Instead, a casting director for a new movie saw me in a waiting room and asked if I’d come to LA to test for a part. Which turned out to be the lead in a movie about a young woman striving against all odds to outwit her brutal father and live a bigger life in eighteenth-century England. It had been a wildly popular novel, and the search for the right person to play the part had been all over entertainment news. Phoebe and I had hotly discussed it several times ourselves, but neither of us dreamed it would be me.
But I brought everything I had to the role, and was uniquely prepared, after all. It was a hit. My career was made.
Just like that, people said. So lucky. Everybody loves a pretty girl.
Phoebe dropped out of art school in her third year to get married. We fought about it for months, with me pleading for her to at least finish and her insisting she really wasn’t good enough to be a fine artist and retreating into the arms of the admittedly gorgeous but awful Derek, her husband and Stephanie’s father. Everything I predicted about him and how he’d wreck her life turned out to be true, but I would never say that to her.
Although, really, I guess I had, in that last, spectacular fight.
Sipping my tea, cat winding around my feet, I’m okay. I’m back in my body, not my memories. When the phone buzzes on the counter, I jump three feet.
It can only be one person. No one else can get through.
“Phoebe,” I say, answering with a sense of relief. “What are you doing awake at two a.m.?”
“I could ask you the same question.”
“I don’t really sleep anymore,” I say. “What tea are you drinking?”
“Rose tulsi with honey. You?”
“Chamomile peach.”
A little pool of quiet falls between us. “Are you okay?” she asks. “I see that every single light in the house is on.”
“Uh.” I glance over my shoulder, and it’s true. “It makes me feel safer. It’s really quiet up here.”
“Do you want to come down here and spend the night?”
A swell of hope fills my body. “Really?”
“Yeah. Let me call Ben and he’ll bring you down.”
“Oh, no no no. I’ll walk.”
“Really?” Her voice is droll. “In the dark? Alone? In the middle of the night?”
“Okay, maybe not. It seems mean to wake him up.”
“He’s awake. We were texting. He doesn’t sleep, either. Maybe nobody does over the age of fifty.”
I take a breath. “Can I bring Yul Brynner? He has his own little carrier.”
“How is he with dogs?”
“You mean Maui?” I laugh. “Fine.”
“Oh, of course. They’ve met. Of course, bring him. I’ll call Ben. Get ready.”
“Thank you, Phoebe.”
“No worries,” she says, and hangs up.
I shove a pair of underwear and a brush in a bag and gather things Yul Brynner will need—food and a dish and a cellophane-wrapped litter box with litter, one of dozens I keep so he can be comfortable wherever we go. Phoebe’s question about the dog makes me smile. Maui is a sweetheart, all size and fur and a big squishy heart. I found him in Mexico during a shoot for Home, back when I was still thrilled with the part and the cast and the surprising success of the series, before all the madness descended upon the world, before we were all locked up in our houses and I came here to at least be close to someone I loved, before Beryl died, before my fight with Phoebe. Just . . . before.
Maui was an adorable pup, all paws and ears. He wandered into the camp, clearly hungry, and everyone fell for him, feeding him tidbits of food that was much too rich for his young belly. He ended up with a nasty case of diarrhea, at which point no one wanted to look after him. I took him into my trailer and made him a bed beneath the table. Yul Brynner found him curious but also gross, so after the initial investigation, he left him alone.
The shoot was over a couple of days later, and I couldn’t bear to leave the puppy behind. Phoebe had recently lost her old chow and I knew she was grieving, and although you’re really never supposed to do this, I surprised her with the foundling. By the time I walked him up her driveway on a brand-new leash and harness, he’d been bathed and tended, and he was the most adorable thing on four legs. Phoebe narrowed her eyes when we appeared at her door, but within seconds, she was on her knees, letting him lick her face and cuddle up to her body. Jasmine, only six at the time, was there, and she went completely mad. Phoebe took him in, as I knew she would.
I tuck Yul into his carrier, and Ben is already knocking. I open the door. “Oh! Ben!” I say in surprise. “I remember you.” It’s funny how much a person can look like themselves over time. As a young teen, he’d been plump and awkward, with hair down to the middle of his back. He’s grown into a solid and good-looking man with that aura of confidence that some people carry. It gives me space to take a breath. “Really nice of you to do this.”
“No worries.” He looks around the foyer. “This place is great.”
I nod. “You should come back in the daytime. I’ll show you around.”
“Let’s get you down the hill.” He picks up the cat carrier. “Anything else you need?”
“No.”
In his mud-splattered white truck, which I imagine hauling soil and wheelbarrows and such things, he doesn’t chatter, and it’s not awkward, just kind. “We went to school together, didn’t we?” I ask.
“We did. You were a year ahead of me, so our circles didn’t cross much.”
“You hung out at the hippie house, though, right? That summer?”
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “I still think about that place sometimes.”
“Me too.” It was the end of a lot of things for me, but people mostly don’t know about much of it, except that my hair was shorn when I came back to school. Even now, the memory gives me a sad, dull ache in my chest.
Again, I think of the lie I must confess to Phoebe, the lie rooted in that summer. “Funny how things stick.”
“I remember the church burning down,” he says as we pass the lot where it stood, still empty after all these years.
“Yeah,” I say. A knot of dark memory ties itself in my gut, a knot made up of so many threads—my father’s rage and Joel’s act of revenge and the loss of everything. Ripples of things I’ve never worked out, couldn’t bear to. “Only pity is that my dad wasn’t in it when it burned.”
He glances at me. “He had a reputation as a miserable bastard.”
“Understatement.”
He nods. I’m grateful that he doesn’t pursue it, and we don’t say anything more until we pull into Phoebe’s driveway. Lamplight glows in the living room and one other upstairs window, the room that was mine, after I survived all that happened. Phoebe is going to let me stay in my old room.
All the heat and loss and weight of time drop out of my body. If home is a person, mine has always been Phoebe. That lamplight gives me hope that we might resolve the still-simmering anger between us.
“Thanks, Ben.”
“Anytime.”
Chapter Seven
Phoebe
It was actually Ben’s idea to pick up Suze. I’d been texting with him, as we often did in the middle of the night, talking about movies or books or politics or the world, whatever, and I mentioned that I was worried about Suze because all the lights were on. He suggested he could bring her down to me, and the way that landed in my gut, I knew he was right.
That’s a big favor, I said.
Not really. Will you make me some of that rose petal tea?
Rose?
It smells like roses. You made it with honey.
I remember, and smiling, type, Rose tulsi. You got it. I’ll call her right now.
They arrive less than a half hour after the phone call. The cat, in his enormous, padded, beautiful carrier, is a big Himalayan Ragdoll who seems perfectly calm. “He’s gorgeous.”
“He’s a great cat,” Suze says.
Ordinarily I would have met him by now, but her last cat, Melvin, died not long after Beryl did. It occurs to me for the first time that she lost her partner, Beryl, and Melvin within a couple of years.
And me, I realize. A river of mingled anger and guilt—It’s not my job to take care of her! But who else does she have?—travels through my body.
Yul Brynner winds around my ankles. His fur is as soft as a breeze, thick and long. “Wow, he’s so pretty!”