Catalina Read online

  Jared answers. I hear Charly in the background ask who it is. “Hey!” Jared shouts into the phone. “Long time no talk, let me get Charly. She’ll squeal.” I listen as a kitchen sink shuts off, the phone muffled against something. I imagine Charly wiping her hands on a dish towel, fixing her hair. It’s a funny image, the domesticated Charly. It shouldn’t surprise me, since taking care of Jared seems to be her life’s work, but there was a time when she claimed she wouldn’t marry until she had done three feature films and a sitcom, and written a book. Now she’s Mrs. Jared Brownstone.

  Down on the pier someone lights a sparkler, electric red against black.

  “Oh my God,” Charly says breathless into the phone. “Are you here?”

  A breeze picks up. It’s cold and wet and the sparkler dies out. I’m suddenly sure she can hear the waves, smell the Pacific through the phone.

  “No,” I lie. I tiptoe back inside, stretching out on the bed with the facial-cream kit beside me. “Not yet. I’m at JFK.” It’s one of those expensive kits, where everything is organic: shea butter and lavender and sweet almond oil. The ingredients written first in French and then in English.

  “Oh,” Charly says, sounding disappointed. “But you are coming?”

  “Yes, of course, just some last-minute stuff with work.”

  She sounds reassured. “You know you can stay with us. We’ve had the place remodeled.”

  “Come stay with us!” I hear Jared shout.

  “Thanks, but I’m treating myself to the Miramar.”

  “Ooh, very nice! Remember how we used to sneak into the pool at night, hoping someone would buy us fancy drinks? They always had such funny names.”

  “I think they’ve redone the bar since we were last there. It’s a whiskey bar now.” I rub a little of one of the creams into the backs of my hands. It smells powdery and expensive.

  “Babe,” she calls to Jared. “The Miramar has a whiskey bar now.” She pauses; I can tell she’s smiling. “Jared says we’ll come to you, then. You know how he loves his whiskey. How’s tomorrow?”

  This other Elsa can’t stay in the airport forever, so I agree. “Works for me.”

  She’s thrilled. “This is really happening! I can’t believe you’ll be here after so long.” There’s a moment of awkward silence.

  “Have you told Robby?” I ask, and barely resist laughing. I think of that hotel boy, Rex, how breakable he is, how the smell of the facial lotions makes me almost giddy and I want to just cackle, cackle, cackle.

  “Yes,” Charly says simply. “Robby and Jane will want to come for drinks too. Have you met Jane?”

  “Briefly last year,” I say, spreading the lotion across my chest and neck so that the expensive smell is everywhere. “They were in New York for a restaurant convention. She seems nice enough.”

  Robby is hopeless. Wants all his womenfolk to be friends. When they were in New York, I had been busy with work and there was only time for a quick chat over bagels and espresso at the museum coffee cart. I remember she went on and on about some athletic endeavor she was hooked on while Robby listened, interested and sincere. I remember him doting on her, asking if her coffee was sweet enough, making sure to get the sweetener she liked from the barista. I remember how reserved he was with me, vaguely polite, his hand always touching her, and when we parted, how triumphant he looked when Jane hugged me. I can see them, arm in arm, leaving the coffee cart for one of the galleries, both fit and tan and good-looking. Jane with her short pixie hair, her sculpted shoulders, and Robby with that mop of messy curls. I remember thinking what a perfect little homecoming couple—king and queen of their California lives.

  “She’s a sweetheart,” Charly says cheerfully. “And she’s invited you and me to lunch at her Brentwood restaurant. She manages Sycamore Kitchen.”

  I wonder for a moment what Charly and Jane must be like together—their adventures—wonder who is the instigator, who wants to get away, who wants everything to stay the same.

  “You’ll love it,” Charly is saying to me, to her old best friend. “All the waiters are adorable. Oh, Elsa!” she cries. “I’m so glad you’re coming home.”

  And that home hangs between us. I don’t know what to say, so I agree and we say our goodbyes and hang up. The silence in the room is overwhelming—the flowery scent of lotion everywhere.

  5

  When I arrive, I see the old gang before they see me. I hang back a bit to steady myself. Robby’s listening to his girlfriend talk—his chin tilted down, curls brushed back. He’s wearing swim trunks and a button-down shirt. I can’t see his feet but I’m sure he’s in flip-flops. I wish I felt more than this faint sadness whenever I see him. It’s really more for him than for me; I never had much to lose. I remember when he asked me to marry him. After finals, on our way to the desert, the sky clear, taillights pulsing up and down the 10 freeway, and Robby looking at me, a little breathless. His prize.

  Jane’s very animated. Her arms and hands wave as if she were an instructor worried about losing Robby’s interest. I can only see the back of her, her bare, ropy arms flexing as she raises them above her head, fingers gesticulating under the soft hotel lights. And there’s Jared, short and muscular, in tight trousers, the bottoms rolled up to show off expensive loafers. Flirting with everyone while poor Charly looks on. I think, not for the first time, If only she understood how fragile men like Jared are. How easy they are to bend. Even easier to break. But there she stands, as usual, her face a little pinched, watching him entertain the pretty bartender.

  Charly sees me first and runs up to me with a huge hug, pressing my body against hers. I feel tiny in her arms even though we are about the same height—her breasts and stomach pushed against me, pliable and warm. It’s an intimacy I’m not prepared for—not just that heat, but the familiar smell of my best friend. The same L’Oréal shampoo, the cucumber body lotion, and something that is entirely Charlotte. She pulls away from me, smiling. Her face is how I remembered it too. The same small features, the same plump, freckled cheeks and pert little chin. I have a dizzying sensation of déjà vu. But then creases around her mouth and eyes give away how much time has passed, and her hair, instead of a rich brown, is a faded muddy color, and rigorously flat-ironed. It makes her look mousy. I don’t remember mousy.

  “Elsa,” she squeaks.

  I’m relieved when Robby’s girlfriend steps between us. “How are you?” she asks. We hug as if we had small bug arms. She has the same pixie cut from when we met in New York, only a bit longer now. Her hair is the color of hay, almost yellow, with bangs swept to the side. I remember the hair, and that she insisted on paying, but I don’t remember her smile being so full, so bright.

  “Elsa,” Robby says, and he tucks me in the crook of his arm. “You remember Jane?” Now that I’m closer, I can smell cigarettes on him. This surprises me. Robby smokes only when he’s stressed.

  But Jane’s looking directly at me, as if we were once sisters blown miles apart, only to be reunited at this moment in the Miramar hotel bar. “I was just telling them about the hotel,” she says gesturing. “Did you know they just finished a multimillion-dollar renovation?” Her arms raise again, her fingers stiff like conductor wands at the ready.

  “Yes,” I say, hoping to deflate her. “The rooms are lovely. Have you stayed?”

  Her arms lower. “No,” she says, and she reaches awkwardly to touch my dress. “I love this.”

  I’m wearing the blue one with the open back, Eric’s favorite because he can trace my shoulder blades, travel down my spine, caress each vertebra.

  “Elsa, you’re a redhead!” Jared says, lifting me up. We laugh when he sets me down.

  “Auburn,” I correct him. “And thank you for noticing.”

  “The red suits you,” Charly says, patting the empty stool beside her. “Sit with me, sit with me.”

  “So what’s everyone drinking?” I perch on the stool. The pill I took in the room has reached from behind and smoothed out my head. �
��I’ll buy the next round,” I tell them.

  “I’ll have a whiskey,” Jane says, holding Robby’s sleeve.

  “My kind of girl. Let’s all have whiskey,” I say.

  “This is my treat,” Jared says, waving a finger at me. “Drinks are on me.” He nods his head at the cocktail waitress, asks what Japanese whiskies they have, whether he can buy a bottle, never mind the price.

  I had forgotten this about Jared, with his J.Crew looks, Cole Haan sneakers, and the latest Apple watch on his wrist—the rich, all-American man-boy, with his flashy displays of generosity, so eager to buy his worth.

  “They have Ohishi whisky,” Jared says to no one in particular. “Apparently they use koi carp for weed control.”

  Charly is looking at her husband. “Soda with lime for me, please.”

  “Oh, have something stronger,” he says.

  Robby’s brought the drink menu from the bar. “Want to drink poolside?”

  I’m happy to flaunt a group on the hotel grounds, so I lead them outside. The pool is shaped like a jelly bean, the bottom teal-colored, so the water looks very dark. There is no one in it, but beneath a cluster of palms a mother rubs sunscreen vigorously onto two children, never mind that the sun is low in the summer sky. The little girl looks over at us, clutching a towel across her body. The boy picks his nose. Across from them, near trellised bougainvillea, the Miami couple sits, the man shirtless, paunchy, his chest dotted with coiled black hair, except for a patch of white around his belly button. His girlfriend rests a manicured hand in that tuft of hair, her thumb stroking.

  We take over the chaise lounges at the opposite end.

  “Did you guys bring your bathing suits?” I ask, slipping out of my dress.

  “Ohh! That’s a cute bikini,” Charly says. She’s perched at the edge of the pool. The wine Jared ordered for her sits untouched on the patio table. “You always did have the best suits. I couldn’t find mine this morning.” She rolls up her pants, and dips her legs into the water.

  “You found it, but you hated it,” Jared says, winking at me. He’s a gym guy, quick to take his shirt off but slow to get in. He stands near Charly, chest flexing.

  “What about you, Jane?”

  She’s put on sunglasses, so I can’t see her eyes.

  “I came from work,” she says.

  “I have an extra in my room,” I offer, but she shakes her head.

  Robby leans over so his chin is resting on the arm of her chaise lounge. I can’t hear what he’s saying over Charly, who’s shouting at Jared for splashing her pants when he dived in, but then Jane is saying, “No, babe, really, I don’t mind. Go in.” And she kisses him sweetly on the nose. Robby pulls his T-shirt over his head, throwing it playfully at her; she whistles softly.

  I dive in and swim from one side to the other in one breath. When I surface, the children have splashed into the shallow end, their fluorescent arm floaties bobbing gently around them. The little girl jumps from the step into her mother’s arms. I can’t see her mother’s face, her floppy hat is pulled down low, but the kid is enraptured. Total delight. Her little body glides through the water, held afloat by her mother and those pink floaties. The boy stands at the step now, holding his arms out, shouting, “I’m next! I’m next! My turn!”

  “So how long do we have you?” Charly says to me from the pool’s edge. “I was starting to think we’d lost you to MoMA forever.”

  I’m still watching the two children. The boy whoops each time he jumps toward his mother, splashing the little girl, who watches from the pool steps. She is maybe four years old, but already wearing a miniature pink bikini. The boy, a few years older, is in bright red trunks that hang below his knees. Spider-Man peeks out from one of the pockets.

  “Oh, I haven’t taken a real vacation in ages. I thought I’d stick around for another couple of weeks.”

  “And MoMA can spare you?” Jane asks, so politely that I think maybe she isn’t so nice after all. She isn’t looking at me, though; she’s sipping her drink and watching Robby over the rim of her sunglasses.

  “The show is practically done, and Eric”—God, it feels good to say his name out loud—“Eric,” I say again, “thought I deserved a vacation. He insisted, really.”

  “Who’s Eric?” Robby asks.

  “My boss, Eric Reinhardt.”

  Jane raises her brows. “Eric Reinhardt is your boss?” She turns to look at the others. Jane is the type of girl who loves to know the answer—to everything—and she brightens up a bit, becomes more animated. “He did the extended Mike Kelley retrospective. I read about him in Artforum. He must be fascinating to work with. What do you do for him?”

  I can almost feel Eric touching me, in his office, in a hotel room, beneath the table at dinner—in the dress I just slipped out of, which still smells like him. “I’m his executive assistant, so what don’t I do?”

  They laugh.

  “Oh, let’s not talk about work,” Charly says. “I’m so excited about Catalina! And Tom’s great, his boat is so, so gorgeous.”

  “It’s a Morris Yacht Ocean Series,” Jane adds. She’s on a roll now. “A friend of my father’s used to build them in Maine back in the 1970s.”

  “Who’s Tom?” I interrupt.

  Jared smirks, draining his whiskey. “You’ll love him. Or he’ll love you. Just your type, practically royalty. His family owns a potato chip company, real American money.” He wades over to me and squeezes my shoulders.

  “How do you know this guy?”

  Robby answers, “We did some design work for one of his companies. Took a real liking to Jared.”

  Jared is proud, though it’s clear Robby meant it as a slight. There’s a harshness about Robby for a moment, a sneer hidden by the tip of his drink. This surprises me. I swim closer to him but Jared catches me underwater.

  “You should stay at the house,” he says.

  I motion to the hotel grounds. “It’s not too bad here.” Just then the little girl in pink floaties starts shrieking. Jared lets go and puts his fingers in his ears. The mother’s holding the girl’s pudgy arm now, and talking to her in a sharp voice.

  “Come stay with us!” Charly begs over the noise. “You haven’t seen the renovation yet. Did you see the pictures I posted?”

  “I saw them; it looks beautiful.”

  “There’s a big jazz festival on the island,” Robby says. He’s floating on his back. I forgot how nice he looks in swim trunks. He used to swim competitively, has broad shoulders and a long torso. He says, “Buddy Guy, Boney James, George Duke. It’ll be bitchin’.”

  “Bitchin’?” I laugh because this reminds me of young Robby, and I can see gray in his chest hair.

  Jane tilts her chin at me, and I sober up for a moment.

  “Jane,” I call. “Have you been sailing before?” It wouldn’t surprise me if she had raced sailboats professionally.

  “I’ve always wanted to learn.” She pauses for a moment, looking at her feet. “Tom says he’ll teach me.”

  The mother climbs out of the water. She’s in a sensible one-piece. Her thighs are dimpled. The skin around her arms looks soft until she picks up the boy and then her muscles tense, sinewy and firm. She wraps him in a towel as if he were a giant burrito and carts him off, the little girl trailing behind. “Come here,” the mother commands, taking the girl by the hand and giving us an apologetic wave as they walk by.

  “As soon as you called I made up the spare bedroom,” Charly says, her eyes following the mother. “So you must stay with us—at least the night before we set sail. It’ll make things easier.”

  Jared massages my shoulders. “Keep my little wifey company,” he says near my ear. “I’m at work all day and she’s on summer break.” I can smell him, the spice of his cologne, the perfume of his shampoo. The oil streaks on the water must be from him.

  “Don’t forget about dinner on the pier,” Jane adds from her chaise.

  Now that the family is gone, it’s just the Miami c
ouple. They’ve ordered drinks poolside, and when the man sits up he has to work to get a gold chain out from between his stomach folds. He winces and cusses. The girlfriend rolls over then, the backs of her calves pink. She fusses over him, trying to get the chain untangled. “It’s stuck in the hair,” I hear him say. “You’re making it worse,” she says. His face has grown red beneath his tan.

  Charly gets up to lie beside Jane. “Oh yes, dinner with Tom. Elsa, you’ll come too? Are we totally overwhelming you?”

  I assure her she’s not, even though yes, I am overwhelmed. But that’s what the pills are for. “Of course I’ll come.”

  She looks relieved, lies back on her elbows, and kicks her feet out in front of her.

  “He’ll probably buy us all dinner, the guy’s a real asshole like that,” Robby says.

  Jane frowns. She looks like she might object but instead asks Charly about the restaurant’s vegetarian options.

  Robby splashes me. “Hey, want to race?”

  “I don’t want to upset your girlfriend,” I say, still watching the Miami couple. The woman has left. It’s just the man now. He looks small by himself. He slowly collects their towels and deposits them in a bin. When he walks by he’s holding his shirt against his body, eyes averted.

  “Jane?” Robby says, as if the thought never crossed his mind. “She’s not like that.” He’s smiling at me like he used to.

  “Is she anything like a woman?” I ask.

  “Jane’s one of those cool girls.”

  I laugh. “Am I one of those cool girls?” I swim around him so he has to turn to talk to me. Now that his hair is wet, I can tell it’s starting to thin. A pity. He had such great hair.

  His blue eyes flash.

  “We’d better not race,” I say. “I’ve had too much to drink.”

  I retire to my room after another round of whiskey cocktails, when our talk begins to go circular, with Jared repeating the same old stories. Remember when Charly’s mother remarried at the Beverly Hills Hotel? Back when Trader Vic’s was still a tiki bar and restaurant, and it was like being in the hull of a ship—all wooden gods, and ferns, and strong mai tais. Such a grand old hotel, like stepping back in time. Remember the parties at Jared’s place near campus? The wicked punch, the music, the awkwardness of partying in such a tiny apartment. His roommate So-and-So now in Texas crunching numbers, bald but drives a Maserati. What’s His Name lives in Silverlake, married with two kids and a dog. Charly and Jared saw them last October. They had their own little Oktoberfest. Barbequed alligator and rabbit-and-fennel sausages, homemade sauerkraut, pale ales and Belgian darks. The little kids eating Hebrew Nationals and drinking apple juice in tiny plastic beer mugs. Cheers, they’d said, crashing them together. It was the cutest thing, Charly assures me.