Tall Cool One (3 page)

“Anna?” Jonathan asked, interrupting her thoughts. “Would you like to go along?”

Anna craned around toward her dad. “Go along where?”

“To this resort. I’m sending an associate next week to do a final inspection.”

Anna was taken aback. “Why me?”

“I could use another set of eyes that I trust. Didn’t you say you have Friday off for teacher conferences? It wouldn’t hurt to miss a few days of school.”

She was shocked that he remembered. Then she hesitated. Getting away from the Jonathan-and-Jane show would be a pleasure. But how could she possibly go to Mexico just when her sister had gotten out of rehab? Susan was going to need Anna’s help to stay sane and sober, especially if both parents were within visual disapproval distance.

“I think I’ll stick around and hang out with Susan. But thanks,” she finally responded.

LAX was uncharacteristically empty. Django dropped them at the Delta terminal and went to park the car. They made it to the bottom of the arriving passengers’ escalator near baggage claim just as the monitor announced that Susan’s plane had landed.

Once again, her parents were chatting amiably in their bubble of blissful ignorance. The perfect time for Anna to steal away and call Susan’s cell. Her sister didn’t pick up.
Oh, well.
Susan would just have to see all three of them—two-thirds of whom were still loose from their afternoon martinis.

When Anna returned from the bathroom, she was met by a visibly stressed Jane. “Anna? Where could your sister possibly be?” Anna looked at her watch and was astonished to realize they’d been waiting for almost twenty minutes.

“Just be patient,” Jonathan assured his ex-wife.

Jane shook her head. “No. She should be at that baggage claim already; that’s the one for the flight from Tucson. Look at all those people.” She pointed to the second Delta carousel. There were plenty of passengers gathered around it, and the last of their baggage was coming down the chute. “Jonathan, I don’t think Susan was on that plane.”

“That’s impossible.” He took a sheet of paper from his breast pocket and checked it. “Flight 345 from Tucson, Delta Air Lines. Today. That’s her flight.”

“Well, you obviously made an error, Jonathan.”

“Why do you assume it’s
my
error, Jane?”

Anna remembered how her parents always tacked on each other’s names to sentences when they got irritated or anxious; she knew she had to step in before the bickering began to get out of control. “Let me go check at the Delta desk,” she suggested. “Stay here in case she comes down.”

Three minutes later, Anna was on the airport second level, near the ticket counters. She tried her sister’s cell again. No answer. Damn.

“Can you check the passenger roster of Delta 345?” she asked the counter clerk, a jovial-looking Asian guy with short dark hair and glasses. “I’m waiting for Susan Cabot Percy. I’m her sister.” She flashed her passport to establish her identity.

The clerk smiled broadly. “You look pretty safe.” He typed something into his computer. “Yes, your sister boarded that flight in Tucson.”

“Thanks.” Anna exhaled with relief. “Can you page her, please? Tell her that her family—no, scratch that—her
sister
is waiting by the baggage claim?”

“Right away.”

By the time Anna got off the elevator at the baggage claim level, she could hear the announcement for Susan over the airport public address system. It made her feel instantly better. There was undoubtedly a mix-up; her sister had probably forgotten her iPod on the plane and had to go back for it or something.

After ten more minutes, Django, who’d tired of circling the airport, parked the car and checked in for a progress report.

“It’s none of my business,” he drawled. “But I think we could go to the concourse and check on her.”

“That’s a good idea,” Anna agreed. “Mom, Dad, stay here in case she comes down, okay? If she does, call my cell.”

Thankfully, her parents didn’t insist on coming along as Anna and Django went up to the security checkpoint on the main level.

“Where do we look?” Django asked once they were past the metal detectors.

“Everywhere, I guess.” A knot of anxiety was forming in Anna’s stomach as she surveyed the vast concourse. There were more than seventy gates, dozens of shops, and several restaurants. Susan could be in any of them. They fanned out and Anna checked the women’s bathrooms, the Delta executive lounge, the food court, even—yes—the bars. No Susan. Her nervousness grew. Where was her sister? She strode through the rows of plastic seats at every gate at the far end of the concourse. Nothing. She was about to ask a custodian to check the men’s bathroom when her cell rang. She snatched it open.

Please let it be Susan.

“Hello?”

“It’s Dad. Anything?”

“Zero.”

“Zero back here too. I heard from Django. He’s got nothing. Looks like your sister has done it again.”

“Let’s not jump to conclusions,” Anna said, even though she’d already jumped pretty far into conclusion land herself. “She was on the plane. She’s
got
to be here. I’ll check everything one more time.”

“Good luck,” Jonathan replied. He had clearly given up.

Anna gave it one more halfhearted try. But she was merely postponing the inevitable. There was no escaping two truths: Susan had definitely boarded the plane. And now, she was definitely gone.

Ruby Hummingbird

T
ired but also exhilarated, Samantha Sharpe trudged through the white oak double front doors of her father’s palatial Bel Air estate, laden with packages from a Saturday afternoon shopping expedition to Fred Segal.

Over the past three weeks, a miracle had occurred. She’d actually gotten on the treadmill every single day and consumed nothing but soy shakes and raw veggies. It had resulted in a five-pound weight loss. She looked better, she really did. Sure, she was stuck with fat calves—thank you, maternal grandma dearest. (It was the cruelest fate: When it came to calves, genetics trumped liposuction.) But she’d battered herself down to a size ten in a town where a twelve was a felony. Once she got a fresh blow-out and new streaks at Raymond’s, and maybe the caviar facial at Marabella’s, she’d look . . . well, not quite beautiful. Even with all the effort she put into her appearance, she knew she’d never be beautiful. Maybe more in the vicinity of pear-shaped cute.

It would have been nice if someone in Sharpe world had noticed Sam’s efforts. Fat—ha ha—chance. Sam’s father, Jackson Sharpe, one of America’s most beloved movie stars, didn’t notice much beyond his own reflection. Sam would have to be hooked up to a feeding tube in a top-secret Four Seasons hotel suite next to an Olsen twin before her father would pay her any mind.

Well, screw him. Sam was psyched that she’d lost weight. When she’d awakened that morning and the scale reported that she’d dropped another pound, she’d decided to celebrate in the way that she knew best: spending money. Copious amounts of it.

Shopping was best accomplished as a group activity, so she tried to rally the troops. First she called Anna but only got voice mail. Then she tried her backup choice, Cammie Sheppard. Cammie had been Sam’s best friend since kindergarten. But lately their relationship seemed to be cooling. Sam wasn’t sure if this was due to her budding friendship with Anna or in spite of it. Either way, Cammie was out. She had plans with Adam Flood for the afternoon and evening. With the emphasis that Cammie had placed on the word
plans,
Sam assumed said plans involved La Perla lingerie and a canopied bed.

Adam and Cammie. Talk about your unlikely couples. Adam was part of a rare species: the truly good guys. It wasn’t very long ago that he had kissed her, Sam, at her impromptu New Year’s Eve party. Then he and Anna had had a thing that had lasted about a millisecond. And
then
gorgeous Cammie, the cold-hearted vixen—a label Sam held in high esteem—had gone after Adam. What Cammie wanted, Cammie got. Sam just hoped she wouldn’t use him and then throw him out like last year’s Sergio Rossi green alligator pumps.

With Anna and Cammie off the list, Sam dialed Dee Young. Dee, the third member of the Cammie, Sam, Dee triumvirate, was always good for a shopping expedition, even though her burgeoning New Age woo-woo spaciness tended to drive Sam nuts. But Dee’s housekeeper said that Dee was at the Kabbalah Center for a special lecture by a visiting scholar from Israel. Maybe Sam would want to meet her there?

Uh,
no.
Sam had zero interest in Jewish mysticism. So she went solo to Fred Segal, where she purchased three cropped and fitted Christian Lacroix jackets that would look cute with jeans, a Tracy Reese wrap skirt that hid her hips, and a pair of red leather Valentino boot-cut pants. Since she needed new footwear to go with the red leather pants, she picked up some Via Spiga brown suede boots and a lethal-looking pair of black studded leather Armani heels fit for a dominatrix.

Sam rushed home to try on all her new clothes. As she padded through the endless white marble foyer lined with black marble pedestals holding her father’s various movie awards, she heard faraway laughter coming from the massive, rarely used living room. Rousing ancient Jewish klezmer music wafted from the in-home sound system. She dumped her bags and boxes at the bottom of the spiral staircase to go see who was having fun without her . . . to such a bizarre sound track.

In the white-on-white living room, she found her very pregnant, twenty-one-year-old stepmother, Poppy Sinclair Sharpe, on the white leather couch with her friend Dee Young. Weird. Poppy and Dee didn’t really know each other beyond a hello/goodbye/Sam’s upstairs kind of thing.

But here was diminutive Dee, baby face and blue eyes shining, sitting in the lotus position. Dark-haired Poppy was doing a half lotus, barely manageable due to her very pregnant belly. They were both giggling like twelve-year-olds.

“Hi, Sam!” Dee sang out when she saw her friend. “I’ve been trying to help Poppy into position. But Ruby Hummingbird keeps getting in the way.”

Ruby Hummingbird was the name Poppy had selected for the soon-to-be-born bundle of joy, after much consultation with a spiritualist-numerologist in Topanga Canyon. Sam found the name very affected but knew the kid would fit in fine in a town where girls were named Rumer, Coco, and Apple.

“You know, Poppy, I don’t think crushing the baby because you want to get into a yoga position is necessarily a good idea,” Sam said.

Poppy popped out of her lotus. “Sam, that’s a mean thing to say.”

“It was a joke, Poppy. Remember humor?” Sam looked at Dee. “So. You came over, Poppy let you in, and you’re waiting for me?”

“Nope,” Dee said. “Poppy invited me over.”

Poppy invited her? Why would her dimmer-than-a-burned-out bulb of a stepmother do that?

“And how did this come about?”

“Well, I was at the Kabbalah Center for a lecture after Shabbat services.” Dee unhooked her legs. “A really famous rabbi from Safed, Israel. I want to go there this summer; it’s, like, so mystical and everything. Anyway, he was fantastic, and I don’t even speak Hebrew. He was talking about the different names of God, and that’s when I realized that God isn’t really God’s name at all.”

“It’s amazing,” Poppy chimed in. “Because I realized the exact same thing.”

They shared a look of profundity, and Sam tried to keep down her two slices of ahi. “Wow,” she deadpanned.

“I know,” Dee agreed. “Anyway, I turned to my left, and guess who was just three seats away from me? Poppy! So after the Havdalah service, we got to talking. And Poppy said—”

“I said that I finally understood how we’re all the fusion of the spirit and the physical,” Poppy took over. “Even you, Sam. Because God made us from of the dust of the earth. Isn’t that just so
immense?
”

“Oh yeah. Rocks my world.”

Sam was vaguely up to speed about Kabbalah—the study of Jewish mysticism that involved parsing hidden meanings out of sacred Jewish texts. She recalled something she’d read by the philosopher Elie Wiesel that discussed Kabbalah. He’d said Kabbalah should never be studied by young people—that age, maturity, and wisdom were required to plumb the depths of its secrets.

None of which applied to either Poppy or Dee.

“Elie Wiesel says that too many people take Kabbalah too lightly,” Sam told them.

“Who’s he?” Dee asked.

“A fashion designer,” Sam deadpanned.

Dee scrunched up her precious little face. “What would a fashion designer know about—?”

“He’s a writer,” Poppy interjected. “I’m not stupid, Sam. Jackson met him at a Federation dinner.”

Dee folded her arms. “You know, Sam, a little more spirituality in your life might make you less hostile.”

“I totally agree,” Poppy said. Then a look of pleased surprise came over her face. “Oh my God! The baby just kicked. Come feel.”

Instinctually Sam went to her young stepmother, truly excited to feel the baby in motion. But before she could take two steps, Dee had slid over on the couch and placed her hand on Poppy’s enormous belly.

“Whoa,” Dee marveled. “That’s amazing.”

For the next few moments Dee and Poppy were in their own private world of the baby in the womb. It was like Sam didn’t exist. They started talking about Poppy’s upcoming baby shower and whether or not Poppy should hire Yanni to play piano. Poppy was concerned that Yanni would be the only male at the shower. But Dee related that she’d read an article on the Internet about how unborn babies appreciated music right through the amniotic fluid, which sealed the deal for Poppy.

“I don’t know what I’d do without you.” Poppy put a hand atop Dee’s. “I’m so glad we were both at that lecture.”

Dee beamed. “I’ll do whatever I can to help you with the shower. My parents are going to New York for the week, so I’ll have plenty of time.”

“Oh, wow, do you want to stay here?” Poppy asked eagerly. “There’s plenty of room.”

To Sam’s relief, Dee shook her head. “I’m fine at home. But I’ll come over all the time, I promise.”

“Well, if . . . hey! Ruby kicked again!” Poppy exclaimed. “Come touch, Sam. Put your hand on top of mine and Dee’s.”