The next morning, Rosie made her bed, fluffing the comforter and plumping the pillows. She flinched slightly when she smoothed the cotton sheets, imagining the crumpled sheets in their bedroom: Ben and Mary Beth naked and sweaty, Ben attempting to pull the sheets around them, falling asleep with his hand on Mary Beth’s breast.
Her stomach heaved as if she had been punched in the gut. She blinked, trying to erase the image. She remembered the day they bought the bed. They finally had a bedroom big enough for a king bed, and they drove to Restoration Hardware to admire the different styles.
“Our IKEA days are over,” Ben said grandly, fresh from winning the prize at Sundance. “We are going to splurge and buy the biggest bed we find.”
“It doesn’t have to be the biggest,” Rosie giggled, sitting on the corner of a sleigh bed with a dark wood headboard.
“You don’t know what I’m going to do to you.” Ben kissed her neck and touched her blouse. “I might need a very big bed for what I have planned.”
“Wait till we get it home.” Rosie laughed, removing his hand from her shirt.
“This is LA.” Ben leaned close. “No one will notice a little heavy petting.”
“Ben!” Rosie shot off the bed, blushing at the salespeople.
“They’re just jealous,” Ben scoffed, taking her hand and leading her around the store.
“This one.” Rosie paused in front of a king-sized bed with a white frame. It had seashells carved into the headboard and a pale blue comforter. The pillows were gold and pink, and the sheets were smooth beige cotton.
“I like it.” Ben nodded.
“It feels like we’re shipwrecked on our own island.” Rosie lay on the bed, staring up at the ceiling.
Ben lay beside her, his leg pressed against hers. He picked up the price tag and whistled.
“Is it too much?” Rosie sat up. “Maybe we should buy a queen-sized bed.”
“Nothing is too much for something that’s for both of us.” Ben pulled her back down. “Investing in a bed is investing in our future.”
Ben handed over his new American Express and scribbled his name as if he was signing an autograph. They drove home, grinning and giddy, and ate a picnic of sourdough bread and ham and Swiss cheese on the bedroom floor.
“It’s going to take up the whole room.” Rosie laughed, spreading a blanket where the bed would go. “We’ll have to walk sideways to get to the bathroom.”
“Then we’ll have to stay in bed longer.” Ben grinned, nibbling a strawberry. “On Sunday mornings I’ll make you waffles. We’ll stay in bed all day.”
“That’s very tempting.” Rosie ate a sliced peach, wiping her chin with a napkin.
“You’re sexy when you eat peaches,” Ben murmured, taking the peach out of her hand.
Ben pushed aside the plates and tugged Rosie’s shirt over her head. He slipped off his pants, and played with the zipper on her shorts.
Rosie started pulling off her shorts but he stopped her, leaning down and whispering, “Let me.”
She lay back on the blanket, waiting as he pulled down her panties, as he stroked her lightly between her thighs. She tried to pull him on top of her but he held back, leaning down and covering her stomach with kisses. Her eyes closed and she felt him kiss his way up to her neck.
“I love you, Rosie,” he moaned. “You make me feel like I can do anything.”
“I love you too.” She opened her eyes and looked up at Ben’s familiar features and felt a heady blend of closeness and passion.
Rosie’s legs fell open, her body arched up to meet his. She found his mouth and covered it with hers. Ben lowered himself on top of her, his chest hard and smooth, and slowly entered her, pushing her against the floor.
Rosie clung to Ben’s back, feeling him push deeper, open her wider. The waves built, lifting her out of her body, making her cry out. Her fingers dug into his shoulders and she waited for the shuddering to stop and the dizzying feeling of release to subside.
When they were both sweaty and spent, Ben pulled her against him and hugged her tightly. His mouth nuzzled her neck. She heard the soft sound of his breathing, and thought they didn’t need a king bed, they were happy with a blanket on a hardwood floor.
* * *
Rosie gazed out the cottage window, thinking of the dozens of times they had made love in their bed. Was all that fun—Sunday morning picnics, ink stains from the crossword puzzle, sand everywhere from wanting sex so badly they fell into bed before they showered—washed away by one afternoon?
Rosie walked to the desk and scanned her to-do list. She glanced at her reflection in the mirror, added some blush to her cheeks, and went to find Estelle.
* * *
“You look lovely this morning.” Estelle beamed, screening her eyes from the sun. “Our climate agrees with you.”
“I’m feeling a little better.” Rosie smiled. “Morris has been so helpful, and the guest cottage is gorgeous. It’s like staying in the middle of an English garden.”
“Did I go overboard on the floral theme?” Estelle asked. She was hunched over her roses, a pruning shear in one hand. She wore a wide, floppy hat, a white shirt, and slim blue pants. Her hands were protected by gardening gloves and she wore ancient sneakers on her feet.
“I love all the colors.” Rosie shook her head. “It’s hard to be miserable when you’re surrounded by pinks and yellows.”
“Wait till you meet my roses.” Estelle straightened up. “I planted some African buds that are just opening. They’re like the inside of a candy store.”
Rosie followed Estelle around the rose garden, learning the names of the different roses. Estelle talked earnestly about Bourbon Roses, David Austin English Roses, climbing roses, and miniatures. She recited names and facts like a scientist, her voice growing more animated.
“Did you know there is every color imaginable except blue?” Estelle asked. “They haven’t been able to create a blue rose. Maybe that’s why blue is a sad color. These are my hybrid tea roses.” Estelle led Rosie to a rosebush with tall stems and satin buds.
“There are many varieties of hybrid teas.” She leaned down and picked one for Rosie. “This is a Cary Grant, and over there is a Henry Fonda. My favorite is the Elizabeth Taylor. Aren’t the colors exquisite?”
“I didn’t know roses had names.” Rosie sniffed the bright orange bud.
“They have names and feelings.” Estelle nodded. “When I ignore them they close up and when I give them love they blossom. Oscar gave me my first rose, an Estelle.”
“An Estelle?” Rosie repeated.
“A variety of the hybrid tea is called the Estelle. Isn’t that marvelous? Oscar discovered it and gave me a single Estelle when he proposed. How could I say no?” She laughed. “Oscar and my roses have kept me very happy.”
“I’m going to give Ben another chance!” Rosie exclaimed. “I’m going to quit producing and manage our social life. I’ll throw fabulous parties with specialty cocktails and learn to play tennis.”
“Did Ben ask for another chance?” Estelle inquired, fixing the brim on her hat.
“I called him last night.” Rosie squinted in the sun. “He was working but he said he’d come up to Montecito in July. We’d talk about it then.”
“What about you.” Estelle crouched on the dirt. “What makes you happy?”
“I want to be a perfect hostess like you,” Rosie said, feeling like a child admitting a crush on her teacher. “You make it look easy.”
“That’s because I love what I do,” Estelle answered. “Every morning I wake up and think about my roses. I wonder which ones will be flowering today, which ones need extra sunlight. You don’t have to have a job necessarily, but you need something that’s yours.”
“I’ve been too busy to think about anything like that.” Rosie sighed.
“Do you like gardening? Singing? Painting?” Estelle prompted.
“I have a brown thumb,” Rosie giggled. “I killed the sprouts we grew in our window box. And I can’t sing. Not even my parents could sit through my rendition of “The Sound of Music.” I’ve worked beside Ben since we graduated.”
“Rosie, dear.” Estelle brushed the dirt from her pants. “I’m an old woman but I still believe in passion: passion for my husband, for my children, but also for what’s mine. I’ve loved this house since the day I was born. I’ve walked every inch of the grounds, discovered birds’ nests and acorns stashed by squirrels. When we got married, Oscar was away all the time. Either he was in Los Angeles recording with his bands, or he was traveling to Japan, England, and Australia. That’s when I fell in love with my roses. If you’re not passionate about something, the man you love won’t be passionate about you.”
“I can learn something new,” Rosie insisted, tears springing to her eyes.
“It’s got to come from the heart.” Estelle patted her chest. “It can be something simple: running or cooking.”
“I jog to stay fit, but I don’t know how anyone truly loves running,” Rosie groaned. “I do like to mess around and make things in the kitchen. In college I was famous for my guacamole.”
“Then start there.” Estelle nodded. “You have to have something that’s completely yours. You can’t wait for a man to come home and complete you.”
“It’s been a long time since I tried my recipes.” Rosie wavered. “Ben and I worked so late every night, we usually threw together a sandwich or ordered gourmet pizza.”
“You can use our kitchen as a laboratory,” Estelle offered. “Peg will show you where the utensils are. If there’s anything you need, Morris can get it for you.”
Rosie stared at the pink and purple rosebuds until they became a blur. Suddenly she couldn’t see herself standing in a vast marble kitchen, waiting for Ben. She couldn’t picture him stepping out of a Maserati, wearing an Armani suit and carrying a case of Penfolds Sauvignon Blanc. Instead she saw herself in Estelle’s guest cottage, thumbing through paperback books and watching movie marathons on the flat screen. Ben had slept with another woman and Hollywood seemed a million miles away.
“I promised I’d tell you the story of how Oscar and I met.” Estelle brought her out of her reverie.
“I’d love to hear.” Rosie smiled weakly.
“Oscar’s father was my father’s chauffeur,” Estelle began. “Oscar grew up in this house too, in a flat over the garage. He is five years older than me so our paths rarely crossed. I remember him as a skinny boy with long hair and round glasses like an owl. He got a scholarship to UCLA and started getting a name in the record business. It was luck in the beginning. He knew a few guys in a band, liked their sound, and sent tapes to every record company in Los Angeles. He’s always been stubborn,” Estelle said fondly. “His father got sick at the same time I came home from Penn. Oscar drove up every weekend to visit him, and we had dinner together on the lawn. It was as if we just met: his hair was cut short and he wore contacts instead of glasses. He seemed very elegant and mature.
“We realized we loved the same things: grand houses, people, parties, fine wine. He was just getting a taste of that life. His first band was a success and all the doors were opening. Sometimes I worried he’d be swept away by the glitz of the music business, but he came up every Friday until he proposed.” Estelle paused, twisting her gold wedding band. “At first my parents were hesitant and my friends shrugged him off. Oscar didn’t have the right breeding. But he won them over. And we’ve been lucky. Two beautiful children, Oscar’s career, good friends.”
“It reminds me of the movie Sabrina,” Rosie said dreamily. “Audrey Hepburn is one my favorite actresses, and Humphrey Bogart and William Holden were so dashing and handsome.”
“Sometimes love appears in the most unlikely places.” Estelle stood up and brushed off her pants.
“You think I should give up on Ben?” Rosie asked, standing up beside her.
“I don’t know Ben well enough to tell you what to do,” Estelle responded and looked at Rosie. “I just know as selfish as it sounds, you have to put yourself first.”
* * *
Rosie walked slowly to the house. She tried to recapture her resolve, her certainty that she and Ben would be together. The house seemed foreign in the daylight. The roof was slanted like a witch’s hat. Ivy climbed the walls, and downstairs the French doors were flung open. Rosie heard music and the sound of a vacuum cleaner droning like a bee.
Rosie opened the door to the kitchen and smelled tomatoes and garlic. The kitchen looked exactly as it had last night. A fresh pile of laundry lay on the table and a large pot simmered on the stove.
Rosie remembered the box-like kitchen of her apartment at Kenyon. Her roommates couldn’t understand why she would rather cook than eat at Peirce Hall, with its soaring ceilings and stained-glass windows. But Rosie loved the way cooking slowed down her thoughts, made her concentrate on what was in front of her instead of what was running through her head.
She didn’t like to bake. Cake batter made her feel sick and the smell of raw eggs clung to the counters for days. But preparing simple recipes—pasta in a red sauce, split pea soup, and tortillas with black beans—was satisfying. When Ben came to her dorm to watch old movies, they shared spaghetti marinara and a bottle of cheap wine.
Now Rosie stepped into the pantry and scanned its contents. She discovered jars of marmalade and blackberry jam. Glass canisters held macadamia nuts and cashews. There were bowls of golden raisins and fat figs and dates.
“So you’re not a ghost,” Morris said behind her.
“Estelle said it was all right for me to use the kitchen.” Rosie blushed, turning around.
“I didn’t think you were stealing the peanut butter.” Morris set a basket of oranges on the counter. “I’m glad to see you outside the cottage.”
“Thanks for babysitting me last night,” Rosie answered. “And for making such a great peanut butter sandwich.”
“I can make you another,” he suggested, pointing to the jars of jam.
“I was going to try one of the recipes I made in college,” Rosie explained, waving at the canisters on the shelves.
“Excellent idea.” Morris nodded, slicing oranges. “Do you have the ingredients you need?”
“I had two roommates my junior year. Becky was from Hawaii and Lucinda was from East LA. I know how to cook fish and anything that involves tortillas, beans, and lettuce,” she replied. “Estelle thinks if I do something I enjoy I’ll be happier.”
“And if you’re happy, the cheating boyfriend will come back?” Morris looked up from the juicer.
“I do sound like a cliché,” Rosie groaned. “I realized I don’t have to be Ben’s production partner. I can keep house and throw parties and make sure we’re friends with the beautiful people.”
“You are the beautiful people,” Morris said. “If Ben doesn’t recognize that, he may not be the right guy.”
“I’ll start with guacamole,” Rosie said brightly, as if she didn’t have a care in the world. She was going to stop wallowing and move forward. She would make the guacamole. Then she’d find Angelica’s tennis racket and bang some balls on the tennis court.
“I have to take Mr. Pullman his orange juice.” Morris poured the orange juice into a crystal glass. “He’s on a conference call with a metal band in Stockholm. Peg is at the market. If you need anything, ask me.”
Rosie opened the fridge. She took out avocados, tomatoes, a Bermuda onion, and a container of cottage cheese. She searched the pantry for cumin, cilantro, and garlic. She had two secret ingredients: cottage cheese that gave the guacamole a creamy taste and Hawaiian sea salt. Becky had introduced her to pink Hawaiian sea salt. The grains were like delicate crystals, and Becky used to eat them from the palm of her hand.
“What are you doing here?” a male voice said behind her.
Rosie jumped. A jar of garlic cloves fell to the floor, smashing into tiny pieces.
“You scare easily,” the man said. “You wouldn’t make a good thief.”
Rosie crouched down to pick up the garlic. The man wore blue jeans and a blue t-shirt. He was tall, with thick shoulders and long legs. He had blond hair and blue eyes so pale they were almost gray.
“You’re the surfer.” Rosie blushed, standing up. “I ran over your board.”
“I hope the Pullmans haven’t hired you as a cook.” Josh bent down to scoop up the glass. “You could be dangerous with a knife.”
“I’m staying in their guesthouse; I’m friends with Angelica,” Rosie said. “What are you doing here?”
“I work here.” Josh took out a large plate of lasagna and put it in the microwave. He poured a glass of milk and sat at the table. “Do you want some? I can heat up another plate.”
“You’re going to eat all that?” Rosie frowned.
“Surfers are always starving,” Josh admitted, wiping his mouth with a napkin.
“Are you Oscar’s assistant?” Rosie asked curiously.
“I’d be a lousy assistant.” Josh shook his head. “I’m a terrible typist and I don’t have all the latest apps on my phone. I take care of his classic car collection.”
“Classic cars?” Rosie sat down opposite him.
“You haven’t seen Mr. Pullman’s collection?” Josh put down the glass of milk. “He’s got a few cars that Jay Leno would drool over. He just bought a mint-green ’56 MG that purrs like a kitten.”
“Angelica told me about Estelle’s rose garden, but she didn’t mention classic cars.”
“Mr. Pullman doesn’t collect so he can brag at cocktail parties,” Josh said, buttering a loaf of sourdough. “He really loves cars. If he wasn’t so busy with his bands he’d be in the garage with me, tinkering with a Fiat or an Alpha Romeo Spider.”
“Driving in a convertible looks so exhilarating. I loved Grace Kelly in To Catch a Thief.” Rosie sighed. “She zipped through Monte Carlo in a gorgeous European sports car and it seemed so romantic.”
“That was a ’53 Sunbeam Alpine Mark I.” Josh nodded. “It’s in a car museum in Paris. Mr. Pullman tried to buy it a few years ago but he was outbid.”
“You’re a walking car encyclopedia.” She grinned.
“I’ve been rebuilding classic cars since I was fourteen.” He shrugged. “The more love you give them, the more they gleam. If you’re a movie producer”—Josh looked at her thoughtfully—“why are you hiding out in the Pullmans’ guest cottage?”
“You remembered.” Rosie pictured the pink-and-orange sunset at Butterfly Beach.
“I have a memory like an elephant.” Josh finished the lasagna and took the plate to the sink. “It’s a curse.”
“Sometimes I think I forgot everything I studied in college.” Rosie sighed.
“I remember the first time I rode a surfboard, I was ten years old. I was at the beach with my sister. She was eight, with her own wet suit and foam board. She convinced me to try it and I paddled out—it seemed forever, though it must have been fifty feet. The ocean was pale blue and so calm I felt like I had slipped into another world. Then this big wave appeared and tipped over my board. I was so scared I inhaled a gallon of seawater. By the time I swam to shore, I was shivering and covered with seaweed. I didn’t go back in the ocean until I was twelve.”
“Bad experiences help you grow,” Rosie replied.
“That’s existential babble.” Josh took a plate of brownies from the fridge. “I had a philosophy class where the professor insisted if you hadn’t felt pain you weren’t fully alive. I’ve had my toe almost ripped off, fifteen stitches in my leg, and my heart broken twice. I’d be fine without any of those experiences.”
“Where did you go to college?”
“UC Santa Barbara.” Josh ate a wedge of brownie, the crumbs falling onto the counter. “Four years of World History and surfing. I lived two blocks from the beach and surfed every day. I liked learning about the human condition, but I realized I never wanted to wear a suit or sit at a desk.”
“At least you’re earning a living doing what you love,” Rosie replied.
“I work at the Classic Car Showroom in town and I take care of a few private collections on the side. Mr. Pullman’s collection is my favorite. He just got a 1953 Rolls-Royce Phantom that’s a gem. Can I show it to you?”
Rosie glanced at her onions and avocados and tomatoes. “I was about to make guacamole.”
“The garage is right out back.” Josh sliced another brownie. “You’ve never seen an interior like this. It’s like the inside of a British drawing room, with a humidor for cigars.”
Josh led Rosie down a cobblestoned path to the garage. She followed him into a dark space and waited while he fumbled with the light switch.
Rosie blinked under the suddenly bright light. The room was bigger than a hotel ballroom. The floors and walls were a pristine white. Every inch of space was filled with cars. The cars were colors Rosie had never seen: burnt orange, sapphire blue, powder pink, and emerald green. Chrome bumpers twinkled like diamonds, and polished leather made the room smell like lemons. There were convertibles with wide runners, station wagons with wood sides, a vintage Ford with red seats and a gold-plated steering wheel.
“Here she is.” Josh led Rosie to a silver Rolls-Royce with a creamy white interior. “She’s a replica of the car Queen Elizabeth drove through London after her coronation. They only made eighteen of them.”
Rosie sat in the backseat, admiring the gleaming wood and the supple white leather. The bucket seats curved around her body and the windows were covered in gauze curtains.
“It’s gorgeous,” Rosie murmured, leaning back against the headrest.
“Some people think cars are all about speed: Ferraris and Maseratis and Lamborghinis.” Josh climbed in next to her. “But they each have their own personality. The Rolls-Royce Phantom is a grand duchess. The backseat is big enough to have afternoon tea.”
“It looks like it was built yesterday.” Rosie ran her hands over the soft white upholstery.
“I spent the last week making her shine.” Josh hopped out and opened Rosie’s door.
“I like this one.” Rosie walked over to a bright orange two-seater with oversized oval headlamps.
“A 1961 MG.” Josh nodded. “I’m restoring one at home. She has the most beautiful curves. I fell in love with her at a car auction.”
“You sound like you’re describing a woman,” Rosie giggled.
“A car is easy, it can’t break your heart.” Josh frowned. “I stay away from women. I’m a confirmed bachelor.”
“The only confirmed bachelors I know of are Zac Efron and Leonardo DiCaprio,” Rosie said. “Even most movie stars get married or are in serious relationships. Everyone needs love.”
“I wake up every morning and run to the ocean: water calm as glass, sun hovering over the horizon.” Josh rubbed the steering wheel. “I love women in the abstract. I love their shape and their hair, but they don’t make me happy.”
“There are lots of happy couples,” Rosie protested. “Look at Oscar and Estelle.”
“Once in a while two special people find each other,” Josh admitted grudgingly. “But they’re the exception. I studied history and women are the root of most problems: Helen and the Trojan War, Antony and Cleopatra, Napoleon and Josephine, Romeo and Juliet.”
“Women wouldn’t be the problem if men didn’t spend so much time obsessing over them,” Rosie corrected. “And Romeo and Juliet weren’t real, it was a play by Shakespeare.”
“The outcome is the same.” Josh shook his head. “Most love affairs at best cause heartache and at worst start wars.”
“What about children?” she wondered aloud.
“My sister will have children and I’ll be the coolest uncle. I’ll take the kid surfing and let him sit in the driver’s seat of a ’67 Mustang.”
“I can’t imagine not wanting to get married and have children,” she said earnestly.
“Everyone’s different,” Josh responded. “If you’re a movie producer, why aren’t you in Hollywood producing?”
Rosie blushed and walked to a wooden station wagon with bench seats. “This belongs in one of those old surfing movies like Endless Summer.”
Josh opened the driver’s door so Rosie could peek inside. “Why are you hiding in the Pullmans’ guest cottage? Did you kill someone on the set?”
Rosie looked at Josh. His face was tan and unlined. His nose was slightly crooked, and his eyes seemed to dance. “I found out my boyfriend had another woman in our bed. At first he tried to lie about it but when he got caught he said it didn’t mean anything.” She took a deep breath. “Then we started arguing and Ben thought we should take a break. He is the director.” Her voice wobbled. “Angelica suggested I get out of town and stay in Montecito with her parents for the summer.”
“I’m sorry,” Josh said.
“Ben got sidetracked.” Rosie gulped, tears springing to her eyes. “We’ve been together for ten years. We both needed time to rethink the relationship. He’s going to come up in July and we’re going to see where things are headed.”
“You sound like one of those relationship therapy workshops,” Josh mused. “I like to keep life simple.”
“How would you know what it feels like to be cheated on?” Rosie fumed. How dare Josh analyze her reactions; they barely knew each other. She opened the garage door and darted across the lawn. Ducks bobbed on the lake, and she ran until she reached the cottage. From now on she would keep her worries to herself. She went inside, closed the curtains, and buried her face in the pillows.