As I sit in this $100,000 luxury automobile, asking nosy questions of one of the richest women in the world, she opens a small refrigerator and offers me orange juice, soda, milk, champagne, a gin and tonic, and homemade chocolate chip cookies.
The traffic on the Pacific Coast Highway is relentless. Beachgoers are out in huge numbers during this October weekend heat wave.
I could have retrieved the gas for my car and been home by now—or been on the 405—which is a more familiar nemesis.
Penelope opens a console in the center of the backseat. “This is my secret stash. Would you like some?”
I look at the bottle. It’s ornate and looks as if it’s got real gold lettering. It’s French, I think.
Penelope opens it. The smell that wafts up from the glass is a mix of lavender and pepper.
And here I thought the exotic scent that usually surrounds her was perfume, or a new kind of breath mint.
She takes a churlish swig.
I note that she just showed more energy for that gulp of vodka than she has for anything else. Other than blaming Anthony for their daughter’s death.
The way he blames Justin for Charlie’s.
She hands the bottle over to me like a pirate.
I almost expect her to growl, “Arrggghh. Shiver me timbers.”
I decline as gracefully as I can. “No, but thank you. It looks very good.”
She takes another gulp.
Puts the cork back in the ornate bottle.
Secures it back in the console.
Then, once more, her head droops, and she’s lost to the world.
Maybe I’ll wait a few moments before rephrasing my question.
Or maybe not. “I don’t mean to upset you,” I say again, “but I was curious about the documentary after seeing Justin Fellowes the other night at the LAMA event. He was so proud of Abigail and her work.”
Penelope seems to come to life again, like a windup doll, and she snorts. “She had no business working on that film. It’s all his fault.”
“Whose fault?”
“Anthony’s, of course. He should never have let her work on that film. To put our family at risk like that.”
“At risk?” Like the good psychologist, I nudge her along with a question.
“She didn’t understand,” Penelope says, reaching for her special bottle again. “She was only doing what kids do. Trying to make a difference. No … she just didn’t understand.” She begins to weep again.
“Understand what, Penelope?”
“If only she’d given me that tape,” Penelope continues, sobbing. “I could have explained everything. Everything would have been okay.”
I feel my body freeze, not sure I’m hearing her correctly.
If only she’d given me that tape.
Penelope takes another drink, her hand unsteady, then abruptly turns to me. “Would you like some water, Esmeralda?”
I don’t want to break the spell, so I nod. She retrieves water from the fridge, in an individual bottle—I hate those. So much waste. She hands it to me.
“You were saying? About the tape …” I turn the cap and take a drink, trying to seem casual. There doesn’t seem to be a safety seal on it, but at least this means she’s recycling the bottles.
“Tape?” she asks, as if she’d never mentioned it.
Had I heard wrong after all?
I take another drink. It’s flavored water, raspberry.
“About the documentary,” I continue, slowly. “Was it about Justin’s work in … in … ”
My words seem to crawl toward Penelope, so slowly, but I can’t make them move any faster. She simply stares at me.
I lean back in the car seat, suddenly so tired that, like Penelope, I can’t seem to keep my head up.
Charlie’s voice comes wafting through my mind. She whispers, “Water … ”
“What?” I’m silent, but my eyes fly open.
I notice Joseph watching me from the rearview mirror.
“Promise me, Emerald,” Charlie says to me.
“What?” This time, I blurt it out loud.
I look forward to Joseph again, but my vision is blurry.
I hear Penelope’s voice. “Joseph! It’s not working!”
Joseph makes a nasal whine, panicking.
I’ve heard that whine before …
Penelope snaps, “Do I have to do everything myself?”
She rustles around.
I can’t seem to move.
She stuffs a white kerchief under my nose.
And … I’m … gone.