I watched in the rearview mirror as she waved her hands over her head. One last goodbye. So sweet. If I weren’t such a mess at the moment, I might have regretted not getting to know her better, becausewow, was she sad to see me go.
The Wunderkind
Written by Vera Stein
DRAFT 1
October 8, 2007
Advanced Screenwriting
Dr. Von Jacques
INT. COFFEE SHOP—DAY
He’s not just making coffee—he’s conducting symphonies in steamed milk. He is an awful and chaotic barista.
POPPY (V.O.)
I didn’t believe in fate until he misspelled my name on a cup and made it sound better.
Chapter Four
According to the GPS on my phone, Starlight Palms was just over three hours away, located on the outskirts of Palm Springs. The About page on the website explained that the place was once one of the most hopping resorts of the fifties and sixties for young Hollywood weekenders. Sometime in the late sixties the place shuttered and then sat for a few years before some nostalgic studio exec bought the property and turned it into a retirement community. While not explicitly so, it had become a favorite among the aging entertainment industry population.
The perfect place for those who weren’t quite wealthy enough to maintain huge estates with full staffs, it was still ostentatious enough to signal status—and it was a solid plan for industry folks who had a pension through the Screen Actors Guild. Ruby had put her deposit down on her own one-room apartment here when it first opened, but with Mom’s health, she’d deferred her move for over a decade.
The community was heavily gated with a security guard booth. Since I hadn’t actually told Ruby I was coming, she wouldn’t have me on her list, so Marlon and I sat in the car, sharing a cheeseburger and waiting for our moment.
“Here we go,” I whispered as a moving truck pulled up followed by a caravan of cars. It looked like move-in day for a new resident, and with my car packed with stuff, I could easily pass for one of their family members.
I drove past the security booth and let out a squeal once I was in the clear. “Call me Jason fucking Bourne,” I said to Marlon.
The property inside was soothingly crisp and clean with a mid-century modern aesthetic so well done you couldn’t tell the difference between the original buildings and the newer ones. There were interconnected walkways between bungalows and very fancy-looking golf carts zipping on their own paths running alongside the road. Blooming cacti, manicured grass, and evenly spaced palm trees lined every bit of pavement. The buildings were low and sprawling, a true nod to the original resort, which was at the center of the property. According to the pamphlet Ruby had showed me, those who needed the most assistance resided there, near the offices.
Just before turning down her street, Saguaro Crossing, I passed the stunning rectangle-shaped pool with a huge flamingo fountain at the very center. I could definitely see myself melting into that pool.
Ahead of me, a man who looked to be in his late seventies, dressed in tiny little swimming shorts and an unbuttoned terry cloth shirt, crossed the street, each arm around a lady of a similar age on either side of him. His hands rested on their hips in a way that seemed more than friendly. One of the women laughed loudly as he pinched her butt and they disappeared behind a cluster of palm trees.
Well,thatwas saucy.
I parked in the closest visitor spot across from Ruby’s unit and looked over at Marlon. “Let the impromptu family reunion begin.”
This hadn’t been my only option. I could have gone to Tess’s house. I knew that, but I somehow felt like Ruby owed me this. At the very least. And with the ongoing renovations, Tess didn’t have much of a house for me to go to anyway.
Double-checking the address in my phone as I followed the walkway, I knew I was in the right place as soon as I saw the doormat. In a beautiful elegant cursive font, it read:This isn’t a whorehouse. It’s a whorehome.
I sucked it up like a big girl and scooped Marlon into my arms before knocking on the door. This was temporary, I told myself. A night. Maybe two. Three, tops.
But there was no answer.
“Hello?” I checked the doorknob to find it unlocked. “Ruby?”
“Oh, she’s home,” someone called.
I looked over to find a thin, older man in a denim jumpsuit sitting on an iron bench with his legs crossed, a curling paperback in his hand and bright green readers perched on the tip of his nose.
“Thanks,” I said as I opened the door.
