My father’s house is at the edge of Griffith Park but technically a Hollywood Park address. He bought it after the market crash for pennies on the dollar because he is as brilliant with money as he is with clients. A modest home by Starland standards, the facade is unassumingly andunimpressive 1950’s plain red clapboard and boring rectangular windows. But that was my father. He believed in substance, not flash. I remember moving into it in my senior year of high school thinking it was a dump. I didn’t understand his penny-pinching ways until I accidentally ran across a bill for the private school he sent me to. That man put all his money into me. So I grew to appreciate this house because it represented my father’s love.
It’s most stunning feature however was not in the house, it was the thoroughly unobstructed view of the famous Hollywood sign from the back deck that jutted out over the slope the house perched on. My father sits out here at night, with his laptop and drink in hand. He says it reminded him of what was at stake for his clients if he screwed up.
He never screwed up.
Wanita, our housekeeper, opened the door and started in surprise to see me. She appeared to be heading out, and she held a couple of plastic containers of food.
“Oh, Miss Jacine, I was just on my way to see your father.”
“Are you? And what’s this?”
“He said he's missed my cooking and—”
“Let me see,” I said. Reluctantly she held up one container of steak fajitas and another of chicken.
“No,” I said shaking my head. “Not the steak.”
“But—”
“And make sure he gets a half portion. And tomorrow morning we will talk about his diet. He’s on restrictions during his recovery. He did have a heart attack.”
“Oh,” she said with her eyes wide. “Mr. Alexander said it was just stress.”
My father, the liar. What did I expect from the premier spin-doctor of LA? I see I have more to manage than my father’s business.
“And you believed him? Wanita, I’m surprised.”
“Sorry, Jacine. I should have known better.”
“I’ll take that steak container.”
“There is more in the refrigerator for you with the rest of the fixings. It’s good to have you home.”
“Thank you, Wanita.”
She gave a passing glance to Rory. “Mr. Holmes,” Wanita said as she walked by him.
“Good to see you again, Wanita. You do make the best fajitas in LA.”
She smiled.
“There should be enough for two,” she said.
Oh brother. Now I have to invite him in.
“Come along,” I said.
“I’ve always liked your house,” he said. “It’s not pretentious like so many LA homes.”
“Thanks. So you’ve been here before?”
“You don’t remember? Your MBA grad party, beforeBanshee, broke up?”
“Oh, I’m sorry. Yes. Of course.”
I pulled out Wanita’s homemade ice tea, fajita wraps, salsa, and black beans and rice from the refrigerator, and heated the food separately in the microwave. Using that appliance was my one culinary accomplishment.
“Can I help?” he said.
