Stunner (28 page)

The generous offer is almost more than I could have ever wished for, and I signal my acceptance.

A silver Ferrari Coupe pulls up to the front of the Malibu Palm Hotel. That smile again. It’s almost as bright as the shiny car. Guess Mr. Suave-Slavic-Dragomir is just as Hollywood as the next guy in this West Coast car culture. He’s also punctual, cheery, and very awake for a night owl working in the restaurant business. Checking out the pricey sports car, I wonder if he’s not only the maître d’ but perhaps a partner in Café Casablanca.

Radiating my more modest version of a sparkling Hollywood grin, I hop in the passenger side of the coupe. “Dragomir, how are you on this beautiful Malibu morning!” The Ferrari purrs, and I zoom away with this twenty-first century Valentino.

Soon we’re in Westwood, and we turn onto a quiet residential street lined with small apartment buildings and multi-unit houses. Dragomir parks along the curb and turns off the motor. Then he reaches behind my seat, pulls out a thermos, and pours us each a mug of coffee. We click our cups and drink. Wow. This man knows how to make a great cup of joe.

“Oh my god, this is amazing coffee,” I gush. “Not only is it silky smooth when it goes down, but I taste blueberries.” I smell the blend and sip again. “Plus there’s something else—”

I can tell my appreciation pleases him. “That’s almonds, perhaps honey. This is one of my favorite coffees.” He smiles. “Beans grow in Ethiopia.”

“Ethiopia? Well, wherever. It’s got a great aftertaste.” I move my tongue inside my mouth savoring the flavor. “Dragomir, you talk about coffee the way some people talk about wine.”

He nods in agreement. “Not only do I enjoy drinking this brew, but it is my business, too. You see, Café Casablanca sells private label coffee,” he says with pride.

I take another sip. “So, why are we here?”

“Mrs. Lake, look across—”

“Dragomir, I think it’s time you drop the Mrs. Lake formalities.” I laugh. “Just call me Ronnie.”

“Yes. Ronnie,” he says as if he’s getting used to the sound of my name. “See white stucco building with black roof on other side of street?”

“Did Juliana live there?” I ask, staring.

“Yes. It is residence for women college students. She could live here safely and inexpensively while finishing degree. I think Juliana saved lot of money in New York, and that helped her get started here. I remember she drove little VW to get around, and also worked part-time in small bookstore.” He drinks from his mug. “She was very, very careful about money, but she needed more.” I guess the money Juliana received from John Palmer for school wasn’t enough to cover all her living expenses, and by that time she was also financially supporting her child. “A board member of this residence is regular at Café Casablanca. She knows I was looking for hostess and sent Juliana!”

We watch as two women with small backpacks, probably students, come out the front door of the house, and he goes on. “When she arrived for interview, I knew in five minutes she was right one for job.”

“How could you know that in five minutes, Dragomir? Come on,” I say.

“First, she is gracious, and she is calm. For Juliana, it is all about you, not her, and that is secret of success in being hostess of restaurant that has exclusive clientele.” He leans forward as if to start the car, but he hesitates while finishing his explanation.

“Second, in ten minutes I know she has keen intelligence and will quickly learn, how you say, lay of land at Café Casablanca. Hostess must know all regulars and understand who should not sit close to each other. Also who wishes to be seen and who wants privacy. Juliana was brilliant in that way.”

“Sounds as though you were a good teacher, Dragomir.”

“I taught her everything I know,” he says with satisfaction. “She became master.” He turns on the engine, shifts the car into gear, and we’re off again.

It doesn’t take long before we’re cruising along Sunset Boulevard, and I enjoy the view from inside the sleek coupe, which is turning my adorable Mustang at home into a shabby distant cousin…just for the moment. I do realize that upon exiting this fabulous car, I will once again rebalance my priorities and feel gratitude for my stylish wheels parked back in Willowbrook.

In the meantime, we pass famous landmarks such as the Chateau Marmont, the celeb-favored castle on the hill hotel where John Belushi died, and then Hollywood High, where Drago drives me around the block reciting its cast of famous graduates, everyone from Lana Turner and Mickey Rooney to Sarah Jessica Parker.

We arrive at the West Gate of the exclusive Bel Air neighborhood opposite an entrance to the grounds of UCLA. When we turn off Sunset, Dragomir points out that this campus is where Juliana continued her undergraduate studies, which also confirms Will’s note in the folder about Juliana’s transcript request from Manhattan Community College to UCLA.

We glide along the residential streets, not able to see much beyond the dense foliage, hedges, walls, fencing, and gates that shield many of the expensive properties from prying eyes. Here and there we glimpse the mix of modest ranch houses and mega-mansions in this neighborhood of no sidewalks. That is, no sidewalks on purpose, to discourage nosy tourists from strolling through.

We slow down near a charming carriage house close to a gate and come to a stop. This time Dragomir idles the Ferrari instead of turning off the motor.

He gestures toward the stone gatehouse. “There. That is where Juliana moved perhaps one year after she came to work for me. One of my clients, Max Chestonville, offered it to her at very good rent, because he travels a lot. His elderly mother lived in big house further back on property, and part of arrangement was that Juliana should check on her when he was away.” The Juliana I’m getting to know was operating very true to form it seems. She had no trouble making the most of opportunities that came her way from people who trusted her to do the right thing.

“Dragomir, it’s totally charming,” I say. “It looks very English and quite cozy. She must have loved living here.”

“She did.” His fingers tap the steering wheel. “And she had little garden. When Juliana wasn’t working at café or in classes at UCLA, she would take Mrs. Chestonville—she call her Mrs. C—outside to terrace for afternoon tea, and Mrs. C taught her everything she knows about gardens. Together, they designed little garden on side of cottage, and Juliana did all planting. They adored each other, and Juliana really took interest in Mrs. C, even after she married Carleton and moved out. Juliana visited Mrs. C two times every week until old woman died.”

Amazed cannot begin to describe my reaction to Juliana at this stage of her life, in her early thirties. From California dorm living to Bel Air in less than a year. Not only is she one resourceful lady, but she seems to be a kind one at that. Perhaps I should cut her some slack and stop worrying about her intentions toward my brother. But what to do about her evil Bobby Taylor shadow? Even if he has nothing to do with my brother, was Juliana complicit in a shady episode tied to Taylor well after their Scranton Gang years?

“Dragomir, how could her life get any better than this?” I ask. “When she married, where did she live next?”

He smiles as if he himself had arranged such perfection. “Her new husband, Mr. Carleton Todd Wentworth from San Francisco, is very important investor in technology. He also has old Dolores Del Rio house in Hollywood.” He shifts the car into drive. “That’s where she moved. Now, I show you.”

“Come on, Dragomir,” I cajole. “I think you’re just looking for an excuse to drive your beautiful car around on this glorious morning. Be honest.”

“Oh, yes, yes, yes,” he laughs. “And with beautiful woman.” The skin on my face all of a sudden feels hot, and I believe I may be blushing in response to Drago’s old world charm.

Soon we’re motoring among the older Spanish-influenced architecture of houses along Outpost Drive. We arrive at the old Del Rio house where the present owner is doing an A-plus job of maintaining this lovely old villa. Once again we stop, and once again, Dragomir continues his impressive story.

“This is where Mr. Wentworth lived when he is in town. And he dined at Café Casablanca almost every evening. There he met my wonderful Juliana, and even though he much older, they fall very much in love.” He smiles. “They invite me to their wedding five years ago.” Dragomir says it as though he can hardly believe that he’s been included in the inner circle, which Juliana has now joined. “Of course, she stop working for me.”

“Of course,” I interject.

“They were so happy…” His smile goes away. “…For a short while. Then Mr. Wentworth had heart attack and died two years ago. So sudden. So unbelievable.”

“I’m sorry, Dragomir.” A tragic turn of events, indeed.

“Happy memories here for Juliana.” He looks sadly at the stucco-walled dwelling. “Not long after Mr. Wentworth died, his children sell this lovely house, and she move fulltime to San Francisco.”

We leave and drive back to my hotel. It’s quiet in the car, as we both probably think about the same woman—his devoted student at the café and my brother’s maybe-fiancé. I realize my investigation of Teresa Gonzalez’s evolution over the past quarter-century from poverty and crime into her present life as the refined Juliana Wentworth is now complete. I silently acknowledge her focus, spirit of reinvention, and a quiet integrity I’ve come to admire. But how can I reconcile the Bobby Taylor confusion I’ve witnessed in her life since she arrived in New Jersey with my brother?

“Did you and Juliana stay in touch?” I ask.

“Whenever she’s in L.A., she come to Café Casablanca to see me. Otherwise, we speak on phone every couple of weeks.”

The car stops for a long light at a five-way intersection. We have a moment, and I cut to the chase. “Up to Carleton Wentworth’s sudden death, it sounds as though Juliana had a good life out here, and that she continued on a path where her life got constantly better and better—”

“Ronnie, she had heart of gold and is very hard worker—” His face beams with pride.

“Definitely, but didn’t she have regular problems like the rest of us?” I watch his face closely. “Any difficulties that you know of with family? Relatives?” I pause a moment. “Kids?”

That’s when I see it. A cloud of concern passes over his face. He scowls momentarily. “What?” I ask. Silence. “Come on, Dragomir. I can see something is bothering you. I’m a good listener, and I’m discreet.” The light changes, and we drive on.

“One time Juliana brought letter with her to café, and during break I saw her reading it. Also I see photograph of little girl, and Juliana crying very quietly. When she saw me standing close by her, she grabbed letter and picture and stuffed them in pocket.” He shakes his head and makes a left turn. “She said letter from aunt, and there are problems. She said nothing else. Ever. I always wonder about that child. Who she is.”

Another traffic light ahead turns red, and we stop again. “She would be wonderful mother, I know,” Drago goes on. He glances at me, tapping the steering wheel as if he’s deciding something. Then he tests the water. “But Mr. Wentworth already have grown-up kids. Three sons and one girl.” A very pregnant pause follows, and when he can’t seem to stand the quiet anymore, Drago dives in. “Mr. Wentworth worship his daughter, but she not nice person and hate Juliana.” The light changes, and we drive.

“Did something happen, Dragomir?” I ask.

“One night at restaurant, I hear Marion, that’s daughter—I hear her threaten Juliana.” My hotel is ahead, and Dragomir turns into the entrance, continuing this saga. “Marion say she will find out all of Juliana’s secrets—because everybody have secrets—and tell her father, Carleton. Marion jealous of Juliana and want to harm the marriage. Marion a vicious person.” He stops the car and waves away the valet.

“What did Juliana do to stop Marion?” I ask.

“I think Juliana keep all her secrets very close and careful,” he says. “If that little girl in photograph her daughter, nobody ever find out. Even Mr. Wentworth.” He shakes his head regretfully.

Then he gets out of the Ferrari and comes around to open my door. “Ronnie, this is private between just us.” He smiles. “And I hope you have enjoyed my little tour.”

“Thank you, Dragomir,” I respond. “You’ve been so generous with your time and so kind to share with me your impressions and experiences with Juliana. Such a nice way to help me get to know my maybe future sister-in-law.” Juliana definitely has trust issues. I guess I would, too, if I had a wicked step-daughter like Marion Wentworth. But I suppose Juliana had problems long before that. “Dragomir, may I ask a favor of you?”

“Absolutely.”

“If you promise not to tell Juliana for a little while that I was here, then I promise to call you first when they decide to marry,” I say. “She might think I’m being nosy about her life, when my reason for being here really was to see Drea. Meeting you and joining you on this wonderful tour, well that was a bonus.” I reach out to shake hands. “Deal?”

He looks at me, breaks out in a huge smile, and shakes on it. “Deal. Ronnie, you have charm the same as my dear Juliana.” How interesting that he compares the two of us.

But my plan is to wrap up this meeting on a lighter note. “I have to ask you, where does the name Dragomir come from? It’s so romantic and has the sound of mystery and intrigue,” I enthuse.

Dragomir laughs. “I was given my Bulgarian grandfather’s name. I am happy for this. In L.A., I think I am the only Dragomir!” He sweeps me into a huge hug, and I pat him on the back.

My Mustang idles on the dirt road that leads up to Meadow Farm. The car’s canvas top is down, even though it’s a cloudy day (unlike yesterday’s perfect California blue sky). Warrior sits in the passenger seat, and we both look through the front windshield. The view of the house is beautiful. I should be happy. I’m not. Having never before been exiled from this farm where I grew up, I feel like a miserable outcast.

The music’s on, of course, and Warrior, looking at me with big sad eyes, whines along with the crooning of Tom Petty’s “I Won’t Back Down.” It’s as if Warrior understands the pain I feel because of the situation with my brother. I lean over and bury my face in my dog’s neck, nuzzling his soft coat. I feel cut off from family and forlorn. The first loss was of Peter years ago—not my fault—and now I’m at odds with Frank—this time my fault. How did I make such a mess of things?