Chasing Chaos: A Novel (10 page)

Marlon
woke Tuesday morning to his phone ringing. Sandy.

“Morning,
sir.” He sat up, holding his phone to his ear with his shoulder. He glanced at
the side of the bed where Daphne had lain the night before. He put his hand on
the pillow.

“Meet
me in the screening room?”

“Give
me twenty minutes.”

Marlon
tossed his phone on the bed. He showered, dressed and made his way over to the
lower entry of Sandy’s house. He climbed the stairs to the main floor, then up
another level to the top floor. The screening room was a large, windowless
space that looked like a miniature movie theater. It held four rows of five
narrow, reclining leather chairs, each row elevated. At the back of the room
was an A/V booth with a projector, and at the front was a projection screen.

Sandy
sat in the middle of the second row holding the remote control in one hand and
a coffee cup in the other. He was watching what looked to be a police
procedural.

Marlon
sat down next to him.

“This
is a pilot for a new series I’ve been asked to invest in,” Sandy said. “Tell me
what you think. There’s a coffee for you.”

Marlon
glanced down at the cup-holder in his arm rest, and indeed there was a tall
coffee cup from the café at the bottom of the hill. He took a sip and watched
the show. He knew Sandy got investment requests like this almost daily but that
he only considered a few of them. And he rarely brought Marlon in, not because
he thought Marlon had little to offer, but because Sandy didn’t want to waste
Marlon’s time.

No,
Sandy had brought him here this morning to talk about something other than the
pilot, and Marlon had a feeling he knew what that something was.

The
show ended, and Sandy used the remote control to turn off the projector and
turn up the lights.

“What’d
you think?” Sandy asked.

“Good
casting for the leads. I wouldn’t have thought a former sci-fi leading man
could make the transition to detective, but I was wrong.”

“He’s
got good charisma,” Sandy said.

“It
goes a long way,” said Marlon. “He’s gained some weight though. Almost looks
chubby, especially next to her.”

“Good
old Hollywood double standards,” said Sandy.

Marlon
said nothing, thinking of his little sister and the shit he knew she would have
to put up with living here and trying to make a living in the film industry.
God, he worried about Carrie constantly.

“I
saw a car parked by the garage when I got home last night,” Sandy said.

“Yep.”

“It
wasn’t there when I got up this morning.”

“Nope.”

Sandy
took a long sip of his coffee. “You think you can handle her?”

“Not
in the slightest.”

Sandy
laughed. “At least you have a sense of your own limitations.”

“I
always have.”

“A
person could say she’s done some terrible things.”

“Not
lately.” Marlon was startled by his need to defend Daphne.

“Not
lately, no.”

“You’re
the one who stranded me with her yesterday. Don’t tell me that wasn’t
deliberate.”

“I hoped
you might find out what was eating at her. Not take her in for the night.”

“Pulling
strings on me, sir?” Marlon was officially annoyed.

Sandy
sighed. “Don’t be mad at me. I’m just feeling protective.”

“That’s
unnecessary.”

“I
suppose if Greta and Timmy can forgive her, then anyone can,” Sandy said. “Just
be careful.”

Marlon
hooted with laughter.

“Yes,
yes I know,” Sandy said. “You always are.”

“I’ve
got a wedding to pull off by tomorrow.” Marlon stood. “See you around?”

Sandy
nodded, still looking thoughtful.

That
made two people who’d warned him away from Daphne: his paternal stand-in and
Daphne herself. Marlon wondered if he shouldn’t start listening.

But,
lord help him, he didn’t want to.

~~~~

Daphne
woke to her phone ringing. She looked at the screen: Greta.

She
jumped out of bed and opened the door to peek into the hall. Miranda’s door was
still shut, the light still off.

“Greta,
hey,” she said.

“What’s
she doing there?”

“Her
mom died. Alcohol poisoning, she said. The funeral was yesterday, and she just
took off afterwards.”

“She
always was impulsive.”

“What
should I do?”

“What
did she ask you to do?”

“Good
point. Nothing.”

“That’s
the other thing about Miranda,” Greta said. “She doesn’t ask for much.”

“Except
that one time when she did,” Daphne said with regret.

“Except
that one time,” Greta agreed.

It
seemed like all of Daphne’s past mistakes were going to torment her this week,
when all she wanted to do was focus on Greta’s happiness. Her mistake with
Miranda happened a long time ago, back when they were in college. Miranda had
asked her for help, and Daphne hadn’t given it. Daphne hadn’t realized then how
rare it was for Miranda to ask for help.

Maybe
Miranda’s appearance last night was fate giving Daphne a second chance.

“See
you this afternoon?” Daphne asked.

“Yep,”
Greta said. “And Daphne?”

“Yeah?”

“I
don’t think she was close to her mom, but still. This death ruptures her
understanding of how everything maps onto everything else. When a parent dies,
it’s hard to make sense of things.” Greta was speaking from experience now.
“Give her a hug for me.”

“I
will.”

After
they hung up, Daphne showered and dressed, throwing on jeans and a navy blue
cotton blouse, then sat at her kitchen table with coffee and her laptop. Even
though things had ended uncomfortably with Dan on the phone last night, she was
determined to be at Uptown before nine o’clock in case he showed up looking for
her. She’d said she’d be there, so she would be there.

After
half an hour—at seven o’clock—she heard noises in Miranda’s room. Miranda
opened the door. She’d obviously gone to sleep with wet hair, because now it
hung in bent tangles. Her eyes looked less tired, but no less haunted.

“You’re
up,” Miranda said.

“I
always get up early.”

“It’s
late back east. I can’t believe I slept this long.”

“You
had a long day yesterday.”

“I’ll
be out in a minute.”

Miranda
emerged a few minutes later wearing black, body-skimming jeans and a tight
black T-shirt, her hair pulled back in a severe ponytail. Her full lips were
painted dark red. She plopped into a chair next to Daphne. Daphne raised her
eyebrows.

“What?”
Miranda said. “I’m in mourning.”

“Nice
lipstick.”

“I’m
starving. Do they serve food in Los Angeles? From what I’ve seen of the women,
I can’t tell for certain.” She smiled darkly, eyeing Daphne’s skinny frame. “No
offense.”

Daphne
laughed. Miranda’s sense of humor not only took no prisoners, but often fed
those prisoners to hungry carnivores.

“Let
me show you around the neighborhood,” Daphne said. “I have some meetings
today.”

“I
can look after myself.” Miranda sounded defensive. Daphne knew that underneath
that defensiveness were some deep wounds.

She
touched Miranda’s arm. “I know you can.”

She
encouraged Miranda to bring her own laptop with her, and she gave Miranda a key
to the condo. Then they strolled down to San Vicente together. They stopped at
Didier’s, a French bistro that happened to serve breakfast. It was, as usual,
packed.

“You
OK sitting at the bar?” she asked Miranda.

“Please.
I’ve been sitting at bars since I was in diapers.”

Daphne
saved her response to Miranda’s statement until they were settled at the bar
with two menus.

“Tell
me what happened,” Daphne said. “I seem to be missing an important part of your
biography.”

“My
mom’s been a drunk my whole life. It’s a miracle it didn’t kill her sooner.”
Miranda leaned against the back of her barstool, hooking one elbow over the top
of it—a casual pose to hide deep pain, Daphne suspected. “There’s nothing more
to tell.”

“You
never talked about this in college.”

“Not
with you, no. Not with most people. Honestly, it was too embarrassing.”

Daphne
knew what it was like to be embarrassed by her family. The only friend who had
ever visited her family home was Greta, and that was only once.

“Don’t
you think your dad will want you around?” she asked Miranda.

“He’s
got my little brother.”

“Why
leave home now? Why not last week? Last year?”

“No
reason.” She shrugged. Again, though, her eyes were haunted.

“I
think you’re leaving out some crucial stuff, dear.”

“And
I’m doing it on purpose,” Miranda snapped. “Please just let me eat one meal.
Tell me something happy.”

Daphne
forgave Miranda’s angry tone. And happy she could provide. “Greta and
Timmy—that’s her boyfriend of the last five years—are getting married
tomorrow.”

“No
shit?”

“No shit.”

“I
bet you are neck deep in wedding planning,” Miranda said.

“I
am.”

“I
have the worst timing,” Miranda said, resting her face in her hand. “Or rather,
my mother has the worst timing. Why couldn’t she have waited till next week to
off herself?”

“Don’t
say that,” Daphne said, unnerved.

“Why
not? None of this is new to me.”

It
was true, Daphne knew. Unexpected death wasn’t new to Miranda. She might seem
like a mouthy brat, but shadows followed her everywhere.

“Tell
me about the job you have a lead on.”

“Actually,
I already have the job. I would start next Monday.”

“Wow.
Doing what?”

“Writing
for an entertainment website.”

“How
did you get the job?”

“We
went to Cameron University, Daphne. It has, like, the alumni network of the
gods.”

“I
don’t know what that means.”

“I
emailed someone at the company who is a Cameron alum, he asked for my résumé
and portfolio, and I got the job.”

“That’s
it?”

“There
was a phone interview, but yeah, that’s it.”

“Holy
crap, that’s awesome.”

Miranda
smiled, and it was the first real smile Daphne had seen since she’d found the
girl on her doorstep. “Thanks. It was nice to accomplish something that wasn’t
tainted by my parents. They didn’t even know I was applying for jobs.”

“You
applied for more than one?”

“Yeah—all
over the country. I didn’t plan on coming to Los Angeles necessarily. I just
planned on getting out of Winston-Salem. I only came here because my mom died.”

“You
can stay with me if you want, while you try out your job. Give LA a test run.”

“I
can pay rent,” Miranda said, her defensive tone returning.

“Of
course you can,” Daphne said, soothing her. “We’ll have a landlord-tenant
meeting after the wedding.”

They
ate their breakfast—croissant sandwiches, plus plenty of coffee and
fresh-squeezed juice—and then Daphne stood.

“I
have to go to my first meeting now. It’s at Uptown Coffee, just down the
street. I work there a lot. You’ll be able to find me there later, maybe, but
I’m also running around preparing Greta’s wedding.” She handed her card to
Miranda, and scribbled her phone number on the back. “Call me at some point so
I have your number.”

“OK.”

“And
you’re invited to the wedding. So you should probably buy something to wear.”

“What’s
the dress code?”

“For
you? Just wear black.”

~~~~

Miranda
watched Daphne leave the restaurant, then turned back to the coffee in front of
her. She considered pulling out her laptop and finishing up a contract job she
had due for a web client. But she didn’t feel like doing it. Writing web copy
was more fun than she’d thought it would be—and it beat the hell out of
following in her parents’ lawyerly footsteps—but it was still a job. And right
now, she didn’t feel like doing her job.

“Can
I get a mimosa?” she asked the bartender.

Miranda
had never drunk in college, when the kids around her had been blasted all to
hell. Part of her had been scared that she’d turn out like her mother. Part of
her, well, had just been scared. She’d seen what happened to people when
intoxication hit.