The Merchant of Venice Beach (29 page)

“I need a new tape,” she said. She opened the window and yelled down to Andy, who was serving as the wedding’s jack-of-all-trades. “Hey, Andy, there’s a mini DV tape in a box on the desk in the guesthouse. Would you grab it for me? The door isn’t locked.”

Suzanna froze. She tried to pin a tea rose in her hair and sound natural as Erinn closed the window.

“Oh, that’s right. You never lock the guesthouse.”

Erinn released the shot tape from the camera and stuck it in a small plastic case without looking at Suzanna.

“Oh, I wouldn’t say I never lock it,” she said, and then looked Suzanna in the eye in a way that only a sister—even a sister ten years younger—would understand. “I did lock it once.”

How did she know? Sisterly sixth sense? A writer’s sixth sense?

Suzanna knew she could never bring herself to ask. And did it
really matter? All that mattered was that Erinn had saved her from making a huge mistake that night.

I owe you one, Erinn.

The next half hour passed quickly, even with Erinn videotaping everything. The next thing Suzanna knew, she was being escorted down the aisle by Fernando. She saw Eric, leaning on a cane next to a flower-strewn lectern. She tried to stay focused on him, tried to blank everything else out—especially that god-awful camera.

This was about Eric. And her. And their new beginning.

As Fernando guided her rhythmically toward the lectern, Suzanna caught sight of Caro out of the corner of her eye. The cat was batting at something red. He hurled it into the air, caught it in his paws, and then pounced on it. Suzanna could feel herself panicking.

My panties! From that night with Rio!

She felt herself flushing. Should she grab them? She couldn’t! Everyone was looking at her. She eyed the cat again. The panties winked at her in equal parts glee and condemnation. She remembered trying to explain about Rio to Eric, but he didn’t want to hear about it. Rio could be part of the past, he said. He had nothing to do with their new life.

The damn cat can have the panties.

As they reached Eric, Suzanna paused to give Fernando a kiss. There were so many tears on his cheek, that her kiss slid right past it and she kissed his ear. She looked at Carla, who was sitting with her parents. She blew her a kiss and Carla caught it in the air. She walked over and handed Virginia a rose. They hugged.

“Go Yankees,” Suzanna whispered.

Suzanna sought out her sister, who came out from behind the camera long enough to tell Suzanna to stop looking into the lens. Suzanna turned back to Eric. She took a breath.

The future was now.

As she took Eric’s hand, she realized that, since the earthquake, she hadn’t had the slightest sensation of floating.

They turned toward the minister.

“Dearly beloved, we are gathered here . . .”

Suzanna’s spirit soared, but her feet stayed firmly on the ground.

Recipe for Medieval Gingerbread

1 lb jasmine honey

Bread crumbs—about 1 lb finely ground unseasoned bread crumbs in a combination of white and wheat (which gives us another way to use up old bread, hurray!)

Ginger—1 tbsp

Cinnamon—up to 1 tbsp

Ground white pepper—up to 1⁄2 tsp

Pinch of culinary lavender

Bring the honey to a boil, reduce heat, skim off any scum, and make sure honey does not boil over. Add spices, slowly beat in the bread crumbs. Add just enough bread to achieve a stiff, well-blended mass. Remove from the heat and turn the mixture into a bowl. Let cool. When cool, take a rolling pin and spread the gingerbread out evenly into a square shape, 1⁄2 to 1 inch thick. Trim the edges with a knife, then cut into small slices to serve. Decorate with small leaves (real or candy) attached to each piece with a clove. If you use real leaves, make sure they are not poisonous.

Celia Bonaduce is a producer on HGTV’s House Hunters. This is her first novel. She lives in Santa Monica, California, with her husband in a beautiful “no-pets” building. She wishes she could say she has a dog.

You can contact Celia at: www.Celiab.name

The lives and loves of the Wolf sisters continue in Celia Bonaduce’s

A COMEDY OF ERINN

An eKensington e-book on sale September 2013!

CHAPTER 1

Erinn Elizabeth Wolf leaned on the fence that kept visitors from sliding down the bluff into the ocean. She glowered at the young couple snuggling on her bench —in her park. The young man and woman occasionally looked at the water, but spent most of their time sinking into each other’s eyes.

The sun was just dipping into the water. The world was suddenly filled with coral, russet, violet, periwinkle, and cornflower. Erinn was getting impatient, very impatient. She decided to take matters into her own hands.

She joined the couple on the bench. Nudging the young woman aside with her hip, she heaved her oversized bag onto the bench and hunkered down.

“Look at that sunset,” Erinn heard the young woman sigh softly.” God’s masterpiece.”

Erinn snorted.

“God wouldn’t have a prayer creating a sunset like that,” she said.” This is a masterpiece only city smog could produce.”

The couple ignored her. It was obvious Erinn was going to have to crank up the annoyance factor. She studied the couple. Gauging that they were liberal arts students from one of the local universities, Erinn formulated a plan. With a quick prayer, asking forgiveness from her beloved Democratic Party, Erinn said, “Since he’s now out of office, I think Dick Cheney is really coming into his own, don’t you?”

The couple left their spot on the bench—he frowning, she beaming with politically correct good will.

That’s one way to get your bench back.

Erinn glanced at the rapidly advancing sunset and realized she had not a moment to spare. She reached into her bag and pulled out a battered, hand-held video camera. She quickly and expertly adjusted her settings and started panning steadily over the horizon. She was getting pretty good at her camera work—if she did say so herself.

The view at Palisades Park in Santa Monica, California, was the billion-dollar vista featured in movies since cinema’s golden era. Although Erinn had lived in Santa Monica for nine years, she never got used to the incredible beauty the park offered.

Whenever Erinn was shooting, she was nimble—and confident in her movements. But as soon as she shut the camera off, a transformation took place. She suddenly appeared heavier and slower, as if gravity had taken hold of her—as if she were rooted to the earth. When the sun had gone, Erinn stowed her camera and made her way home. She didn’t walk far, as she was the owner of another masterpiece—one of the few remaining Victorian houses on Santa Monica’s main drag.

While Erinn would never be mistaken for the stuff of fairy tales, the courtyard of her house looked like something out of Beauty and the Beast. The old climbing roses that crawled up the lacy wooden pillars also disguised layers of peeling paint on the porch. An uneven walkway curled quaintly toward the side yard.

She retrieved a large silver key from a keychain that looked like a medieval jailer’s and fitted it into the front door lock. The door squeaked open, and Erinn was home.

She shrugged off her coat, hung it on an old-fashioned hall tree, and carefully put her camera aside. She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror and rearranged a few bobby pins, hoping to control her wild, coarse hair. Even with her hair pulled back in a severe ponytail, corkscrew tendrils tended to escape. Her hair was still mostly pepper, but now with a sprinkling of salt. Erinn had made no attempt to halt the aging process, which she knew was practically a sacrilege in Southern California—but she stood firm against useless vanity. Even so, without the weight of the camera bag on her shoulders, hints of the graceful young woman she used to be were still evident in her posture and the way she moved. Almost miraculously she had remained an extremely attractive woman.

Not that she cared.

Not that anybody cared.

The doorbell rang. She peered out. A man in ripped jeans, a tight T-shirt, and carrying a skateboard was trying to open the gate. Erinn instinctively stepped out of sight, but kept her eye on the man. He managed to get the latch open and headed up Erinn’s path. He marched up to the porch and knocked.

It suddenly occurred to Erinn that this must be someone who wanted to rent the guesthouse.

“Damn it, Suzanna,” she cursed under her breath.

Her younger sister, Suzanna, was worried that Erinn would lose the house if she didn’t generate some income. She had placed a rental ad on craigslist without Erinn’s knowledge or consent. Erinn balked when she heard about it, but promised her sister she’d keep an open mind and at least meet with a few people.

The man, in wraparound sunglasses, knocked on the door again.

She yanked open the heavy wood-beamed door.

“Hey there, how you doing?” asked the young man, as he removed his glasses. He put out his hand by way of introduction.” Craigslist.”

He had the casual gait of a man—Erinn would put him at about twenty-eight—at ease with himself. He was also extremely well built, with biceps peeking out from under the sleeve of his snug T-shirt.

“That’s an interesting mode of transportation,” Erinn said, indicating the skateboard.

“Yeah,” he said.” It’s a pain in the ass sometimes, but it’s a real chick magnet.”

“Pardon?”

“The babes really go for a guy on a skateboard.”

“I don’t.”

“Well, you’re not a . . .”

He propped his skateboard against the house and stepped inside, without invitation. Erinn followed him. He walked around, whistling appreciatively.

“Wow, this place is awesome,” he said.

He walked into the living room and started to pull open the curtains.

“Dude! You have an ocean view . . . why do you have the curtains shut?”

“If you must know, I like to keep to myself. I like the privacy,” Erinn said.” Besides, I find Southern Californians vastly overestimate sunshine.”

“Well, it’s a cool place anyway,” he said as Erinn closed the curtains. He squinted in the darkness.” You could do a spread in Better Caves and Gardens.”

The cat rubbed against the young man’s legs.

“Sweet! I love animals,” he said, scooping up the cat.” Whoa! This is one fat cat!”

Erinn reached out and patted the cat, a large, flat-faced, silver point Himalayan.

“His name is Caro,” she said.

“Hello, Car-ro,” he said, pronouncing two r’s.

“It’s pronounced with one r,” Erinn said.” Car-o. It’s Italian for ‘dear one. ’”

“Isn’t that what I said?”

“No . . . you said ‘Car-ro’ . . . that’s Spanish for ‘truck. ’”

“Well, no offense, dude, but Truck’s a much better name for this guy,” said the young man, as he put the cat down and headed toward the kitchen.

Erinn kept her face impassive. This boy was not winning her over.

“Wow, nice kitchen, Er . . . do you mind if I call you ‘Er’?”

“Massively,” said Erinn.

“What about Rinn? Or Rin Tin Tin?”

Does he want the guesthouse or did he just come here to in-
sult me?

“Why would you call me Rin Tin Tin?”

“Just shortening the process, dude. That’s how nicknames are made. You start out with something that makes sense, like Rinn, and pretty soon you’re Rin Tin Tin. It’s totally random.”

“I didn’t catch your name,” Erinn said.

“Jude . . . Raphael.”

Common ground at last.

“Ah!” she said.” As in the artist!”

“As in the turtle,” Jude said.” Hey, let’s go check out my guesthouse!”

He stood and followed a stormy Erinn into the backyard.

If love could have kept this place up, Erinn would have had no worries. But like everything else about the Wolf residence, the yard was looking a little down-at-the-heels. The one-room guesthouse was nestled in a patch of large fig trees. It was a miniature Victorian, complete with a tiny porch and hanging swing. Its bright red door stood out from the greenish tone of the rest of the exterior, and its window boxes overflowed with geraniums.

“This is it,” she said, trying to hide the pride she felt in the place.

Jude stood back and looked the building over.

“Huh.”

Erinn turned on him.

“Is there a problem?” she asked.

“Nah,” he said.” I’m just not really big on these gingerbready kind of places, ya know? They’re kinda gay.”