“The whole wall is filled with snapshots of parties over the years.”
It was way before my time, but there are moments I hear the ghosts of those days, a lilting laugh, a few bars of music, the clink of glasses.
Entranced, Monica strolls along. “I don’t usually get starstruck, but this is Hollywood royalty. The originals, you know? Hold up!” She frowns at a color photo toward the end of the hall.
I know this one well: It’s of Pops, Pegs, my mother, and me at six cuddled in her lap.
Monica slowly turns, one brow lifting eloquently. “Your mother is Anne Morrow?”
“You know her?”
“Pen, I’m anactress.She’s a multiple Tony winner.” The exasperation is clear.
“Yes, true. But not many people outside of New York follow the theater. Not like they do film actors.”
“Act-tress,” she enunciates, poking herself in the chest for emphasis.
I throw up a hand in resignation. “Fair point.”
“You have her last name.”
“Mom changed my name to hers after the divorce— My father is Douglas Merriweather. He treaded the boards as well. But his career fizzled after he ran off with my nanny.”
“Karma,” Monica says succinctly. “Were you okay with your mom changing your name like that?”
“I wasn’t asked. At any rate, I didn’t mind. My father left us. Mom wanted to be a united family of two after that. Felt reasonable.”
“But this was his parents’ house?” She follows me through the living room and past the breakfast porch.
“They left it to me. He’s a bit of a shit.”
“His loss. I’d rather have my daughter’s love.”
Me too.
We enter the kitchen, and Monica does a slow spin, taking in the spreading wings of the house and the pool courtyard. “It’s beautiful, this house. Really beautiful.”
“Thank you.” I heft the bag on top of the island. “I can’t take any credit for it, though. My grandmother updated and redecorated the whole place a few years back.”
“She did a great job. It’s so restful.” Monica opens the bag and starts pulling out bottles. Gold bangles chime musically on her slim brown wrists. “I just had my place done. Hired a designer to do everything. Asked for Boho cottage core. Though I think it’s giving more eccentric cat lady. Which is cool. Only I don’t own a cat. Anyway, I can’t pretend that I had much to do with the process either.”
There’s something mesmerizing about the way she moves about like a dancer, chattering with cheerful self-deprecation.
“I can tell just by the way you put yourself together that you have great taste.”
She’s wearing scuffed black motto boots with brown linen bubble shorts and a draping pale pink T with Chanel printed across the chest in bold black. It’s not something I could pull off if I tried. But she looks great.
Monica, however, snorts. “Girl, I have a stylist to pick my clothes too.” With a shrug, she deftly sorts through her supplies. “I’m a manufactured image. It goes with the territory.”
“Do you like it,” I ask her quietly. “The life? The job?”
She looks up, her face familiar and yet still startling to see in my kitchen.
“I do.” Her tension eases with a real smile, her trademark scarlet lips pulling wide. “I really fucking do.”
“Well, that’s good, then.”
“Yes, it is. I didn’t bring glasses.”
