Skinnydipping (4 page)

“I’m glad you’re a fan,” he said.

“You could say that.” I said it lightly, shrugging. The wheels were already turning. I wanted in. I belonged in that world. I would fondle Larry Todd’s balls in the airplane bathroom right now if it would get me on that show. I’d been with worse-looking men for less compelling reasons than this. This was
Hollywood & Highland
! I felt like I already knew the characters. Brighton, the core character, was a gorgeous, sexy power blonde who ran the hotel. Ethan was the hot bartender at Glo, a trendy Hollywood restaurant. Chloe was the waitress who was always getting into trouble. Isabel booked acts for Dark Side, the nightclub, and Jayden was her philandering husband. I
loved
that show.
OK, Faith. Don’t fawn. Don’t be a groupie. Connect.
I groped desperately for words. “It’s a well-done show. It really is.”

“Where are you staying in L.A.?” he asked. I wondered if it was a proposition.

“My father lives there. I’m staying with him until I can afford my
own place. He’s a horse trainer,” I added, hoping he might ask for my father’s name so I could impress him. Just for a moment, I imagined sharing my fantasy that we were close, that I was proud of his success, that I somehow had something to do with it.
Faith Brightstone, loving daughter of legendary horse trainer Frank Brightstone, stands behind her father as he is once again honored as Trainer of the Year. Camera bulbs flashing …

“Not Frank Brightstone—is he your father?”

Ah. He knew. “Yep. Dear old dad.” It made me feel low, knowing my father didn’t give a damn about me. I hadn’t done anything for him to be proud of … nothing spectacular … not yet.

He raised his eyebrows at the edge in my voice, but didn’t comment. “I don’t know him personally, but I know of him. He trains a horse owned by a friend of mine.”

“I’m not surprised,” I said. “He knows people.”
Not that I’m one of them
, I wanted to say, but bit my tongue. I smiled, brightly. “I haven’t seen him in a few years, so it will be a reunion of sorts, I suppose.” I suddenly felt the urge to change the subject. “But what about you? Are you coming home from a trip?”

“I have to go to New York every so often. It’s usually boring. This has been the most interesting part of my weekend.”

I elbowed him lightly, flirtatiously. “Flattery will get you everywhere.”
Don’t go too far, Faith
, I lectured myself.
Stay on the right side of the line. Don’t blow it.

“You know, you impress me,” Larry Todd said, again with that warm genuine smile. “I have a daughter about your age, and I send her money all the time but she never wants to spend any time with me. I don’t see too many young women who want to chat with the old guy in the seat next to them.”

“You certainly are not old,” I said, wondering why my father didn’t long for a relationship with me the way Larry Todd wished for more time with his daughter.

He laughed. “I appreciate it. And you’ll be just fine in L.A. I can see you’ve got energy, and dare I say, ambition?” Was I that obvious?
Larry Todd continued, “I’m actually in need of a production assistant right now.” He looked me over, thoughtfully, non-lecherously, as if sizing up my potential self, rather than my current self. “It’s an entry-level position. You’d be getting coffee and faxing and running messages, but maybe you’d like a chance to see the show from the inside?”

I played it cool. Very cool. “Sounds interesting,” I said, taking the magazine out of the seat pocket in front of me, not looking at him so he couldn’t see that my head was about to explode just considering the enormity of this opportunity. I wasn’t even in the air over California yet, and I’d already scored a job? I was afraid to say anything more, lest I end up groveling on the floor and kissing his black Ferragamo loafers, so I waited a beat, then carefully, nonchalantly, said, “That might be just the sort of thing I’m looking for.”

“It isn’t acting,” he said, looking at me with amusement. Could he tell I was about to burst out of my skin? “But it’s a beginning. You would meet a lot of people. Put in the time and the effort, and maybe you’ll get a break.”

I looked him in the eye and smiled. “I would love the opportunity,” I said evenly. A master of self-control. Hell, I’d be the best damn coffee-fetching, faxing, message-running production assistant they’d ever encountered.

He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a cream-colored card with his name and phone number in embossed tobacco-brown script—elegant but masculine. “Give me a call, and have my assistant set up an interview. Her name is Mia.”

“Thank you,” I said. Mental note: Find excellent, affordable gift to send to Mia. “Really. Thank you so much.” I touched his shoulder lightly, meaningfully. “
Thank you.
”

The hours passed. We chatted, drank, flirted benignly, drank some more, debated about the relative worthlessness of the products in the catalog. Another drink? Why not? He never mentioned his wife, and I never asked. Finally, I closed my eyes and drifted off. My headache began to melt away. The last thing I remember thinking was:
Am I really taking a nap? Me, the insomniac? Auspicious …

When the plane jerked with the release of the landing gear, I bolted awake and looked around, momentarily confused. “I think we’re descending,” Larry said, orienting me. I looked past him, out the oval window, as the plane dropped lightly through the clouds. Below, I could see the sprawl, and the yellow-gray haze that hung over most of the Southern California coastline.

Together, Larry and I watched the city rise up to meet the wheels of our plane, and I felt like my new life was ascending to meet me. I had arrived, and I was going to make the most of every second.

“Can I get your bag for you?” he asked, as we rose stiffly from our seats. I blushed, realizing he’d certainly watched the flight attendant’s treatment of me at the beginning of the flight.

“No, I’ve got it,” I said quickly, yanking the handle to unwedge my bag from between its more aristocratic brethren. I noticed a scratch in the red leather. I would show that flight attendant. When I’m famous someday, she’ll be groveling. “I like to travel light.”

“To move here? Surely you’ve got more than this.”

“I didn’t want to bring anything with me,” I said. “I’m starting over. Underwear and a toothbrush.” I paused. “Not that I’ll need the underwear,” I said, giving him a wink.

He laughed. “A toothbrush and a whole new life, then.”

We filed out of the plane, and as the crowd jostled us apart, I called out to him. “Good-bye, Larry! It was great to meet you! I’ll give Mia a call on Monday!”

“Off to the races,” he called, raising his hand in farewell.

chapter two

I
t wasn’t that I expected him to be there to pick me up. We had arranged that I would come to the house, but I still scanned the line of drivers holding up signs, a tiny part of me hoping that one of them would say my name, that maybe he would even surprise me and meet me here. I was always living in a TV movie, hoping for a happy ending. I wasn’t going to get one today. Would I ever learn?

I gripped my bag tighter, for courage, and marched resolutely past baggage claim and out to the taxi line. Normally, I would have taken whatever was cheapest—the shuttle, the bus—but this was my big debut in L.A. I wanted a cab.

As I waited my turn, I looked at the palm trees across the road, lined up in front of a white parking garage, and I couldn’t help but smile. California. I climbed into the cab. “4191 Alta Drive, Santa Monica,” I said in the brusque New York way I always spoke to cab drivers. The driver turned to look at me. He was ancient.

“Yes, Miss. Why in such a hurry? You are in California now. No more New York. You can relax now.”

I laughed. “Is my accent so obvious? OK, I’ll relax now. I’ll enjoy this beautiful day.” I leaned back against the seat and looked out the window. Sunny, and not a cloud in the sky. I could get used to this.

“That is very good. People always want to be in a hurry. They want to control everything around them. Even the weather. They say, ‘What is the weather today?’ The only thing they don’t control is themselves, when that is the only thing they
can
control.”

“Ha, that’s true. I come to L.A. and I get a guru for a cab driver.”

He chuckled. He sure was friendly.

“I think the weather here is perfect,” I said. “I won’t ever try to change it.”

“Nothing wrong with the weather. And nothing wrong with you.” He nodded firmly, then guided the taxi onto the freeway.

I was definitely not in New York anymore.

The cab merged onto Pacific Coast Highway, then turned into my father’s neighborhood. The nearer we were, the more I began to panic.

The cab slowed, creeping along a beautiful residential street with ridiculously large houses, then stopped in front of a gorgeous two-story Spanish-style home with a red-tile roof, balconies in front of the windows, and a set of coral-colored granite steps leading up to the front door, which was hidden behind flowering trees. Classy and private, just like my father.

I paid the cab driver with the last of my cash and stepped out onto the little strip of grass along the curb. I took a deep breath, summoned all the confidence I had left in me, and climbed up the stairs to the front door. I knocked, my heart pounding in my chest. People always used to say I looked just like him when I was a child. I was hoping I still did, so I could feel some kind of ownership, or at least some kind of connection—some biological evidence that I really was his daughter. I knocked again, then tried the handle. The door opened. Cautiously, I peeked inside and called out. “Hello? It’s Faith! Is anybody here?”

“Come in!” A deep voice resonated through the atrium from somewhere upstairs. I assumed it was him. He wasn’t coming down to meet me? I couldn’t help but feel disappointed as I stepped inside, but disappointment quickly turned to awe.

The entryway was covered in a rich, gleaming, honey-colored tile.
An elaborate brass-and-crystal chandelier hung from the cathedral ceiling, which rose to a dramatic peak above the second floor. To my left, an intricately carved dark walnut table held three of the biggest white irises I’d ever seen, surrounding a silver bowl full of white roses.

A marble staircase with an elaborate wrought-iron rail spiraled up to the second level. Beautiful, dark, brooding paintings hung on many of the walls. In front of me, a door led to what looked like a sitting room with a two-story wall of windows looking out over a swimming pool. Behind the staircase, I could just glimpse a long, carved dining room table and another chandelier. I’d never been more impressed in my life. I pretended it belonged to me—that I was home.

My heart fluttered again as I heard someone coming down the spiral stairs. I felt foolish, standing there in my messy cheap traveling dress, and I self-consciously smoothed it over my now-concave stomach, which growled lightly in response. I hadn’t eaten since yesterday. I tapped my toe nervously on the tile, and froze when the sound echoed. I looked expectantly at the stairs, waiting for him to appear.

But he didn’t appear. Instead, a girl about my age came down the stairs, her face eager. She had long blonde hair pulled back in a high ponytail and she wore pink lip gloss the exact color of her pink satin track shorts, a tight, capped-sleeved white T-shirt cropped short to show her midriff, and white running shoes. She was deeply tanned with muscular legs, great curves, firm arms, and a stomach as concave but a lot more ripped than mine. My hand brushed against my own stomach again, for reassurance.
You could look like that
, I thought, doubting that it was true. I was probably fifteen pounds heavier than she was, and I hated that I immediately put myself in competition with whoever this was. She looked like the type who probably went running every morning at six, before she freshly squeezed her own juice and got her B
₁₂
shot. I wondered for just a second if my father had some other daughter I didn’t know about. It took only a few more seconds for me to recognize that this was, of course,
not
his daughter.

“I’m Brooke,” she said, extending a perfectly manicured hand.

“Faith,” I said, extending my unmanicured one. Note to self: get manicure
before seeing even one more human being!