Rosie drove along the coast, keeping one eye on the ocean. Gazing at the Pacific, glittering like a diamond necklace, was the only thing that kept her from driving the car off the road. The ocean was what she loved best about Los Angeles: running on the beach, digging her toes into the sand, walking at sunset with a tall iced coffee. If she had to leave the scudding white sailboats and rainbow-colored surfboards, she’d stop living.
Ben hadn’t put up any resistance to her plan, and neither had the studio. Ben stood in the bedroom as she packed, calmly encouraging her. She felt like she was already gone, like he was propelling her out the door.
“A change of scenery is the best thing.” He nodded, his arms crossed over his chest. He wore a gray U2 t-shirt. He was freshly shaved; his hair slicked back, his eyes achingly hazel.
“You’re the one who wants a change of scenery.” Rosie stuffed her running shoes into a duffle bag. “You want a tall, curvy blonde instead of a small, mousy brunette.”
“This isn’t about other women,” Ben said, as if he was talking to a child.
“Of course it is!” Rosie snapped. “For the last ten years you’ve been a film geek, content with your college sweetheart. Now that your name is on a director’s chair, you’ve got a jet propulsion pack strapped to your back.”
“We both need to see if we’re in the right place.” Ben put his hands on Rosie’s shoulders. “Sometimes people stay together out of habit. I don’t want that to happen to us.”
“What happened to us is you slept with another woman.” Rosie emptied her bedside drawer on the bed.
“You know I love you.” Ben smoothed her hair with his fingers. “We just need to explore and be certain we want the same things. Maybe you can be part of the theater scene in Montecito. I’ve heard they have good summer stock.”
“Stop patronizing me!” Rosie was trembling. She kept telling herself the worst was over, she couldn’t love Ben anymore. But standing so close to him, she felt the air had been squeezed out of her lungs. “Go ahead. Screw every starlet in Hollywood. Rent a suite at the W, host all-night tequila parties.”
“You know I’m not like that,” Ben replied soothingly.
“You weren’t like that.” Rosie zipped up her duffle bag and stormed out the door. “I don’t know who you are anymore.”
* * *
Rosie’s navigation system said it was only forty miles to Santa Barbara. Already the coastline looked more pristine. The urban beaches crammed with roller bladers and skateboarders and hamburger shacks gave way to miles of white sand. She glimpsed lines of surfers, families carrying buckets and picnic baskets. The harshness of LA slipped away: the traffic jams, the strip malls, the sense that you always had to be watching your back.
Her last meeting with the studio had been disconcerting. She spent a day rehearsing her speech; half hoping the producer would beg her to stay. She dressed in a yellow tunic and straightened her hair and applied mascara and lipstick.
“You’re doing the right thing.” Adam Stein nodded, sitting at his oversized desk. “This town can eat you up. Better to take some time off before you’re forced to.”
“I’ll train my assistant to take over the things I was working on,” Rosie said awkwardly. She had never been comfortable in Adam’s steel and glass office. There were no plants, no pictures of Adam’s girlfriend, no worn paperbacks on the shelf.
Adam was only three years older than Rosie but whenever she was near him, she felt like an intern. He wore Italian suits and monogrammed shirts. His walls were covered in movie posters, and scripts were piled neatly on his desk. She felt if she and Ben made a misstep, he’d pluck another script from the pile and suspend their production.
“If Lindsay Lohan had taken a summer off she’d still have a career. Even directors burn out, end up directing community theater in the Valley.” Adam glanced at his Rolex as if the meeting was already over.
“I’ll just be in Montecito; I can come in for a day or two,” Rosie replied weakly. She wanted to tell Adam there was nothing wrong with her. It was Ben who was spiraling out of control, who had sex with another woman in their bed, who thought they needed some distance.
“Don’t worry about it.” Adam shrugged, standing up and walking towards the door. “We brought Mary Beth Chase on board, she’s got an army of assistants.”
Rosie left his office and drove out of the parking garage. She stopped in front of the Coffee Company and watched girls in mini skirts and four-inch heels balancing their bosses’ lattes. Young men wearing narrow ties and khakis grabbed espressos and donuts and ran to production meetings.
On the passenger seat was a box with all her office supplies, her lists, and her notebooks full of memos. There was a dog-eared script, marked up with Ben’s messy scrawl. She thought about Mary Beth Chase and her assistants. They would create spreadsheets on laptops and read Variety on their iPhones. They would wear Free People dresses and order lunch with some app like Door Dash.
The box spilled onto the seat, and she threw its contents in the garbage. She got back in the car and turned on the radio. Bono sang, “I still haven’t found what I’m looking for,” and she started sobbing.
* * *
The coastline as she approached Montecito was breathtaking. The Santa Ynez Mountains loomed to the north, studded with olive trees. Spanish-style houses climbed the hills, and blue and yellow beach shacks hugged the shore. The orange smog that marred the beaches of Venice and Santa Monica was replaced by a clean, white horizon.
Rosie turned onto Channel Road, feeling like a movie star. The Four Seasons stood before her, flags flapping in the breeze. She imagined pulling up to the double front doors with Ben at her side. The valet would greet them warmly and insist on taking their bags. The concierge would offer them a complimentary fruit basket and European bottled water and a dozen red roses.
They would stay in an oceanfront suite and sit on the balcony, sipping champagne. After the sun slipped past the horizon, they’d go inside and Ben would draw the curtains. He’d whisper, “Please forgive me,” and pull Rosie down on the bed. Then he’d bury his face in her breasts and cover her with kisses.
* * *
Her phone lay on the passenger seat. Maybe she should call Angelica and tell her this was a terrible idea. How could she survive in a town where she knew no one? How would she keep busy so she didn’t replay the image of crumpled sheets, of Ben shrugging nonchalantly, of her pounding her fists on the bed?
“It’s like riding a surfboard,” Angelica would insist. “When you fall off, you get right back up. If you don’t, the next wave is going to pull you under.”
It was easy for Angelica; she was an actress. Every time she accepted a new role she stepped into a different skin. One month she was a gangster’s accomplice, packing a sawed-off shotgun, the next she was a nun, trying to save an alcoholic priest. Rosie had been the same thing since college: Ben’s girlfriend and production partner. It might be simpler to drown in the ocean than try to be something new.
The car turned away from the coast towards the village. She hadn’t eaten lunch and she was suddenly starving. She parked at the end of Coast Village Road. The air was cool, a light fog settling on the shops. She stepped out of the car into the wide, cobble-stoned street, and felt like she walked onto a movie set.
Two-story brick buildings were covered in ivy; purple and white daisies lined the sidewalk. Almost every shop had a window box full of pansies and tulips and roses. Rosie breathed deeply, smelling the sweet, heavy fragrance.
If Ben was with her they would stop for pizza at the pizzeria or splurge on cheese fondue at the French Bistro. Afterwards they would visit a gallery or flip through secondhand books at the Front Page bookstore. But she couldn’t finish a pizza alone and she needed at least one other person to eat fondue. Even looking at art or discovering books by herself didn’t sound appealing. And the antique wedding dresses in the window of the Bridal Shop made her want to hop back in the car and keep driving.
Reluctantly, she entered a delicatessen with a soda fountain and cases of cold meat. There were twenty different kinds of cheeses, barrels of pickles, and sausages hanging from the ceiling. A sandwich board stood behind the counter, listing specialty sandwiches. Rosie scanned the selection: turkey club on a French roll, Canadian ham and Gruyère cheese, roast beef with horseradish and Bermuda onions.
She pictured Ben standing in their kitchen after a long day at the studio. He would assemble almost every item in the fridge: ham, Swiss cheese, mustard, pickles, mayonnaise, sprouts, lettuce, and tomatoes. He would carefully spread the mustard on a whole-wheat roll and build a sandwich as if he was constructing a pyramid.
When it teetered on the plate, dripping with juices, Ben would wait for Rosie to take the first bite. They would sit opposite each other and tell stories about the set, devouring the sandwich from both ends.
“Can I help you?” the guy behind the counter interrupted her thoughts. He wore a white apron over a navy polo shirt.
“I’d like a peanut butter and jelly sandwich on whole wheat,” Rosie replied.
“This is a delicatessen.” He shook his head. “We sell roast beef, turkey, ham, bologna, sausage.”
“I’d really like peanut butter,” Rosie pleaded.
“I can make you a salad sandwich or a cheese sandwich, but I don’t have peanut butter.” He turned back to slicing cheeses on a large silver machine. “I’m sorry.”
Rosie leaned over the counter. “I lived with my boyfriend for eight years and he’s allergic to peanut butter. I haven’t had peanut butter since college. A few days ago he had sex with a woman in our bed. I’d give anything for a peanut butter sandwich.”
The guy looked at Rosie as if he was afraid she was going to climb over the counter and make the sandwich herself. He took off his apron and folded it on the counter. “Wait here.”
Rosie stood in the middle of the store, alone and embarrassed. She wanted to run away, or melt into the floor. The bell tinkled over the door and the guy returned clutching a jar of peanut butter.
“I’m sorry.” She blushed. “I should have just ordered a turkey sandwich.”
“My dad has owned this store for thirty years.” He put on his apron and sliced a loaf of bread. “He’s never said no to a customer.” He wrapped the sandwich in white paper and handed it to her.
“Thank you.” Rosie blushed deeper. “I didn’t mean to blurt out my history.”
“My grandmother wanted me to be a priest.” He smiled. He had red hair and a face full of freckles. “Pretend you were in confessional. The sandwich is on the house. Come back when you’re really hungry, and I’ll make you a turkey club.”
Rosie walked down the street and sat on a bench painted fire engine red. A few shopkeepers stood on the sidewalk, arranging baskets of flowers and racks of vintage dresses. She ate the sandwich quickly, the peanut butter sticking to the roof of her mouth.
A young woman wearing a long floral skirt and carrying a gold box sat on the bench. She had curly black hair and almond-shaped eyes. She opened the box and ruffled through the contents before handing the box to Rosie.
“Please have one, if I take the box home I eat them all.” She smiled. “And then I hate myself in the morning.”
Rosie glanced at the rows of chocolate truffles. “Is there a peanut butter truffle? I’m on a peanut butter kick.”
“My favorite,” the woman agreed. She extracted a truffle wrapped in gold foil. “I’m Rachel Gold: Gold’s Chocolates.” She pointed to the sign above the store behind them. “The greatest hazard of owning a chocolate store is disposing of leftover truffles.”
“This is an interesting town.” Rosie bit into the truffle. “The guy in the delicatessen made me a free peanut butter sandwich, and you’re giving away truffles.”
“Patrick.” The woman nodded, nibbling a marzipan truffle. “He quit the seminary to take over his father’s delicatessen. He must have sensed you needed help. He’s always giving free food to Boy Scouts and Brownie troops.”
“I sort of told him my life history,” Rosie admitted. “Running away from a cheating boyfriend.”
“That definitely warrants a complimentary peanut butter sandwich.” Rachel finished her truffle and handed Rosie the box. “Take the whole box. It’ll make both of us feel better.”
“No, thanks.” Rosie shook her head. “I can’t seem to swallow anything. This is the first solid meal I’ve had in days.”
“If you count peanut butter and jelly as solid food you are in trouble.” Rachel looked at Rosie quizzically. “There are some great restaurants in town: Giovanni’s, Trattoria Mollie’s. You should drown your sorrows in fettuccini scampi and a classic red wine. I’ll join you.”
“I’m already late.” Rosie glanced at her watch. “I’m staying with a friend’s parents. They’re expecting me for dinner, but I wanted to stop in the village. It’s like a postcard. It feels like everyone is moving in slow motion.”
“People aren’t in a hurry in Montecito,” Rachel agreed. “They just want to potter around the shops and buy engraved stationery and pieces of jewelry.”
“It must be wonderful to own your own store.” Rosie turned around and admired Rachel’s storefront. The large window held an antique chest and GOLD’S CHOCOLATES was written in cursive at the bottom of the glass. The chest was laden with chocolates: truffles in gold boxes, jars of bonbons, chocolate fudge wrapped with gold ribbon.
“It has its challenges.” Rachel shrugged. She had a heart-shaped face and a small snub nose. “Making sure the merchandise doesn’t melt in summer, not letting children eat all the samples and complain to their parents they have a stomachache. But it’s much better than the alternative.”
“What’s the alternative?”
“Gold’s Department Stores: New Jersey’s oldest family-owned department stores. Five stores in three cities, a new store opening in Teaneck soon.” Rachel winced. “I used the money my father gave me to attend business school to open Gold’s Chocolates.”
“You started your own business,” Rosie said. “He should be proud of you.”
“He flew across the country to get his money back.” Rachel grinned. Her teeth were white and very straight. “But he fell in love with Montecito too. They must put a secret potion in the drinking fountain. He said he couldn’t blame me; he’s been dying to escape New Jersey summers for years. I paid him back after twenty months.”
“I’ll have to find that drinking fountain.” Rosie sighed. “I don’t have a job or a boyfriend or a permanent home.”
“Painful breakup.” Rachel nodded knowingly. “The kind where your boyfriend takes your toothpaste, your friends, and your subscription to Netflix. I don’t have the cure, but I can help ease the suffering.”
“I’m not much of a drinker.” Rosie shook her head. “And I’m not cut out for wild sex and all-night partying.”
“Good, because you won’t find any of that in Montecito. Even the owls go to bed at nine p.m. Drive down to Butterfly Beach to watch the sunset.” Rachel pointed in the direction of the ocean. “I promise you’ll feel better.”
“Butterfly Beach,” Rosie repeated.
“It’s the only west-facing beach in Santa Barbara County.” Rachel stood up. “The sunsets are like a Monet painting, and you’ll have it all to yourself. You can cry your eyes out.”
“Thank you.” Rosie dusted chocolate from her shorts. It was getting chilly, and she wore a thin cotton shirt and denim shorts she had pulled on this morning.
“Here’s my card.” Rachel reached into her pocket and handed her a gold business card. “Come by tomorrow and sample my peanut butter brittle.”
* * *
Rosie got back in her car and drove towards the beach. She couldn’t remember chatting with strangers in Santa Monica. People in Los Angeles hid behind dark sunglasses and scrolled through their iPhones while they walked. She blinked away tears, feeling lonelier than before. She was like one of those people on daytime television, spilling their guts in front of the audience.
Rosie crossed the highway and pulled into the parking lot. It was so beautiful; she couldn’t drag her eyes from the horizon. The sun lowered itself into the ocean, turning the water a deep, mysterious blue. The sand turned pink, glittering with shells. The seagulls stood still; even the sand crabs stopped moving.
She eased the car into a parking space and heard a crunching sound under her wheels. The end of a surfboard was sticking out under her car, like the Wicked Witch’s red shoes in The Wizard of Oz.
“Oh my god!” she gasped, jumping out of the car. “I ran over a surfboard.”
“My surfboard.” A man of about thirty appeared in front of her. He had white-blond hair that curled over his ears. He wore black board shorts and his legs were covered in sand.
“I was watching the sunset.” Rosie looked down in horror. “I’m so sorry.”
The man leaned down to inspect the board. His shoulders were muscular and his back was smooth and brown.
“Don’t worry about it.” He stood up and smiled. He was a head taller than Rosie, with blue eyes and a dimple on his chin. “It’s just a ding.”
“I’ll p-pay to get it fixed!” Rosie stammered.
“I shouldn’t have left it on the ground.” The man shrugged. “But the beach usually empties out at sunset; just us diehards left, catching the last perfect wave.”
“I feel like an idiot.” Rosie thought she was about to burst into tears.
“I’m Josh.” He put out his hand. “Come and have some chips and salsa. My friends and I are terrible company, ten minutes with us and you’ll stop feeling guilty.”
Rosie followed him onto the sand. She didn’t feel like making conversation, but she’d feel worse driving off, as if she had committed a hit and run. Josh loped ahead. He had long legs and knobby knees covered in scrapes.
“I’m guessing you’re not a native.” He passed her a bag of chips and a plastic container of salsa.
“I’m staying with friends for the summer,” Rosie replied. She shielded her eyes and watched the sun melt into the sea. The pastel colors were prettier than any painting, and the water was a sheet of glass.
“You picked the right time of day to arrive.” Josh scooped salsa onto a handful of chips. “Butterfly Beach at sunset is like finding the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow.”
“It’s so peaceful.” Rosie breathed deeply. “I haven’t been anywhere this peaceful.”
“I’d introduce you, but I don’t know your name.” Josh moved towards the circle of surfers.
“Rosie Keller,” Rosie answered. “I better go. I’m supposed to arrive for dinner.”
“Where are you staying?” Josh asked.
“My friend’s parents have an estate in Montecito.” She ate a chip. “I’m hiding out in their guest cottage for the summer.”
“You don’t look like a killer.” Josh frowned, handing her a can of Coke.
“Movie producer, actually.” Rosie sipped her Coke. She hadn’t had a soda in years. She and Ben drank lattes or smoothies in the morning and a bottle of white or red wine with dinner. Sometimes she’d have a martini or a glass of champagne at a cocktail party or a movie premiere.
“Ah, the Los Angeles hamster wheel.” Josh nodded. “Montecito is full of Hollywood refugees, but they always go back. Some kind of magnetic pull from Ferraris and Rolexes.”
“Are you sure I can’t pay to fix your board?” Rosie asked.
“You could come watch us surf sometime, when you’re not hiding out,” he offered.
“I’ll think about it.” Rosie blushed. “I better go. Thank you for the chips and soda.”
“Be careful driving,” Josh said and smiled. “There are some crazy drivers out there. They’ll run over anything.”
* * *
Rosie backed out of the parking space and took the road through town. She drove past Italian trattorias and French cafes. It was Saturday night and couples were strolling along the sidewalk, choosing where to dine. She watched them consult wine lists and study menus.
It reminded her of a dinner they had in Hollywood after they returned from Sundance. Ben was all wound up. For a week straight he had been eating in the kitchen standing up, reading the paper while pacing the living room. They even made love in the shower, because Rosie couldn’t drag him into bed.
Rosie and Ben met Angelica and Matthew at Spago’s. It was expensive and old guard, but Ben wanted to make a statement. Ben was flattered when the hostess led them to a front booth, and speechless when Matt Damon walked over and shook Ben’s hand.
“Matt Damon,” Ben murmured after Matt returned to his table. “If God struck me down, I’d die happy.”
“He’s been this dramatic all week,” Rosie giggled to Angelica. “You’d think he parted the Red Sea instead of winning an award at Sundance.”
“It’s our town,” Ben said earnestly. “I have three offers to direct: MGM, Universal, and Sony.”
“I got a call from Nicole Kidman,” Angelica chimed in. She wore a black wig and a gold snake around her neck. “She’s thinking of remaking Cleopatra.”
“I was wondering why you’re wearing a reptile.” Rosie laughed. They had split a bottle of champagne and she felt light-headed and silly.
“A year ago, I couldn’t get Nicole’s third assistant on the phone,” Angelica gushed. “I owe everything to Ben and Rosie.”
“To Ben and Rosie.” Ben refilled their champagne flutes. “May we never see the inside of a Domino’s Pizza carton again.”
“May our names go up above the Hollywood sign.” Angelica raised her glass.
“May Angelica make enough money so I can retire,” Matthew piped in.
“Admit you dig being an accountant.” Ben punched Matthew’s shoulder good-naturedly. “It’s okay to be boring.”
“Not everyone can be a creative genius like you and Angelica,” Rosie protested.
“I love you Rosie Keller.” Ben kissed Rosie sloppily on the lips. “Without you I’d be nobody.”
* * *
Rosie drove towards the mountains. The estates were so vast; each one took up its own block. She pressed the button on a tall wrought iron gate and waited. The gate swung inward and she drove inside, feeling like she was being swallowed up, like the world would keep turning without her.
“There you are.” A tall figure stood on the porch. Estelle’s white-blond hair fell softly to her shoulders. She wore a navy silk dress with a Peter Pan collar. A strand of pink pearls hung around her neck. “I told Oscar I was waiting ten minutes and then I’d call the Coast Guard. I thought we might have to fish you out of the ocean.”
“I’m sorry, I stopped at the beach to see the sunset.” Rosie stepped out of the car and Estelle kissed her on both cheeks, holding her chin as if to make sure she wasn’t broken.
“Then all is forgiven,” Estelle said brightly. “Nothing is more glorious than the beach at sunset. If I could move this house, I’d place it right on the sand.”
“But it’s so beautiful here.” Rosie stood on the porch, listening to the frogs. She could see the outline of the lake and the giant oak trees bending over the lawn. The house was lit by strings of fairy lights and the curtains blew through open windows.
“You’re right. I’d never move a hair of this house.” Estelle opened the front door. “I’m going to be buried in the garden next to Daisy. She was my first Irish setter, when I was a little girl.”
“You’ve lived here since you were a child?” Rosie followed Estelle inside. She forgot how large the entry was. The ceiling soared above her and an arch led to the hallway. She could hear her footsteps on the wood, and her words echoed in the hall.
“Everyone thinks Oscar bought the house with all that music money.” Estelle led Rosie into the dining room. “But my grandfather built it for his wife. He imported teas and spices from Asia. He installed a telescope on the top floor so she could see when his ship returned from China.”
“That’s a lovely story.” Rosie sighed, admiring the long cherry table and glass chandelier.
“I’m famished,” Estelle announced. “We’ll tinkle the bell and let Oscar know you’re here.”
The table was set with crystal wineglasses and sterling silver flatware. There was a purple orchid and candles flickered in gold candelabras. Platters held bunches of grapes and baskets were heaped with freshly baked bread.
“I hope you didn’t go to this trouble for me,” Rosie said uncomfortably, sitting in a high-backed velvet chair.
“I know young people like to eat takeout in front of a television.” Estelle rang a silver bell. “But I much prefer a beautifully set table.”
Oscar had thick sandy-colored hair and blue eyes. He wore a white V-neck sweater and pleated slacks and carried a scotch glass in one hand.
“My wife is thrilled Angelica sent you,” he said in a deep voice like an opera singer’s. “Now she has someone to share her roses with.”
“My roses are going to be so happy to have a young person around,” Estelle agreed. She had large brown eyes rimmed by thick lashes. Only the lines around her mouth hinted at her age.
“I should be jealous,” Oscar said affectionately. “Her roses get more attention than I do.”
“Everyone must have a passion,” Estelle insisted, popping grapes in her mouth. “I’m lucky to have three: my husband, my children, and my roses. Tell us about yourself, Rosie. What do you love?”
Rosie tried to swallow. A month ago the list would have rolled off her tongue: fresh hot cinnamon buns, movies at the foreign cinema in West LA, eating at the salad bar at Whole Foods. And doing anything with Ben. Solving the Sunday crossword puzzle in bed together, fishing off the Santa Monica Pier, climbing to the top of Dodger Stadium.
“I love to read, and sometimes I like to cook,” Rosie said finally.
“We’ll have to introduce you to new things. On Sundays we have tennis parties, and on Monday evenings our neighbors join us for bridge and a swim. Tuesdays, Oscar has the men over for cigars. And we have pool parties almost every day, nothing planned, people seem to just show up.” Estelle beamed.
Estelle paused as a man wearing gray slacks and a white shirt brought out plates of sirloin tips, scalloped potatoes, and baby peas and onions.
“Morris, this is Rosie, a friend of Angelica’s,” Oscar introduced them. “Morris was part of a boy band I brought over from England years ago. He hated being onstage, and he’s been our butler ever since.”
“Pleased to meet you.” Morris nodded. He had straight black hair and small black eyes. When he smiled he revealed slightly crooked teeth.
“Did you bring a tennis racket?” Estelle inquired. “If you didn’t, I’ll rustle up one of Angelica’s.”
“I don’t actually play.” Rosie sipped a glass of water, her mind reeling. It was too much: British butlers, tennis courts, swim parties. She glanced down at her cotton shirt and cutoff shorts and felt embarrassingly underdressed.
“We have all summer to teach you.” Estelle scooped potatoes with her spoon. “It’s a shame Angelica’s brother, Sam, isn’t here. He’s an excellent player and terrifically handsome. We’ll send over Hans from the club. He looks quite striking in his tennis whites.”
“Estelle, dear,” Oscar said over his glass of wine. “Rosie might like to relax.”
“Angelica told me about Ben.” Estelle turned to Rosie. “I thought you’d like to meet new people. We’re actually quite boring in June. It’s just neighbors and old people like us. July Fourth is when Oscar has his big ‘music’ party.”
“Estelle believes every marriage should be a fairy tale.” Oscar squeezed Estelle’s hand. “We’ve been married for thirty-five years.”
Rosie pushed the potatoes around her plate and listened to Estelle reel off the amenities of the house: a billiard table in the library, backgammon and chess in the morning room, a vegetable garden, and an orchard where Rosie could pick her own oranges.
“Give them to Morris and he’ll make your orange juice and bring it to the guest cottage.” Estelle put her napkin on her plate.
“It all sounds wonderful.” Rosie sighed. “I’ve been up for so long, I’d really like to go to bed.”
“But we haven’t had dessert,” Estelle protested. “We have pavlova, with fresh strawberries and kiwi.”
“Estelle, dear.” Oscar squeezed his wife’s hand. “The pavlova will keep till tomorrow. Why don’t you show Rosie the guest cottage?”
“Of course.” Estelle stood up, smoothing her skirt. “I’m being rude. You must be exhausted. I’ll tell Morris to bring your bags from the car.”
Estelle disappeared into the kitchen and Rosie was left at the table with Oscar. She tried to think of something to talk about: the state of the record industry, Oscar’s recent trip to South America. But her head felt heavy and her eyes started to close.
“Please don’t mind Estelle.” Oscar smiled. His face was lined and very tan. “She wants everyone to love this house as much as she does.”
“It’s quite amazing,” Rosie replied, struggling to keep her eyes open.
“I have a very special wife.” Oscar nodded. “But she needs to let people move at their own pace. Take your time getting your bearings; we’re here when you need us.”
Rosie blinked and looked at her plate. She hadn’t imagined the estate would be so grand, or Angelica’s parents would be so welcoming. She felt like she had left the frantic rush of Hollywood and stepped into a storybook.
Rosie wanted to tell Oscar how glad she was to be here. She wanted to say she had never visited such a quaint village or stayed in such a gracious home. But all she could think was how desperately she wanted to be in their apartment in Santa Monica, folding laundry and doing dishes. She wanted to listen to Ben sing in the shower, knowing when she climbed into bed, he’d run his hands down her spine and pull her against him.