Mai Tai'd Up
Page 14It was straight out of the Rat Pack. Pure California ranch style through and through, it was low, open, one story, and full of floor-to-ceiling windows. Incredibly innovative at the time, they slid on tracks so that you could open them all the way, creating an indoor space that was equally outdoors.
I grabbed my overnight bag, crunched up the gravel walkway, and took out my keys. Light spilled through every window; they had really left the light on for me. When I pushed open the door, a wave of nostalgia washed over me. Pine, sage, and a night-blooming jasmine seeped in from the back garden. I set my bag down and turned in a 360-degree circle.
I could easily envision Frank Sinatra and Dean Martin hanging out, paling around. Low modular furniture in tangerine leather in the living room off to my left, offset by an enormous glass coffee table in the shape of a kidney bean. Big glass balloon lamps floated over matching deep red oval end tables. An area rug in a black-and-white diamond pattern screamed from the floor, but was tempered by the fountain—oh, yes, a fountain—that was bubbling away on the inset bar in the corner. The most authentic tiki bar you ever did see. Stacked with highballs, lowballs, old-fashioned bowl-shaped champagne glasses, and several sizes of metallic cocktail shakers. I told them I’d be taking one of them out for a test run tomorrow.
On my left was a dining room with a table that could seat twenty. An oblong tortoiseshell, it had chairs with alternating cushions of turquoise and gold. Over the table soared a chandelier that had always reminded me of the old-fashioned game of Jacks, with silver rods jutting out at all angles and spheres of blown ruby glass at the ends.
Under my feet a terrazzo floor poured out in a wave pattern toward the kitchen, where it met polished concrete. An enormous wall of custom cabinets, light blond wood above the largest orange Formica countertop anyone had ever seen. At least in my generation.
Down the hall were several bedrooms, including the master, where I’d be sleeping. But off the kitchen? That’s where I was headed. Through one of those enormous floor-to-ceiling glass doors was the most gorgeous terraced patio, inlaid Spanish tile set against adobe brick. There were tables and chairs and umbrellas everywhere, all in shades of sunny yellow and gold, like you might see outside a Tastee-Freez in the summertime. Three levels of terraces with potted olive and lemon trees, and then the pool. Free form and lush, it was painted dark green, giving it a tropical lagoon feel. I gazed at it a moment, considering a swim, but my sore muscles were singing a different story.
Collecting my overnight bag, I headed for the master bedroom (shades of green and pink with palm tree wallpaper, very Beverly Hills Hotel) and took a quick shower in the bathroom (shades of aqua and mint with golden mirrors, very Liberace in the Desert), and fell into the low platform bed (shades of I’m exhausted, so I have no idea what color it actually is).
I lay there feeling my muscles begin to relax, and listened to the house settling around me. There was a strong wind blowing tonight, whistling through the trees outside the window and scuttling leaves across the patio. It was a lonely sound, but I didn’t feel lonely. I was alone in a strange bed in a semistrange house in a semistrange town, but there was still that hum of electricity running under my skin that I’d felt ever since my dad suggested coming up here.
And there’s that word again: option. The world was full of possibilities, and meeting handsome men in restaurants was just one.
I allowed one more moment of dreamy over the blue-eyes guy in the mirror, and then hummed myself to sleep. Sinatra, of course.
Chapter four
The next morning I woke up to not one, not two, not even three, but four texts from my mother. Which proves how much she didn’t want to actually speak to me, since texting was something she hated to do. And was terrible at—she never really grasped the concept as a medium of communication. Case in point . . .
Text #1:
Dear ChLOE!
Text #2:
Text #3:
Pleasefilloutachangeof
addressformatthePOST
OFFICESOTHATYOUR
MAILWILLSTARTGOING
STRAIGHTTOYOUAND
youcanstartdoingthe
answeringyourownsorryyou
didn’tgetmarriedCARDS)
Text #4:
FROM: YOUR MOTHER
She had large thumbs. Pretty sure ROOMand bonobo??????% meant room and board, but I can’t swear to that. But she did have a point, and as soon as I had some breakfast, I intended to begin addressing her concerns. The room I wasn’t even going to dignify. This house was way too cool to not enjoy. So stick that in your tea cozy. But the bonobo? That I should, and would take care of on my own.
I had some money squirreled away from my days on the pageant circuit, although it wasn’t much. Even when you’re winning, which I did the last few years, it was mostly scholarship money, not a ton of cash payouts. But I’d saved what I could, and would be able to get by for a while. I knew what my mother was saying: don’t take your father’s money. Funny, she had zero problem with that when it came to her alimony checks . . .
And my father would happily fork it over to keep me happy, but that wasn’t the point. I’d felt funny about jumping from my parents’ payroll over to my husband’s. And it wasn’t as if I hadn’t tried to get a job over the years; I had. But my mother wanted me to focus on school, and then pageants, and then I was engaged. My year as Miss Golden State had taken place my senior year of college, and then once I graduated I was still volunteering extensively for the therapy dog charity. And once the wedding planning began, that became all consuming. I’d attempted to broach the subject several times to Charles about working once I was married, but it wasn’t something he was too keen on. So my résumé, other than countless titles and work for my charitable organizations, was thin at best.