Rosie stood in the Pullmans’ kitchen and tasted the guacamole. The last two days she had spent blending and mixing. There was no Hawaiian sea salt so she substituted a coarse salt from Mexico. But it didn’t add the same sweet and tangy flavor. The guacamole was creamy: light and fluffy from two scoops of cottage cheese, but it lacked the zing that made it special.
The end of her little finger had a spot of guacamole and she tried it again. Diced onions and chopped tomatoes were arranged neatly on the marble counter. Two mixing bowls stood side by side. Rosie wore a light cotton dress and had an apron tied around her waist.
After Josh showed her Oscar’s car collection she lay awake for hours. Josh’s words stung and she ruminated about the tragic love affairs in cinema: Doctor Zhivago, Casablanca, and An Affair to Remember. She thought of the heartbreaking novels she read: Madame Bovary and Anna Karenina and Love Story. She wanted to call Ben, just to hear his voice, but she knew if he answered she would start crying.
She finally fell asleep and when she woke it was late afternoon. People splashed in the pool, and she could hear Estelle’s voice asking for lemonade, Oscar calling for more ice. She sat up and saw Morris crossing the lawn carrying a tray of sandwiches.
Her robe lay on the bed and she pulled it on and stood by the window, watching Oscar and Estelle greet their guests. Estelle wore a green cotton caftan and Oscar wore navy swimming trunks and a white polo shirt. They linked arms; their heads pressed together, their laughter wafting across the lawn.
“That’s going to be Ben and me,” Rosie said aloud. She rummaged through her bag and found a cotton dress that was not too crumpled. She brushed her hair, dabbed bronzer on her cheeks, and walked briskly to the kitchen.
Since then she had stopped only to walk around the grounds in the evening. She loved the sound of the crickets at dusk, and the frogs croaking in the grass. Last night she sat by the lake, throwing bread crumbs to the ducks, humming Ben’s favorite Coldplay songs.
“How’s the chef?” Morris put a laundry basket full of shirts on the table. “Ready for your cooking show debut?”
“Hardly.” Rosie grinned, wiping her hands on her apron. “I need Hawaiian sea salt, it doesn’t taste the same without it.”
“May I?” Morris put a spoon into the mixing bowl.
“Angelica and Matthew are coming up for the weekend.” Rosie waited for Morris’ verdict. “I want to make dinner, and I want it to be delicious.”
“You mean you want to impress Angelica so she tells Ben you’ve become an incredible chef, and you look beautiful and tan and he should hightail it up here and claim you.” Morris put down the spoon.
“I want to prepare gourmet food Ben will be proud of,” Rosie corrected. “Then we can host intimate dinners and invite A-list actors like Ryan Reynolds and Blake Lively.”
“So you think I should have worked harder to keep Neil,” Morris chided. “If only I had done my butt exercises every day and worked on my tan, he may have picked me over Amber.”
“I’m not doing this just for Ben,” Rosie insisted. “I like to cook. It keeps me occupied.”
“It’s Peg’s day off and Mr. Pullman wants salmon for dinner. I’ve got a pile of shirts to iron and shoes to shine.” Morris picked up the laundry basket. “Would you mind going into the village and picking up some fish?”
“I’d love to.” Rosie placed the mixing bowls in the fridge. “I’ll see if I can find Hawaiian sea salt.”
* * *
Rosie parked at the end of Coast Village Road and grabbed her purse. The sidewalk was packed with tourists wearing Montecito t-shirts and licking ice cream cones. Rosie stopped in front of a shoe store and admired red and black Gucci sandals in the window.
“Come in,” the salesgirl beckoned at the door. She wore a white crocheted dress and silver sandals.
“I’m just looking.” Rosie shook her head. She had never indulged in designer footwear. Her shoe collection consisted of flip-flops, Keds, and a few pairs of presentable sandals and pumps.
“We just got a shipment from Milan,” the saleswoman purred. “The Manolo Blahniks would look stunning with your coloring.”
Rosie hesitated and followed her inside. The shop was like the inside of a jewelry box. The carpet was purple and the walls were covered in silver wallpaper. There were Bottega Veneta wedges in brilliant colors, Christian Louboutin stilettos, Chanel flats, and Tod’s loafers in orange and green.
“Are you visiting?” the salesgirl asked.
“I live in LA.” Rosie nodded, admiring Prada pumps. Even when she was made associate producer she stayed away from designer shoes the other female executives wore. They were gorgeous, but they cost as much as her student loan payments.
“Everyone in Hollywood wants this shoe.” The salesgirl brought out a box of Manolos. “They already sold out at Neiman’s.”
The sandals were gold with red and green jewels embedded in the leather. Rosie slipped them on, feeling like she belonged on a yacht in the Greek Islands.
“They’re beautiful.” Rosie walked gingerly around the store.
“Very sophisticated.” The salesgirl nodded. “They dress up a pair of jeans or look stunning with a gold lamé dress and a Dior clutch.”
Rosie stood in front of the mirror. She looked taller, sleeker, the jewels shimmering like a magic carpet. Even her eyes looked greener. She reached into her purse and froze. Did she really need a pair of Manolos, and when would she wear them? Then she glanced at the mirror again and took a deep breath.
“I’ll take them.” She handed the salesgirl the credit card she shared with Ben.
“Would you like the evening bag?” the salesgirl asked casually.
“No, thank you,” Rosie replied, trying to make the pit in her stomach go away. She had never spent so much on shoes. She waited while the salesgirl slid her card, imagining Mary Beth Chase’s shoe closet: racks of Versace pumps and Roger Vivier sky-high wedges. Mary Beth probably arranged her shoes by color and had separate shelves for her athletic shoes and winter boots.
Rosie ran out of the store before she could change her mind. She hugged the box to her chest, inching through the crowd. She stopped in front of a jewelry store that displayed gold earrings and diamond bracelets.
“I don’t need any jewelry,” Rosie said aloud. “But maybe a really beautiful dress.”
Rosie kept walking until she found a dress boutique. She sifted through satin evening gowns and dresses with poufy skirts. There were cocktail dresses in every color and long sheaths with silver belts. Rosie spied a red silk dress with a heart-shaped bust and a flared skirt.
Rosie pictured wearing it to an intimate dinner at Adam’s house. Ben would have on a white shirt and tan linen slacks. He’d wear Italian loafers and a Rolex Oyster watch. She took it to the dressing room and tried it on in front of the three-way mirror. She took the Manolos out of the box and slipped them on her feet.
“That dress is divine.” The saleswoman appeared behind her. “Perfect for a cocktail party or a quiet dinner.”
“I love the way it feels against my skin.” Rosie stroked the fabric. “Like the wings of a butterfly.”
“It’s a great color on you.” The woman nodded. “Not many people can wear that color.”
Rosie flashed on Mary Beth’s pale blond hair and creamy white skin. Mary Beth would look like a vampire in the red dress. She turned and smiled at the saleswoman.
“I’ll take it.” She nodded. “I’ll wear it, actually, break it in.”
Rosie breathed deeply, trying not to think what Ben would say when he saw the bill. She remembered the dozens of times they watched Breakfast at Tiffany’s. Ben loved the scenes when Holly Golightly slipped on a black cocktail dress and a big white hat.
“Blake Edwards knew how to direct a woman,” Ben would say, stroking Rosie’s leg. “Most directors treat women like accessories, but he made them goddesses. Audrey Hepburn was a sprightly Aphrodite. You look like her, you know; you both have the same wide eyes and upturned nose.”
Now Rosie walked briskly, swinging her bag against her hip. She passed a card store, an antiques store, and a florist with a window box bursting with chrysanthemums. She stopped in front of a chocolate shop with a chocolate treasure chest in the window.
“You look like you won the lottery.” Rachel appeared at the doorway. “Or found a dreamy new boyfriend who showers you with riches.”
“I was coming to say hi.” Rosie grinned. “And try some peanut butter brittle.”
“Did you find Butterfly Beach?” Rachel asked.
“It was the most beautiful sunset I’ve ever seen.” Rosie nodded. “It was like a painter’s palette left out in the rain.”
“Come and see my shop.” Rachel waved her inside. “It’s not very big, but I love it.”
The shop reminded Rosie of Miss Havisham’s room in Great Expectations. An oriental rug covered the floor and oak shelves lined the walls. Every surface was covered with chocolates. There were tins of chocolate mints, jars of chocolate coins, boxes of truffles, and plates of nougats and marzipan. A chocolate dollhouse stood in the corner with miniature chocolate tables and chairs.
“I need a dessert for a dinner party.” Rosie peered at a selection of cakes under the glass.
“My German chocolate cake is amazing and the chocolate torte is delicious,” Rachel suggested, offering her a sample of the torte. “Entertaining a new man?”
“My best friend, Angelica, is coming up from LA.” Rosie tasted dark chocolate and raspberries. “I think Ben and I may actually work things out.”
“Really?” Rachel leaned over the counter. “When my boyfriend cheated on me, I cut up all his boxer shorts.”
“Ben and I have been together for ten years.” Rosie sighed, sampling a piece of peanut butter brittle. “I miss him.”
“Love’s a bitch.” Rachel nodded. “I’ve been on a few dates with Patrick. If my father found out he’d pack me up to New Jersey faster than the roller coaster at Atlantic City.”
“Patrick in the delicatessen?” Rosie inquired.
“I’ve got a thing for red hair and freckles,” Rachel answered. “But he’s Catholic. My father would rather I stayed with Michael, who screwed two bridesmaids at his cousin’s wedding. Michael is Jewish, and an accountant.”
“I didn’t know parents still thought like that.” Rosie tried not to laugh.
“Thank god my father is on the other side of the country, but I swear he knows everything I do.” Rachel rolled her eyes. “He wants his daughter to marry a good Jewish boy like in Fiddler on the Roof.”
Rosie selected the German chocolate cake and Rachel put it in a box and added a pound of peanut brittle. “Good luck with the cheating boyfriend.” She handed Rosie the bag. “I hope he deserves you. You look like a movie star.”
* * *
Rosie carried two grocery bags into the Pullmans’ kitchen. She had found Hawaiian sea salt at Montecito Natural Foods. She had spent a wonderful hour reading the labels of salts and spices from around the globe. From there she went to Village Meat and Fish and bought fillets of salmon, a pound of cod, and a bag of lemons.
“You leave looking like the girl next door and come back as Elizabeth Taylor.” Morris whistled, coming through the French doors.
“Do you think it’s too much?” Rosie made a small twirl. The red fabric spun around her waist and the gold sandals glittered under the lights.
“I never knew you had Elizabeth Taylor’s eyes.” Morris smiled. “And those sandals! I’d love a pair in my closet.”
“Elizabeth Taylor had violet eyes,” Rosie protested. “I’ve never bought anything so impulsively. Ben’s contract is enormous, maybe I should have been wearing Manolos all along.”
“Don’t think about Ben.” Morris unwrapped the salmon. “Wear them because they feel like sex.”
“Yes, boss,” Rosie giggled, opening her shopping bag. “I got everything I need for dinner tomorrow. I’m going to make fish tacos with guacamole and German chocolate cake for dessert.”
“You’re going to save me a slice.” Morris peeked inside the cake box.
Rosie put the cod in the fridge. She placed the cake in the pantry and put the lemons in the fruit bowl. She walked over to Morris and kissed him briefly on the cheek.
“What’s that for?” He rubbed his cheek.
“For talking to me when I was so depressed, and for saying I look like Elizabeth Taylor.”
“That’s great.” Morris put the salmon in the fridge. “But I still want a piece of cake.”
* * *
Rosie stood in the bathroom of the guest cottage, applying mascara. She wore a white tank top and white linen pants and the new gold sandals. Morris had insisted on pressing her pants and she had borrowed Estelle’s curling iron. She brushed her hair and studied herself in the mirror. The circles under her eyes had disappeared and her arms and legs were tan. She rubbed pink lip gloss on her lips and went to wait for Angelica.
Crossing the lawn to the main house, Rosie wondered why she was so nervous. She and Angelica had spent countless nights eating ice cream straight from the carton. They suffered through Bikram yoga and kept each other on a five-day juice fast. But now Rosie had chosen her outfit as if preparing for a blind date. She took a long bath and spent an hour curling her hair.
In the years of their friendship, Rosie had always been part of Rosie and Ben. She had walked with the skip of someone in a bulletproof relationship. Angelica had the height, the pouty lips, and the glorious blond hair. She had parents with a magnificent estate and checks that appeared regularly in the mail. But she didn’t have someone who loaded up their iPhones with exactly the same songs. She hadn’t picked out the names of their children and the breed of their dog.
But now Rosie was a refugee in Angelica’s parents’ guest cottage and Angelica was channeling Katharine Hepburn. She hadn’t talked to Angelica all week; they exchanged texts because Angelica was slammed with wardrobe fittings.
A sleek Aston Martin entered the gates. It was midnight blue with chrome wheels and a British license plate. Rosie squinted, thinking one of Oscar’s singers had come to the house for a meeting.
“Rosie!” A tall figure waved from the passenger seat. She leaped out of the car and ran up the steps. Angelica wore pin-striped pants and a boxy navy jacket. Her cheeks were powdered and her eyebrows were plucked in a high arch.
“Where’s Matthew?” Rosie hugged Angelica, smelling Chanel No. 5 and hair spray.
“In LA. Have you met Dirk? Don’t you love his car!” Angelica waved her hand. “He had it imported from England; it drives on the wrong side of the road.”
“Why are you with Dirk instead of Matthew?” Rosie said in a guarded voice.
“I’ll explain in a minute.” Angelica dragged Rosie towards the car. “I want you two to get to know each other. Dirk, say something so Rosie can hear your divine accent.”
Dirk stepped out of the car and kissed Rosie on both cheeks. He had floppy dark hair and green eyes. His cheekbones were finely chiseled and his teeth looked perfectly capped. He wore a seersucker blazer and pleated navy trousers.
“Delighted to finally meet you.” He nodded. “Angelica talks about you all the time. And this place is fantastic.” He beamed at Angelica. “It reminds me of George and Amal Clooney’s summer home in the Cotswolds.”
“I can’t wait to show you mummy’s rose garden,” Angelica squealed. “I’ll get Morris to grab your bags. He’s British too, you might know the same people.”
Rosie followed Angelica into the house, suddenly feeling queasy.
“Angelica,” she hissed, after Angelica sent Morris to collect the luggage. “Why is Dirk here and why did you call Estelle ‘mummy’?”
“Dirk’s accent is so dreamy, it’s catching,” Angelica giggled. “I’ve been saying ‘let’s take the lift’ and ‘open the boot.’ I can’t help it, it sounds so sexy.”
“Come into the kitchen now!” Rosie demanded.
“We can’t leave Dirk.” Angelica wavered. “It wouldn’t be polite.”
“He can catch up with Morris.” Rosie pulled Angelica’s arm. “Unless Morris exposes him as not being British at all and having grown up in West Virginia.”
“You’re so tan and your hair looks great.” Angelica followed Rosie into the kitchen. The counter was lined with porcelain plates and there was a wooden salad bowl and linen napkins. “It was a good idea for you to get out of town.”
“You’re not answering my question,” Rosie repeated. “Why aren’t you with Matthew?”
Angelica took out a compact from her purse and smoothed her hair. She picked a peach from the fruit basket and took a bite.
“I forget how lovely it is here.” Angelica walked to the French doors. “The tennis court and the swimming pool. Morris at your beck and call. I’m cooped up on a soundstage practicing my vowels.”
“I am grateful to you and your parents.” Rosie nodded. “The house is gorgeous and your mom is wonderful. But why are you with that Pierce Brosnan wannabe?”
“Dirk is much more handsome than Pierce Brosnan ever was. Anyway, Pierce Brosnan is sixty!” Angelica turned around.
“C’mon, Angelica, you’re a great actress on the screen but you’re lousy at pretending in real life,” Rosie prodded.
Angelica poured a glass of water and sat at the table. “I broke up with Matthew. I moved in with Dirk.”
“You did what!” Suddenly Rosie was back in Santa Monica, discovering that Ben screwed Mary Beth Chase and wanted to take a break.
“Dirk understands me, we have the same goals.” Angelica sipped her water. “The Philadelphia Story is getting pre-production buzz and everyone wants him for his next film.”
“Are you listening to yourself?” Rosie paced around the kitchen. “What about the boyfriend who picked you up at midnight when you waited tables at Il Fornaio? The boyfriend you’ve shared a bed with for two years?”
“Matthew and I were never like you and Ben.” Angelica looked at Rosie. “Matthew has been ignoring me for months. The only words he responds to are ‘food’ and ‘sex.’ Honestly, Rosie, he’s plugged into his computer twenty-four hours a day.”
“It’s hard to compete with someone who ships his Aston Martin from England,” Rosie grumbled. “Matthew probably feels inferior.”
“All he had to do was talk to me,” Angelica argued. “Suggest we walk on the beach or go out to dinner.”
“Was it really that bad?”
“It really was,” Angelica assured her, her voice getting thick. “I’m not going to wait for Matthew to stop staring at a computer screen. I want to go dancing. I want to fly to Paris and stand at the top of the Eiffel Tower.”
“Please don’t tell me Dirk promised to take you to Paris,” Rosie groaned. “That’s the oldest Hollywood cliché.”
“He’s not going to take me to Paris,” Angelica protested. “We’re going together, after The Philadelphia Story wraps. We’re equals, like you and Ben.”
Rosie softened. She remembered what it was like to love someone who knew exactly what you were talking about. If Rosie complained Adam was being unreasonable, Ben would grin and say he’d handle him. When Ben stared at the dailies for too long, Rosie made him a cup of hot cocoa and told him to take a break. At night, they couldn’t get enough of talking about changes in the script and wardrobe malfunctions. They lived and breathed movies and it was intoxicating.
“Let’s join Dirk and have a drink,” Rosie conceded. “We’ll see if Dirk still has that British accent after his third martini.”
They sat on the back porch, drinking dry martinis. Rosie passed a silver tray of asparagus crepes and crab cakes.
“What have you been doing up here?” Angelica asked Rosie. “You should get involved in the arts. Montecito has great summer theater.”
“I’ve been here less than a week; I haven’t done much of anything. I went shopping and tried a few recipes I learned in college,” Rosie answered. “I don’t want to do local theater. I’m going to play tennis and Estelle is going to teach me about roses.”
“I wanted you to get away for the summer, not turn into Rachel Ray.” Angelica raised her eyebrows.
“I’ve been thinking about what Ben said, that I’m holding him back,” Rosie said cautiously. “Maybe I should concentrate on our social life; throw great parties, cultivate the right people.”
“When did you talk to Ben?” Angelica stirred the olive in her martini.
“I called him last weekend. He was in a meeting but we’re going to talk soon. He’s coming to your dad’s July Fourth party.”
“I don’t know if it’s a good idea to base your future on Ben,” Angelica said, nibbling a crab cake.
“I like cooking,” Rosie protested. “And I’ve always wanted to play tennis.”
“I used to play tennis with Ewan McGregor,” Dirk broke in. “He’s got a terrific serve.”
“Dirk has only been in LA for a few years.” Angelica glanced at Dirk, her eyes sparkling. “In England he knew everybody: Daniel Craig, Matthew Goode, Gerard Butler.”
“What movies did you make in England?” Rosie asked, blotting her mouth with her napkin.
“I did theater, Royal Shakespeare,” Dirk replied smoothly. “My signature role was Hamlet.”
“Dirk had a huge following,” Angelica said loyally.
“Performing onstage is a noble calling, but acting in movies allows for the niceties in life,” Dirk ruminated. “I’ve got my eye on a yacht. I’m going to name her the Angelica.”
Rosie placed her asparagus crepe on her napkin, afraid if she put it in her mouth she might choke.
“The studio wants Dirk for the remake of To Catch a Thief,” Angelica explained. “They’ll be filming in the South of France.”
“Really!” Rosie gasped. To Catch a Thief was her and Ben’s favorite movie. They had dreamed of producing a remake. They spent hours debating which actors would be best for the lead roles.
“Nothing is final.” Dirk shrugged. “I only wish my gorgeous Angelica would play Grace Kelly’s role.”
“They want someone more famous than I am,” Angelica said hastily. “Katie Holmes or Kate Hudson.”
“They don’t have your poise or your beauty,” Dirk replied gallantly.
Rosie got up to go into the kitchen. Suddenly she couldn’t stand another minute of their mutual admiration society.
“I’m going to start dinner,” Rosie excused herself.
“I’ll come with you.” Angelica followed her.
Rosie walked ahead, thinking the dinner party was a bad idea. The more Angelica and Dirk talked about Hollywood, the further away it seemed. She tied an apron around her waist and laid the tortillas on the counter.
“Are you okay?” Angelica stood behind her.
“I’m fine.” Rosie blinked. “I’m making fish tacos.”
“I didn’t ask about the menu,” Angelica snapped. “Why weren’t you part of the conversation? You weren’t listening to anything we were saying.”
“I was preoccupied.” Rosie avoided looking at Angelica. “I didn’t want the guacamole to congeal.”
“Rosie!” Angelica blocked her path to the fridge. “You were supposed to come up here and relax, and you’re cooking and playing tennis.”
“Ben is an amazing director, maybe the best of his generation. He should work with the biggest producers in Hollywood.” Rosie chopped green onions.
“I’m not following,” Angelica said, leaning on the counter.
“Ben and I could be happy if I back off from the studio and concentrate on our social life.” Rosie added grated cheese and tomatoes to the tortillas.
“What about Mary Beth?” Angelica asked.
“I hate that he cheated on me.” Rosie threw the cod on the skillet. “Sometimes when I picture them together I can’t breathe.” She sprinkled the onions on the tortillas. “But it only happened once. Ben said we needed time to think and he was right.”
“Did he say anything else?” Angelica inquired.
“What do you mean?” Rosie looked up from the tortilla.
“Did he tell you his plans after his movie wraps?” Angelica asked.
“Ben’s still shooting.” Rosie shrugged. “Then comes post-production. He probably hasn’t thought about when he’s going to get a haircut. You know how consumed he gets when he’s on the set.”
“Dirk and I had dinner with Ben the other night.” Angelica sipped her glass of water.
“You and Dirk?” Rosie repeated. “You didn’t tell me they had met.” She took the cod off the stove and cut it in thin strips.
“Ben wanted to talk about his next picture,” Angelica explained, putting her glass in the sink.
Rosie concentrated on her tacos. She added two scoops of guacamole and a spoonful of shredded cabbage. She decorated each one with cilantro and added a dollop of sour cream. “What next picture?” she asked finally.
“Ben is going to direct To Catch a Thief.”
Rosie imagined going on location with Ben, staying at the Carlton InterContinental Hotel in Cannes. They would drive to Monte Carlo and gamble small amounts at the roulette table. If they won they’d treat themselves to a bottle of champagne and drink it on the dock, watching the yachts rock in their berths.
“I should call and congratulate him.” Rosie set the fish tacos on three plates. “Dirk’s right, you would be great in the Grace Kelly role. You could finally go back to your natural hair color and be a blonde. I’m surprised Ben didn’t offer it you, he’s your biggest fan.”
“I’m so sorry, Rosie.” Angelica looked at her friend. “I dreaded telling you the whole drive up, I almost made Dirk turn around and go back to LA. You’re my best friend in the world and I don’t want to do anything to hurt you,” she said lamely. “I’d give anything for someone else to have delivered the news.”
Angelica’s words were a dull roaring sound in her ears. Rosie stood in front of the stove, clutching the frying pan. Her chest tightened and her legs were wobbly.
“Did Ben offer you Grace Kelly’s role?”
“I’m not going to answer that question while you’re holding a frying pan,” Angelica responded.
“Did he?” Rosie put the frying pan down.
“He did,” Angelica admitted. “But I turned him down.”
“Why did you turn him down?” Rosie whispered.
“We met Ben for dinner at the Beverly Wilshire the other night,” Angelica answered. “Ben thought Dirk would be perfect for the Cary Grant role. He said they have identical profiles. And he begged me to play the Grace Kelly part. He thought I could capture her languid beauty and portray a proper blue blood.”
“Who was Ben with at the Beverly Wilshire?” Rosie tried to swallow.
“He was with Mary Beth,” Angelica said slowly. “Mary Beth is going to be executive producer. They’ve even formed a new production company: MB&B Productions. I couldn’t say yes, Rosie. I wouldn’t do that to you.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Rosie’s throat was parched and she felt dizzy. “And how could he do that without asking me?”
They had never gone to the trouble of forming a corporation. They were Ben & Rosie. Why would they spend their time and money on attorneys and legal documents when they would be together forever? But neither of them made decisions about anything without asking each other’s permission. Rosie wouldn’t even try a new brand of cereal because Ben needed his bowl of Cinnamon Toast Crunch every night before bed, and Ben always bought Colgate toothpaste because Rosie hated anything with mint.
“I was going to tell you tonight,” Angelica lamented. “I felt terrible but I didn’t know you wanted to get back together with Ben. The last time we talked you wanted to kill him.”
“For almost a week I’ve been waiting for you to come up here,” Rosie said. “I thought we’d make s’mores in the fireplace and swim in the pool and stay up all night painting our fingernails. Now you show up with a British actor and tell me that my boyfriend has formed a new production company.”
“I’m sorry.” Angelica hugged her. “I can tell Dirk to sleep by himself and we can share the cottage. I’ll borrow my mother’s nail polish and we’ll have Morris bring us Pop-Tarts.”
Rosie sank into a chair and remembered the items on her to-do list in the cottage: learn the names of different varieties of roses; ask Morris how to pair wine with a meal. Everything she thought she and Ben would have together—the house in the Hollywood Hills, the vacation home in Palm Springs, the two children with brown hair and freckles—dissolved before her eyes.
Ben and Mary Beth would tour the South of France. Mary Beth would wear Oliver Peoples sunglasses and stilettos. They would sit at outdoor cafes and kiss over pain au chocolat and steaming espressos. At night they’d go back to their hotel suite and climb under sheets with ridiculously high thread counts.
“It’s not your fault,” Rosie said finally. “And you can’t let Dirk sleep alone. He must look sexy in his boxers.”
“Dirk is pretty hot in his underwear,” Angelica acknowledged and touched Rosie’s shoulder. “You’re the best person I know. You’re going to find someone new. I found someone.”
“It’s easy for you, but I’m different. You’re blond and beautiful and have your name on a movie billboard.” Rosie sighed, untying her apron.
“It’s going to get better,” Angelica assured her. “Let’s have dinner, I’m dying to try your tacos.”
The fish tacos were arranged on white porcelain plates. There were sterling silver salt and pepper shakers and crystal water glasses Rosie had dug out for the occasion.
Rosie threw her apron on the table. “I’m sorry, I’m not hungry.” She ran out the door and across the lawn and didn’t stop until she reached the cottage.