“Oh, I have a ton of those.” I show her the butler’s pantry off the kitchen. It’s a long room, surrounded on three sides by glass-fronted cabinetry displaying china, serving ware and glassware of various styles and ages. The whole room is cream white with pale marble counters and a copper bowl sink for prep.
“Damn,” Monica murmurs. “People like me hire designers to attempt to re-create spaces like this, and here’s the real deal.”
“Oh, I don’t know.” I open a cabinet and pull down two Deco-era martini glasses. “My grandmother was a set designer. Her job was to help people like you re-create fantasy spaces.” I glance around. “She liked white in the house because it was restful to the eye. But for some reason, I see it painted a glossy lipstick red so the china patterns pop.”
“Oh, I like that idea. Sexy-cool. You should do it.”
Change things? Here? A flicker of disloyalty dances at the edges of my mind, but it’s pushed back by a barrage of little tweaks and fixes I picture every time I think of the house.
“Maybe I will.” Slowly, I run a hand over an upper cabinet door, imagining it cool and smooth with lacquer. “Be a hell of a job.”
“I can almost see the wheels turning,” Monica says. “You ever think of following her footsteps?”
“I inherited her love of design and the appreciation of beautiful spaces, but I’m not sure about the talent.”
“Won’t know unless you try.”
I make a noncommittal sound. “I really do wish I had your emphatic drive to do something. Whatever that might be. I envy those who know exactly what they want to do.”
We take the glasses back to the kitchen.
“I’d say both sides have their pitfalls.” Monica opens a cocktail shaker. “People like me, my man and yours? Sure, we know what we want. But on the heels of that is a relentless drive to be the best at our chosen profession and the utter terror that it might not happen.”
“Sometimes I think—” I bite my lip and grimace.
“Oh, no,” she says with a laugh. “You can’t leave that hanging.”
“It’s not anything big. I just realized it might sound disloyal to August.”
Her eyes light with approval. “Loyalty is a good thing. Now spill.”
Laughing, I slide onto a stool. “I wondered if that’s what had August climbing onto a table and making an ass of himself. Because he’s not like that usually.”
“I’m going to go out on a limb and say you’re right. Trent worries about him because he knows all too well how much pressure they’re under. And your man?” Glossy black hair tumbles around her shoulders as she tuts. “He’s the number one pick. People are either desperate for him to give them everything or waiting for him to fail. Or maybe both.”
Despite all this pressure, August still makes time for his fans, for charities, for me. He’s on the road right now. And I miss him madly. When he’s not working, he texts or calls. It only makes me sink deeper. I spent twenty-two years of my life without him, and I find myself wondering how I managed.
“Come on, then,” she says briskly. “Into our suits, then I’ll shake us up some liquid libation.”
“I’ll do snacks.”
“I like my snacks like I like my men. Salty and a little bit nutty.”
Fifteen minutes later, Monica and I float side by side on two white pool chaises. A floating tray connects us and holds our drinks and an assortment of nuts. It’s autumn, but here in LA the weather is warm and sunny.
A breeze stirs, catching the vibrant purple blooms of the jacaranda trees, making them rustle with a gentle shushing sound. Trumpet-shaped petals fall like soft rain.
One lands on my belly. Idly, I pick up the bloom and swirl it. A subtle honey-grape scent releases.
“I need a pool.” Monica sighs in contentment. “The previous owner wasn’t a swimmer, but if you have the means and the room, how you gonna live in LA and not have a pool?”
“I have to see this house of yours.”
She turns my way, and the mirrored aviators she has on reflect tiny images of me. “You really do. I still think you should consider adding some courses on design.”
“Maybe.” If she knew I sketched interiors to relax, she’d really be on me.
“A good designer makes a shit ton of money in this town,” she sing-songs. “I should know. I just paid one.”
