From Barcelona, with Love (7 page)

It was the first time Paloma had been inside the Barcelona mansion. Of course she'd passed it many times quickly on her way to some massage appointment in Las Ramblas with Jassy, where Paloma would have to wait patiently, playing games on her iPhone, or submitting to reflexology until her feet ached from the pressure. Paloma was definitely not keen on massage, but she was concerned about her boots.

She was just glad they hadn't floated off her feet and been lost in the Pacific. They were all she had of her mother. That, and the narrow gold charm bracelet she always wore, despite convent school rules against the wearing of jewelry. One of the few times she actually went to the school in Paris, she wore it tucked up under her shirt sleeve, or else in summer when short sleeves were the rule, attached to a thin gold chain round her neck, when everybody assumed it was simply a gold cross, the same as almost everyone wore. She disguised the telltale bump carefully, with the school tie, or a scarf, or else tying her sweater sleeves around her neck. Nobody was going to part Paloma from that bracelet, or from those boots. She would run away from school first, run like her mother had. Run away and no one would ever see her again, never know where she was. She just wished she were older than nine. Twelve would be good. You could do so much more, get away with more when you were twelve.

Jassy had disappeared into the
salón
and Paloma wondered, with a pang of loneliness, whether anyone would even miss her if she simply left now. Her aunt was always so frantically busy with her own grown-up business and friends; always on the move, though she was really good about including Paloma in everything. But Paloma was sensitive to Jassy's moods; she understood there were times when Jassy would rather be on her own. In fact, just last year, Jassy had left her for
two whole weeks,
at the Ritz Hotel in Paris.

Paloma was eight then, and Jassy had simply told her to amuse herself while she went to visit a sick friend in the South of France.

“Call room service for anything you want,” she'd said airily, hugging her a quick goodbye. “You understand this is urgent, and anyhow I know you'll be perfectly okay on your own. It's just a couple of days, after all.”

Paloma had guessed she was going off for a “romance” with her latest passion. Johnny, his name was, and she'd had no choice but to get on with being alone. At first, it had definitely been scary.

She'd thought about calling Lorenza, but that would have been telling on Jassy and Paloma would never do that. She
loved
Jassy. Jassy had saved her when she was scared out of her wits with her mother going crazy, locked up in that awful house in Hollywood that used to be home. Her lovely home, with her lovely mom, and her lovely life. Just like normal people. Except of course Mom was a star but that didn't alter their home lives.

So she'd stayed on alone in the big suite in the Ritz, ordering up room service, mostly the grilled ham and cheese sandwiches the French called Croque Monsieur, and spaghetti, and lots of ice cream. She'd even ordered a bottle of champagne because she liked the grown-up way it sounded. She told room service her aunt was throwing a little party. Of course she hadn't drunk it; she'd tried that before, sipping from untended party glasses, and didn't really care for the taste. She went for lonely walks all over Paris, and she thought a lot about her mother. Remembering. Waiting for the day she would come back.

Loneliness, Paloma had decided then, was a sad thing. She had never been lonely when Bibi was around.

Bibi was the best mom. She'd cooked Spanish empanadas and churros, and American mac-and-cheese, or sent out for Mulberry pizza or sushi. They would eat together in front of the enormous TV with their bare feet propped on the big tufted black leather ottoman, swigging back Diet Cokes and giggling at SpongeBob SquarePants or the latest Disney or animation feature. Later, her mom would make sure Paloma showered and she always helped her wash her hair that was definitely not like Bibi's. It was lighter, carrot-color, and Paloma thought hideous, and besides it was
wildly
curly, which was one of the reasons she had cut it all off.

Bibi would drag the comb through her damp hair, trying not to pull, but there were lots of
ow
s and
ouch
es. Then, both in their pajamas now, they would sip herb tea—chamomile because Bibi said it made you sleep better. Then it was teeth brushing, and if she had school the next day, Bibi made sure Paloma had her schoolbag packed. If not, she would tell her she could lie in luxuriously until she absolutely wanted to get up, and when she did, if Bibi was not working, they would breakfast together and maybe play tennis. Paloma wasn't very good at tennis, “clumsy with the racquet” her mom said; or they'd swim, or go to the beach, or horse ride out at Malibu, though Paloma wasn't keen on that either. Sometimes, they would shop, but Bibi always got recognized and caused too much of a commotion with the paparazzi, and it wasn't fun. So instead the stores sent things over for her to choose from, brought by very smart young women who were even skinnier than Paloma—and
she
was a skinny kid. In fact those girls were so skinny Paloma sometimes wondered if they were really her own age and just playing dress-up.

In the evenings, Bibi often had things to do and Paloma would have friends for a sleepover, or she would go stay with them. Maybe they would go bowling, or dance a bit to some wild punky music they liked, bouncing up and down and throwing their heads from side to side, arms flailing, legs like pogo sticks, but
they
still called it dancing. Or sometimes Bibi would take her out to supper, at Geoffrey's on the ocean at Malibu, where you could hear the waves whisper and the wind held moisture that collected in tiny crystal drops on the strands of her long red hair, and the maître d' and the waiters all made a fuss of her. Being Bibi's daughter was fun sometimes, but sometimes it was a pain, when the public clamored for autographs that of course Bibi always gave, though never at dinner.
That
was not allowed.

Paloma and Bibi were close as two sisters, except, of course, Bibi was always “mom.” It was Bibi who patched up Paloma's scraped knees, Bibi who found the Band-Aids, got her tonsils removed, got her shots on time, took her to the dentist. Bibi was a hands-on mom, except when she had to be on tour or making a movie or something, and then the Mexican housekeeper took over, as well as all the other “satellites” who were always in the house; the entourage, the assistants, the secretary, the PR; the personal trainer, the musicians, the staff, the gardeners, the pool guys, the tennis pro. Life in the Hollywood Hills was one long nonstop event. Until it all came to an abrupt end.

And that's why the boots were so important. Black leather, soft and supple as silk, they reached to just above Paloma's ankles, hitting just at that space between where ankle stopped and calf began. They laced loosely up the front with a tongue that always scrunched down a bit because Bibi had always left the laces dangling, which made Paloma worry she would trip over them. Bibi never had.

But, standing there, in that sunny front hallway of the Hollywood Hills house on that final morning when Jassy had come to collect her and take her away forever, Paloma heard her mother scream. She screamed and screamed—and kicked her legs. Those boots came right off and landed at Paloma's feet. She grabbed them, clutching them to her chest, wailing, as Jassy tugged her out the door. Jassy shoved her into the passenger seat of the bright blue Porsche and slammed the door. She ran round to the driver's side, hitched a seat belt first over Paloma, then herself, gunned the already idling engine and took off, out through the electronic gates that barely had time to open, past the mob of faces and cameras pointed at them, winding too fast down the hill, heading for the 405 freeway and, though Paloma had not realized it at the time, for LAX and a flight—with a change of planes in Dallas—that ended up in Barcelona. Where Paloma had never been before.

And that's why the boots were so precious. Paloma had despaired of them ever coming back to life, that Malibu evening a few weeks ago when lovely Sunny Alvarez had pried them off her feet and tipped them upside down and the seawater had splashed out like a mini-fountain. The boots were still wet when she got back to Spain, and she put them on the terrace in the sun, at the Marqués de Ravel bodega in Catalonia, where they had gone to stay with Lorenza.

In fact it was the second time those boots had gotten a good soaking. The first was when Paloma was in the South of France with Jassy and she fell into the swimming pool, still wearing them. She put them out to dry on her hotel room balcony but by the time they had, they looked shrunken and withered, as though they had died or something. That was when she had a brainwave.

She went to Jassy's room and took her big pot of Crème de la Mer. She dug her fingers into its rich depths and smothered the boots with it. She rubbed the cream in tenderly, the way she'd seen Jassy do with her face. Then she polished the boots with an old T-shirt, spitting on them and polishing some more because that's what she'd heard soldiers did. She rubbed in more cream, until the pot was almost empty and the boots had regained some of their suppleness. Unfortunately they hadn't really shrunk and Paloma still had to tuck socks into the toes, but she wore them whenever she could, despite Jassy and Lorenza's protests. They thought they made her legs look even skinnier. She thought maybe she looked a bit punk. Like a Hollywood chick. Hopefully.

And anyhow, how was she supposed to know that Crème de la Mer was only the most expensive face cream probably on the whole entire planet? When Jassy found out she shrieked
“shit”
then clapped a hand over her mouth because she never cursed in front of Paloma. Then she really told her off, but later she burst out laughing and it had become a whole big joke—one Paloma often heard Jassy repeat to her friends—about Paloma polishing her boots with Jassy's pricy Crème de la Mer. Everyone thought Paloma too funny for words.
Quaint little kid,
was how she heard someone describe her;
a bit odd,
another said; and
Are you sure, you know, like, she's all right?

Paloma was outraged. It was like asking was she
nuts
? When all she was, was missing her mom and trying most of her time to figure out how to find her, and wondering if she would ever come back.

I mean, a girl was
entitled
to worry about her mother, who just happened to be the best mother in the world. And her mother was the reason Paloma had stalked Mac Reilly's Malibu beach house, trying to get up the courage to actually speak to him and ask him if he could help find her.

She had never met a detective before, only seen them on TV and in movies—but somehow she'd known Mac Reilly was the only one who could help because on his show he seemed like a real person, and she just knew he was totally, absolutely
honest.
Which unfortunately Paloma herself was not. Sometimes she fudged the truth because it sounded better, and anyhow the truth was not always fun, especially when other kids asked about Bibi, and all that Hollywood stuff.

“Ohh, she's just gone on a long trip,” she would lie airily, while inside her stomach clenched into about sixty-five knots and her mouth went so dry it was hard even to speak.

And that's what happened when she finally met Mac Reilly and Sunny Alvarez, and almost drowned and that funky, darling, three-legged, one-eyed dog she fell instantly in love with, leapt into the Pacific Ocean to try to rescue her. And so did Mac Reilly. And the words got stuck in her throat and she'd almost died all over again of shyness, and all she could manage to say was thank you, because she was so choked up with saving her long story about Bibi and about how she simply had to find her mother and could he help her or she really would go out of her mind.
Truly
out of her mind this time—you know out there in space somewhere. But she just could not get the words out.

Mac even asked her what was up, and she'd said, oh nothing. Now it was too late, and anyhow there was this big family meeting, here at the house in Las Ramblas she had never even seen before, and somehow she got the feeling it was going to be about her. Right now, she would like to be anywhere but here. She'd much rather be at the Ravel bodega with her friend Cherrypop, who, anyhow, she couldn't wait to see.

But then she spotted Buena, peeking her head out the kitchen door, smiling at her, and she left Jassy to it, and ran to see her old friend.

 

Chapter 9

Buena had a big
welcoming smile and her gray hair was straggling out of its bun in the way that always sent Paloma's fingers itching to put it straight, and she'd run right to her.

“I'm off to talk to Buena,” she'd called over her shoulder to Jassy, racing down the hall and into Buena's welcoming arms.

She'd settled on a high stool at the marble island with its stainless steel prep sink and a rack of copper pans floating somewhere over her head and with a tidy row of colorful bowls arranged down the center.

“Do you know why we all are here, Buena?” she asked. “Nobody ever comes here.”

“Not since Don Juan Pedro passed on.” Buena's face was solemn, remembering times past as she took milk from the refrigerator, poured some into a tall glass, and pushed it over to Paloma. “Your grandmother Lorenza couldn't bear to be here alone, when she had been so happy here with Juan Pedro.”

She handed Paloma a little basket full of cookies. “
Polverones,
” she said, smiling. “Remember? The kind you like.”

“Dust biscuits.” The word
polvo
meant “dust” and when Paloma bit into the cookie it disintegrated and left a fine white sugary dust all around her mouth. She laughed, blowing it away, making Buena laugh too.