My first instinct is to duck for cover, but my second instinct is that of a more mature adult. I head to see who’s at the door, hoping it’s just Louie and not someone new, but when I glance through the peephole, I’m not met with Louie’s face. Instead, I come eye to eye with lots of bright-orange ... stuff.
I just see a lot of orange, so I back up for a moment to let my eyes adjust. I look out the peephole again, and whoever was standing so close to the door has backed up now, and I can make out a head.
It’s a woman with a lot of curls. Bright-orange curls hanging down to her shoulders. She’s older than me, probably a little older than my mother. She’s wearing a long silk dress, with a matching shawl covered in purple flowers. I can’t tell if it’s a nightgown or a fashion choice, but I do know that she’s probably Louie’s wife. Just a wild guess based on her age, the fact that she’s here, and the pan of food she’s holding.
If I hadn’t had ten hours of energy shots already today, I’m not sure I could find it in me to open the door, because the way she’s dressed combined with her hair makes me think she is not a quiet introvert. Luckily, I have the energy to meet someone new. I’m also curious if her hair is natural, so I open the door to greet her and to get a better look.
“Hi, hi!” she sings. Her voice is exactly as I imagined it—a little bit too loud and a lot chipper. And her hair is definitely not natural. That color is a conscious choice. But it works. Somehow.
“Can I help you?”
“You met my husband when you checked in.” Her voice sounds solid and trained, like she could probably sing and project on a stage. “Just seeing if you need anything!”
“Hi. No, I’m good, thank you.”
“Good, good,” she says. I open the door wider, and her eyebrows twitch in excitement just a little bit at the thought of being invited inside. She holds up the tray. “Brought you some goodies.”
“Oh. Wow.”
She hands me a tin pan of something. “Brownies,” she says. “Not the special kind. Sorry.”
“Probably for the best,” I say. “I’m not getting any work done as it is. The last thing I need is a cannabis-induced nap.”
“Marigold,” she says, reaching a hand toward me. “But please, call meMari. Never Mary. Never Marie.Mar-ee,” she says, enunciating. “I tried to make Gold work for a good year, but Gold doesn’t flow well with my husband’s last name. Longsetter. Gold Longsetter. Sounds like a dog breed.”
I laugh, unsure if I should. “Nice to meet you, Mari. I’m Petra.”
“Petra Rose. I know who you are. We watched that movie you wrote.”
I can feel my chest heating up. If she watched the movie, and she knows my name, it makes me wonder what else she’s heard about me. “Well, I didn’t write the movie. I just wrote the book it was based on, but—”
She dismisses my next thought with a wave of her hand. “Yeah, I work in Hollywood—I know all about how these things run. Your idea, your book,yourmovie. That’s how I see it, anyway.” She motions with her head. “Can I come in? Won’t stay long, I promise.”
“Um. Sure.” I open the door wider, and she makes her way in, her heels clacking on the concrete floor. She sighs as she makes a circle, taking in the kitchen.
“I just love it in here. I tried to get Louie to let us move in after the remodel, but he said it makes for the better rental.” She pauses her circle and looks straight at me, her dress coming to a stop a few seconds after she does. “Guess he was right, because it attracted a big-time celebrity.”
“Oh. I wouldn’t say I’m a ...”
“Not you. Not to say youaren’ta big-time celebrity, but I wouldn’t gush over you that way. It would be improper. I was talking about Michael Showalter. He stayed here a few years back. Before the remodel, but still, I’ll give Louie the credit anyway because I’m a good wife, but Michael stayed here two whole weeks and even left a five-star review with his actual name on it. It’s the review we highlight on our website now.”
She can see on my face I have no idea who Michael Showalter is, and I can tell she can tell because she rolls her eyes, waving a hand. “I forget, you’re a writer, not an actress. He’s a director. Big time. Well,mediumtime. Either way, he wrote the review right there in our guest log,” she says, pointing to a guest log sitting on the credenza beneath the television. “Said it was the best vacation he’s ever had. It’s on page thirty if you want to read it.”
Mari motions toward a barstool for permission to sit, so I nod. She slides it out and takes a seat. “Did Louie tell you I’m an actress?”
“He started to talk about it, but I think the conversation got derailed.” I walk into the kitchen. “Would you like something to drink?” She doesn’t seem like she’s keen to leave immediately, so the least I can do is be hospitable to this woman who would bethemost unrealistic character if I wrote her straight into a book.
“Got any wine?” she asks.
“I do. Red, is that okay?”
She nods. “Me and Louie lived in Los Angeles most of our lives. We met there. He was a gripper, and I was an actress. I still act, but mostly just stuff for the ID channel. You know those murder-type shows? The short documentaries?”
“I do,” I say, pouring her a glass. I slide it to her. “They’re my favorite pastime.”
She picks up the wineglass with the elegance of an old Hollywood actress. “I do the reenactments. You know how in the documentaries they’ll be talking about a woman who gets murdered by her grandkidsand they have those silent reenactments with people who pretend to be the murderer, or the murdered, or a detective? That’s me, I’ve played dozens of different characters. I’ve done so many of them, I’d probably get recognized if I still lived in Los Angeles.”
When I don’t respond, or laugh, she pegs me with a pointed stare. “You are in your head, girl. That was a joke,” she says, taking another sip of wine. “Shockingly, and contrary to what it may seem, I’m not that self-absorbed to think I’d be recognizable, although most people in the industry do think that about themselves. Boy, do I have stories I could tell you about some of these people you see on your television every day. I won’t, because I’ve signed too many NDAs throughout my career, but if you get me drunk enough ...”
