“This was a few years ago.” She lifts onto her tiptoes to brush a quick hand over my hair, neatening it. “You and Alex are just alike. Did neither one of you ever look at People Magazine? Watch television?”
“We worked too much to watch television.” I duck away from her habitual straightening of my appearance.
“Alex would’ve known.” Now that just ticks me off on principle.
“Tell me what the hell you’re talking about,” I demand impatiently. “How’s she famous?” I’m thinking of our time together in the bookstore yesterday, that nobody gave us a second glance. How much of a celebrity could that make her, really? And what would Allie have known that I’ve somehow missed?
Marti stares up at the night sky, like maybe someone might swoop down and knock some sense into thickheaded me. “Lord, Warner, what am I going to do with you?”
I step close, staring her down. “If you don’t just tell me what the hell you’re talking about, I’m going to kick your ass.”
“Hello? She was on About the House? Does that ring a bell?” she asks in exasperation, and it does sound familiar. I think it was filmed on the lot. Maybe. “Well, she was the star of that show,” Marti continues. “For a couple of years, until one day some crazed fan attacked her outside her apartment, stabbing her like, what…ten times? The doctors all said it was a miracle that she even lived.”
“Rebecca O’Neill?” I ask dumbly, thinking of the lovely, scarred woman in my kitchen.
“Yes, Rebecca O’Neill. The woman cooking you southwestern whatever-that-is in there. The guy killed her career, even if she did survive,” she continues somberly. “It was a real tragedy. I can’t believe you’ve never seen the E! True Hollywood Story about it.”
I catch sight of Rebecca framed in the kitchen window, the house lights an illuminating backdrop. I don’t want her to know I’m out in the driveway, gossiping about her past this way.
As I move to walk back up the driveway, Marti tugs at my arm, whispering, “Be honest, Michael. Is this a date?”
I kick at a loose piece of rock on the driveway, avoiding her probing gaze. “I’m queer, remember?” Marti of all people won’t buy that one. After all, we made love more times than I can precisely recall, so she knows damn well that my sexual pendulum has swung both ways.
“It is a date!” She clasps her hands together conspiratorially. “Isn’t it?”
I groan aloud. “I asked her here because she connected with Andrea.”
Marti’s black eyebrows form a feathery question mark. “And that’s the only reason?”
I see Andie through our living room blinds, walking toward the kitchen. “I’ll tell you everything later,” I say hurriedly, leaning low to give Marti a peck on the cheek.
She opens the door of her Toyota with a devilish look. “I’m calling you at eleven tonight for details.”
“Fine,” I grumble irritably. “Eleven.”
But what I’m thinking, although I don’t say so, is what if somehow that’s not late enough?
When I enter the house again, Andrea’s standing at the sink with Rebecca, holding a couple of tomatoes in her small hands. Rebecca is patiently explaining about washing the vegetables as she takes a ripe one and positions it squarely on the cutting board. Neither of them knows that I’m watching.
“These are from my mama’s garden,” she explains to Andrea. “Right off the vine.” I hadn’t realized her family lived here in L.A., not after seeing that picture of the horse farm.
Rebecca begins to methodically slice the tomato into luscious wedges; I can’t explain it, but it’s such an earthy scene. The way she’s bending over the large wooden cutting board, the one that Alex always used when he cooked his extravagant meals. For nearly a year, we’ve eaten fast food and cereal and frozen dinners; mealtime has been little more than a chore.
But something about all these spices, and the fresh smells, I don’t know what exactly, makes my throat tighten. The way Andrea looks up at her, all those usual defenses that I’ve grown accustomed to in the past year—they’ve been completely swept away. It’s the face of the daughter I had a year ago. All her innocence restored.
“I watched Evermore,” Rebecca tells her. “It was on last night. A repeat. I thought I’d check it out, because of you.”
“Yeah?” Andrea can hardly contain her excitement—her little voice absolutely quivers with it.
“I liked it. I’m betting Gabriel’s your favorite,” she says knowingly.
Andrea stays quiet, focusing on washing another tomato. “He’s an orphan,” she finally replies.
Rebecca reaches for a wedge of cheese and the grater. “Yeah, I did kind of figure that out.”
I know what Andrea’s going to say next before the words are even out of her mouth. I brace for it and attempt to bolster my waning emotional strength.
My daughter peers up at Rebecca with wide-open, vulnerable eyes. “I’m an orphan, too,” she confesses softly.
“What about Michael? You’ve still got him.”