I loved Max, but God! Early the next morning, when he went out to pee, he saw that the gate was open, and he went for it.
I took off after that stupid dog. He wasn’t exactly well trained, if you couldn’t tell that already. He wanted to be good, but if you handed him an invitation to be bad, he wasn’t going to say no.
Of course, he flew right past the house next door, so I had to too. The men were already there—they always started early, too early for that kind of noise, if you ask me.
Max was a blur as he headed toward the entrance to Baker Beach. If he reached those stairs before I did, he’d have a million ways to be gone.
“Max! Max!” I yelled.
God, he was speeding like a galloping horse, all hunched down low, his haunches pumping. He was almost to those stairs.
And that’s when I heard a whistle behind me. That shrill, sharp whistle people make using two fingers in their mouth, a whistle I could never master even though Hoodean tried to teach me once.
I looked over my shoulder as I ran. But that guy was catching up to me. Of course it was him, and he was trying to help, but fuck him, assuming that he could step in and handle this better than I could. And then something happened that made me even madder. Max stopped in his tracks. He came to a screeching halt, like some part of his stupid, infuriating brain knew that whistle. That guy assumed he could handle the situation better than I could, and he did handle it better, and it was infuriating. I mean, thanks a lot, Max.
By that time, the man had passed me, caught up to that turd dog Max, and had him strongly by the collar. He led him to me. The worst part was, I had tossed on only my tank top and shorts to let him out, and I felt really embarrassed and awkward there with no bra. I had to lean down to get that stupid dog while having one arm crossed over my chest, and honestly, my boobs were probably in full view with the loose neckline of my top.
“Thanks,” I said.
“No problem. I’m around a lot of dogs.”
Yeah, I bet he was.
I snuck a look at him. Up close, he was younger than I thought. Maybe late twenties. Younger, but still old. Older. Too much older. Handsome. Handsome if he were maybe some guy on TV and not a real one who watched me all the time. Handsome could make you forget for a second all the stuff you learned about strangers. He had bright, playful eyes. Man whiskers. Big shoulders. Really big. Strong, tan arms, from working construction. Jeans, T-shirt. This is another construction-man cliché, but he looked like the kind of guy who would knock back a few beers with the bros, or have sports parties out of the back of his truck—I forget what those are called.
Our hands brushed as I took Max. Skin slid against skin. “There you go. Have a good day, princess.”
The word “princess” skittered up my back like an insect. Whether that guy was handsome or not, old or young, I wanted to smack that word, and him for using it. That word always felt small and bad and dehumanizing. My father called his girlfriends princess. He called me princess. As if all females, even his daughter, were indistinguishable from each other.
Of course, I didn’t smack him, or do anything close to it. He was twice my size, older, and he, you know, had a car and a job and muscles and stuff, and I was just me, a girl in her tank top and bare feet. I couldn’t even speak. The only thing I could do was smile that smile that really isn’t a smile, the tight-lipped one, the one that says, I’m barely tolerating you, but says it nicely so he won’t get pissed off.
He was supposed to read my smile, so why didn’t he? Because he thought he was supposed to pursue? Because he could do whatever he wanted? Because he didn’t take me at my word? Okay, I wasn’t using actual words, because maybe they weren’t the best idea. I would never forget how Cora tried for months to get creepy Lance Sweeney to leave her alone, until she finally told him straight out to go away. Then he called her a cunt and got all aggressive, and she had to avoid him for weeks until he moved on to Hailey Xavier, like a game of asshole hot potato.
I walked down the sidewalk, hunched over as I held Max by the collar, holding my shirt against myself to cover my boobs.
“Hey!” the guy called.
I could pretend like I didn’t hear him, but he was right behind me. He’d just helped me with my dog. I was going to have to keep seeing him every day until that house was done. I turned.
“My name’s Shane.”
I should have used some useless little weapon, like a fake name, but I didn’t. I don’t know why I felt I owed him. I don’t know why I always gave things I didn’t want to give.
“Sydney.”
“See you, Sydney.”
When I got back in the house, I was so angry with myself. I’d given over my name. I wanted to pinch my own arms. I wanted to scratch out my eyes. I was so mad that I took it out on Max.
“Goddamn you!” I glared at him.
But then his eyes looked so remorseful that I felt bad.
“What am I going to do with you,” I said.
I was surprised to find Lila in the kitchen. “You’re up early.”
“I need coffee! How do you work this?” Lila looked at the new machine Jake had bought like it was a set of complicated instructions to build a bomb. Honestly, she had her own production company, she was capable, but sometimes she acted like she was a toddler when she was around someone who might do stuff for her.
“Put the thingy in the compartment and push the button.”
“Wow. Easy, tiger. You don’t have to snap.”
“I just chased Max halfway down the block, so good morning. And I stayed up half the night because there was a creepy car parked out in front of our house.”
“A creepy car.” She sounded doubtful.
“I’ve seen it there before.”
“Baby, you’ve watched too many of my movies.”
“Thanks for taking me seriously.”
She waved her hand at me. “Syd-Syd. Really. It’s the safest street in the city.”
“Okay, okay. Fine. It was just a stupid car. Being alone in this house freaks me out.”
“Well, your day is about to improve. We’re having lunch with Riley today.” Riley was Lila’s partner in her production company, Lilac Films. “Come with! I think he has some good news. One, he made a special trip just to tell me. Two, his voice gave him away.”
“What news?”
“Eek! I don’t want to jinx it.”
I don’t remember the name of the place. I suppose it doesn’t matter. Jackson Square neighborhood, brick building. Starts with a C. Upscale Italian. Fancy wood-fired pizza.
Everything about Riley was crisp and efficient—his clothes, his haircut, the way he spoke. Crisp and efficient pretty much means you’re terrified everything is going to fall apart at any second. His eyes searched for the waiter, and then he ordered the most expensive bottle of wine. It seemed kind of early to drink, but it was clear that this was a celebration.
As we waited for the wine, Lila politely looked at all of the cute photos of Marco Alexander, Riley and Jessica’s toddler, but you could tell she was impatient to get on with it. As soon as Riley put his phone away, she said, “Well?”
“Green light.”
Lila shrieked. It caused a few people to look our way and then look again because maybe that was Lila Shore. San Francisco wasn’t a big city for celebrities, which is what Lila said she wanted but probably didn’t really want.
“I wasn’t going to say anything before,” she said to me. “You know how superstitious I am. It was in committee, but we had to wait for it to be gaveled by the president and the CEO.”
“What, what, what?” I asked. She’d been pissing me off lately, sure, but it was great to see her so excited.
“Warner. A project I’ve been wanting to do for a long time.” She paused a beat for suspense. “A contemporary remake of Peyton Place.”
She waited for my response. I had no idea what Peyton Place was, but I did know that a studio had just agreed to give them a bunch of money to make a film. This was a huge deal, something that was nearly impossible even with a big star attached, let alone sort of a falling star like Lila.
“That’s amazing.”
“Three women in a small town. Sexual frustration! Steamy undercurrents! God, it’s wonderful. We want it to be stylish, rich, all coastal beauty and beautiful people. I’ll play the mother of the teenage girl, but she’s not a mother-mother. Not a frumpy middle-aged mother. She’s the most attractive woman in town. Just repressed. Blond bombshell. Mothers of teenage daughters don’t have to look dowdy.”
“Who are you kidding? You’d never play frumpy and middle-aged,” Riley said. “And wait. A little something to help you celebrate.” He reached under the table. He handed her a box of chocolates and a bottle of champagne with a ribbon around its neck. Lila loved presents.
“Aw!” She air-kissed him twice and then was on to business. “I want you to scout out Sea Ranch. New Hampshire of the West Coast! Well, small town by the sea. Charming as hell. The main street is perfect. They’ll hate us, but we can handle it.”
This is what I meant about the Lila who handled things, the Lila who would never be with a guy who pushed her around. And yet, there was that makeup on her arm that day. How were you supposed to understand it? Well, God, 90 percent of history wasn’t understandable—it was just shit people did to each other.
In the car, Lila gave my cheek a great big kiss. “Things are looking up, baby.”
“Wow, Lila.”
“There’s no guarantee, you know, what will happen. But it’s the best news we’ve had in a while.”
“I’m really happy for you.”
“For us.”
“For us.”
She took my hand and kissed it. What I felt most was a huge swell of pride for her. Edwina grew up poor, and Lila grew up poor. She changed all that. Men like my father, like Papa Chesterton, like Rex Clancy—they helped her, but they were also obstacles she had to overcome.
“I’ve got to tell Edwina.” In spite of their rocky relationship, she always wanted my grandmother to be among the first to hear any news. Lila called her before we even left the parking lot.
“I’ll play the mother of the teenage girl, but she’s not a frumpy middle-aged mother. Mothers of teenage daughters don’t have to look dowdy,” Lila said again.
She kept repeating that part.