California Dreaming (2 page)

They sat, belted in, and a different flight attendant began the pro forma announcement that always came as a plane was taxiing to the runway. Then the captain came on—Anna was surprised to hear a slight Southern accent—to explain that they were number three for takeoff and it was a gorgeous night for flying. She mused whether they'd be able to see Tahiti or Fiji en route. Probably not, she decided. They were flying west. It would be dark a lot of the way.

“Hey.” Logan put his hand atop hers as they waited at the end of the runway for the tower to clear the one to take off. It felt good. Safe. If Logan wanted to hold her hand for the next twenty-two hours, she decided that would be okay. He laced his fingers with hers. “Why'd you change your mind?”

“I have an impetuous side,” she replied lightly. Then she frowned. “Actually, that's not true. I am trying to
develop
an impetuous side.”

This was closer to the mark. Impetuousness did not have its own chapter in the
This Is How We Do Things
Big Book (East Coast WASP edition.) Everything about Anna—from her natural butter blond hair, which she wore very straight and shoulder length, to her refined ivory features and slender body—seemed to denote her prim and proper upbringing. She had the carriage of a ballet dancer, wore little makeup, and favored her grandmother's diamond stud earrings over anything flashy and new. She'd rather go to the Strand bookstore than to Bergdorf Goodman (back in New York), or to the B. Dalton bookstore than to Fred Segal (here in Los Angeles). She loved literature—give her Faulkner or Wharton or Twain over a Bruce Willis movie any day.

Her time in Los Angeles hadn't changed that. But it had changed her, freed her, to the point that she was able to make impulsive decisions like the one that had brought her here, to this very moment.

“Me too.” Logan grinned, his intense blue eyes twinkling. “Impetuosity—is that even a word?—is highly undervalued.”

“You're suitably impetuous. You got accepted to Harvard and decided not to go,” she challenged.

Anna had practically been with him when he'd made the decision. She had been at a Yale freshman gathering in Manhattan, and he'd been at the same kind of gathering for incoming Harvard students. They'd met up afterward and Logan had confided in her that he felt uninspired by what he'd heard and who he'd seen.

“Gotta see the world first. You know, starting with my dad's new eco-resort.” He shrugged playfully.

She laughed. Logan's dad, Vaughn Cresswell, was a hotelier whose name people mentioned in the same breath as those of Marriott and Hilton. “Not exactly roughing it with a sleeping bag and two matches.”

“Touché,” he agreed. “Anyway, it's a hell of a lot better trip with you along. I'm glad you're here.”

He gave her hand a little squeeze as she stared at him. Logan was tall and blond, on the preppy side. They'd known each other when they they'd been little. When Anna had been in New York a couple of weeks ago, she'd run into him in front of her family's brownstone on the Upper East Side, which just happened to be next door to
his
family's brownstone. She hadn't seen him in years, and was shocked to discover he'd grown from a skinny, rather quiet boy into a junior version of Daniel Craig—blond, with intense blue eyes, ears that stuck out slightly, a sexy smile, and the kind of sinewy muscles you didn't expect on an intellectual.

Spending time with him was a bit of a shock. She'd forgotten that there were guys who shared her love of books and meandering philosophical conversation. Most of her Los Angeles peers knew everything there was to know about television and the movies, could spout off the latest box-office results and Nielsen overnights, but couldn't identify Henry James on a bet.

“So have you told your parents about this little walkabout?”

Anna felt a bit queasy. Her parents were going to go insane when they found out—in their own idiosyncratic ways, that is.

Her mother, Jane, was currently in Florence, Italy, with the latest in a long line of very handsome and much younger artists whom she “promoted.” In this case “promoted” meant “supported in every way possible,” and “every way” probably indeed meant “every way.” But Anna had to admit she chose well. Just about every artist she “promoted” got invited to the Whitney Biennial, the Whitney Museum's exhibition of the latest and best in modern art from around the world, which took place every other year.

What would her mother think? Her mother would be apoplectic that she'd even
considered
ditching Yale. That is, after she recovered from shock. Then she'd scold her for traveling without luggage or toiletries.

As for her father? She'd spent the last eight months living with him at his Beverly Hills estate. Well, that was a bit of an exaggeration. Jonathan Percy worked such long hours as an investment advisor that she barely saw him; it wasn't like they sat down together each evening for a family dinner. In some ways, her father might be more forgiving than her mother. Jonathan was considerably more open-minded than his ex-wife, and even had a lovely marijuana habit that he often indulged in the gazebo in his backyard. Still, Anna was pretty sure that his open-mindedness would probably not extend to what she was doing this very minute. The Airfone call that she'd make to him in the morning, once she'd put three thousand six hundred miles between them, was going to be interesting indeed.

“They'll be okay with it,” she finally surmised.

“Bullshit.”

“Well, that too.”

Anna and Logan continued to hold hands as the captain announced they were number one for departure. The engines roared as the Airbus barreled down the jet-black runway, blue and white guide lights flashing by faster and faster, until the plane lifted off effortlessly into a slight breeze coming from the west, out over the inky Pacific, leaving the city behind them. Anna could see the clear demarcation of the Pacific Ocean where it touched the coastline. The pilot made a sweeping turn to the north. To the east, Los Angeles stretched out in all its gleaming, pulsing glory. To the west was the blackness of night.

As the plane rose to its cruising altitude, Logan enthusiastically told her about his father's resort on Bali. Four-poster beds strung with dreamy-yet-practical mosquito nets; thatched-roof bungalows that opened onto white sand; lazy afternoons on the resort's private sailboat; moonlit dinners of fresh fish and tropical fruit served by a chef named Dolph, whom his father had imported from the finest four-star restaurant in Düsseldorf, Germany. As she leaned back into the pillowy leather seat and closed her eyes, Anna could visualize the lush island's aquamarine coves and a hammock tied between tree branches thick with mangoes. She felt her body relax. She had made the right decision. She was sure of it.

With an audible
ding
, the seat-belt sign switched off.

A male flight attendant lifted a small microphone and began chattily describing the flight's amenities. With the push of a button, the seats would recline into twin-size beds. Down pillows and comforters were available, as well as scented aromatherapy eye masks and shearling travel booties designed exclusively for the airline by Donna Karan.

“Let me bring you some slippers,” the flight attendant said to Anna in a hushed voice as he finished his announcement. He wasn't much taller than the diminutive woman who had welcomed Anna aboard. Anna thanked him; she was so comfortable, she'd almost forgotten she had nothing covering her toes.

“Champagne?” The first female flight attendant was making her way down the aisle with a service cart. “We're pouring Taittinger or Mo‡t tonight. As you prefer.”

She poured them each a well-chilled crystal flute, with a fresh orchid blossom adorning the rim. Logan raised his glass.

“Here's to adventure.”

“Impetuous adventure,” Anna agreed.

They clinked flutes and drank. Anna knew she should be nervous, upset, anxious, and second-guessing this mad, last-minute decision. But she really didn't feel that way at all. She drained half of her champagne and leaned into Logan. He put an arm around her. “I'm happy.”

Such a simple thing to say, but for Anna, who tended to overthink
everything
, being here in this moment and being happy was something miraculous. She smiled up at him.

“Me too.”

They were already in Bali, out sailing at sunset. The sun was tomato red as it sank into the water, and the air was redolent with the aroma of coconuts and gardenias and salt.

“Anna!”

Anna felt Logan shaking her arm urgently and snapped awake. She'd been having the most delicious dream.

“What's going—”

“Shhh! Listen.”

Anna realized that the captain was in the midst of a long announcement to the passengers.

“… malfunction. Now, what's caused this malfunction, we can't tell in the cockpit. And they can't tell us from the ground, either.” While his tone was light and confident, there was no mistaking the seriousness of his words. “But here's what it's going to mean,” he continued. “We're going to do a big ol’ U-turn and head back to Los Angeles, dumping as much fuel out at sea as we can. Don't worry about the fish, folks. It's a big ocean.”

“Oh my God!” Anna heard someone behind her exclaim.

“There's always a chance that my hydraulics will return, and it's a fine night out there. But if I can't get the gear down, we're going to come in on our belly and that's never a picnic. Had to land a Tornado fighter this way once. I'm glad that it was only once, and that I'm here to tell you about it. They'll be ready for us at LAX, but you should all be prepared. So we'll keep you posted from up here. Our flight attendants will review the safety precautions, and I'll be back from time to time. Don't worry, folks—we'll do everything we can to get you home safely.”

Anna suddenly felt the blood run cold in her chest. She didn't know all the specifics, but she'd heard enough to be afraid. There was a problem with the plane, a serious problem that would likely force a belly landing.

Logan gripped her hand tightly and she could tell he was trying his best not to betray his own fear. Her mind was already on overdrive. Was this the punishment she received for trying to be impetuous?

In the back of the plane, Anna could hear people clamoring in a dozen different languages, looking for more information, translating for one another—it was the sound of panic about to erupt.

“We could die,” she said quietly, slumping back in the white leather seat and staring ahead, stone-faced.

Logan leaned in to kiss her cheek. She hoped he'd contradict her, tell her she was silly, tell her everything was going to be okay.

“Probably not,” he replied, but his face gave a different reaction.

Anna blinked and sat up straighter. She reached for the Airfone. “I've got to call my dad. It could be goodbye.”

Do It Again and You're Dead

Saturday morning, 2:58 a.m.

“
M
y Eduardo,
Eduardo mio. Mi querido Eduardo
.” Samantha Sharpe mumbled to herself in a mix of English and limited Spanish as she sped west on Wilshire Boulevard toward Eduardo Munoz's building—one of those Manhattan-esque apartment houses that lined both sides of the Wilshire corridor between Westwood and Santa Monica.

It was a heady feeling to be doing sixty miles an hour on a street where traffic generally crawled along at a teeth-gnashingly slow pace, her Sirius satellite radio tuned to the blues, the windows cranked down, and the balmy late-August night air hitting her in a rush.

“Her Eduardo” lived in one of these white high-rises, in an apartment owned by the government of Peru and reserved for members of its Los Angeles consulate staff. Eduardo was a member of the staff for the summer, compliments of his father, a high-ranking official of that mountainous South American nation. Sam had met him at a resort in Baja California during the spring, where he was vacationing from his studies at the Sorbonne in Paris.

“Mi Eduardo. Querido Eduardo. Guapo querido Eduardo,”
Sam repeated.

Your Eduardo.

That was how her boyfriend—no, her
fiancé
—Eduardo had signed the handwritten note that she'd found on the last page of the mystery delivery she'd received not three hours before, while standing in front of Cammie's club, Bye, Bye Love. A thin Latino man in a black pin-striped suit had presented her with an artist's portfolio, saying only, “I have a delivery for you.”

She and Anna had opened it, Sam in a state of near-paralyzing shock, on a round stone table near the club. It was filled with artists’ renditions of bridal gowns, each worn by a girl sketched in Sam's likeness. Her favorite was strapless, with a bodice encrusted with pearls and diamonds, and an Empire waistline. But the others were almost as dazzling.

Until the moment she opened that portfolio, she had been absolutely, totally, utterly convinced that Eduardo was cheating on her. In recent weeks, a gorgeous Peruvian designer named Gisella had made a habit of hanging around him, and when Sam had gone to New York City with Anna a couple of weeks before, she'd encountered Eduardo and Gisella in a cozy booth at a Midtown restaurant, looking rather intimate. In a scene worthy of a cheesy soap opera, she'd dumped him on the spot, without giving him any chance to explain.

His explanation was, of course, almost achingly simple. He had been working with Gisella in secret to create these bridal gowns. To top it all off, he'd been understanding of Sam's dramatic outburst. In his apologetic explanatory note he'd written,
Somewhere in your family tree, there is hot Latin blood—of this I am certain
.

At this point, she wouldn't have been surprised to find out his teasing supposition was correct.

Sam's stomach rumbled in nervous excitement as she reached Eduardo's new building, the Edgemont. It had a circular driveway, and a valet was on duty despite the late hour. He took her Hummer and parked it while Sam pushed through the glass revolving door and into a mirrored lobby.

A white grand piano rested in the center of the deserted lobby. Gigantic vases of freesias, lavender, and roses adorned every available table. Soft classical music wafted from speakers hidden in potted trees. Behind the white marble guard desk stood the doorman on duty, the size of a linebacker for the Oakland Raiders, with a shaved head and thick bushy eyebrows. “Good evening. Welcome to the Edgemont,” he greeted Sam as she entered. His voice was melodious, and he wore a classic black Ralph Lauren suit. That it was nearing three in the morning didn't seem to faze him at all. “May I help you?”