Spanish Disco (6 page)

“Great,” I smiled, completely lacking enthusiasm. A month of this and my ulcer would be the size of a crater.

“Let’s get you settled in.” Roland stood. We went through the gardens to my car and took out my suitcase and bags. Between the two of us, we carried everything in one trip.

Walking back to the house, I forced myself not to stare at him. I was staying with an icon, and part of me remembered when I was a little girl. There were three Christmases I remembered when my mother hadn’t yet left, and my father hadn’t yet broken down and everything was perfect. The tree was decorated like something out of a Fifth Avenue store window; a toy train chugging beneath it. Our apartment smelled of cider and mulling spices. It was a damn Currier and Ives card. And I remember pinching myself to see if it was real. And when I knew for sure it was real, I tried to remember every detail. I stared and absorbed and thought to myself, even then, that perfect doesn’t come along too often. I would remember every
thing about those Christmases forever. Well, for an editor, Roland Riggs was better than Christmas. He was history, and I was in his house, and when I was old and gray, I wanted to be able to remember everything about my stay. Every painting on the wall. Every word he said. Of course, I needed to remember it all for my nightly reports to Lou. He’d never forgive me if original galleys from
Simple Simon
sat on the bookshelf, and I didn’t tell him. Of course, neither one of us expected I’d be staying with Dr. Doolittle.

My room was better than the Four Seasons. It had its own private balcony overlooking the Gulf of Mexico and was decorated in French country, painted in a shade of blue to rival the sea’s. I felt almost serene when I stepped inside, though my eyes instinctively darted around, looking for a discreet place to plug in my coffeemaker.

“Over here is a desk…and you can plug in your laptop here.”

“Won’t I tie up your phone line?”

Roland Riggs leaned his head back and laughed loudly like a drunk in a bar whose bartender has just one-upped him in the joke department. I arched one eyebrow.

“Except for Lou, I haven’t called anyone in fifteen years. Maybe my old editor a couple of times. Then he died. But you get the picture.”

“Okay fine. So the computer won’t bother you.”

“No. I surf the Net myself some mornings. Do you get on your computer much before six a.m.?”

“No offense, but I don’t breathe much before six.”

He roared with laughter again. I realized the unseen par
rot was merely mimicking its landlord. “Splendid. Well then, I will let you get unpacked. Take a nap if you want. Stroll the beach. I’ll expect you for dinner at six-thirty. Oh…hold on.” He withdrew a small roll of Tums from his pocket. “If you thought lunch was hot, you may want to keep a pack of these in your pocket at all times. I have a six-month supply of these little rolls in the linen closet at the end of the hall, behind the big stack of blue guest towels that I never use because I’ve never had any guests. Until you.”

I couldn’t help myself. “Wouldn’t it be easier to just tell your housekeeper you don’t like the food so hot?”

His eyes snapped wide open as if he’d just experienced a moment of sudden enlightenment. He appeared to think for a moment. Then he just shook his head.

“Well, then, I’ll see you for dinner.” He turned and shut the door behind himself.

I opened the French doors leading to my balcony, and then turned around and raced to the phone. I found my Daytimer, pulled out my calling card and dialed. Lou answered on the first ring.

“Well?”

“Lou, how much money do you think
Simple Simon
brings in?”

“I don’t know. A lot. It’s required reading in every high school in America. Why?”

“You wouldn’t believe this house, Lou. I was sort of expecting some rundown place inhabited by a hermit. But it’s sunny and beautiful and
huge!
Right now, I am look
ing out on my own private balcony. The Gulf of Mexico is rolling in. And he has gardens. Beautiful gardens with orchids and ponds and waterfalls and jasmine. It reminds me of Turkey. The scent of jasmine in the air. And everything is custom-built. The staircase is made of teak. The closet—” I walked over and smelled “—I was right, is cedar. The kitchen—not that I cook—but if I did, I would love it. All restaurant-quality stuff. The stove had eight burners.”

“What is he expecting? An army? The guy doesn’t see anyone. What’s he need eight burners for?”

“What does anybody need excess for? Why do you have seven fishing rods and three sets of custom golf clubs? To have it.”

“Well?”

“Well what?”

“How does he seem after all these years?”

“Nice. Kind of odd. The other half of the story is he’s got more pets and plants than a zoo and botanical garden put together.”

“Pets?”

“Loose rabbits hopping through the house.”

“Just so long as you don’t tell me he has a Push-Me-Pull-You or whatever that thing is called.”

“He has cats. And a parrot. And potato bonsai.”

“Potato what?”

“Don’t ask.”

“Have you seen the book?”

“No.”

“Have you talked about it?” I heard the anxiety in his voice.

“Only to have him say he’d like us to spend a few days getting to know each other first.”

“Jesus Christ!”

“What?”

“No offense, Cassie, but you are hardly the poster child for Miss Congeniality. What if he’s expecting someone different?”

“Well, he’s
got
me. And except for that prick Jack Holloway, I’ve gotten along with every author I have ever had.”

“What about Gussbaum?”

“Okay. Except for Holloway and Gussbaum—”

“And Daisy Jones…”

“Look, trust me, he’s nice enough. I can get along with Roland Riggs.”

“Let’s hope so.”

“You want to hear something else weird?”

“Of course.”

“His housekeeper is from Mexico. She cooks all this food. I mean for lunch she cooked enough enchiladas to feed Mazatlan. And spicy. Burn your mouth out, eyes water, nose-running spicy. I was afraid my nose was going to drip right in my food, for God’s sake.”

“A little less detail, please.”

“But get this. Roland Riggs hates hot food. He carries Tums with him around the house. Isn’t that weird? Why not tell her to cook something else?”

“Maybe he doesn’t want to hurt her feelings. Remem
ber how your dad used to hate those German dishes what’s-her-name cooked?”

“Mrs. Honish?”

“Yeah. He hated all that shit.”

“Me, too.”

“But she was a good housekeeper except for the food.”

“Yeah. Maybe. She’s beautiful by the way. The housekeeper. She is take-your-breath-away beautiful. Anyway, let me get going. I have to check my e-mail. Anything earth-shattering on your end?”

“Nothing. It’s Saturday. I didn’t even go in to the office.”

“Okay. Well, I’m just going to take in my view here. Make some coffee.”

“Call me tomorrow.”

“Or later if I have something to tell you.”

“Later, kid.”

“Later.”

I hung up and unzipped my huge carry-on bag, pulling out my coffeemaker. I plugged it in and set it on my desk and went about preparing a pot. My chest burned. I unwrapped a Tums and chewed on it. Next I plugged in my laptop and dialed up my e-mail.

PASSWORD: Bitch

LOG-IN CORRECT

I had three messages in my in-box—a light day, but it was Saturday, and most of my authors were aware I was out of town.

The first message was from Kathleen Hawkings. She wrote political commentary and was a frequent guest on
Larry King Live
and
Hardball.
She was also very impressed that she was a photogenic blonde who was also bright, and apparently she believed this entitled her to be difficult to everyone in her path.

Cassie:

I am greatly concerned about the size of my author photo on the cover sample you sent me. As you know, I paid Dino Rickman a great deal of money to take those shots, and they came out fabulous. But the photo is way too small. O’Reilly gets a large author photo. So does Tannenbaum. My public will expect this. Please e-mail me immediately and let me know you are taking care of this.

Kathleen

Kathy:

Will have the art department bump it up several sizes. You’re gorgeous, of course, and we want the public to see every bit of that face of yours up close and personal.

Cheers,

Cassie

I sent a copy of the e-mail to Manny, our art director, and knew that he would “get” the dripping sarcasm in my e-mail. My Harvard-grad political commentator would not, and that made me simultaneously laugh to myself and grit my teeth.

Where did Lou find these authors?

My next e-mail was from late Friday—my lawyer. It
seemed my mother had pulled a death watch call again. Periodically, she called my attorney to see if my father was still alive because, under the terms of their long-ago divorce, she got a huge lump sum at the time of the divorce and ten percent of his estate when he died. In her mind, the estate was dwindling as I set him up in the nicest assisted living facility I could find. Of course, there was plenty of money left. My hope was that she’d be hit by a bus and die before him, as I saw her pictures every once in a while in
Vanity Fair
on the arm of her latest billionaire husband and she appeared disgustingly healthy. Pictures can lie, I consoled myself. Perhaps she was rotting from the inside out with stomach cancer. One can hope.

The third e-mail was from Michael. I held my breath as I opened it.

Cassie:

I hope I didn’t scare you off with my phone call. When you told me you were leaving for a month I just took leave of my senses. Forgive me? But who else can I call in the middle of the night? Who else will talk to me of cold nipples and tequila sunrises and coffee? And tea? Who else would own a tea set worthy of Queen Liz and let it tarnish on her counter? Because I know it’s brown as dishwater by now. And I find that all the more endearing. You resist any attempts by anyone to change you. And that’s precisely why you are both exasperating and charming. Write me. Call. Tell me you forgive my emotional outburst. Tell me you are coming to London.

Truly,

Michael

I felt a shiver run through me. My coffee was done brewing, and I remembered I hadn’t brought a coffee mug. I stood in a panic, crossed the room and poked my head in my bathroom. It was nicer than a hotel’s, down to little teeny shampoos and soaps.

“Perfect,” I grabbed a large water glass, went back and poured my coffee. I stared at Michael’s message. I stared and thought of his voice. Finally, I started clicking at the keyboard.

Michael:

You didn’t scare me. In case you haven’t noticed, I am not the frightened type. In fact, I am usually the one who does the scaring. If you saw the state I keep my bathroom in, for example, you would be utterly terrified. Toothpaste drippings on the sink. Towels on the floor. Make-up dust on the counters. Hairspray stuck to everything. It’s not pretty. If I came to London and did this to your bathroom, you would immediately regret it. The fantasy is so perfect. I have so little in my life that’s perfect, Michael. Wouldn’t you rather keep it pure? Keep us on the phone laughing and talking and not changing?

I wish I could explain how your face stares at me from the jacket covers. I feel like some little girl who kisses her David Cassidy poster each night. I don’t know if you’ll get that reference. But you sense what I mean. There is no one else. And this—whatever this is—is ideal. Write. Call. Tell me you know that I am right.

Always,

Cassie

I hit Send. If I went to London and things weren’t perfect, there was no send or delete button. Real life was messy. Sloppy bathrooms I could handle. Love I could not.

6

I
am the only Floridian I know without a tan. Not even a hint of one. It’s not that I care that the ozone layer has a hole in it the size of China. I could give a shit about SPFs and suntan lotion. When I do venture out in the sun on that rare occasion, I watch my freckles multiply like rabbits on fertility drugs. But I like my freckles, so it has nothing to do with that. I just hate to slow down.

But here I was in paradise.

I ventured downstairs after sending all my e-mails and felt like I had nothing to do. Probably because I didn’t.

“Where’s Roland?” I asked Maria as she stood over the stove brewing some concoction with so much onion and garlic and jalapeños in it my eyes flooded with tears.

“Mister Riggs is on the beach. Fishing.”

“What time’s dinner again?”

“We eat at 6:30 every night.”

Trying to make conversation, I offered, “I think it’s amazing that you can grow fresh vegetables. There’s nothing but sand around here. Between that and your potato bonsai here, you have a regular green thumb. I killed a cactus that I only had to water once a year.”

“I learned as a little girl. Only none of the vegetables were for me. We picked them, my family and I. So now I have a garden—Mister Riggs’s garden—but I love growing vegetables with my own hands. They taste better.”