I had to laugh.
She bit her lip, tipped her head. Smoothed a hand across the varnish. 'Look at this walnut, Patrick. Chocolate brown, open-grained, even-textured. We quartersawed it to pick up a prettier angle on the annular rings. You know how hard it is to get wood this fine? Problems everywhere. Splits. Shakes. Decay. Pitch pockets. Honeycombing. Blue stain from fungi.' She knocked it with her knuckles, hard. 'But not here. I chose the best.'
'But?'
'Give me your hand.' She ran my palm slowly across the tabletop. I sensed the faintest bulge toward the center. 'Feel that? That's warp. Look overhead.'
I did. The heating vent, breathing from the cornice down onto the table.
Her eyes were waiting for mine when I lowered my head. 'Seam of stored moisture in the wood, maybe. You can't catch everything.'
I said, 'I'd never noticed it.'
'It catches the light differently, bends the sheen. I see it every time I come down the stairs. And here'--she traced my fingertips across the slight bump of a dark circle--'we varnished over a knot. It was smooth here just three months ago. Having a knot in there's a risk, too, but some defects make it more beautiful. You want uniform, go to IKEA.' She took my other hand, too. 'You can't see all the flaws. But it's a good goddamned table, Patrick. So why throw it away?'
'I'm still here, aren't I?'
'Technically.' She pressed my hands together, like I was praying, except hers were clasped over mine, gentle across my bruised knuckles. As she leaned forward, her dark hair curved to crowd her face. 'This isn't good for either of us. Whatever steps we have to take, I'm willing to take them with you. But I'm not doing this anymore. Whatever that means for you, I'll have to find a way to live with.'
She shoved out her chair, stretched across the lacquered surface, and kissed me on the forehead. Her footsteps moved up the stairs, and the bedroom door closed quietly.
Chapter 10
I had an excess of energy, the kind that tends to overtake me the morning after a wakeful night. Desultory, slightly frantic, edged with desperation. For four dizzy hours, I'd fussed under a twist of blankets on the couch, distracted by stairway creaks, bobbing tree-branch shadows, the dark yard beyond the semi-sheer curtains. Ariana's last words to me had left me with plenty more to gnaw on in my more lucid moments of unsleep. She'd called me out on the inevitable: Stay or leave, but do one properly. Even in those brief spells where I'd drifted off, I'd dreamed of myself lying on the uncomfortable couch, frustrated and unable to sleep. Several times I'd gotten up to peer out the windows and check the yard. Just after 6:00 A.M., when the L.A. Times landed, I'd searched it anxiously but found no DVD lurking inside.
Now I positioned my camcorder by the front window of our tiny living room, angling the lens out onto the porch and walk. I'd tucked the tripod behind a potted palm so the camera was lost among the blunt-tipped leaves. The strategically drawn curtains left only the necessary slice of view. Slurping my third cup of coffee, I checked the setup yet again and pressed the green button, recording onto the well-advertised 120-hour digital memory.
Ariana's voice startled me. 'Is that what you've been doing down here?'
'I woke you?'
'I was up already, but I sure heard you thunking around.' She yawned, finishing it with a feminine roar, then nodded at the hidden camcorder. 'Giving them a taste of their own medicine?'
'I hope so.'
'I'll call the alarm guys today.'
'That doesn't sound like a vote of confidence.'
She shrugged.
I went up to my office, where I shuffled my lecture notes into the soft leather briefcase I'd bought to look more professorial. When I came back down, Ariana was leaning against the sink, a desert mariposa behind her ear. Vibrant orange. I contemplated this. The color of lily she wore in her hair gave away her mood. Pink was playful, red angry, and lavender, lavender she saved for when she was feeling particularly in love. So . . . not in a very long time. In fact, for months she hadn't gone with anything but white, her safety color. I'd forgotten which mood orange broadcast, which ceded my advantage.
Ariana shifted her grip on her coffee mug, uneasy under my gaze. I was still focused on that orange bloom. 'What?' she asked.
'Be careful today. I'll keep my cell phone on, even during class. Just . . . watch out for anything weird. People. Anyone approaching your car. Keep the doors locked.'
'I will.'
I nodded, then nodded again when it was clear neither of us was sure what to say next. Feeling her eyes on my back, I headed out to the garage and knuckled the button. The door shakily rose. I dropped my briefcase through the open passenger window and leaned over, my hands on the sill. Her words from last night returned to me--I'm not doing this anymore.
In a sealed clear plastic bin on one of the overburdened shelves, I could make out Ariana's wedding dress through its transparent wrapping. Like her, modern with traditional flourishes. Again came the seesaw tilt, betrayal and pain, anger and grief. That goddamn in-good-times-and-in-bad gown, preserved for a future we might not have.
I walked outside, past the trash cans, and peered in the kitchen window. Ari sat in her usual spot on the arm of the couch, clutching her stomach as if to quell an ache. Mug resting on her knee. She wasn't crying, though; today her face expressed only disillusionment. She plucked the flower from her hair and twirled it, staring into the orange folds as if trying to read the future. Why did I feel let down, pushed away? Did I want her to cry every morning? To prove what? That she was still hurting as much as I was? I hadn't known it, not consciously, and revealed to me, it felt petty and foolish.
Given the DVDs, I didn't want to startle her if she looked up. Just as I was about to step back, she crossed to the kitchen door. Contemplated it. Then she unlocked the dead bolt and set it again, firmly.
I stood there a moment after she'd disappeared upstairs.
Chapter 11
The Formosa Cafe was a Hollywood haunt long before Guy Pearce's Ed Exley mistook Lana Turner for a hooker there in L.A. Confidential. At the bar beneath black-and-whites of Brando, Dean, and Sinatra, I gulped a scotch, gathering my courage. At least I had fortifying company. The throw of buildings that composed Summit Pictures loomed in the west-facing windows, as did a tall-wall ad for They're Watching--Keith Conner's overblown face adhered to the side of the executive building. From Bogart to Conner with a half turn of the head. Except Bogart was an eight-by-ten and Conner a high-rise. Poetic injustice.
The six-story ad dwarfed the passing cars. They'd redone it--I could tell from the missing square of banner at the bottom that revealed the old version beneath. Keith squinting in inflated close-up, ready to take danger head- on, had replaced the image of the hazy figure descending into the subway. Principal photography on the movie had barely finished, and a trailer hadn't even been cut yet, but the early buzz had jumped Keith to the next tier, made him worthy of an ad campaign built around his face. He was now an A-lister in waiting. Which was partially my fault.
The barkeep paused from topping off the mixers to collect my glass. Recognizing me as a former regular, he'd waved me in, though they'd yet to set up for lunch. He didn't ask if I wanted another.
Using my cell, I called the Summit switchboard. 'Yes, can I please have Jerry in Security?'
Jerry and I had become friends when I was at the studio every day during preproduction. We'd met in the commissary and before long were having lunch together a few times a week. Of course, we hadn't spoken since things went sideways.
Each ring sounded like a countdown. Finally he answered. My voice was dry when I said, 'Hey, Jerry, it's Patrick.'
'Whoa,' he said. 'Patrick. I can't talk to you. You may have noticed that you're in the middle of a lawsuit with my employer.'
'I know, I know. Listen, I just want to ask you something. I'm across the street at Formosa. Can you give me two minutes?'
His voice lowered. 'Just being seen with you could land me knee-deep.'
