couldn’t believe that after all these years in LA, she was still stuck at the level of party where they served baby carrots and Trader Joe’s hummus. Since she had the best arms in the room, Sally took off her coat and pushed it into Maryam. “Could you put this somewhere?”
Maryam dutifully did as told and disappeared into the crowd.
“You must be Maryam’s friend,” a voice called, “the beautiful Sally.”
“And you must be our gracious host!” Sally handed the sweaty man two crates of chocolate. She couldn’t figure out why Violet had sent over seven pounds of chocolate for her birthday. (The card had read “Love, David and Violet,” but Sally knew Violet’s writing.) It was a thoughtless, bizarre choice. Sally was about to chuck the bag in the trash, but then saw the round orange box. In it was a gorgeous Hermès belt. She could forgive Violet the chocolate.
“May I get you a drink?” asked the host.
“No, thanks. I’ll just wander.” Sally scanned the crowd for Jeremy White. Not wanting to appear too eager, she had never pumped Maryam about Jeremy’s looks. All Maryam had said was “He’s actually kind of cute.” Actually kind of cute. Sally wondered, Why the actually?
“Hey! Look who it is!” Maryam had reappeared and was spinning Sally around by her shoulders. “Jeremy! This is my friend Sally.” Sally found herself, without ceremony, face-to-face with Jeremy White. He was pressed against a wall, a beer high to his chest.
He stuck out his hand. “Nice to meet you, Sally.”
Sally shook it. Clammy. “Likewise,” she said.
“I can’t believe you came to a party,” Maryam said, and punched Jeremy in the shoulder.
“You told me I had no choice.” He shot a glance at Sally, but before she could engineer a seductive smile, he looked down.
The tension that had been building in Sally’s neck and shoulders all day swooshed down her spine and disappeared. Tonight would be easy-peasy-lemon-squeezy. “I’m a big fan of your column,” she said. “I don’t know how you do it.”
“I have a secret system,” Jeremy said.
Sally pantomimed pointing a gun at him. “We have ways of making you talk.”
“I’m scared,” he replied to her left cheek. She worried a zit had sprung up.
Maryam laughed. “You guys are totally made for each other.”
Sally felt a flush of excitement that what she was thinking had just been spoken aloud. “Maryam, look! They have five-layer dip.” Sally gave her a little wave. “Your favorite.” Maryam glowered and walked off.
“It involves finding the value in a spread,” Jeremy was saying. “Even a half-point discrepancy — especially if it’s a valuable half point from three to three and a half — can be statistically significant.” It took Sally a second to realize he was still talking about his betting system.
For a geek. That’s what Maryam must have meant: he’s actually kind of cute for a geek. Jeremy had perfect posture. His chin was tucked in, as if to create an extra half-inch distance between himself and the world. He had pale skin and lots of sandy hair, with no signs of balding. He looked slender under a crumply button-down and wide-wale cords. It was a good start, something Sally could work with. “I think it’s so amazing you work at the LA Times,” she said.
“I work at home. I’ve only been to Spring Street once.”
“Even better! Working at home!”
“Gee. Everything makes you happy,” he said.
“I guess I’m just one of those types of people.”
“I’ve never heard of the type who is happy one hundred percent of the time.”
“Try me.”
“That would require spending every day and night with you.”
A joyous “Aah —” was all that came out.
A dumpy, unattractive woman in sweatpants butted in. “Let me know when you’re ready to go,” she said to Jeremy.
Sally waited for an introduction, but there was none. “Hi, I’m Sally Parry,” she had to say.
“I’m Jeremy’s neighbor.” She had a big mole on her cheek.
“Jennifer drove me here,” Jeremy said. “I don’t drive.”
Jeremy didn’t drive here? What about Sally’s plan? If he didn’t drive her home, she couldn’t bring him upstairs. If she couldn’t bring him upstairs, she couldn’t tease him. If she couldn’t tease him, she couldn’t send him away, flummoxed and erect. This was a four-alarm disaster! “That’s so fascinating!” Sally squealed. “I wish I had a neighbor to chauffeur me!”
“There you go again,” he said. “Happy about everything.”
“Whatever,” Jennifer said. “I’m ready when you are.”
“I’m having fun,” he said to Jennifer. “Do you mind staying?”
The neighbor girl looked Sally up and down. Sally stood her ground with confidence. Jennifer turned to Jeremy. “Let me know when you’re ready. I have to get up early.”
Sally had to think fast. Jeremy was totally flirting with her, but were just five minutes face-to-face enough for him to ask her out? This blind date had taken three whole months to maneuver. Sally had only six weeks before Jeremy became a TV star. She grabbed his hand. “Come with me.”
VIOLET found David in the bathroom, flossing his teeth in his boxers. At forty-six, his physique was as good as when Violet had first met him.
“Pick a number,” he said. Flo
ss hung from either side of his mouth, like a brontosaurus. “From one to five.”
“Why?”
“Just pick one and I’ll tell you if you’re right.”
“I don’t know. . . .”
“One to five. It isn’t hard.”
Violet stiffened. She had an eighty percent chance of saying the wrong thing. “Two.”
“Five! That’s the number of nights we sold out at the Troubadour. They played the single on KROQ. It was massive. By noon we sold out five nights.”
“No kidding!” Violet said. David was legendary when it came to breaking new bands, but with the music business imploding, all the old methods were being challenged. “You’re the greatest, baby!”
“You better believe it.”
Violet removed her hat from the Hermès bag and cut off the tag. Six hundred dollars. Daniel had seen it in the spring chapeaux catalogue and declared a “shopping emergency” — those words were actually preprinted on a slip of paper. The hat was Fed-Exed from Paris to Beverly Hills for Violet’s perusal, “no obligation to buy, of course.” It wasn’t a great hat. But, trapped in a friendship with scented Daniel, Violet gave him the small crate of chocolates and bought it anyway.
“I met the sweetest guy today,” Violet said. “A bass player.”
All day Violet had been analyzing what had happened between her and Teddy. All day she had reached the same conclusion: nothing. Their meeting was purely accidental. She had made it clear she was married. She’d probably never see him again. But paying to have his car fixed was trickier to rationalize. Technically, it was David’s money. But he had just given a bunch to a charity for struggling musicians. And if he did happen across the mechanic’s bill — which he wouldn’t, as all the bills went straight to the accountant — Violet would say she’d helped a struggling musician.
Still, as Violet kept combing over the details of her strange encounter — Teddy’s soulful eyes, the way he kept repeating what she said as if she were the most mesmerizing person in the world, how safe she felt when he took her hand, how their banter made her twinkle, how she practically dared him to kiss her, the desperation she felt offering to fix his car, and the insanity as she tried to play it down — her shame intensified. She kept having to remind herself that nothing illicit had happened. No self-exculpation was necessary. If it were, would she be telling her husband?