Night Swimming (10 page)

But as she got closer to her destination, all she saw were low-slung stucco buildings, car washes, Fat Burgers, and advertisements. Where was that grand threshold she would have to cross, making her feel she had entered Hollywood, the Land of Dreams?
Oh, calm down. Stop acting all upset. You’ve just arrived. Remember, it’s all about good stuff now. Positive thoughts. But, God, why does this look so much like Queens with palm trees?

She pulled into a gas station and bought a new Los Angeles guide. Her first guide book had gotten lost somewhere in her travels, but she couldn’t for the life of her remember where. She fanned the pages, searching for a place to stay. Blossom hadn’t heard of any of the hotels. The Beverly Hills Hotel was the same as the Sunset Vista, complete with kitchen efficiency units and color TVs. The Four Seasons Hotel sounded the most glamorous in its description, so she headed over there.

“Checking in?”

“Uh, yes... yes, I’m checking in.”

“May I take your luggage?”

Luggage? Blossom’s luggage was loaded with stolen money. But no one here was carrying their own luggage into the hotel. How could she carry hers without appearing suspicious? Especially four large suitcases. Reluctantly she acquiesced.

What struck Blossom as she entered the hotel was the abundance of flowers. She didn’t know what they were, had never seen some of them before, but they were everywhere. Trumpet vines, morning glories, and maidenhair poured over braided branches of fat, ripe oranges. Bittersweet and honeysuckle wrapped themselves around hundreds of lilies of the valley, and roses exploded like fireworks. This rivaled even MaryAnn’s wedding.

She wondered if people ever lived in hotels, because she knew on sight, this was one place she could live. Never had she seen floors shine as bright as polished ice, a bar with couches more comfortable than the ones in Jordan’s, or people who were so accommodating that it made you want to hold the door open for
them.

She was completely baffled by the bronze statue in the entryway: a man posed on a bench, reading a paper he would read today, tomorrow, and for the rest of eternity.

And then there were the guests, who looked as if they were coming in from somewhere important and going off to someplace wonderful. Blossom felt self-conscious. Here she was in a plain brown dress that looked more like a wrapper, nylons with runs, sensible flat shoes, and a rhinestone butterfly pin that drooped from her collar and looked as if it would fly away if it only had the power. Shame. That’s what she felt, and she hated it. So with her head down, she slipped into the elevator as though it were a closet she could hide in.

“Hold it,” the approaching voice called out, hurrying toward the closing doors. Blossom fumbled for the buttons.

“Just made it,” he said, pressing six. “Thank you.”

She looked up. “You’re . . .” was all she could manage. There, standing next to her, close enough to touch, stood Gene Hackman. GENE HACKMAN! Blossom’s first star. She was paralyzed with disbelief. Gene Hackman. She had seen every movie he ever made. She even owned two of his videos back in Gorham. Should she say anything? Should she get his autograph? She should stop staring at him. But she couldn’t. She couldn’t take her eyes off him.
Say something, Blossom. Tell him you loved
Crimson Tide,
or that
The French Connection
was the best movie he ever made, or how good he was in
Terms of Endearment. Terms of Endearment
? Wait a second...Was that him or Jack Nicholson? Oh, God, I’m all confused.
But the sixth floor had arrived, and Gene Hackman was getting out.

“
Crimson Tide,
” was all she was able to finally say.

“Excuse me?” he asked.

The door closed, leaving him with a puzzled look on his face.

What an idiot! Crimson Tide. How could I have blurted out Crimson Tide? He must think I’m mad. Crazy. Celebrity challenged. Oh, who cares? I saw Gene Hackman. It doesn’t matter. French Connection, Crimson Tide, The Poseidon Adventure. Who cares? I wish I were on the sixth floor. Right next to Gene Hackman’s room.

She just knew Hollywood would be like this. Stars on elevators. Gene Hackman sleeping just below her. The shock of it had even made her forget about her attire for the moment. She wished she could tell someone. She wished she could tell MaryAnn.

The last event of the evening called for nothing less than the Lord’s thanks. It was the discovery of the minibar. A bedside refrigerator and drawer jammed with cashews and candy bars and cute little individual bags of Famous Amos chocolate-chip cookies. Midnight snacks, just an arm’s length away. And the final blessing that made her truly realize she had indeed entered heaven by way of Hollywood? The mints on her pillow.

There was a knock at the door. Blossom opened it like someone who had a bounty on her head.

“Can I make up the room?” the maid asked.

“No... thank you. That won’t be necessary,” Charlotte said from the closed door.

“Do you want fresh towels?”

Fresh towels? Well, Lordy Lord.
“Yes, fresh towels—that would be nice. Just leave them outside, if you don’t mind.”

Blossom got on the phone and pressed
Housekeeping.

“I don’t want anyone coming in and out of my room. If you could mention that to your staff, I’d be much obliged.” She then asked to be connected to information and got the names of several real estate agents. She would have to buy outright, because no bank would take more than ten thousand in cash without checking her out. Her own bank experience had taught her this. Her dream was a fancy furnished Hollywood apartment with a kidney-shaped in-ground pool on a street lined with palm trees. Could she pull it off, an offer in all cash?
Stop it,
she admonished herself.
Stop thinking like Charlotte. You are Blossom and, this is the start of your new life. Blossom would have made it happen, and so will I.

She shoved the suitcases under her bed and headed out for her first appointment by way of Rodeo Drive. Blossom’s shopping experience thus far had amounted to no more than B. J.’s Wholesale Club and an occasional pilgrimage up to Harriet’s Large Size Outlet for Ladies in Portsmouth. She hated buying new clothes. It somehow reinforced the irrefutable fact that she was still a size eighteen-plus and would be a size eighteen-plus forever. Shopping avoidance helped her deny the obvious: She was fat. But Rodeo Drive dazzled her. Even the tall, lanky mannequins sporting size-four statements dazzled her, despite the grim realization that to look like that at her weight, she’d have to be thirty-seven feet tall.

Versace, Gucci, and Escada; Chanel, Valentino, and Dolce Gabbana; Cartier, Armani, and Rolex; Tiffany, Harry Winston, and Baccarat—it was all there. Even if she’d only seen them in fancy magazines at the Gorham beauty parlor. There were shops devoted only to sunglasses or chocolate or water. There were luxury cars everywhere. Cars two blocks long, with swimming pools on the back. Cars she’d only seen on
Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous.
But most of all there was an air. The smell of money pervaded everything. It gave Blossom a feeling that no matter how hard she tried, she would never fit in.

She entered the air-conditioned office of Sandra Lockley Fine Homes Realty and was immediately struck by the pictures of palatial estates on every wall. Some of them were so grand, they looked like consulates. Were these the homes of the stars? Had Sandra Lockley personally found all these mansions for the rich and famous? Could Blossom ever live in a place like that?
Oh, Blossom, these are the houses of the upper-upper. This is where Babs and Sly and Ophrah live. Madonna and Zsa Zsa and Cher. Ivana, Fergie, and J.Lo. Perhaps even Elvis lived here once.

It suddenly occurred to Blossom that maybe people who were able to assume one name lived here. For didn’t people with only one name have either money or fame or the “it” factor? Yes! Sting, Prince, SpongeBob. With this philosophy, even Shamu could live here with a swimming pool the size of Cleveland. Or Kato. He could still be lurking about, residing in yet another guest house. If the one-name rule applied, and the truth be told, Blossom preferred Lassie over Kato. And Bozo over J.Lo.

At that moment Sandra Lockley emerged from the inner sanctum of her office. Blossom could tell immediately the agent was repulsed by her appearance. In a city where no one weighs more than a bowl of Grape-Nuts, Blossom McBeal knew she looked like the World’s Largest Woman. Sandra Lockley, on the other hand, was Modiglianithin and angular, as if she’d just been put through a pencil sharpener. Where Sandra Lockley flit, Blossom lumbered like a loaded wheelbarrow, her dress looking more like a tablecloth for a seating of eight.

Nonetheless, Blossom did have money—and money, after all, was money. The pointy-faced woman tried to hide her judgments as she showed Blossom her first apartment. But Blossom could feel the sting of her glances like darts on the back of her neck and knew she was thinking,
She’s so unsophisticated, so overweight, so Gomer Pyle-ish. It must be family money. Perhaps the heir to the Dunkin’ Donuts fortune. And clearly brand-loyal.

“As I was saying, Miss McBeal, I think you might like this choice. It’s really quite lovely, with expansive views of the valley. The living room has a sunken conversation pit, and the master bathroom has a bidet and a Jacuzzi. Marble, marble, marble...Would you just look at this foyer! I know it comes furnished, but if you had a grand piano, it would work beautifully right here in the entry.”

Blossom surveyed the apartment. It was beautiful. In fact, aside from the Four Seasons, it was the most beautiful place she’d ever seen.

“You share the pool with fourteen other apartments, Miss McBeal, but rest assured, the people at Beckman Gardens are top-drawer. The only people here are people who can afford to be here. No riffraff.” The agent bit her lip and looked up and down at her client, trying to assess exactly which category she fell into. Eccentric? Trashy? New money? Old money? Donut money? Was it an accident claim she was able to collect on? “So let’s go down to the pool and take a look, shall we?”

They descended a circular staircase, passing flowering balconies, and entered the manicured gardens. A huge kidney-shaped pool with decorative fountains and lush shrubbery spread out before Blossom like an invitation. Marble sculptures dotted the property, and a lovely blue-and-white-striped cabana rose up from a knot of lemon trees like a French mirage, in the southern corner. Pink and lavender fuchsia hung over a reflecting pool near a cherry swing nestled under a weeping willow. The whole thing resembeled an embellished stage set, in an extravagant musical that could only end happily ever after. But Blossom could barely concentrate on all this beauty. The only thing she could see was the six-foot-two pool man who was skimming leaves off the water. Blond, built, and absolutely gorgeous, he was better than Brad Pitt. Better than Robert Redford in
The Way We Were.
Well, maybe not better than Robert Redford, but just as good. Blossom could not take her eyes off him.

“What do you think?” The agent’s voice was as faraway as an echo. “Miss McBeal?”

“Oh, I’m sorry, yes... yes, it’s very nice, beautiful.”

“So with everything, you’re looking at a million two. But I think they’d be willing to let it go for a million. They want out because the husband has to relocate. As a matter of fact, I think he went on ahead, so the wife is really anxious to sell.”

The man lifted the leaves softly out of the water, as if he were laying porcelain and fine silver down on a dining room table. His features were perfect, separately and together, and his torso looked like someone had carved it out of alabaster. He looked exactly like the picture on the cover of every romance novel she’d ever read:
Mar-cello Brigatino and His Secret Amours.

“Miss McBeal? Does this seem like something you’re looking for?”

“Yes, it’s exactly what I’m looking for,” she said with a longing that was almost painful.

“And it’s within range of what you were planning to spend?”

“I’m sorry, how much is it again?”

“A million two. Utilities are included in an up-front fee of thirty-five thousand dollars, to be paid on a yearly basis. Maintenance is part of that fee. But as I said, I think we can get it for a million.”

Blossom figured she would have to pay for her phone in person, in cash. But that was not what occupied her mind at the moment: She was in a garden, and it could have been Eden as far as she was concerned.

Was she imagining things? Had he looked up at her just then? Was that the sun in his eyes, or did he smile at her?
I think he smiled at me just now. I think that was a smile.
She sighed, slowly and expectantly, before turning back toward Sandra Lockley.

“Do you take cash?” Blossom asked nonchalantly, as if she had just asked the grocer to add a chicken to her order. The agent laughed—that fake laugh that Blossom hated.

“No, really,” Blossom repeated, “do you take cash?”

The agent stopped laughing. “Cash?”

“Yes.”

“Well, ahhh... I’m sure something can be arranged.” She fumbled for her phone in her bag. Blossom could tell that the agent was blindsided. It was as if she had hit a jackpot, the daily double, and Publishers Clearing House Sweepstakes. She got on the phone with the seller immediately and began chattering away, nodding her head like a happy woodpecker. But Blossom couldn’t see or hear her. She was miles away again.

Yes, that is a smile. A beautiful Marcello Brigatino smile.

And then, from the most inaccessible part of Blossom’s being, she reached down, deep down, and did something she had never done before. Something she thought she’d never do come heaven, hell, or high water. She smiled back.

CHAPTER 17

B
LOSSOM BOUGHT THE FURNISHED
apartment for a million dollars that day. To say the transaction was the strangest that Sandra Lockley had ever experienced would be an understatement.

Blossom brought two large suitcases to the office later that afternoon, stuffed with cash. It took them eight hours to count out the money in fives, tens, twenties, and fifties.