Everything Leads to You(58)

“Tell you what. If I live through the night, I’ll be back to celebrate.”

Suddenly, I want the detective to live.

“What’s this guy’s name again?” I ask.

Jamal says, “Max.”

“I really want Max to live,” I say, and everyone murmurs in agreement.

Unfortunately for all of us, Max dies five minutes later, and the blonde never does go into the steakhouse, and the movie ends.

“Can we watch her scene again?” Ava asks, and I rewind the tape and find the part and press play. My dad stands up first and walks over to the screen, and soon Ava follows and then Mom and Charlotte and Jamal all at once, until we’re all standing just a couple feet away, staring into Caroline’s face at eye level.

“She’s beautiful,” Dad says.

“Such a kind face,” Mom says.

And I nod yes but as they all watch Caroline, I look at Ava, her hair fallen out of its ponytail, her hand raised to her mouth, her green eyes fixed to the screen, unblinking, taking in the sight of her mother.





Chapter Thirteen



At 4:40 a.m. on Sunday morning I pull up to the Echo Park house and text Rebecca that I’m here. When I look up from my phone I see Morgan’s truck in their driveway, which I guess is something I should have considered as a possibility. There’s no reason that seeing her should be any more awkward than it’s been the last few weeks—it could actually be less so now that we know where we stand—but I’m disappointed at the sight of the truck anyway. I wanted to feel like the art department expert on this excursion and every time I’m with Morgan it’s clear that she’s the more experienced one.

Then Rebecca appears, shutting her door behind her, carrying two travel mugs and Morgan’s keys.

“Good morning,” she says through my rolled-down window. “I borrowed Morgan’s truck.”

The 110 has never been so empty as it is now, before 5:00 a.m. on a Sunday morning, but when we get to the Rose Bowl, people are already lined up to get in. I’m used to the bustling, friendly version of this flea market, the eleven o’clock version when everyone is there to make a day of it, meandering in and out of booths and breaking for burritos at the food trucks. At 5:00 a.m., though, no one is meandering. Everyone is eagle-eyed, targeting specific booths, inspecting the vintage furniture and clothing and decor and either placing them on giant metal carts or slapping SOLD signs on them and continuing to the next thing. These people are vintage-shop owners, ready to sell what they scavenge here for two or three times the price, or they’re decorators, furnishing the houses of private clients, or they’re from the art departments of movie studios. They, like me, are looking for what will make the set transcend an artificial invention, the addition that will make audiences believe that what they’re seeing is real.

Rebecca takes the color swatches I’ve put together for her and goes off in search of rugs for Juniper’s and George’s houses. I target the stands that sell art, still unsure of what I should be looking for. Yesterday afternoon I lay down in the middle of Toby’s living room and stared at the wall for an hour, thinking that maybe the answer would come if I wasn’t searching through magazines and online shops for it. But all I got was blankness so I called Ava, feeling more nervous than ever waiting for her to answer. I know that Charlotte is right and I shouldn’t even be hoping for anything more than friendship. But the things that I wish for are rarely within my control.

I asked her, “What do you think Juniper would hang on her walls?”

“I don’t know. Maybe, like, floral images? Because of the botany?”

“Tried that.”

“Let me think.”

I could hear her breathing in the space between raspy sentences. I tried to picture her in her room at the shelter but I didn’t know what it looked like, and honestly I couldn’t imagine Ava Garden Wilder living in a place like that.

“Family photographs,” she said. “The script doesn’t talk about her family, but she seems like the kind of person who would miss them.”

Something in that felt right to me, but unless I found models to pose as her family it would be pretty much impossible to pull off. And it isn’t the aesthetic I’m going for. I want a set that feels romantic, emotional. A place where someone would dream about a different kind of life.

Now, sifting through hundreds of pieces of art, I find something: a painting of a woman with a long neck and a soft smile.