The Dirty Book Club(15)

“Neil? Why Neil?”

“Because that’s my name. Curtis works for UPS.”

“Of course he does,” M.J. muttered to herself. Her family was probably dying all over again laughing at her blunder.

With the door still open she pulled the cardboard tab across the envelope and read the document that was tucked inside. A document that instantly transformed her from a spiritual skeptic into a woman who believes in signs.





CHAPTER


Six


Pearl Beach, California

Saturday, May 21

Full Moon

M.J. RELAXED HER gait and loosened her hips in the manner of a carefree maiden on an aimless Saturday-afternoon stroll, who also happened to be casually swinging a bottle of Tito’s vodka by her side. To see her was to think she was the trope of small-town spontaneity; to be her was to grapple with the urge to turn around and run home.

This whole “pop by the neighbors’ for a visit” thing had been Dan’s idea—another attempt to set M.J. up with a life before he opens his clinic and is gone all day. But M.J. wasn’t a “popper.” She needed an invitation; nothing formal, just an overall sense that she was welcome.

“It’s what locals do,” Dan assured her. “They think it’s rude if you keep to yourself.”

“No, what’s rude is taking their outdoor furniture without permission.”

“Hence, the apology vodka.”

The gesture would have felt a lot less invasive if Dan had gone with her. But he had a lunch meeting with a retiring doctor; a local hotshot in search of someone to take over his practice. So M.J. had to play first lady and handle the social outreach alone. It was either that or spend another afternoon sunning solo on her deck and judging the mothers who let their teenaged daughters wear thong bikinis to the beach.

“Well, hello there,” said the man in Gloria’s garage. He was rubbing soapy circles into the hood of a cranberry-red Aston Martin, a cigarette dangling from his mouth. His MacBook-colored hair, still thick as a teenager’s, was weekend-morning wild, his tan was retirement deep. He was a picture of old-school machismo, even as Barbra Streisand’s “Stoney End” blared from his boom box.

“Mr. Golden?”

He straightened his posture and smoothed his side part. “Call me Leo.”

M.J. went limp with relief. While it didn’t erase the fact that she called Neil “Curtis,” getting this one right was encouraging. “I’m M.J. I live next door.”

“So I’ve noticed.” Leo turned up the good-time glint in his navy-blue eyes as he bridged their forty-year gap with a lingering handshake. Then, aiming his cigarette at the bottle that was now slipping from M.J.’s sweaty palm, he asked if she would care for a glass.

“The vodka is for you and Gloria. From Dan and me to thank you for not arresting us,” she said, with a nervous giggle. But why? M.J. was a street-smart woman, and Leo was at least seventy. Yet his unwavering eye contact made her squirm.

She took a tiny step back.

“Dan returned the chair, right? This morning, before his meeting? Not that he works on Saturdays. He doesn’t. Not usually . . . Anyway, he’ll be home at three. We’re going couch shopping.” Embarrassed, M.J. shook her head. Why was she telling him this? She sounded like a schoolgirl with a teacher crush. Even Lolita was more composed.

“You know who you remind me of?” Leo asked. “A shorter Elle Macpherson. Not to say you’re short—”

His phone dinged. He glanced at the screen and then returned his attention to M.J., who was wishing she had worn something less revealing: a maxi dress and Birkenstocks instead of denim cutoffs and a boxy T-shirt that offered peekaboo glimpses of her flat midriff. “Is Gloria home?”

“She will be in exactly”—he glanced at his screen again—“four minutes and six seconds.”

“Are you sure? I can always come back.”

Leo chuckled as if recalling a joke. “Oh, I’m sure. That woman has been giving me five-minute warnings for the last fifty years. Which means we better hurry if we want to—”

“Want to what?”

Leo approached the life-sized cardboard cutout of Marlon Brando, reached behind the rose on his lapel, and removed the box of American Spirits that had been taped to the back.

He lit two cigarettes, offered one to M.J.

Though M.J. didn’t smoke, she accepted it on behalf of her fidgeting hands that desperately needed something to do.

“So tell me, M.J., are you an actress?”

“No. But your wife obviously was.”

She indicated the back wall, where dozens of framed headshots hung in evenly spaced rows. Audrey Hepburn, Mia Farrow, Elvis, Faye Dunaway, John Travolta, Jessica Lange, Diana Ross, Goldie Hawn, Harrison Ford . . . There were at least thirty, and they were all addressed to Gloria.

“Those came from me,” Leo said proudly. “I was a producer at Paramount for forty-eight years. Back when people who loved films made films.” He took a deep Those were the good old days drag of his cigarette. “Today, executives have their heads so far up their own bottom lines, I bet half of them don’t even see the movies they make. But me? I cared.” He snickered. “Too much, Gloria would say.” His smile melted into a closemouthed fatherly grin. He flicked his ash. “Make sure that boyfriend of yours doesn’t make a habit of working weekends. It’s a hard one to break, and like most bad habits, it’ll catch up with him in the end.”